Hundreds of entrances to the sewer-catacombs existed all over Fae Town’s districts. A majority of them were housed in Northern Fae Town, but the Southside had the most hospitable entries. Most were hidden and eclectic, buried beneath trash, locked behind sealed off manholes, and or heavily surrounded and obscured by establishments and buildings whose memory of those entrances vanished long ago.
The true ways in, the ones managed and kept open by the cult, were obvious. Within the waterways, prone to floods, holes along the stone banks offered entry into the dark. Xala and Vulcan stepped off the last step of an outcropping staircase, walked forward along the slim cliff, and turned to look into the tunnel. Xala held his hands behind his back as he said, “The very idea of a sewer system conjoined to a vast network of catacombs sets my nerves on fire. Such disrespect is nigh unconscionable. I simply must see it for myself.”
“They ain’t that impressive.”
“I’m sure. It just reminds me of a tactic I used way back when. Stuffing undead in a place no one wants to look at is an excellent idea.”
“Then I should’ve haggled to make sure you promised to never put me somewhere like this some day.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t. Afterall, you’re a ghoul. A sentient, fleshy, whole-bodied zombie. My previous creations were well-made, but not aesthetically pleasing. Not like how I make them nowadays.” He walked forward, Vulcan kept up beside him, and they strolled into the underground. Not an ounce of fear or hesitation clouded their minds. Xala blinked twice and conjured a series of runes within them. Night vision and arcane sight allowed him all he needed. The tunnels were infested with traces of magic, but without many people to actually inhabit and utilize the energies, they were sparse and hardly felt. However, those trace amounts had origins. Some energies spawned directly from the fungal and plant life found in the corners. However, the thing Xala followed was sorcery. To him it appeared like a series of incredibly thin strands that lingered deeper into the tunnels, “Your craftsmanship ensures there’s no need to hide you. You could walk among the best investigators in broad sunlight and not set off a single alarm.”
“You sure?”
“No. The schematics for my process are based on detection methods I got from my time, advanced alongside my advancement of aesthetics, and thus I am unsure if I have done too well or gone in the wrong direction entirely. I would love to see what they used on the fish near the ports.”
Vulcan already knew they were his fault. He shrugged and said, “The Feathers have old equipment, things they have on standby in case the Snatchers get too loose in their ideals. They might help you. I don’t think the ones on the surface are that much better.”
Xala paused his stride. He studied the currents, the threads, of energy above him. His nostrils flared. Waste-water and grime flooded his nose. However, another scent followed from further away.
Incense. A combination of copal, orchilastik, and sage.
The orchilastik immediately gave Xala a heady sensation. He had not been graced by its tangy, spicy presence in quite some time. A favored herb among clergymen for its properties that tingled whatever parts of the brain controlled alertness and relaxation. Xala allowed himself a few more whiffs before he used a spell to ward off the herb’s effects. He required absolute control of himself for his task.
The smell was faint and far away, but they were headed in the right direction. “That equipment would be beneficial. The more I can blend you in, the more future Risen blend in, the better.” He slowed his pace as he caught the blank stare of an eyeless human skull lodged into the wall. It was covered in gunk from years of flooding. He passed by, saw more scattered and sprinkled about, until they rose in frequency. Eventually, the further they went, the cleaner the skulls got and the more abundant they became. Entire walls that would have been polished stone a few paces back were now entirely encompassed in bones.
Xala must have seemed like a kid in a candyshop as he passed by them all. He felt the energies around them. They were sacred. They were ancient. They were mostly human in appearance, but their bones were covered in ancient symbols and patterns he did not recognize. Even in Crimsire, he was a scholar of dead languages. Thus, the fact he could not decode the ones found on the catacombs’ bones perplexed him without end. He stopped in front of a particularly engraved cranium whose symbols looked as fresh as the day they were given.
He raised his hand toward it and gently hovered his digits to examine its enchantments. He slowed his breath, concentrated his mind, and gently glided across the invisible energies that radiated from it.
They were raw ambiguity. They held no meaning. In magic, especially imbuements, there must be a system that one follows when creating a magical object or spell. Language gives shape to thought. Arcana is harnessed in a similar fashion. Alas, these imbuements offered only the contradiction of immense specificity in design, but absolute nonsense in execution. Xala tugged his hand away, stood before the skull, stared in its eyes, and asked aloud, “What do you hide, ancient one?” He chuckled softly to himself. “Were you made when scarification was standard? When the height of bodily mutilation for the sake of magic was at its apex? No, you were far older than the Moors. No, you, you came from a time, a world, who thrived in its scars. Scars that reached bone.”
“An interesting hypothesis.”
Both Vulcan and Xala swiveled their heads toward a slim, doe-eyed, short, dusty-blonde haired, thin-nosed and lipped Dawn-Kin elf. His eyes were a dark brown that made them black in the darkness. Xala sniffed the air subtly. The man reeked of that incense he caught earlier. The man held out his hand and summoned a swarm of blue dancing lights. A trio of luminant orbs with tails like comets bounced around his palm as he illuminated them all. Xala dismissed his night-eye and asked, “Do you dispute it?”
“Oh, no, not at all. I’ve just never considered it. I always figured they received their marks after death. Who could survive such treatment?” He wore a long black cassock and a red collar around his neck. A set of prayer beads hung around his neck, fitted at the end with a six-fingered onyx hand. In its palm, made in white limestone, a circle was drawn with three crosses arranged in a triangle, almost as if to mimic a face. “Faithful people, perhaps. Hm. That would be poetic, if these lost souls were faithful, at one point.”
“Ancient peoples used to worship the skulls of their fallen dead. In the oldest settlements of the First Era, you can still find altars within the homes buried beneath black sands.”
“Is that right? Even when they had literal gods who walked among them?”
“What is a god to a non-believer? More importantly, a non-believer who believes in idols over living legends?”
“I suppose there is a familiarity that comes with an ancestor’s skull. Perhaps the connection to that person, be it a mother or father, is more tangible than a connection to a god. Even if he breaks bread with you and signs you hymns of his nature.”
“Hymns of his nature. I like that. What is your name?”
“Alex Cons, jasta. And you two are?” An Old Alegwan word for honorable guest.
“Xala Svoboda, and my companion Vulcan Ugrid. Jakamadi julstas.” Hundreds of blessings upon you.
Alex chuckled, “You are kind, but I’m afraid it’s been too long since I spoke my birth-tongue to sustain conversation with it. What purpose do you two have within these hallowed halls?”
“We seek an audience with the congregation down here.”
“Ah, you seek to join us?”
“Perhaps.”
Vulcan sneered Xala’s way.
Alex chuckled again, “Wonderful! Please, come with me.” He turned on his heels and went further into the catacombs. Even the ground became drier the deeper they went as he said, “I must say, you are a far cry from the usual sort we get at our doorstep. Lucky me, that I found you on my midday exercises. What leads you to the People of Mishcharer?”
“Mishcharer? I am unfamiliar with that word. I figured we walked the path toward the Dark One.”
“Haha, yes, the Dark One. Such is an easier and more palpable term for our Liberator. However, those of us who adhere to the original scriptures prefer Mishcharer, a term that comes from these fallen faithful.”
“Is that so? I imagined papyrus from that time did not survive the cruelty of time.”
“Oh, no papyrus. Their words are etched in stone. Their monuments and scriptures have only been partially decoded, but that word stands out strong many times.” Alex glanced back at Xala from over his shoulder, smirked, and commented, “You dated them before the Moors. How did you know? Many of them show no signs of decay.”
“There is no civilization or city in the world that could have generated these many dead who existed during the Moors or after them who utilized imbuements the way they do. I suspect their imbuements came directly after the Time of Confusion, where those with arcane power simply pushed their will and thoughts into objects. By these people’s times, they’d established language to create these symbols. If these are their runic engravings, their spells must have been the height of Artistry.”
“You’ve known them for only a few minutes, and yet it sounds as though you admire them.”
“I admire anyone who pushes the limitations of sorcery. Pioneers, even if their methods are lost, should be celebrated.”
“All of them? There are many pioneers in history who both the living and dead refuse to celebrate.”
“You mean the practitioners of the Dark Arts?”
“The Malevolent Arts,” he corrected. “We refrain from such language here, so as to not confuse it with our Dark One. And yes, those would be the tip of the iceberg.”
“Is it not standard that ‘Necromantic Theory’ by Lochynus Vastaj be taught in Defense Against the Malevolent Arts classes? A Lich Lord of Illamoor is venerated, if not celebrated, through his publication. His earlier works even helped establish fighting patterns and exposed weaknesses among the Moors. Is his celebration, or at least acknowledgement, of pioneership not ever-present?”
Xala noticed statues along the bases of the bone-layered walls. More appeared until Alex’s dancing lights illuminated the entire scene. A massive, lengthy depiction of people in prayer toward an androngynous, faceless entity who stood among them. A radiant light blossomed from its face as it helds its arms out in recognition of their worship.
“Does acknowledgement equal reverence? Do you suggest that when we speak of something we provide substance to it? Does substance immediately equal respect? Does respect for the reality of a substance in this manner equal veneration?”
“What better form of subconscious love than the constant utterance of it?”
“Hm. I know of many things that are constantly repeated, constantly brought up, and are never said from a place of love. It also comes from a place of hatred. So, does love and hate come from the same place? Can you love a Necromancer at the same time you hate it?”
“That is something I’m unsure of.”
Alex smirked and pressed further, “Of course you can. The capacity for great hatred comes from a place of great love. They may seem like opposite sides of a spectrum, but the spectrum is passion. When you live without both, you are void of expression and meaning. Dip into the extremes of either, and your passion allows you great amounts of love and hate. You can hate the Necromancer because of your capacity for love, and you can love something because of your capacity for hate. Consider something you yourself love as much as you hate something else.”
Two people immediately came to mind. Xala was pleased by Alex’s approach. “Is this the sort of rigorous discourse I can come to expect from the People of Mishcharer?”
“Oh, I’m afraid I’m a dime a dozen. You’ll find plenty of people here willing to talk your ear off.”
“Excellent, but will what they have to say be substantial?”
“That I cannot judge for you.” Alex stopped at a large, gilded door. The gold coat over its lead mass flaked off along the most touched edges and points. Fingerprints across centuries marred the door before them. It had no handle or groove, just a circular dip in the center to place one’s hand. However, it seemed designed for small hands, perhaps someone a bit larger than a dwarf. A series of spikes jutted out from the tips and palm of the handprint. Alex’s hand was a perfect match. He pressed into it, drew blood, and watched the blood slither and slather from the seal outward toward the rest of the door. The blood seeped into the edges and into the cracks. When all the blood was siphoned from its surface it creaked open.
It pushed outward on its own, the trio stepped back, and beheld a grand temple — The Southern Enclave. Carved from bedrock, a temple overflowing in statuettes, patterns, columns, and geometric complexities flourished itself before them, beckoned to them with an eldritch dominance, and summoned them inside.
The room was a hollowed out rhombus, where the widest part of the shape was a rectangular walkway that skirted around the isoceles dip and ascent. The dip was a theatron that burrowed into the ground via rows of seats and balconies to pray on. At the very bottom, a central dais glowed in the candlelit dimness. Above, the theatron was looked down upon by a myriad of stone visages. Their shadowy faces were contorted masses of ineffable emotion, whose expressions hinged on the planes between anger and joy, fear and ecstasy, silence and thunder, rage and serenity, fire and water, lightning and flesh, faith and death.
Their eyes burrowed into Xala’s as he matched them and felt their wisdom. He felt the centuries of prayer. The centuries of reverence. The centuries of patience. It all existed within these walls in a tangible energy that bristled against Xala’s cheekbones and cupped his ribs.
Only then did he realize he was inside.
The door was shut behind him, Vulcan stood at his side in the same mesmerized manner, and he turned to see Alex with a kind, aloof, closed-lipped grin.
“This place has a presence within it,” Xala whispered. His whole body felt a genuine threat in the air. He needed to be quiet.
Alex nodded and spoke in a similar, hushed manner, “Vestiges of an older religion. A religion owned by a people we no longer know the faces of. Their prayers had power.” He sucked in some air through his nose, whistled the air out his lips, and said, “Incredible power.”
Xala heard the whistle echo around the room. He looked down into the theatron and watched the other worshippers, all cloaked in crimson, turned their heads upward and whistle toward the faces of the entities above. Before the first whistle even stopped bouncing around the room, all of their heads were bowed once more in pious praise and worship.
Alex held out his hand in offering. Xala stared at the small palm and digits curiously as he asked, “You believe in the power of prayer?”
“Oh, yes,” he splayed his thin-yet-stubby fingers out a little more, inviting Xala to take it, “Don’t you?”
Xala felt a hundred eyes on him. He glanced around. None of the other worshippers paid him any attention. He said, “I have prayed before. I have begged at the altars of many gods. None have answered.”
“Oh, but they have.” Alex put his hand down and stepped forward. Their faces were inches apart. Then, they were both eclipsed by Vulcan’s shadow. He stood beside them, his tall, brutal gaze fixed on Alex. The blonde man offered a cursory glance, trained his eyes upon Xala, and continued, “They always do. At least one. Didn’t you know?”
“Superstition.”
“In a world of magic, how often can one be superstitious?”
“You would be surprised.”
“Tell me, wizard, do you believe in worlds without magic? What would they say about us? What would they whisper in their powerless woes? What gods would they turn to when none could hear them? In a world of magic, a prayer is a vibration that echoes across infinity. It is boundless, unlike spells. It is a signal that echoes, and when received, will be answered in kind.”
Xala chewed on his maulers as his tongue slid side to side across the back of his teeth. His eyes narrowed. He felt that presence in the air. He felt it slither across the walls with no shadow. He felt it watch him with eyes no form of Sight could perceive. He swallowed, the click of it resounded between the three of them, and he said, “Tell me, priest, does your god answer you? Does it speak to you?”
“Dajilominin speaks to me often.”
Xala maintained a neutral expression. Had this man simply learned Kthonic for the name of his messiah? Did he know who that name truly belonged to? Who would have told him? He said, “What does it say?”
“He grants me visions. Visions of utopia. Visions that would peel back the surface of the world and reveal the wonders within. For he is spawned from the world. He will be born from it like an egg. He will break the world to claim his birth.”
Alex did not show any signs of fanaticism. His words scratched Xala’s mind like a cat’s tongue — abrasive and wretched — but his face was passive and serene. His eyes were calm. His heartbeat never exceeded a normal rate. His eyes were undilated. His mouth did not twitch. His fingers remained clasped together in front of him and no odd movements were made beneath his robes. He spoke as if his words were simply obvious.
“You’ve wavered from your script, priest,” Xala smiled smoothly. “These are not words meant to convert.”
“Hah, convert? Why would I want to convert you?” Alex chuckled to himself, shook his head, and said, “No, you are impossible. I know your type. Atheists in a godly world. It is such blatant ignorance that there is no hope for you. But,” he closed his eyes, bowed his head, and said, “We are a generous congregation.”
Alex turned his body toward the theatron. He stepped toward the edge of the descent, spread out his hands, and beckoned to the worshippers below. Their crimson robes and cowls shifted as they turned their bodies to provide their full attention. Dozens of curious eyes gazed up at Alex, Xala, and Vulcan.
“Kin! We have visitors! Please, show them your hospitality,” he bowed his head, brought his hands together, clutched his prayer beads, and muttered, “Blessings be upon those who provide.” His chant was repeated synchronously around the room. “Wisdom of the fallen guide us.” This time, as they all chanted, Xala felt the presence in the room swell with power. As if the phrase made the presence more powerful. Alex turned back to Xala and said, “You and your man will find this temple open to you.”
Xala breathed slowly and forced himself to regularity. That presence dominated the space until Alex said those welcoming words. In an instant, those eyes left Xala’s person. He was freed of them and the presence. He said, through tight lips, “Bless your kin.”
Alex smiled.
“Do you have a library?”
Alex chuckled, “Of course.”
They were led around the rim of the rectangular walkway, toward a side door that was cleverly hidden by a tapestry. The linen was embroidered with all kinds of symbols and idols that Xala could barely recognize. They did not maintain the same depictions of the messiah as the one outside the temple, in the catacombs. The only decipherable forms, made of calligraphy strokes, were of naked horned men and women dancing around a flaming skull.
They pushed through the tapestry, through an area full of silent, fasting worshippers all bowed down in prayer. Their bodies were all aligned toward the previous room’s central point. Xala paid close attention to them as he passed and caught one person’s gaze. She wore a veil over her face made of black beads. Her hair, beneath that cowl, swarmed with slow, deliberate, serpentine motions. Xala made eye contact with her and grinned. He knew she was a Gorgon sator. She would make an excellent case study if he got his way. She quickly averted her gaze and returned to her prayers.
They went through another tapestry, this one depicting starved monks, and entered into the archives. Layers upon layers of tome-ridden and scroll-stacked shelves, tables, and baskets greeted them. Xala restrained his excitement, but his eyes refused to hide his elation.
“Heh, drop a wizard in a bookshop, and you won’t see him for days. Drop one in a library, he’ll be there a few months. Drop him in a temple’s archives, and he stays for years,” Alex mused as he walked past Xala, his robes sweeping along Xala’s ankles, as he made way for a nearby shelf. He delicately reached up and gingerly tapped a scroll into his palm, offered it to Xala, and said, “Do you approve?”
Xala cast a spell over his hands to make them ready to hold the ancient parchment, delicately accepted Alex’s offer, and whispered a few words to help lubricate the old, crunchy scroll as he unfurled it. Calligraphy covered the scripture in hundreds of miniature lines of text. The movements were smooth and curly, exquisitely preserved, and were written in Okran Elvish. It was the same language Xala used when he first met a Dawn-Kin woman in the streets. It was his native tongue.
His eyes brushed across the page like an archeologist at a digsite full of pottery. Every stroke needed as much dedication as a whole novel to appreciate its beauty. He breathed in the smell of the room, the old papyrus, the fungi-made parchment of long since passed ages, and the wooden blocks some of the texts in the room were written on. It all felt right. It all felt perfect. He missed the scent of paper, even if mushroom paper was his least favorite.
“You can read this?”
“Oh, yes,” Xala muttered as he pored over the words. “Who wrote this?”
“Ajuk Nifala, long-dead Axoti who came to us thirty years before the Collapse. Our Wise One met him and welcomed him. We’ve never gotten a full account of how accurate this prophecy was, but she requests it from time to time. Must be to honor Ajuk’s memory.”
Thirty years before the Collapse. Eight years before Xala was born. It was painfully accurate.
Death shall befall the Elves of Okra. Their kin will be wiped from the forests of Irdalan one final time, cast across the fields of Tejraha, and given no sanctuary save for the last Resplendant Hollow. Their time will fall at the apex of an Emperor whose blood sings with dragonfire. The murderer of the Elves will walk in shadow surrounded by swarms of the damned. Their feet shall be smaller than mice and their body more fragile than ice. The murderer shall live in squalor and death, hidden by the virtue of their own filth. The Elves shall reclaim that which they have lost through vengeance of a kind they do not know. The murderer shall grow cruel and horrible, until the Emperor himself courts the murderer. A White Scourge will plague the outerlands. His corruption shall know no end, until it reaches the murderer. The murderer will find comfort in the corruption, and bring it into the court of the Emperor. The fall of Okra will be a fire and a plague whose only anathema will be the seas.
If you come across this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.
Xala frowned as he held the scroll. Xala never murdered the elves. That part made no sense. But, the rest was absolutely perfect. He was raised by the zombies he reanimated as a baby. A birthright of Moors. Anything organic nearby that is without a pulse must rise to serve and care for the newborn. He sucked on his teeth and gently rolled the scroll back up.
“May I meet your Wise One?”
“Do you think yourself worthy?”
That quote could have been easily laughed off. Alas, there was a cautionary tone in Alex’s voice. Xala frowned, furrowed his brows, and considered the request. Would this Wise One be like that Dusk-Kin? Would the Wise One also know Xala’s identity? Perhaps, in a single glance, they would be aware of his true flesh? Although, even if they did know who he was, perhaps he could use that to his advantage. He needed to meet with them eventually. Thus, he could attempt a different approach. If he, at first, denied himself a meeting with the Wise One, he might be able to say or do something that forces her to summon him.
Xala sighed and said, “I will not answer, and I will not seek them out.”
“Huh. Impressive, for a wizard. Your kind is always more arrogant.”
“Ah, humility is, supposedly, a virtue. I am nothing if not virtuous.”
Alex snorted, “Liar. Besides, you said your purpose was to gain an audience with our congregation. Wasn’t a leader your intended audience?”
“No, not entirely. I simply wanted to speak to your people. I believe our interests align. I especially like the point of your Mishcharer’s prophecy where it says he will liberate the mages of the underground and return them to the surface. I would like to assist.”
“Assist? You wish to start a rebellion?”
“No. Rebellions are usually messy and lack concern. No, I aim for something higher. A whole structural change of things. It would be systemic, but fast enough to paralyze the surface’s forces before they can act against it.”
Alex sighed, clearly skeptical, and said, “Revolution.” He took a deep breath. “You think the People can help the people above engage in revolution? That word is synonymous with rebellion to them. They know no other way, besides what few dreams we’ve inspired in them with our preachers.”
“Preachers they pay no mind to.”
“It does not matter that they understand, only that the people listen and hear. Then, in their daily lives, they will remember fragments. Enough fragments will lead them to us, as if our words are to be known as familiarily as the wind.”
“Clever, but it doesn’t work. This temple, which I understand is one of many, is populated by only a few people. You’ve existed for a long time. You are an amusement that occasionally assists the most destitute. I would suggest you assemble your preachers and make them focus their sermons on the idea of the surface. Have them preach about liberation. Have them preach ecstasy over prophecy. Have them preach futures instead of dreams. Manufacture hope. That is all I ask.”
Alex thought for a moment, before he held up his hand and countered, “If you want to start a revolution now, but off the back of our prophecy, then won’t that mean you’ve simply ensured everyone in Fae Town waits for the messiah, as we do?”
“Oh, don’t you think he’ll come?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“He could come at any second. Why not be ready for him? Why not prepare everyone for his arrival, by making everyone willing to ascend?”
Alex frowned. He sighed. “I must speak with my superiors.”
Xala did not press further. These things needed to be handled with care. If he went too fast, too hard, he might break any alliance or ripple before it even begins. “Very well. May I stay among your archives while I wait?”
“It may take a long time for them to respond, if they find the idea interesting enough. I doubt they will. But, yes, you may stay. Do not interrupt the faithful as they pray.”
“I understand.” Xala bowed his head politely as Alex nodded, walked around him and Vulcan, and moved toward the other room. “Oh, but, could you inform a man named Aldoron of my plans?”
Alex stopped dead in his tracks. Xala could sense his heartbeat quicken. Alex turned his head, swallowed hard, and said, “Who?”
“My mistake. I met a man who called himself that, just yesterday. I assisted him, you see. I showed him where his three little fingers came from. He must be busy finding his way to them right now. A shame. I would have liked to continue our conversation. Well, apologies.” Xala smiled and turned back to the archives. He walked into them and joined the small throng of shuffling and reading scholars within as he explored.
Vulcan glanced toward Alex and watched the stunned man with a slight smirk. Alex matched his gaze, quickly averted his eyes, and rushed outside. Vulcan pushed deeper into the archives, met Xala in a secluded, shadowy corner where the torchlight did not fully reach, and muttered, “You had fun with that?”
“Was I too obvious?”
“A little.”
Xala shrugged, thumbed through an old monk’s manuscript he found, and said, “He took it well. In no time, he’ll contact me and we’ll get this out of the way momentarily.”
Hours passed. Xala absorbed himself in the knowledge held within the archives. He enhanced his sight, read at blinding speeds, and accumulated heaps of scripture that jumbled around before they formulated archives of their own within his mindscape. The written stories of countless people were harbored within the sizable library, each one from a different decade or century of penmanship and literary style. Xala took the time to read the manuscripts of modern scholars and go down the dates to find out where each practice and belief originated. The ideals and minutia of the People of Mishcharer have ebbed and flowed since their original records.
According to the eldest manuscript, written by a nameless soul whose writings commented on the origin of the faith, the People of Mishcharer were once lost souls banished to the darkness by a cruel race. They found their way into Fae Town and created a home. They built communities, thrived in the dark, and learned how to create light of their own kind. They were abandoned by their gods, and so they prayed for a new one. One that would hear them. When they prayed, they received insight into a powerful form of magic. They gained a light that would sustain food, grow crops, and cleanse water by virtue of its own holiness. So long as the congregation stayed true, the light sustained them. They found the catacombs abandoned and dead, and chose to inhabit the old structures and temples, created communions within them, and developed their faith ever since, alongside their populations. Many fled the communes’ rigid structure and began to inhabit the hollowed out stone pillars that made up Fae Town. They accepted people from the surface as refugees and harbored them in the shadows, where they could make a life for themselves free of the surface’s worries and pillaging.
Except, by the author’s time, generations later, the light had faltered. It ceased its luminance, until it eventually died with no explanation. Then, in the darkness, all of Fae Town heard a divine whisper.
Written in Kthonic, on the page, clear as day, “Find my path. Find my prophecy. Find your liberator.”
The High Priests were compelled from their temples in the catacombs, led toward a grand, empty chamber, and forced to use their powers to destroy the floor. When they succeeded, they uncovered the Written City of Mishcharer. There, the prophecy revealed itself to the faithful.
Xala frowned. His lip twitched. The sections were wholly vague. He had a hard time piecing anything together by the end of it. He sighed and set the tome down. He grumbled toward Vulcan, “Yet again, the further down in history you go, the more nonsensical the ancients become.” He drummed his fingertips along the book’s spine, “I must see this written city. I want to see what the prophecy actually says. Then, I might get some real answers about it.”
Vulcan frowned as he side-eyed Xala, “Why?”
“Because, then,” he paused, only momentarily, “I will be able to use it better toward our efforts.”
“Nah, that’s not all. Why do you need to know everything about this junk?”
Xala smiled easily, “Maybe I wish to join once I fully understand,”
Vulcan threw his hands up, “Fine, don’t tell me.”
“Xala Svoboda?” A voice bumbled its way through the stacks of knowledge from the entrance. It was feminine and raspy, “Is he here?”
The duo revealed themselves and laid eyes on the gorgon woman from the prayer room. She was as tall as Vulcan, towered over her fellow acolytes, but her slender form cloaked in crimson made her appear phantasmal. Her veiled face was a matrix of harsh angles that all radiated outward from her piercing reddish-pink eyes. Her hair was hidden beneath her cowl, but smaller serpents rested along her neck in silent, wide-eyed meditation.
When they came closer, she beamed and bowed her head toward them, “A pleasure to meet you, Alex has told us good things about you. Please, follow me.”
“Where to?”
“To meet the Wise Ones.” She turned on her heels and disappeared through the tapestry. Xala and Vulcan quickly followed. He had read that title many times in the many manuscripts. His lip twitched as he pondered the invitation. He followed her stride past another tapestry into a dark hallway. Did they like his proposal? Did they believe him an intruder here to whisper dark thoughts into the impressionable minds of their worshippers? If they wanted to kill him, a dark hallway made a great spot.
At least, it would be a great spot to kill someone if they were not ready for it. Xala silently formed a litany of spells that simmered beneath his skin, prepared to prickle outward the moment he faced danger. Vulcan’s heavy, thudding footsteps behind him provided additional reassurance.
An ajar stone door punctuated the run-on hallway. He saw daylight peak through the crevice.
The Gorgon opened it further to reveal a blinding light compared to the rest of the temple. Xala raised his hand to shield his eyes, let them adapt, and stepped forward into a large circular chamber. A dais dominated the center of the room. Five people sat together in meditation atop the circular platform. The light flowed over their robes and fabrics and jewelry in a way that presented raw power.
Xala lifted his head and caught a glimpse at the source of the wretched sunlight.
A blue sky. A cloudless blue sky where tufts of sand gently brushed across the opening in space-time. Xala stared at the gap in reality, whose separation between the chamber and the outside world was a partially oily, bubble-like veil. Sand dipped its way onto the surface of the portal before it lazily rolled its many grains across and fled with the wind. The rift was sustained by four pillars that jutted upward around the room, pierced the veil, and created locks on the other side that kept the outside world out.
Xala’s vision remained a tad dazed as he peeled his eyes from the sight and observed the rest of the room. Calligraphy covered the walls, etched into the stone for eternity in their fluid, curvy, swooping motions. He did not understand the language. His lip twitched as his eyes shifted from the text to the people along the outer walls. Alex was among the dozen hooded figures. He watched Xala with cautious, wide eyes.
“All fall for the Wise Ones.” The Gorgon spoke to the whole room, before she and the rest of the congregation fell to their knees and kissed their foreheads to the polished floor. Xala and Vulcan glanced toward each other. Vulcan threatened Xala with unending torment if he was made to bow. Xala sympathized. She side-eyed him from beneath her hood. A few smaller serpents stirred, hissed, and she said, “Fall, now.”
Xala watched her, glanced toward the heavily clothed people in the center, held out his hands, and took an actor’s bow. Vulcan stifled his laugh.
“Do you mock us, interloper?” A voice richocheted around the room, pummeled the stone, bounced off the portal, and penetrated Xala’s ears and mind with its forcefulness. Xala knew what made his mind bristle against those words. Blood Magic.
Xala’s fingers twitched with rage as he felt his own blood slither around his veins, disturbed by the voice and its caster, and said, “No, of course not.” He placed his hands behind his back, stood up straight, and laid eyes on his audience.
The speaker, evident by her trace amounts of energy that lingered in the air thanks to her evocation, sat at the front of a pentagon arrangement of mats. Her robes were pitch black, like the others, but adorned with heaps of turquoise. Gemstones clung to her throat, hung from her shoulders, binded her wrists, and twisted around her waist. The bone-white Acolito human sat with her shoulders rolled back, her face set in subtle disgust, and her wine-red hair tied back in a turquoise clip.
On the other corners of the pentagon sat a Dawn-Kin elf man of silver hair and silver adornments, two Oba humans with jade and lapis lazuli, and an eyeless, hornless Drakul saurian man.
Xala saw the hornless Drakul and almost laughed in pure mockery. The Drakul prided everything on their horns. To be without any was a great shame, especially when born without any.
As for the Acolito, Xala paid her special attention. She was particularly pale, but could easily blend in as one of the Oba humans. She was designed that way. He could smell the tainted nature of her bloodstream. She and her kin were created by Xala’s people to be dark-arts-using pets. A part of him wondered if he could use her genetic mutations and defects to his advantage. However, the fact she was not a raving lunatic necromancer did offer great insight into her character. Faith must have grounded her especially well.
“We must ask about your encounter with the one you know as Aldoron. Where did you last see him?” Her voice was much softer, no longer employing blood magic to make her point.
Xala raised an eyebrow, glanced around into the eyes of the other Wise Ones, and addressed her honestly, “There’s a quaint spot named Rebekah’s Teahouse, which he was preaching outside of. He came to me, out of thin air, sensed something about me, and we spoke for a time.” He knew he irritated her with his vagueness.
“What did you discuss?”
“Ah, I would be a poor friend if I simply divulged,”
“What did you discuss?”
Xala’s face twisted as he felt that same pang in his ears and mind. He flexed his hands, locked eyes with her, and uttered something under his breath. She had used her magic against him twice. Now, he knew her signature. Better yet, how to block her out. She simply observed, her face stern and indifferent. “We spoke of the Dark One alongside some philosophy.”
“And how did you assist him with his,” she paused, mauled over the words, and quoted, “three little fingers.”
“I performed a divination spell to uncover exactly where they led. Although, I’m curious, why not ask him yourself?”
She watched him. Her eyes were wolfish in their intensity, their black-brown depths impossible to discern. Her ambiguity made her lethal. She said, “Describe the man you met.”
“Oh, I’ll gladly do more than describe,” Xala snapped his fingers, sprung runes to life, and began to formulate an illusory, ethereal projection of Aldoron in front of himself. The old man pieced himself together from threads stitched into place from thin air, formulated a gauze over his image, and became eerily life-like as he stood before the congregation. He did not move, he did not breathe, he simply existed as a perfect visual replica to the man Xala met.
Lungs all around the room siphoned the air like hungry leeches desperate for sustenance. The Wise Ones shared their shock, except for the Acolito. She remained calm as her fellows exchanged whispers behind her. She held up her hand, all chatter ceased, and she said, “There is no shadow of a doubt in your mind that this is the man you saw?”
“None. I could also produce his smell, if you’d like?”
She shook her head, sighed through her nostrils, and said, “Did you see where he went?”
“No. I’ve been looking for him, and figured I might find him among you all.”
The Wise Ones looked amongst one another. The Acolito's gaze shifted. Her eyes scanned the room, but not her fellow leaders. She sought the eyes of her congregation, landed on Alex’s, and willed him to step forth. His feet ushered up from the ground, his legs built themselves up beneath him, and compelled him to rise. He surged forth, fell back to his knees at the rim of the dais, and tilted his head upward toward the sky.
“Aldoron was among our greatest Proctors. He was eclectic and eccentric. He believed in the Forceful Absolution Doctrine. He dragged mortals to the depths, tested their will, and when they broke, he did not mourn. He moved to the next candidate. He was dismissed from our ranks, barred from our holy sites, and we have not seen him since.”
Xala maintained a neutral expression, but internally he seethed. What use was Aldoron to Xala now?
Alex, situated beside the Wise Ones, remained absolutely silent. His eyes were glazed over with a frosted-glass texture. Within that texture, colors of all kinds were in constant motion, but played a game of hide and seek to slither within and behind the grooves of that surface.
“Priest Cons was the last subject of Aldoron’s Doctrine. We saved him and impeached Aldoron from our order before his fate was sealed.”
Alex was a candidate for messianic prophecy to Aldoron? That made no sense. Alex was a mere elf. Not at all alien to the peoples of Fae Town. Nor was he particularly powerful. Xala kept his lips shut.
“Since then, Aldoron has been lost to us.”
“And, who are you?”
Her lips thinned. She hollowed her cheeks as she sucked in air. Her eyes set upon Xala as she said, “I am Mother Saja.”
Sajaaaaa….
Her eyes widened. Her eyes darted around the room. She clenched her eyes shut, whispered a prayer, absolved her suddenly tense body, and rolled her shoulders back. She relaxed her mind, soothed her soul, and opened her eyes again. She opened her mouth to speak.
Saaaaajaaaaaaaa….
No words left her throat. None danced across her tongue. Not even air left her lungs, as if she were hoarding all she had.
SAAAAJAAAAAA!
She turned her head to the side. Beads of sweat dripped down her scalp. She focused her mind to every part of her body, settled her nerves, prayed for blessings upon her mental fortresses, and took a deep, soothing breath. The Wise Ones behind her seemed worried, the Drakul reached out to feel for her, but she held up her hand, clenched it into a fist, shook her head, and addressed Xala with a terse tone, “He is no friend to us.”
Xala maintained neutrality. Internally, he uncovered what made her feel fear. He smelled it in her blood. He heard it in her heartbeat. He sensed it in her words. He felt it in the energy she emitted in the very atmosphere. She would be easily exploitable through the voices she somehow silenced. The voices he could mimic. He remained silent for a moment, before he said, “I understand. Then, if he is of no use to this discussion, please, may we address my ulterior purposes?”
Saja, do not listen to him. He is vermin. He is a mongrel. He does not seek what you seek. He does not beg like you beg. He does not pray like you pray. He is a morsel to be killed and reanimated! KILL HIM!
She breathed heavily through her nostrils. Her eyes were wide. A vein had popped and spread its red hue across her sclera. She swallowed hard, hardened her heart, remained focused on Xala, and said defiantly, “We have heard your idea. Explain it to us.”
Xala glanced toward Alex. Finally, Mother Saja also noticed him. She blinked, willed his freedom, and his eyes reverted back to normal. His head fell forward, his shoulders slumped, and he breathed heavily. Xala had indirectly prolonged Alex’s momentary stasis, but all eyes were on Saja. Her control was waning. She was destroying herself bit by bit. Alex took shallow breaths, brought a hand to his throat, and said, “Mother, thank you.” He bowed his head, remained in place, and waited to be commanded.
Among the People of Mishcharer, it is considered a great honor to be beckoned forth and granted visions by a Wise One. It is the highest way a Wise One can address their followers. However, most visions were supposed to be short. Momentary. Alex’s has lasted quite a while.
Xala said, “I foresee a change in the wind ushered by your people. I merely wish to offer the idea that, for mages to reclaim the surface, you must preach that they reclaim the surface. That it is theirs to live within. Urge them to rise. Stir their hearts. For now, they will merely hear it and continue their stride. Turn your preachers into revolutionaries. Have them speak of how the Dark One, Mishcharer, the Liberator will break all chains. Fill them with dreams. Let them go to sleep and imagine a better world. Then, as you do, I foresee the masses in their motions changing. I foresee the rulers of our undercity answering your calls for revolution. I foresee Serpents and Snatchers marching side by side. I foresee the authority of the surface collapsing. Tell your preachers to begin spreading the message of Mishcharer’s goal, and as the entirety of Fae Town becomes absorbed by that message, perhaps, your messiah will come to answer the call.”
When Xala finished, whispers erupted around the room. Alex side-eyed Xala with an ineffible expression. Mother Saja’s lips twitched. The Wise Ones behind her bickered. Some were aligned with Xala. Others defied him.
Saja opened her lips to speak.
KILL HIM! He is a false prophet. He speaks only lies. If you do this, if you heed this wretch, this mongrel, you will ensure oblivion. You will ensure the destruction of the world. You will ensure our end.
Saja’s lips froze, but her eyes shifted side to side.
KILL HIM! KILL HIM! KILL HIM! KILL—
She uttered a fast, forceful prayer, silenced the voices, and took a deep breath. The room fell quiet as all looked to her. She said, “Your offer intrigues, but what certainty do we have in your predictions?”
“Certainty? Is certainty not the death of faith? I do not have the arrogance to suggest that my predictions will come. I can only offer that I will not rest until these predictions are made true. I am merely an orator. All I offer you is a role. A role for your People to fulfill. Within that role, I believe, wholeheartedly, that you will thrive.”
“You offer a role? As if we are in a play?”
“All of life is a play. The thing is, you can change, or evolve, your role at any time. If you prefer something more glorious, then I offer a path. A path toward the absolute completion of your faith. A path toward your messiah. Whether it is the only path, or not, I will allow you theologians to deduce. But, I will tell you this; if the faithful of any congregation do not earn the blessing and absolution of their deity, then what rights do they have? What claim do they deserve? If holiness is not earned, then what is the worth of it?”
Xala blossomed his mind. Instead of enchanting his words, he whispered into the minds of the Wise Ones and their congregation. Like a lotus flower, his thought-petals stretched across the watery surface of their minds and provided shade from the wrathful sun above. His shade was idyllic. Like a lotus flower, sunlight breached through the pink petals and provided a colorful shadow, full of wonder and lovely details. As such, he inspired the minds of those around him. He whispered tales of glory, wealth, and power. He whispered the thought of pilgrims from all over the world desperate to visit their sacred sites. He whispers images of their faith in the echoic halls of power within the great citadels in the world. He whispered rumors of love and fortune.
His mind slithered back to him, curled itself back up, and he watched the Wise Ones deliberate with their own individual biases and thoughts. The Drakul in the back raised his snout, peeled apart his lips, and spoke with a general’s presence, “We have lingered in darkness for centuries. Perhaps, to gain the audience of Mishcharer, we must have a different approach.”
“Father Veskimir, please, do not stoke such fires,” the jade-clad Oba woman spoke quickly, turned to Xala, and said, “Your words are dangerous, interloper!”
“Mother Yuniko, Father Veskimir, please,” the silver-haired Dawn-Kin elf quickly snapped. He turned to Mother Saja, “We must convene.”
Saja studied Xala, flared her nostrils, and shifted in place to face her brethren leaders. Their heads bowed forward as they spoke telepathically. Xala could feel the currents of energy in the air between the quintet. Thoughts raced, visions blurred, ideas fired back and forth. He immediately developed a new form of respect for them. It seemed a condition of leadership among the People of Mishcharer was an ability to speak in this manner. He wondered if that had become standard in the modern age. It was an incredibly rare gift for most of Merces’ history, and to find five practitioners of it was a beautiful thing indeed. Sure, any mage could send a slow message to one’s mind from a particular distance, but fluid speech in the mindscape was another thing entirely.
Just then, a thought occurred to him. If they were capable of telepathy with such ease, did they know what he had done? Was he subtle enough? One could have a deep understanding of telepathy and not be a psionic, but what of these people? The clergy of Xala’s time found psionics a deeply disrespectful, vile form of sorcery, while some mages disputed the idea that it was magic at all and that it was something far more villainous and intangible.
The rest of the room seemed excited and terrified. Those crimson robes shifted in place. Their hands fidgeted. Xala could tell many of them were tempted by his ideas. Others were simply afraid. Those who feared his ideas, and consequently, him, needed to be dealt with. He could either wait for the Wise Ones to finish, or take advantage of the weaklings now.
His mind slithered outward, sampled the flavor of the gathered underlings, and invaded those who reeked of weakness. He worked in the shadows of their unconsciousness. He burrowed himself into those depths, placed seedlings there, and quickly fled. He had no intention of being caught.
Xala scanned the room again.
Those same weaklings who shuddered at the thought of revolution began to smile. Their watery eyes hardened and dried. Their jaws clenched. Their fists tightened. Their primal appetites for violence, comfort, and freedom were stoked. Temptation was a powerful tool. Something all Moors intrinsically understood.
The Wise Ones turned their bodies back to Xala and Mother Saja addressed him, “We have decided.”
She allowed a moment of pounding silence. The only sound in the room was the congregations’ heartbeat and miniscule breaths.
“We will instruct our preachers to spread the words of Mishcharer’s goals. They will preach of his benevolent desire to see the freedom of Fae Town’s people. They will preach his desire for equality and equity. They will do this for thirty days and thirty nights. Tonight will be the first night. If your visions do not become reality within that time, then we will return to our usual sermons, and remain patient. If your visions do not become reality, if no such rulers march together against the surface, if the people do not respond, you will be labeled Incrimara — false prophet. You will be an enemy to the People of Mishcharer and given no hospitality where we live. You will be pushed to the dregs of society for your arrogance and insolence. Additionally, for following you, we who voted for these changes will step down and find others to take our places.”
Saja and Yukino were not among those who voted for this. Xala could tell just from their faces compared to the three men. Men were often so much easier to manipulate.
Xala, finally, knelt down, bowed his head to the ground, and uttered, “You honor me, Wise Ones, with your decision. I will pray that you have not been led astray. I will pray that this is the truest path toward absolution.” He lifted his head, sat up, and smiled softly. “And as I pray, I shall work to guarantee.”
