by Luke Tarzian
No, Theailys thought. No need.
“Figured,” Cailean said. He took a sip from his waterskin and sighed contentedly. “If you feel like talking…”
Theailys smiled. “I’ll let you know.” He bundled away his food, then stood and stretched. “I’m going to go for a walk. Try and clear my head before I sleep.”
Cailean nodded, and Theailys withdrew.
“You are particularly adept at avoiding conversation,” Remy said. Tall grass passed through his incorporeal frame. “At least when it comes to the individuals without your mind. In here?” He tapped his temple. “Utter chaos. So much so one might think your head was full of ghosts.”
From law, chaos, Theailys thought. Unpack that as you see fit.
“You desire General Khoren’s head,” Remy said. “A life for a life. From law, chaos, and from chaos, law.” He crossed his wispy arms. “Or perhaps it’s something else. A darkness in your dreams?”
An apt, if not tame conjecture on Remy’s part. Theailys sighed. It was different the other night, more than fantasy. Almost like a…memory. In Helveden, yet at the same time not. An analog, a reflection of its ruined self.
Remy stopped. “Show me.”
What do you know? Theailys asked, turning to face the silhouette.
“Little,” Remy said. “But enough to guess my presence in your mind is what’s responsible for this immigrant dream of yours. After all, from law, chaos.” He held his hand out toward Theailys. “I should like to see it, please. If it’s kept you silent, occupied your thoughts these last couple of days, then you should have some semblance of an answer as to why.”
“Maybe dreams are sometimes something more,” Theailys murmured aloud. With everything going on, he supposed it wise to heed such a notion, no matter how ridiculous it seemed. As Khar Am had once said, truth from madness.
All right. Theailys took Remy’s hand and the silhouette dissolved into his flesh. How do I show you? I can remember little else beyond what I explained.
“Take a seat in the grass,” Remy said, so Theailys did. “Close your eyes. See your illum swimming toward your mind and allow the energy to wreathe your nebulous recollection in its warmth.”
Theailys closed his eyes, greeted first by darkness, then a sphere of luminescent energy, threads of which streamed out and upward through the void that was his mind. He took a steadying breath. He could feel Remy’s presence, unwavering and warm, searching for the memory of the dream.
“Beneath the ashy oak, she waits,” Remy whispered. “A silhouette wrought by the softness of the moonlight. She beckons, starting from the tree, a spire city looming in the far distance of the world.”
The illum swelled at Remy’s words. “You call her by a name you can’t discern. She does not slow, so you press yourself to sprint, to chase this gentle ghost you swear you’ve seen before.”
The illum pulsed. From its nebulous core a doorway came to be, beyond which stood the snow-swathed walls of the spire city Remy had described. “She implores you follow. Something in the ruin of this place has called you both.”
The illum surged one final time, the doorway yawning to its full capacity, and Theailys found himself beneath the moon and clouds, the city rising up before him like a monster in the night. He started up the grass-lined road, occasional threads of moonlight revealing the city for the ruin that it was. Every step he took sent shivers up his spine; his skin was gooseflesh underneath his robes. Something tugging from the deepness of his mind suggested he knew why.
Another step. The dreamscape fluctuated briefly to reveal a brilliant city bathed in golden light. It vanished, though, as quickly as it’d come, and Theailys neared the dark necropolis, eyes keen to any movement, ears to any sound as he willed the silhouette to reappear.
In, a voice inside him whispered. In the city does your gentle quarry wait.
Theailys crested the incline, stepping into the shadow of the city wall. The entryway portcullis had been ripped away; the path ahead was clear. He crossed the threshold, greeted by a city entombed in ice. Mirkúr webbed its way along the streets; it crept up buildings like vines. Its gossamer threads extended from the myriad rotted corpses strewn about—the black essence had left none untouched. Theailys shivered, pushing down the urge to retch. What had happened here, wherever here was?
“This is new.” Theailys started at the voice, and Varésh stepped beside him to observe the ruin. “New and terrible. Why this? Why not the meadow and the tree? Why not your Anayela, hmm?”
Theailys eyed the winged man. “I…don’t know. Remy said—”
Varésh cocked an eyebrow. “Remy?”
The illum silhouette materialized at the mention of his name, scrutinizing Varésh with a furrowed brow. “Varésh Lúm-talé. How long since last we met? At least a year before my Ana’s death, I think.”
“Ah.” Varésh stroked his chin, nodding slowly. “Now I understand. The coin has flipped. Mirkúr is at rest.” He gazed upon the necropolis. “Why here, Illum? Why this awful place?”
Remy shrugged. “For the moment, bird, I’ve not a clue.” He narrowed his eyes and pointed at a spire wreathed in illum, jutting upward from the center of the city. “But instinct says some semblance of an answer lies within.”
At that, both Varésh and Remy disappeared.
Theailys took a deep breath to steel his nerves, then started on his way.
* * *
“Do you get the feeling, Ronomar, we ought not be here?” Raelza asked for the umpteenth time. They were well aware this was a dream, an illum dream to be exact, one they had traversed many times before. They stood before the ruins of a great city, white with years of snow, preserved by endless frost. “What I mean to say is, do you think Mistress Khal will be angry?”
“Considering we’re an ocean away and we snuck out of the Hall one night before assessments began, probably,” Ronomar said. “Probably more so when she learns we commandeered her surname in order to fund this little excursion.”
“Free travel out of Ariath for Master Illumurgists,” Raelza said, grinning. “Who could blame us?”
They looked the frosted, gate-less archway up and down, shivering. The chill of this place lent itself to a city lost to time. Ouran’an—the dead city of a dead race, the first race. One didn’t happen upon such a majestic mausoleum by chance. Finding Ouran’an had taken years of research, of sifting fact from fib. Years of honing their abilities as Illumurgists, though apprentices they were. One did not wander into history on a whim, and one certainly did not go unarmed, especially to a place like this.
The twins conjured illum blades, motes of light coalescing at the hilts. They crossed the old threshold into Ouran’an, though not before they gave a final glance to the path and landscape they’d traversed. Snow and rock for as far as they could see. Had there ever been grass or trees?
Raelza coughed. “The air is thick.”
“Like a tomb in summer, but worse.” Ronomar stepped a few paces past their sibling, wrinkling their nose. “The promenade, the angular architecture and the spires—it reminds me a bit of home, though decidedly less lively.”
“So many buildings. Where do you think the journal is?” Raelza asked. It was a good question. “Research suggests it lies in one of three or four locations, but who can say? It’s just as well we decided it was optional, eh?”
“Yes. But think of what secrets those pages hold,” Ronomar said softly. The Reshapers and their fall… Ghosts returned to life in ancient ink. An optional desire, a side quest to an undertaking of immense scholastic import and personal pride.
“The better question,” Raelza said, “is where the Prime Vault sits. Do you think it’s under guard?”
Ronomar shivered in their cloak. “In a city like this, Raelza? In a city long dead and near erased from history? Undoubtedly. Whether by glyphs, or ghosts, or something more, only time will tell.”
Ronomar scanned ahead, vision obscured by light snow and sunlight bouncing off the ice. They
could tell, though, a number of once great spires and towers had been reduced to half their true heights. As they and Raelza pushed ahead they saw that one stood out amongst the rest—taller, bearing tarnished, half-shattered stained-glass windows.
“Impressive,” Ronomar said. “Even after so many years. Could that be their refuge? Might that be the Reshaperate Spire?”
Raelza stopped and pulled a map from their cloak. The twins had spent years reconstructing the city layout through what information they had gathered; it was as accurate as anything anyone could hope to find.
“I would say so.” They stowed the map away and started forward, snow and ice crunching underneath their boots.
What must Ouran’an have looked like in its prime! Golden streets and silver spires floated through their minds. Fantasies, they knew; no one was quite sure what color scheme had graced the home of the Reshapers, but it was certainly fun to ruminate.
The further down the promenade the twins went the more rubble-cluttered Ouran’an became. Stone and glass remained encased in ice, one with the natural landscape that had, over centuries, begun to stake its claim on the corpse of Ouran’an. It was so obstructive that they found themselves walking half a mile east in order to bypass the great stone mounds. They ducked through the remnants of what could have been a house and came to the start of a path that ran toward the Reshaperate Spire.
“Did you see that?” Raelza asked. They brought the tip of their blade level with their shoulders. “It looked like—“
* * *
Theailys paused, glancing back. He’d heard voices…hadn’t he? He looked at the bodies, wondering if perhaps a soul or two might still remain. He recalled the church in Tal, shivering at the momentary recollection of the slaughtered town, of the screaming souls he’d heard.
Breathe, he thought. In this place, this necropolis…it was best to have one’s head on straight. As straight as was possible, at least. He inhaled the cold, dead air, held his breath, then exhaled slowly, continuing toward the spire in the center of the city.
* * *
“A spirit,” Ronomar said, catching sight of the wispy figure as it ducked behind a wall of dark hoarfrost. They looked at Raelza—this was a new development in the dream.
The twins stepped in unison, each footfall measured and precise so as not to make too much noise. The spirit peeked back from around the corner and waited, watching with misty blue eyes. It wanted them to see it, to follow, or so they assumed.
“An echo wraith?” Raelza posited. Such spirits were rare, but it felt right to assume that Ouran’an might host a few given the profoundness of the power that the Reshapers had wielded.
“Maybe,” Ronomar said. They weren’t entirely convinced. “Could be necromancy.”
“This doesn’t feel like necromancy,” Raelza said. “It feels…” They held their free hand out. “Sad.”
If this spirit was not some poor reanimated soul, or an echo wraith, what was it?
The twins rounded the corner, the spirit several paces in the lead as they passed through a valley of splintered towers and tree trunks. Something crunched beneath Raelza’s boot—it was not snow.
“Perdition,” Raelza gasped, looking down. “A skull.” They knelt as Ronomar continued on. The fragments were black as pitch, something Raelza had never seen before. They shuddered and rose to follow after Ronomar, who had stopped and was eying more black skulls, dark bones.
“What do you think did this?” Ronomar asked. “Do you think it still resides in Ouran’an?”
A sharp, ethereal hiss drew their attention before Raelza could respond. The spirit glanced back at them again before fading to mist at the door-less threshold of the Spire’s eastern entrance.
The twins exchanged tense glances and approached the old tower of Reshaper rule, the frigid darkness as foreboding as it was enticing.
* * *
Theailys stood in the antechamber of the spire. He’d grown increasingly sure someone or something was following him. Was it the gentle silhouette he sought? Instinct said otherwise. He’d not seen the silhouette since entering the city ruin.
“So long ago we danced here, you and I,” a voice said from across the room.
Theailys trembled at the voice, a distant memory from a dream. “Ana?”
From the shadows of the frozen sepulcher she came, as beautiful as the day he’d reaped her soul. Theailys crossed the cracked floor, ignoring the gossamer threads of mirkúr as they hissed and begged he reap her once again.
“Come,” she whispered, extending her hand.
Theailys reached for her.
“Come,” she repeated, dissolving to mist as Theailys touched her hand.
He stood there, mouth agape. So close. He’d been so close! He tensed his jaw, pushing back the anxiety. He would find her—he had to. He glanced about the room, searching, pondering. His eyes fell upon the hallway to the left, the least obstructed of them all. That way, instinct said.
So, he went.
* * *
The antechamber was enormous, with a domed roof several hundred feet above. Stalactites hung from the bannisters and overhangs of the ascending floors, and stalagmites rose from the floor like cold, dark columns.
“It reminds me of a ballroom,” Raelza said as they twirled away from their twin.
“Not any ballroom I would want to dance in,” Ronomar said, gesturing with their blade. “Look. More of those awful bones.” They shuddered to think these belonged to the Reshapers, that they and Raelza had more or less desecrated a mass grave.
Not that it was very sanctified to start. The deeper into Ouran’an they’d come the less majestic the city’s mystique grew. In fact, Ronomar partly felt they had wandered into a dark future, that Ouran’an was home—Helveden—in ruin. They closed their eyes and took a breath.
“Where now?” Raelza asked. “Our tour guide seems to have wandered off.”
Ronomar opened their eyes and glanced at the rime-encrusted floor. The hint of an inlay caught their eye. Was it a bird’s beak?
“Beneath the Raven’s wings,” they uttered, a passage from their research coming to mind. “Beneath the Raven’s wings—“
“Is where the mirkúr keeps,” Raelza finished. It was a poem, or so the twins had been told; a line from a poem used as Reshaper code. There was a decent chance that in this instance it referred to the Ouran’an catacombs.
“I’ve learned to trust the tingling in my gut,” Raelza continued. “What do you think? Into the primordial abyss, or shall we wait and hope the spirit returns?”
“Below,” Ronomar said. It made sense for a vault to be underground. But it also made sense for danger to lurk beneath the earth as well.
Still, they had come this far. There was no turning back, not with history waiting to be found and held. Not when they had ventured further into this dream than ever before. The question now was where to go, how to access the catacombs. Ronomar scanned the antechamber, illuminated by an illum wisp they had conjured. There were several collapsed archways, but the one farthest to their left looked to be just wide enough to crawl or duck beneath. It was anything but sure, but it was a start.
“Snow,” Raelza said. They held their free hand out, the prismatic flakes collecting in their palm, falling from a hole high above. It melted as it touched their flesh. “It would be pretty if this place weren’t in ruins, ruled by death.”
No one seemed to have a clue as to why or how the Reshapers had vanished. History harbored hardly anything about the first race to start. Judging by the black bones, though, the twins figured the Reshapers’ end must have been moderately violent at the very least.
Crawling underneath the collapsed archway brought them into a circular room half the antechamber’s size, the stonework chipped with age and stained with something black as fresh ink. Ronomar brushed a hesitant finger across the stain and frowned. It was solid but appeared to have at one point been liquid, maybe membrane-like.
“Blood?” Raelza asked.
“I don’t know,” Ronomar said. Their wisp’s radius increased at their will, giving light to more of the stains strewn across the walls, floor, and ceiling. There had been conflict here, they sensed, violence. They couldn’t say for certain why they knew—they just did.
“North or further west?” Raelza asked.
Ronomar shifted their wisp toward the western corridor. It was spotless by comparison. “North, with the stains.”
They walked on. Raelza jotted notes and hurried sketches into a small leather book, having dismissed their blade for a minute of scholarship. They tucked the book away and took up their radiant arm as the path veered west, then north, then east.
The switchback network of rime-encrusted corridors spilled into another small, circular room in which there stood three doors of a peculiar make. Beneath the frost they looked to have once been white or silver. On their facades were etchings and inlays of glyphs, some of which were also engraved.
“Just like home,” Ronomar said. There were plenty of doors locked and warded using similar systems of privacy. Had Reshaper methods somehow made their way to Ariath?
The twins approached the middle door and cleared the ice away with their blades, revealing the intricate face. They had never seen glyph work like this in their lives, and yet they felt a familiar air about the door. Shrugging, they reached forward, calling on their illum, and traced the engravings until they were ablaze with white illumination. A faint clicking ticked behind the stone and the door parted down the center seam, each half receding into the frame.
“No stains here,” Raelza noted as they both stepped forward. “They stopped just outside.” Behind them, the door scraped shut. “Oh, hell.”
“I don’t think we’re locked in,” Ronomar said, gesturing to the twin engravings on this side of the door.
“I certainly hope not,” Raelza huffed. “Hmm. A study? Two desks, bookcases, and— What do you think this is?” They plucked a glass square from one of the desks and held it level with their eyes. It was filled with some sort of dark matter that folded into itself before expanding to encompass the entirety of its prison. It seemed to react to Raelza’s presence, for as they set it on the desk the dark matter froze.
