Athir

At first, the madness of the Faelen Queen had been a buzzing annoyance that tried to burrow into the mind, but it had grown into a pestilence that had infected the whole of the Echo, spreading among the Faelen like a plague.

Athir strode through the old palace and tried not to look at anything. Being in this place without Myam was bad enough, but now she could feel the madness rubbing at her mind like sand.

She silently cursed Konrad once again under her breath. He’d really stitched her up this time, giving her a job that was vital to the success of his plan but one that also took her hundreds of miles away from where the action would be. She’d said harsh words to him, and in reply, he had been his usual polite, nice self. He hadn’t said her plan had been a failure, but he didn’t have to; they both knew that she and Otto had their shot, and they blew it.

The beating that the Fist of the Father had delivered to them was a painful memory, but instead of seeking out some measure of vengeance, she was stuck here waiting in the damned Echo, trying to make herself believe that Konrad had a good enough plan to succeed where she had failed.

The faction of the Faelen that followed the Lady occupied the area where Tajar squatted astride the Fallow River back on the mortal plane. Where she stood now was a sad mockery of that great city—a crumbling collection of half-imagined buildings.

The only sign of life was a pounding and clanking sound below her that had continued without pause for several days. Athir sat on the parapet and tried to find a sense of calm, but then the hammers stopped.

Athir bounded off of the walls and sprinted through the castle, leaping down whole flights of stairs and reaching the heavy door to the lower basement just as it opened.

"I was just coming to find you," Yroh said.

Yroh was one of her oldest friends, and he was wasting away. He was sweat-stained, and his hands and face were blackened; his fine clothing burned away in a dozen places.

"You look terrible; when was the last time you slept?" Athir asked.

"If we are as close to the end as I think we are, I can sleep after."

Half a dozen other Faelen were in the basement levels; most were on the floor, leaning against the walls, and looked as worn out as Yroh. Athir spotted a figure lying under a blanket, too still to be sleeping.

"What happened to Rhina?" Athir asked.

"The artifact needed more than she could give. Without her, we would not have completed the work."

Athir felt the weight on her shoulders increase. The price for Konrad’s plan was increasing; how much higher would it be? And what if he failed? He was still just a boy, not even half a champion.

Yroh led Athir to the back of the chamber, where a glowing forge was fed by a flow of living molten rock that trickled out of the wall. The area around it was blasted and blackened, and bent tools and broken hammers lay all around. The anvil was cracked clean in half.

"Where is it?" Athir asked.

Yroh picked up one of the blackened tools that lay on the worktable and handed it to her. It was a sickle, about a foot across from the handle to the top of the curved blade. There wasn’t anything exceptional about it’s design, it looked like any other implement used by farmers all over the continent.

"You’re not impressed," Yroh stated.

Athir glanced at Rhina's body and lowered her voice. "Don’t make me out to be ungrateful, but the white sword looks like it could do the job; this thing would barely cut through a stalk of wheat. Wouldn’t a knife have been better?’

"The implement itself plays a role; a knife is used to stab or to slice. This is used to sever."

As Yroh said the word, Athir felt a flash of something from the sickle, like a slight tremor of anticipation. "How does it work?"

"I need air, let's go outside."

On the parapet overlooking the Fallow plains, Yroh took a steadying breath. "This technique is new to me."

Yroh reached his hand past Athir’s head and grabbed something. The feeling was invasive, and Athir struggled not to retch, staggering backwards.

"What was that?"

"I grasped the connection that links you to the Lady, the connection that makes you a champion and allows you to draw power from her."

Alice looked at the sickle in Yrohs hands. "If you’d cut it…"

"Then I believe you would have been cut off from the Lady," Yroh confirmed.

Otto had been broken by being cut off, and although Issie seemed strong on the outside, there was a tremor in her spirit that time might not be able to heal. The thought of inflicting that on someone else revolted her, even if it was a champion of the Father.

"Are you sure the box will fail?"

Yroh nodded. "The Latho rock is a subject I know very well. Even if the threads in the rock were fractured, it would still function as a chamber of silence, blocking anything from entering or leaving. But the link that exists between a champion and patron operates on an entirely different metaphysical level, and that connection will remain intact. If you tell me about your mission, I could help more."

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"That’s all I was asked to do; find out if the Latho rock will sever the connection, and if not, do what needs to be done."

Athir cautiously reached behind her head, and her fingertips brushed against something. It felt like thousands of thin strands bunched together, but when she tried to grasp them, her hand floated right through them.

"I know how frustrating it is for you not to grasp a new technique on the first attempt, but I hope you will find comfort in knowing that it has raised my spirits immeasurably."

Yroh gave a slow smile that reminded Athir so much of Myam that her heart ached.

"Will it hurt?"

"If the subject is willing, the white sword can sever the connection painlessly, but I cannot guarantee that this will operate in the same way."

So Athir needed the Father’s champions to be open to the idea of being cut off. That was unlikely.

"Use the sickle sparingly. The binding is not strong; after several uses it will break, and the stronger the opposition, the more it will weaken."

"Thank you; get some rest." Athir hugged Yroh and made her way down to the plains of Tajar to begin her long, boring walk through the dead land of the Echo.

The landscape was unchanging, blasted rock under a red sky, but it was safer than traveling in the mortal realm. After several of what passed for days here, she pulled open a window and slipped out into the humid, damp jungle.

This was an area of Parthanea that she hadn’t visited for a long time, and it was largely uninhabited. No ley lines passed over this area of the continent, and a thick jungle covered treacherous terrain that included gently smoking, not so dormant volcanoes.

It was towards the largest of these volcanic mountains that she headed, cutting hanging creepers from her path until she emerged in a clearing and beheld a lost city. As someone who spent the majority of her childhood in the Echo, the ruins of old civilizations didn’t hold much interest to her, but the wide open pit filled with sharpened sticks did pique her curiosity.

Searching through the ruins, she found several dozen other traps. Some were simple snares or pit traps, while others shot poisoned darts out of concealed holes in the stone. One of them, in particular, was highly sophisticated and would result in an acutely painful death for anyone who fell foul of it. The mind that conceived of it must have been particularly devious, and Athir couldn’t help but feel a grudging respect.

Athir disarmed all but the last one, unable to bring herself to deface such a work of genius. Instead, she scrawled a warning sign on the wall at the entrance to that tunnel.

At the summit of the volcano, Athir gazed out at the flourishing forest, watching birds wheel through the air as the last of the sun's rays touched the top of the titanic Lyran tree. Perhaps this is what the Faelen had hoped the Echo would be, before the betrayal that made it their prison.

She found Alice, Otto, and a short man with an honest smile sitting around a small fire outside a confusing-looking structure. Sinuous branches emerged from the earth and twisted together to create a dome around ten feet wide and half as high. As the branches had grown, it looked as though they had plucked up chunks of purple-veined Latho stone and pulled them into the structure, so that packed inside the walls of this living edifice were chunks of black rock that were shot through with vivid purple gemstones.

"I don’t know if your being here is a good thing or a bad thing," Alice said as she approached.

"For you and for the plan, it’s a good thing; not so much for your guests. Who’s this?" Athir asked.

"This is Walter; he looks after the place."

"Sacred duty," Walter stated, tipping his straw hat.

"I see. Are they in there?"

"Yes, and there’s no way they’re getting out, if that's what you’re worried about," Alice said.

They had done a remarkably good job with the improvised prison; Athir couldn’t sense anything at all inside, but thanks to Yroh, she knew that it wouldn’t serve its intended purpose.

"Wait," Otto said, grasping Athir by the arm as she headed for the small iron door.

"If you don’t let go of me, you’re going to have a lot of trouble learning how to use that arm again," Athir growled.

Otto released her as if he’d been burned. "What are you going to do to them?"

"It’s none of your concern. You did your job; now I’m doing mine."

Alice raised her hands in a calming gesture. "Let’s all just relax. She’s right; this must be part of the plan. We did our job, and they’re safely trapped in the chamber, so let Athir do hers."

"If the chamber was the solution, she wouldn’t be here," Otto retorted.

"If you’d been strong enough, none of us would be here," Athir snapped.

Otto had been pale and sickly since being cut off, but now he looked like a ghost. "I gave everything I had."

"A sacrifice that you can expect these two knuckleheads to make as well," Athir said, forcing the door open.

The two champions of the Father were bound and gagged, and at the sight of her, they recoiled, their shouts muffled.

"Shut up; I’m not here to talk," Athir muttered.

Reaching behind the head of the first one, she managed to brush her fingers against the invisible threads that bound him to the Father. But try as she might, whenever she thought she had them, they slipped out of her grasp. It was like trying to hold on to smoke.

Sensing something was wrong, the champion’s eyes widened, and he began to thrash around in desperation.

"What are you doing to them?" Alice was at the door with Walter and Otto, her fingers held to her mouth and her eyes wide in horror.

"She’s going to cut them off," Otto replied, his voice hollow.

"Only if I can get a hold of this connection. Stop fidgeting." Athir yelled, slapping the champion around the head.

Closing her eyes and taking a steadying breath, Athir reached for the threads and captured them in her fist. The champion of the father retched and emptied his bowels. Athir felt a pulse of pure malice flowing through her hand as the threads trembled and slipped out of her grasp like they were coated in oil. A retched smell filled the small chamber, and Athir's mind ached. Try as she might, she couldn’t hope to maintain the focus she needed to find them again.

"Listen, if you cooperate, this will be harmless. I’ll be back soon to see if you have had a change of heart."

Athir slammed the door and stormed away into the forest without saying another word to the small group outside. Her mind was all over the place; she needed to find some kind of center. Following a winding trail eventually brought her to a clearing that held a vast shimmering pool with the towering Lyran tree at its center. Despite her innate dislike for any of the gods, she had to admit this place was special; the air was cool and light and nourished her spirit. Butterflies of all different colors flapped their wings slowly as they clung to the leaves of the Lyran tree, making it seem as if the whole thing were in gentle movement.

Athir sat down at the edge of the pool and began the long process of meditation. With each breath, she drew from the connection to the Lady, cycling the power around her body. Unlike Arcanists, witches, or magic creatures, she wasn’t able to draw directly from a ley line, and so the power she drew in brought with it a mild buzzing sound of madness.

"Welcome, my child," a serene voice announced.

Athir’s eyes snapped open. "Ye gods."

Lyran was a twenty-foot-high, shimmering apparition on the smooth surface of the pool. Her features and body were gleaming, polished wood that was artfully twisted to form her limbs. The butterflies fluttered around her, and the water in the pool shimmered as she stepped forward, her arms open.

"Yes, child, you have come far to seek "ye gods," and—wait, I know you."