Si glyph [https://i.imgur.com/mHhTdaF.png]

Simon climbed the broad steps to the open front doors of House Oryche. The palms of his hands tingled as he passed the threshold. He glanced at the worn slab of basalt inset in the floor. The Watcher in the Stone… The House had much better guards than the men on the gates.

His hob-nailed boots clunked on a floor tiled with different shades of marble drawn from Oryche quarries near and far. The main stair rose above him to the gallery, and all was exactly as he remembered. Nothing had changed since the last time he’d climbed the stairs to the Lord’s study, his father’s study — and seen not his father, but his uncle, Aric.

Without any emotion, Aric had simply said: ‘Your father’s dead. He killed himself last night.’

‘Excuse me. May I assist you?’ 

Simon started. The speaker was a middle-aged woman, trim and dark, gazing at him from hooded eyes. 

Her face was familiar. He ought to know her, he was sure, but her name eluded him. ‘I am Simon vai Oryche. I have business with Lord Oryche.’

‘Do you have an appointment?’

‘No.’

‘Please wait a moment. I will see if it’s convenient.’ 

Simon watched her climb the stairs. She had made no sound crossing the tiled floor; her shoes would be soft, he supposed, not meant for outside wear, or hard weather, or scrambling about underground.

The house was quiet around him, so quiet his own breathing seemed an intrusion. There must be people about, hundreds lived here, and yet the house was so large, so solidly built, that no noise reached him.

The woman reappeared and drifted down the staircase. ‘He will see you. Follow me.’

‘I know where to go.’

She led anyway, and he followed, up the stairs and along the gallery, to the same door of solid oak, inlaid with an onyx Labyrinth symbol.

What lies at the heart of Labyrinth? It was an old riddle, as old as the House perhaps: according to legend the Lord of Oryche, on his accession, was permitted to see the heart of the Labyrinth. Rumour populated it with everything from monsters to gold, but only the man behind the door truly knew.

The woman opened the door. ‘Simon vai Oryche,’ she announced.

He stepped inside, heard the door gently shut behind him. Curtains covered the windows, shutting out the light and leaving the room shadowed. As his eyes adjusted, he focused on the desk: constructed of exotic southron timber, on the top was inlaid a map wrought in chips of semi-precious stone. Athanor was marked in garnet on the edge of a turquoise Circle sea, the landmasses rendered in bloodstone and tourmaline.

A lump came to Simon’s throat. He’d loved that map as a child. The sight brought memories of his father flooding back, so strong he half-expected to hear his voice. But the man seated behind the desk was not his father, and not his uncle Aric either. 

‘Eranon,’ Simon said, unable to keep the surprise from his voice.

His cousin leaned forward. ‘Well, well, well. So it is you. What brings you here after all this time, Simon?’

Simon remembered Eranon as awkward, bookish, and frequently bullied. Two years older than Simon, he’d gone to the Arcanum before him, and done well—or so he’d been told. He’d been sent home before Simon himself joined the school. Rumour said he’d suffered some sort of breakdown. After that, he never returned to the Arcanum and was hardly ever seen about the House. 

Now he was a tall, spare, hard-faced man with receding dark hair, grey eyes cool and distant. To succeed his father and become Lord Oryche, he must have changed a good deal. While sons often succeeded their fathers, the House would never elect a recluse.

Simon sat on the hard chair provided for visitors. ‘Is my mother well?’ 

Eranon smiled a ghost of a smile. ‘Much as ever, I understand. She returned to Numisma, you know, after your father… I believe she’s well looked after. They have experience with her condition. ’

Simon drew a breath. It was a relief to hear his mother was alive, if not much more than that. He felt guilty for not having thought of her more often, over the years. But she had been far away, and there was little he could do for her. His letters had gone unanswered for years. ‘I came here from Sark on business, but I mean to stay in Athanor. My family are with me.’

‘Family?’

‘Two children and my mother-in-law.’

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‘Aha. You married a local woman, I believe?’

‘Rane. She died two years ago.’

Eranon steepled his long-fingered hands. ‘And what do you expect from the House?’

‘Nothing,’ Simon said. Heat rose to his face. ‘I’m here on business. But first — there was trouble on the journey from Sark. A man stabbed one of the wagon train drivers and killed him. He robbed us. I left the train with my family. After some days, we re-joined the train, and found the murderer gone, the other driver stabbed but alive.’

Eranon tutted. ‘Regrettable. The cargo?’

‘Will be delivered as usual.’

‘Well, that’s something.’

Simon gritted his teeth. Nadu dead, Patla nearly so, and all Eranon asked about was his tin ore. ‘The murderer is in Athanor. Will you pursue the matter? I can give you his description.’

‘Certainly it isn’t behaviour we would want to encourage. All right. We’ll offer a reward and if we apprehend the man, I’ll see justice done.’

‘I had a draft drawn on the House, my savings, more than four hundred forints. It was stolen.’

Eranon frowned. ‘I’m afraid the House can’t pay a non-existent draft. But under the circumstances…’ He opened the leftmost desk drawer and counted coins out, piling them on the agate islands of the Sothron Empire. ‘Two hundred.’

Simon eyed the coins. He was owed twice as much and more, and it was sorely needed — he had nothing to tide him over until he could find work. Yet it was as much, or more, than he’d expected. It would have to do. ‘My main reason for coming here was to discuss Sark. While searching for new seams, the miners discovered something unexpected.’ He hesitated. Speaking to Eranon’s blank expression in this gloom-shrouded room full of memories, his confidence in Afsen’s plan and his own ability to deliver a deal had drained away. ‘They found a Forerunner tomb.’

Eranon stirred. ‘You’re no expert.’

‘Indeed. But I am certain the wall paintings included glyphs. Glyphs unknown to me, possibly in sigil sequences.’

‘You looked?’

‘No, of course not. As soon as it registered, I unsaw and forgot, but I recall it in abstract. Eranon, I may not be an expert, but I am an Adept, and I know what I saw.’

Eranon had shed his disinterested pose altogether now. He leaned forward, his hands clenched on the desk. ‘An invocation?’

 ‘It was a summoning for a Power — something entirely outside my experience, perhaps anyone’s experience.’

Eranon stood. ‘Let me show you something.’ He emerged from behind the desk and tugged at a shelf loaded with leather-bound ledgers. A section of the bookshelf swung outward smoothly and silently. Eranon reached into the darkness. Light bloomed under his hand—the white glare of a small cold lamp. ‘I can’t risk a gas flame in here. Come and see.’

Behind the bookshelf lay a large cupboard, or small room, lined with books.

Simon followed Eranon in. At a glance, he knew these weren’t the ledgers or geological surveys one might expect. ‘You have Peradak’s Essays on Theurgy.’

Eranon stroked the binding. ‘And the commentary by Aloysus.’

The small space contained at least a hundred volumes, all, as far as Simon could tell, works on theurgy, many rare and valuable. ‘Are you practicing?’

‘Oh, no. Merely a theoretical interest. After the Arcanum… Well, I leave the practical aspects to those better suited.’

‘It’s a fine collection.’

Eranon smiled with the genuine warmth of an enthusiast showing off his hobby. ‘It hardly compares to the Arcanum library, but I believe it’s one of the largest specialist libraries in private hands.’

Simon ran his eyes over the titles. It was an odd interest for an Oryche. The family arcane talents were usually in elemental Earth, or sometimes Fire. Theurgy was the domain of the Numisma, who were inclined to the mystic when they weren’t wedded to their account books and gold. The Oryche were practical as a rule, not given to religion or esoterica.

‘So you see,’ Eranon said, ‘This Sark discovery interests me greatly. What will be required to secure it?’ 

Simon steadied himself. He’d expected to have to persuade Eranon of the find’s value, and instead he was positively biting his hand off with keenness, and it was a little disorienting. ‘I’m here on behalf of the miners, you understand. The mine is tailing out. They want some assurance they’ll be relocated to new work, or a payout to help them settle elsewhere.’

Eranon made a dismissive noise. ‘We own the mine and everything in it.’

‘Of course,’ Simon said. ‘But you aren’t in Sark, and the miners are. They could bury the tomb, blow it with blasting powder… It will be much easier to have their co-operation than not. If you aren’t willing to pay, I’m sure the Arcanum would be interested, and perhaps there are other collectors…’

‘All right, all right. You’ve made your point. Something can be arranged for the miners, I’m sure. But what about yourself? Do you want to be restored to your position in the House?’

Ice ran down Simon’s spine. To be a member of House Oryche, honoured and secure, his children well-fed and housed, with education and jobs when they were ready—it was more than he’d dared dream. Of course he wanted it, but what exactly was Eranon offering, and why? Was he trying to bribe Simon into selling the miners short? ‘I wasn’t expecting anything like that. Work would be welcome though.’

Eranon’s gaze drifted to Simon’s mutilated right hand. ‘Work? You were an Earth Adept, weren’t you?’ He hummed. ‘Perhaps something can be done for you. It wouldn’t be easy though. Your father’s downfall was messy. I mean, the financial irregularities were one thing, but the Anemari woman… She was married, you know. A sordid business, and the House doesn’t forget or forgive.’

Anemari woman? Simon couldn’t recall anyone mentioning an Anemari woman before. He’d only been told his father had committed suicide and left large sums of House money unaccounted for. A few days later, Simon had been on the wagon train to Sark.

‘It’s been twenty years,’ Simon said.

‘I know, I know. Ancient history. It isn’t fair to you at all, and if it was simply my decision, I wouldn’t hesitate, but the Lord of Oryche isn’t all powerful. Others have opinions, and they won’t necessarily welcome a long-lost cousin back from the wilderness. Though perhaps I can pull in some favours.’ Eranon ushered him from the secret room, back into the shadowed office, where he resumed his usual chair. ‘So, the miners. Let me see. I can offer a payment of fifty forints a man, or passage to another mine of their choice.’

Simon rested his fingers on the cool slick surface of the desk, beside the bloodstone rendering of the Windward Isles. The offer was lower than he’d hoped, almost insultingly so. ‘Is that the best you can do?’

Eranon raised an eyebrow. ‘Times are hard.’

Simon met his gaze levelly, allowing the silence to grow. He’d promised to get the best deal for the miners. Others might be more generous that Eranon. The Arcanum, for example — and if he had another buyer, or more than one, he could play them against each other to raise the price. Yes, he would try the Arcanum — but not today. Another duty called, and hard as it was, delay was inexcusable. ‘Then I’ll consider your offer, and let you know.’