The man paused and fanned his hand toward the mosaics that decorated the walls.
“I wish, Boots, that you could see this. Here on my walls, the dead of my nation judge me with diamond eyes. It is the story of my people. But you have no eyes to witness and I have no tears to weep over it. Sultan Risaud had a tree that it was said grew from a single seed of a fruit of the daughter of the world tree. t the end of the beginning, but it was the beginning of the end. And so it was fitting that Risaud was a mirror to his progenitor.
As the tree was the last daughter of the world tree, so Sultan Risaud was the last living steward of it. His lineage was the lineage of the gods. And like his progenitor he also had one-hundred forty four wives, but unlike his progenitor, he was not the last of his kind but the master over a burgeoning and glorious civilization. So powerful was he that all the lesser races called him emperor and even the wyrms entreated him as an equal.
“but what became of Conn?” a female voice interrupted the man.
“Oh? When did you finally decide to rise up?” he asked, his gaze turning from the pictograms and mosaics that illustrated the story he told. The human sat, clutched her head and moaned.
“What has been done to me? Ugh. What is that noise?” she asked. The desiccated man smiled.
“My voice calms that noise? How interesting. I t is the sound of human souls you hear. Of all races, when humans drink of the waters, they join into a hivemind. Let them speak to you. Drink in their madness and their purpose and you will never be alone."
"No! Leave me be! Keep talking monster!"
"Monster. Hah. The sand calls the snow white. Know that you are blessed to hear the noise. We have eternity before us you know and my world is silent as the stone. Do you know that long ago I took this human body as my husk, hoping to communicate with them and end my silence and solitude. Alas, it is something in the soul, some disconnect between the substance of their world and this. You however, bodyguard of slavers—”
“Ugh. I. . .am a scout of the empire, not some damned mercenary. You. . .I. . .I can't be. . .undead?"
"It is the law over those who drink that their bodies should serve the Aryn. You drank from the cistern of souls. Do you think it is water in this pool? How foolish. It is a liquid made of recycled magic distilled through the entire continent from all that is dead and buried beneath the sands. Everything that dies on the sand, every magical object that is lost, every fort that becomes buried, all the magic is leeched and it travels through the sands to this place. Of course you are undead. Is there any other state of being which would befit a person who has imbibed of such a power source?"
"I didn't know."
"Of course you didn't. But since when has ignorance ever been excused? Even the Falli, in their fear and hatred of the undead, send to me their criminals with the charge that should they reach me, they would be absolved of their crimes. But you are of this nation called Donem. If you are an imperial scout and not a mercinary, why are you guarding a merchant caravan?"
The woman loked at her hands, pale and bloodless.
"They ordered me to be of Decius’s detail. Decius is the bastard son of the regent. We--Ugh. Please. Continue, storyteller. What became of Conn? Tell me more of the story. I have been listening. But whenever you pause it’s like cicaidas in my brain. They tell me to start tearing at my skin. Please.”
“Don’t fight them dear. They are the voices of your brethren. They are warning you that your transfomation is not complete. Rogha are creatures of this world and they cannot change, but you, human, must be warped to the will of the world. It is the language of the dead you hear; a language without breath, and it is supposed to be a mercy not a curse. Let them teach you. Let them welcome you. They are the voices of your family.”
“Who are you?” asked the scout. The man shrugged.
“I am just the unliving and accursed steward over this place. I am the only accursed one out of all the dead which exist here.”
“Stop this clicking and buzzing. Please.”
The man regarded the woman. She went prostrate before him, her hands clutching her head.
“You are of strong mind and stronger magic. Let me taste your blood," he said. He crooked a bony finger. The woman jerked and shambled toward him. He stabbed his finger into her chest and put the gory bones into his mouth. Then he barked a laugh.
"Ah! No wonder you can her but cannot understand. Your blood is impure, human. Did you know? Your blood has traces of my race in it. Are there others like you? Are there pure ones among you? I command you to tell me!"
"I--I--" he shoved her away and sucked at his finger.
"Of course not. No. How silly of me. My kind were wiped out, weren't they? If any now exist, they are immortal and incapable of breeding. Yes, that is as it is. Your species and mine lingered long together. It should not be a surprise, should it? Both yours and mine had an ability to intermingle with other sentient races and even with planar creatures. I had nearly forgotten. I didn't realize. Now it comes to me. How many of your kind fled for the stars with all the magic of my race? How many more died sterile? But the Donem empire bears a lineage, doesn't it. The Falli don't. They are purely human. The Aryn leeched the legacy of intermingling with my species out of their genetics long ago."
"I am no halfbreed."
"No, of course you aren't are you? No, but I taste it in your blood don't I. It is there, buried a hundred thousand years in your ancestry, but there nonetheless. It has to be so, else you would not be able to use this world's magic. It is too bad that you had the life of a soldier and a shame you died before you could become a magus. It is the curse of mortals that they are not defined by their potential, but by their limitations.”
"You should kill this one," said Boots, "She slayed a hundred of my sisters before she captured us. She alone."
"You beasts are the reason I was ordered into Decius's caravan! Of course I slayed you. That is what you do with vicious, runaway dogs."
"And now you are dead, enemy of freedom. Dead and enslaved to the Aryn."
The old man turned his back to the newly undead.
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"I do not appreciate my wards fighting in this chamber. It is a holy place."
"Unholy!" said the woman, and drew her sword. The man's eyes fleared with red light and the sword flew out of her hand, spun in the air between them, and embedded in her chest. She sank to her knees and stared at the hilt. He leaned over her.
"Do not attempt to slay me or your sister. Violence against your fellows is forbidden. This is a place of peace and rebirth. Your name."
"I am Regala of Teliss, scout of the 3rd colonial legion," she said, the words ripped from her before she could stop them.
"And your purpose," he said. She began to tear at her throat, but the man caught her hands. Blood leaked down her cheeks.
"My contubernium was attached to this caravan," she said, her voice strained, "Decius had a slave revolt in his estate and these rogha were part of it. This one led it. His personal waterfinder! The lizard he let sleep at the foot of his bed! Such betrayal demanded his direct intervention. We set out to gather and either slay them or sell them. Only this waterfinder and her closest conspirators were to come back with us to be made an example to all slaves."
She slumped as the man released her.
"The Rogha will not be chained any longer!" said Boots.
"Silence! You are both servants of the sands now. Cease your infighting."
"As you wish, Gedhaki," said Boots. She grinned, revealing all her carnivorous teeth. She settled, staring with empty sockets at Regala. The man tore the sword out of Regala's chest and flung it away. His eyes blazed with wrath. What little flesh hung from his cheeks turned down in a scowl. Liquid dripped from the stalactite into the pool: one. . .two. . .three. . .
“AH! Please! No! The voices!" Regala cried, clutching her head. Bloody tears dripped from her eyes. Boots chuckled.
"I am sorry I asked for her true death, Gedhaki. I can smell her tears. Is she to be tortured like this for eternity?"
"Conn. . .tell me about Conn,” said Regala, "No more silence, please! Make the noise stop!"
The man shook his head.
“You should tell a story first, I think. The Aryn has heard all my stories, though I think this is the first time it has truly gained the intelligence to comprehend my words. Tell it something new. Tell me of Donem. Is your leader an elected man of the people or a god among men?’
“A god,” said the scout. She clutched her right arm where a tattoo of a legion stood out in blue-black ink.
“How would he react if he met you as you now are? I have heard that he despises the undead, but you are a sacred type of undead.”
“You speak blasphemy. The rogha are beasts and the Faryn are irredeemable necromancers. All the races of the Aryn are corrupt and foul and will be subjugated and taught the right ways. The emperor with magic brought beneath his scepter the lord of the damned and took his blood,” said the scout. “There can be no sacred undead. The emperor has a mandate to return the undead to their proper places in the beyond,” She said. "I will find a way to destroy myself before I will give in to these voices or your evil plans."
“Oh, interesting. I would have the name of this emperor and this lord of the damned that he drank from.”
“You are insane,” said the scout. “You already know it. You mock me.”
The Scout suddenly went rigid, her eyes glowing red. A line formed down the center of her face. The Man frowned and scratched his papery skin. Sheets sloughed off and reformed under his fingers. He kneeled down in front of her and lifted her chin.
“You know, it may be true. It may be that Arynstar is a dream I made up to comfort myself in my long solitude. I have had eons to make up stories and spread them around the world. Maybe the stories I tell are not of the past, but of the future. Maybe they are of whole other realities! I have seen creatures come from beyond the stars. I have seen gods die. I have broken my mind and returned to sanity. I have seen mortal heroes that appear out of nowhere and use this world as a sporting field. There is no telling what is real or linear anymore. Tell me the names I asked for.”
“I serve my Emperor, Tarquin Donem, the first of his name. And you, you knew Conn. Tell me of Conn accursed one. Nobody knows tales of the lord of the damned, but only that my lord slew him.”
The man reeled away from her. He stared at Regala and watched as the line in her flesh traced down her median. And then he laughed. His laughter pealed with madness and rumbled with malice. He laughed until the other three began to twitch and rise, and the indigo light fled from the hermitage.
“And so, the world is without a single titan. No wonder the stars are right. If we are the amusement of the outer planes, the creatures there seem to like binge-watching in one specific genera, no matter how cliché its conventions. Conn is dead by a mortal hand. The prey becomes the predator. Humans always did use the most unconventional ways.” he said. He turned his back to the undead on the floor and considered the mural of tangled images on the wall. Soon, indigo light filtered back in.
“Did I frighten you, my godling? I am sorry. But such news. . .I can sense the truth there. Conn is truly dead then. Donem must be a truly wondrous empire. No, speak no more, Regala my daughter. Just listen and be comforted by my voice. I will finish my tale. I will tell you who I truly am while you still have the ability to hear."
"Your name is not Gedhaki?" asked Boots. The man chuckled.
"No indeed. Your race gave me that name and I find it amusing. Do you know, I don't think I have given another my name in tens of millenia. I cant explain to you my name simply. You wouldn't understand the significance. In human understanding, in the language of the Falli I suppose you might call me Risaud the Sane. And I prefer that. It is a nice lie. I chose to become a lich. It was the only way to stop the insanity and to end the addiction to the fruit of the tree. But while I was dubbed ‘The Sane’ because I chose this state of being, my father was not and refused to give up his life. You see, Sultan Risaud the Mad was the nine-thousanth of his line. He was, as I am, the genetic singularity of those very twelve which became the first dungeon masters. Risaud the Mad had a hundred forty-four wives and all of them were as close in genetics to him as a twin. And in his garden grew a tree.
That tree was the only one of its kind, this granddaughter of the world tree, and we worshipped that tree. The fruit of the tree granted just the kind of shortcut to immortality that mortals always seek. It was not as potent as the true world tree, but we alone of mortalkind could eat of it because the seed had germinated within our bodies and was fertilized with our souls.
For millenia, the families who partook in the fruit became powerful but also gradually insane. Blessed and cursed with agelessness and incorruptibility of form, they had only one option: to kill themselves before madness overtook their reason. Sultan Risaud’s madness led him to resist death. He feared it above all things. Looking for a solution to the inevitable He cut down that tree. Ah. . .”
Risaud tapped the scout on the head with his staff. She split in half and spilled her blood out all at once. Clothed, she could not fall apart so she prostrated herself.
“My dear, it won’t hurt forever. You have amazing abilities that you will need to develop before I send you back out into the world. You are a nasnās now. Give me a sign that you understand. Tell me my name."
“You are Risaud the Sane,” she said. He touched her clothes with his staff and they fell apart in a puff of magic. The two halves of her body fell apart from each other. One half got up and hopped off. The other sat back down and waited for Risaud to continue.
“Do you know what I like about the nasnās? You get two for the price of one,” he said. “Do you feel better?”
“The cicadas have stopped. Thank you,” she said. Risaud embraced the half that remained. she struggled a little, then broke down and sobbed into his rags.
"The part that has joined the hive was the human in you. It is gone now. Sister. Daughter. Do you know? this half of you must be what has always belonged to this world. You are my kin. One of my species returns to the Star at last."
She shuddered as her innards began functioning again. Her exposed heart quivered and pumped in a mockery of life. The contents of her intestines disappeared as they crossed into the missing hemisphere of her body and reappeared lower in the tract. Color returned to her face and blood pulsed in her exposed brain. She took a breath and her half-diaphragm pushed innards away to make room for a single inflated lung. Risaud released her and she looked down at her body, her face a mask of horror.
"Your body mimics life, but you are still unliving," said Risaud.
"I know," said Regala. She stuck a finger in a bronchial tube.
“Would you like me to continue now?” Risaud asked.
“More stories?” came the voice of the Aryn; the first it had ever spoken in the tongues of creatures in a frequency that could be heard.
The single question vibrated in the air. The cave rumbled and the magical light ceased, plunging the cave into darkness.
And Risaud laughed.