2nd Yearsend, 998 NE
Eneleyn, at first at least, found it to be a one-sided relationship – and in her favour. From the eolastyr she obtained so much: her physical appearance may not have changed noticeably, but that could be a blessing as much as a curse in a situation like this, and if she’d been hoping for a literal de-ageing, that clearly wasn’t on the cards. Still, inside her skin she felt as though the weight of decades had fallen away from her. Her eyesight and hearing had never waned, not with the regular infusions of infernal power she’d partaken in – but the coldness in her bones that had been worsening winter on winter suddenly alleviated, the burden of a thousand little aches and pains suddenly soothed away. She could rotate her neck. Her fingers didn’t cramp after five minutes holding a quill.
Even for these minor effects, Eneleyn told herself as she leafed idly through the pages of the random textbook, even for these it would’ve been worth it.
But – the foresight? She would’ve given up her eyesight permanently, to keep the scrying – it wasn’t like she needed to see, not really, when all she had to do was focus and the future would come into view. And the fact that the magic came with no trade-off? It was unbelievable. Two days had passed, almost, and the time had flown: there was no internal dialogue, no adjustment of her attitudes or belief-systems that she’d been able to detect. Perhaps she wouldn’t have to give up the eyesight, give up her freedom to choose, give up anything – perhaps she was just better now.
Perhaps the demon’s arrival, the slaughter of her cabal, had been a blessing in disguise…
Despite everything she’d gained, it was hard to think of things that way. She’d borne affection for every one of those thirty-two dead – some as business acquaintances, rivals – others as pupils she’d known since her thirties. All of them had been men and women she’d respected. Before the ritual, when everyone was still wearing their usual fineries, Eneleyn had moved through the crowd, enjoying her celebrity as the leader of their coven, exchanging pleasantries and gossiping like any other noble lady. She’d long-since grown out her hair, hiding the tattoos that marked her scalp, but they were still visible on her brow, her throat, her hands… She’d attained a level of self-awareness about her designs once she inherited the estate from Mother – she was flung into high society, surrounded by unblemished women whose sneers were barely hidden.
While power came at a price, it was still power. She’d taken the mastery of the Seven-Star Swords before she even went entirely grey, and it wasn’t long before several of those cultured, urbane women had come to Eneleyn, desirous of the power she now held. At first, when she incorporated such acquaintances into the coven, she thought she would remain aloof, detached and superior. But as years passed, the unique nature of their shared experiences, the rush of the high-rank demonic infusions, the excitement of keeping an illegal activity secret… friendships blossomed.
Only to die, victims of their own shared folly, by-products of an arch-demon’s first footfall back on this plane.
But it was folly that had paid off for one – for her. Yes, possession was a serious problem. But in comparison to death? Besides, the eolastyr was benign – and due to her new predictive capabilities, she wasn’t alarmed when there came a sudden rush of steps, a banging on her door.
“Mistress Arithos!”
She held in her sigh.
If I’m always going to know what’s about to happen before it happens, I ought to get used to it, and get used to at least pretending to be surprised by the actions of others.
“Enter,” was all she said, leaving off the girl’s name.
But it was, of course, the one she’d expected, standing there in the doorway: Ciraya, her lips painted purple, her pallor accentuating the deep blue of her tattoos. The girl with issues when it came to backing down. Eneleyn had once been speculating as to whether this young woman might eventually make coven-material, but it soon became apparent Ciraya’s inner darkness was of a different nature entirely. It was a shame; she was skilful, resourceful… In many ways, the girl reminded Eneleyn of herself, decades back. Few were so committed as to cover themselves in such an abundance of powerful, painful designs.
Yet despite all our similarities, she has not the ambition to rise above her peers. She will languish. She will waste.
“Whatever’s the matter, my dear magister?”
A rare, predatory smile creased the girl’s painted lips. Ciraya didn’t enjoy being teased over her choice of career – she’d known full-well she had a future made for her in demon-summoning, if she’d had a mind – but it’d become something of a game between them over the recent months.
The levity was brief, her mouth swiftly reforming the sour line.
“It’s serious, I’m afraid, Mistress.”
“Then do come in – sit.” Eneleyn indicated the chair opposite.
Once she was perched on the edge of her chair, a glass of watered-down wine held reluctantly in her hands, Ciraya began her report.
“There’s no explanation for the disappearances. I’ve discussed it with my magistry contacts, some pretty powerful diviners. I know some of them were your friends, Mistress, but it’s a dead end. Something’s blocking them.“
Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings.
“And Henthae?”
“Henthae, Zakimel – as far as I can tell, they’re as clueless as the champions,” Ciraya drawled dismissively. “Stormsword said Timesnatcher thinks it’s one of the unknown factors, like Dreamlaughter, or some other archmage of a similar potency.”
Eneleyn voiced a drawn-out “hmmm,” and stared at the young sorceress.
Ciraya’s primary function, as far as Eneleyn was concerned, had been to serve as an unwitting spy on the movements of Special Investigations. And Eneleyn’s pet magister had proved her usefulness more than once. The Mistress of the Seven-Star Swords had never trusted Keliko Henthae, Mistress of the Pool of Reflections – there was general uproar at the notion of an archmage taking control of the Investigations Department, and one without a title at that… House Henthae wasn’t even a thing – it was just a family name, like any lowborn’s. Who cared if they were rich enough to pretend at having elevated blood… But all the same, Eneleyn and her friends had weathered the storm, and their protections against telepathic and temporal exposure had stood strong, the coven’s sanctum going undetected as it always had done.
Yet she knew all along that if the full weight of the Magisterium or champions were to be levelled against her and her operations, the coven would become as see-through, as fragile as transparent glass. And now, the apparently simultaneous mass-disappearance of a large number of nobles, including a Lord and Lady of the Arrealbord… Never before had so many eyes been probing into her secrets – never before had she felt this thrill, this excitement…
Never before had she possessed an eolastyr to protect her movements.
“I think you may have that turned around, my child.”
Eneleyn tried to control the shock that threatened to spread across her face as the fiend within her spoke – Ciraya had herself previously joined with various entities, and might’ve been able to discern the meaning of her change in expression. But that was the first time the Daughter of the Sinphalamax had said so much as a word to her since their amalgamation, and it was difficult to not show her surprise and the sudden swell of panic that clutched at her breast.
“Do not be dismayed. This one is far too distracted with her concerns over your mental state to be concerned over your… spiritual state. Do you see?”
This time the vision came over Eneleyn unawares, an action performed by the arch-demon dwelling inside her rather than by her own selection. Iridescent mists rose from the pools of time and space and she moved forwards into them, parting them, seeing Ciraya, standing before Henthae’s desk in one of the high rooms of the Maginox; her painted lips twist in an expression of distress, an uncharacteristic kink in the croak spilling from her crooked mouth: “Poor E-Eneleyn.”
The eolastyr had chosen the vision with care; not only did it serve to emphasise that Ciraya’s agitation was likely to preclude the girl from spotting the change in her… but it also provided Eneleyn with just the correct allocation of negative emotion.
The notion of Ciraya expressing doubt in her, discussing her apparent vulnerability with that damnable archmage…
Using her given name, so familiar, so informal…
“Mistress?”
The girl’s rare expression of distress was there on her face, right here and now, slanting her mouth just like in the vision.
“What?” the old sorceress blurted angrily, suddenly feeling as though she’d been outmanoeuvred.
“The book you sent us for? Is it… as informative as you’d hoped?”
The mistress momentarily directed her attention down at the open tome –
Ah yes, The Science of the Past… I remember this one. Why did I want this again?
“The heretics have discovered the secrets of the Ten. It fell to me to ascertain they do not stray from the ordained path. There is naught to fear. Now we may bring across our friends at leisure.”
What? W-what?
“And the book brought to my attention certain other facts. It may be that I can help you to summon one of my sisters. This next ‘Incursion’ of yours shall be a truly joyous occasion.”
Wh-wh-
“I’m sorry, Mistress. I…”
She looked back at the girl, and Eneleyn’s fury faded as the reality of her young spy’s glumness started to sink in.
Poor little bird. She truly cares for me. And it’s liberating news… Even Timesnatcher knows nothing.
“Are…” Ciraya drew a deep breath. “Are you okay, Mistress?”
“I am quite fine, I assure you, magister.”
The curl of a smile returned to the girl’s lips, but it didn’t look quite right.
“I extend to you my thanks,” Eneleyn continued, “for all you’ve done to keep an ear on the ground for me.” She waved a hand at the windows ringing her room, this chamber that was the apex of the tower: the tall windows displayed nothing but clouds and snow, the darkling afternoon sky. “It can be difficult from up here to keep on top of the little things.”
While the height of the tower served as an apt metaphor for the Mistress’s separation from the ins-and-outs of life in the capital, she saw that Ciraya’s eyes had fallen on the neat stacks of ledgers and letters standing at the end of the black-oak desk, an even better indication of her elevation. If there was one thing Eneleyn was known for, it was her orderliness and industriousness. The Seven-Star Swords as an organisation only worked, in large part, because Eneleyn worked. Many Masters filled their personal space with clutter, reagents and servitors and experiments – but not her. Those could abide in the laboratories of the lower rooms. Here, she was tranquil with her pens and papers.
“No problem,” Ciraya said with as much warmth as her rasping voice could convey, standing up as though she’d been dismissed. Her eyes were still on the stack of books.
Suddenly the eolastyr took hold of her vocal chords; the speed and ease with which the demon took control, and the irresistible quality of it, brought her mind screaming into abject terror.
“Are you quite alright, Ciraya? You don’t quite seem to be yourself, today.”
The demon had Eneleyn grin, as though she were amused by her own joke…
The girl’s pale blue eyes met her gaze across the table, widening in surprise and fear. “Sure thing, Mistress,” she said casually. “Just… a long day.”
“She knows.”
She knows? What! How?
“I shall flense her. My weapon requires sustenance.”
W-wait – no!
But it was too late.
The eolastyr extended herself into Materium, allowing her essence to consume Eneleyn; the only outward change was the whip coalescing in her hand and the pitch-black eyes, casting all she could see into shades of glittering shadow.
The demon sprang across the desk at the young sorceress, and as Ciraya fell back Eneleyn also withdrew, screaming, consciousness fleeing into those hidden depths of the eolastyr’s mind that would deafen and blind her, permit her to refuse to witness this deed, this most needless of murders.
It had stung when her thirty-two friends died, and this was only one more peal on the toll of Eneleyn’s foolishness: but it was worse. Immeasurably worse. This sorceress was promising, young – and, worst of all, she had not agreed. She hadn’t volunteered for this.
Ciraya…