In the decorated halls of the pact, the night was young, and many a forlorn young and old was out to get lucky with their witchy half-animal guests.
“Look at how the outsiders stare at them,” Zonja, daughter of Randy the spymaster, said. “Oh, woe is our empire, which doth fall lower by the day.”
“But you like the degeneracy, the division, the intrigue and change.” A sand-colored snake’s tail wrapped around her marble-white body. She preferred using it to her decrepit, curse-ridden one, and it seemed so did Olivia. “Hypocrite.”
Zonja smiled at the person who was the Witches’ equivalent of a spy. There was no tension presently; the half-snake’s mentor was no less unreasonable than hers. They had bonded and in the spirit of camaraderie laid out quite a few of their cards. Mutual benefits and all that.
“I suppose it is better than mingling with the same dozen people. Can you believe it, last week father sent me to spy on Jeremiah, again. All he does is wank and wax poetically about how he will get back at people he thinks have wronged him. He’s not a very good poet too. Gods, nothing interesting ever happens around here.”
She waited a few seconds for a god to make her life more interesting. As nobody was smited for overly indulging in the labors of their dregs, she sighed, waving aimlessly towards the nearest banquet table.
“Hand me some more of that Xandrian Lobster, would you?”
“Only if you eat it in the most debauched manner you know how.”
Zonja rolled her eyes. Halfway through deepthroating the lobster, the guarded doors of the pact’s holiest sanctum burst open, and out flung a corpse. A moonstrider lay on the ground, dead as gods. A girl followed after. As if to answer how she managed to gain access to the extra restricted, final bowl in the pact, the princess was dragged in after by one of those pink divine whores.
“I’m screwed. I’m so, so unbelievably screwed,” the girl muttered, ignoring the stares of the witches, the council, and Jerry, the prick. “She knows. She knows and now she’s coming. God, why does nothing I do ever go my way?”
She barely considered the moonstrider as she walked over its corpse. Zonja was still confused when someone yelled for the dregs standing guard to seize her. They were upon her in seconds, but the moment any of them touched her, they fell over, fast asleep.
That was when Zonja’s hairs stood on end. Those were good dregs with strong minds, and she had barreled through them all, seemingly without even realizing.
But the girl wasn’t hostile. She seemed halfway between relieved and shocked when nobody managed to tackle her down. If the moonstrider was her work, then she had a common enemy with the pact. In cases like these, a delicate touch could turn the situation away from bloodshed. As long as the bloodthirsty among the pact weren’t egged on in the wrong way.
“What the fuck are you looking at?” the girl said to Mephisto, who on the scale of bloodthirsty to pacifistic tended to break the scale in the wrong direction. “You should be running. The pact is under attack!”
Zonja decided to act before this could all escalate much further. She cupped a hand to her ear and covered her mouth with the other. [Bottled message] could reach across the crowd in seconds, and with an essence that allowed her to bottle emotions, it was her most useful boon for getting people on the same page.
She sent thoughts of a calm blue sky to both the girl and Mephisto. The latter turned from annoyed to placidly drunk, as he was already well on his way to breaking the scale for maximum possible drunkenness. The girl meanwhile whirled around to look straight at her.
‘Strong mental defenses,’ Zonja thought. ‘Old-fashioned way it is.’
With the casual swagger of a kid who’d been caught mid prank, she sauntered over to the girl, who looked just about ready to stab her with real knives instead of only stares.
“I know you,” the girl she had never met said. “You were one of the people trying to get into my pants.”
Zonja would never have, not outside of an assignment; the girl was not her type. She put on what the outsiders called a customer-service smile. “Hello. The name is Zonja and welcome to the pact. If I may ask, who exactly is coming?”
“The lion. The Rhuna. That fucking bitch is. And worst of all, I have no fucking clue what she’s gonna do.” The mere thought seemed to send the girl spiraling into a bout of panic.
Out of the corner of her eye, Zonja noticed her father approach, and her brothers lurking in the shadows. Not one to let them snag an assignment she could carry out on her own, she took a risk and embraced the girl in a hug.
“You’ll be safe here, don’t worry.”
The girl bristled, but didn’t retreat. “Fudge. I hate people but I love people, and I hate that I love them and that I can’t be indifferent and… I need a room. And a bed. And a burger.”
“Anything else?” Zonja asked soothingly, while sticking her tongue out at her brothers who were just rolling their eyes.
“I dunno, do you do witness protection?”
“That is a good question. Do we, father?”
“Well, we don’t exactly have a program for much of anything.” He cast a look over his shoulder. “But either way, this discussion is better had in a quiet and safe place.”
“Not the thieves guild,” the girl said, extricating herself from the hug. “I’ve died there twice already.”
The turn of phrase struck her as odd, but so did everything else about this situation. At least this was more interesting than taking part in another food-orgy.
A silent exchange with her father had them in agreement. Together with a fresh batch of guard dregs, they hurriedly escorted the girl and her fellows out and away from the party. Most people were either carrying on, or had already lost themselves in the bliss of alcohol and other narcotics. But those not too drunk to realize what was going on were exchanging worried glances and whispers.
“How many souls do you think a moonstrider is worth? Do you think our raid group could handle one?”
“This is going to affect the shard-economy, isn’t it?”
“Gah, all this stress is totally going to mess with my complexion.”
Selfish pricks. They left, towards the one location which never saw visitors of any kind.
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“This is so mean!” Karla said as they entered her room. “It’s uncalled for! How rude!”
“Please. No yelling,” Elia said.
Her head was killing her. It was as if every thought she had was twisted into a spur turned back towards herself. Rhuna had witnessed that the world reset on her death, and she was the one person Elia couldn’t imagine a solution to. Maybe that was because her thoughts were such a mess. Maybe it was because a thousand problems were dividing her attention all too easily.
She looked down at her hands, expecting them to be tremblin, but they weren’t. Elia felt as stable as a leaf in hurricane Katrina, but her body was calm, cool, collected. She looked closer and noticed the hint of a ghostly blue outline around her elbow.
“Rye, what the heck are you doing?” she mumbled.
“Is everything alright?” Karla asked, leaning in a bit too close as always.
Elia just shook her head. Before she could even ask, someone handed her a bottle of bowl water, which she drank greedily. It didn’t help with the whirlwind of thoughts, but it did eliminate any excuse that it was a physiological response to stress. It was all in her head and knowing that gave her the clarity to sit down on Karla’s bed, and start asking the important questions.
“Who is Rhuna?”
The marble woman, the one that had led her out, looked at her with some confusion. “For one, it’s the Rhuna. It’s a title. One of twelve, given to–“
“What does it mean?”
“Old Empyrean and Xandrian use it with two different connotations. For the former, it means ‘Warden of our eternal city’. For the latter, it means ‘the imprisoner’.”
Elia breathed in once, then breathed out.
Ok, so that was not a good sign. That Rhuna could make good on her promises was a given, but that her whole thing was imprisoning people meant she did this frequently, and successfully. Elia needed a plan, a better one than her adversary could come up with, but she didn’t have enough strings to stitch together even a tenth of one.
She looked up, seeing Karla and her companions on one side, then Camille, Zane, and his extended secret-service family on the other.
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“You look like a person-shaped question,” she said to an aging man, white strands more common than black on his hair and well-kept beard.
When he spoke, the sound of his voice gave the hard lines of his face a softer tone. “We have a few. I’m Randy, former quarterback, now head of the pact’s secret service. When you said that the Rhuna is coming, what is your time frame and why do you think it will happen?”
So, they believed her? Or – no, they were acting on the assumption that what she said was true. If she could string together a narrative that convinced them of the danger of not acting, then maybe she could get somewhere. Not that she wanted to do any more explaining.
“Rhuna is coming tomorrow. I know because I saw it.”
“Because she’s an oracle!” Karla said proudly. “She has guided us through dangers unseen, and with her by our side we slew the evil Yolon, and the Partlight, and the big sludge of doom and–“
All sound coming from Karla suddenly ceased. Elia cast a thankful gaze to Cesare, who was looking like a bundle of nerves that was fraying more by the second.
“Sorry, Karla, but I lied. I’m not an oracle.” Elia didn’t look her in the eye as she continued. “Now that Rhuna knows, might as well have everyone on the same page as well. I’m a time traveler. When I die, I go back in time, as does the entire world. Some people remember these ‘stutters’ if they have a strong enough mind, a shard warding it, or some magic item. Rhuna remembers. She was coming for the pact in three days at first, but there’s no way she isn’t interested in me after my f- my screw up. So yeah, her little invasion might be a bit earlier, now that she knows I know.”
Elia breathed in. “As for proof? Zane, you have two ninja disciples, you can turn into a cloud of mini bats, and you have a weird thing about not hitting girls in the face. I appreciate that but it’s going to get you killed. Jerry, your thieves guild is in that seemingly abandoned mansion to the northeast, next to a jewelry shop. Karla, you aren’t a monster, but you are the wielder of the greater shard of justice.”
The room was silent. Someone coughed. Nali was, again, missing.
Camille clapped her hands. “Well, that certainly is a heap of something. I can’t wait to rub this in the council’s nose and tell them I knew long ago. We finally have a reason to wake our dragon. We should still hold an orgy in honor of Karla’s return, just to keep up an illusion of ignorance as normal. Oh, and if the witches’ delegation is attacked by Rhuna as well, then that would tie them to us in one fell swoop.” She turned to Elia. “You wouldn’t happen to have any knowledge that could speed that along, would you?”
Elia practically threw the three forbidden scrolls they had found in the Academy of Yorivale at the woman. Her grin almost made Elia feel bad for the council. Almost.
“I’ll want copies of those myself,” Elia added. “And I’m not running a charity, I want something in return.”
“And that would be?” asked the alabaster skinned Zonja with a voice so sultry it could promise her the world and she would believe it.
“I… I want to live.” Elia gulped down a heavy clump in her throat. “I’m not asking for much, just for a place in the pact. I want to know what it’s like to wake up and not have to kill a dozen dregs just to be able to afford breakfast. I want to know what it’s like to talk with people I don’t have to worry will stab me in the back for my souls. I want to learn how it feels to be among friends and rivals, allies and equals, and not feel like I’m a nuclear reactor in a kindergarten. I want to have a home.”
Randy nodded. “Entry to the pact isn’t limited. We do a background check, but even if you came to us with nothing but the clothes on your back, we wouldn’t send you away. There is a ceremony, but it can wait. If what you say turns out to be the truth, we will be eternally grateful for your warning, and also for returning our princess to us. Until then, I can promise you safety, rest and respite among the pact.”
Elia nodded. What went unsaid was how much holding onto the one person that controlled what was the ‘real’ timeline would benefit the pact. She had no doubt that there would be politics, that people would take advantage of her. But it was all better than being alone again. If she ever lost Rye, that would give her psyche the last push towards terminal insanity.
In a mirror across the room Elia noticed how one side of her face was slowly being overlaid with a translucent copy.
“Karla, I need to use your bed.”
“Hm?” Karla turned to her, still caught up in her confusion. “Oh. Yes. Sure.”
Elia thanked her and promptly laid down. Now that things were set in motion, it was time to check up on Rye. And after that, maybe she could take an hour or two of rest.
She was tired. So, so very tired.
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Rye was sitting in her dream space, working on a photorealistic depiction of her family’s farmstead in a 1:30 scale, bored out of her mind. There was only so much one could do with god-like powers until no achievement seemed worth achieving anymore. Maybe this was why the gods seemed so apathetic to the suffering of everyone else.
She sighed, putting down her mind-pen for a moment. Her sand-clock was telling her it was time for conjuration practice, but she couldn’t really learn more by running off of her incomplete model of how conjuration worked. And it was incomplete, right in broad terms, but missing so, so many pieces of the puzzle.
“It’s amazing how much one can accomplish when one knows so little but thinks one knows so much. Isn’t that right, Zippo?”
The slug with wings was lying on some sort of lean-back chair, a parasol protecting its delicate skin from the swirly sun above. She raised her sunglasses, looking at Rye despite having no eyes, and made a sound like a trumpet.
“Couldn’t have said it better myself. I just wish I could share this with someone else.”
The ground shook and the dream took on a different color. Rye shot up.
“That’s her! Elia’s here! Ooh, I hope she’ll like what I prepared for her.” There was this game that she had dredged up from their shared memories, one that she wanted to try the moment she had read through the dozen rulebooks.
She flung past hundreds of half-finished three-dimensional drawings until she arrived at a castle. The scene was saved in time, and yet, with a single thought, hundreds of critters and creatures spun to life. The setting was simple: the evil wizard Mark had captured the princess (namely, Rye) in his castle, and Elia was a wandering knight out to rescue her from her capture. The path there was filled with adventure, friendship, and a whole lot of food.
Hopefully Elia appreciated the effort she had put in.
Her other half arrived not too soon. Rye drew herself an appropriate outfit with frills, then plonked herself down atop the castle. Rye watched with glee as she approached the first hurdle. The villagers of Littleton were in disarray; someone had committed a heinous crime. A murderer was stalking about, an assassin of the wizard and the hook to her grand adventure.
Elia seemed surprised as the sudden huddle of characters bombarded her with their mundane problems. She would ignore them, of course, but for that she would be dastardly punished by the living outhouse mimic and…
Wait, why was Elia not ignoring them? She was… helping old Johanson find his missing cat, playing with the Miller-twins, and now she was doing the laundry of misses Wickerwoo.
Rye looked down at the bizarre scene as the villagers offered Elia some free pie, and a place to rest. Elia actually went to sleep. Right in the middle of her adventure.
“This isn’t right,” she said. “You’re supposed to be on a quest to fight evil!”
But on the other hand, she could allow Elia to sleep. It would make her feel secure, yet true danger lurked beneath her feet.
Rye pinched time on one end, pulled it on the other, then made it screech to a halt just a few hours too late. Dangit, she missed how Elia found the murderer, and the wicked drawings of constellations in the butcher’s cellar.
Well, anyways, it seemed that was enough to get her to move on. But as she approached the castle of the evil wizard Mark, a troll jumped out from under a bridge.
“Haha!” Rye yelled, directing a cloud of thunder from her wizard tower towards the scene.
This would be a great challenge, a test of Elia’s mettle. Of course, it would have been an easy fight, had Elia spent more time looking for secrets in the village. If she had said the right words, the innkeeper who was a retired hero would have loaned Elia his sword of troll slaying plus three.
Now all Elia had was a pan, some cake she was munching on and, and…
OH NO, Elia had a PAN!
That was going to ruin her balance. Why would Elia be happy with a sword if she had her unbreakable pan? Just imagining the amount of damage she could do with it… no, this was not balanced.
With a quick flourish, Rye sent a torrent of water down the river, washing away all of Elia’s gear.
Elia simply stood up, shook herself down, then looked at the wet troll and laughed. He laughed at her as well and within minutes, they were both eating the soggy leftover cake.
Rye meanwhile groaned in frustration. Nothing was going her way.
Zippo the slug-fly trumpeted right next to her. He was wearing a helmet, and an armored sock fitted for a slug.
“No, the dark pixy-knight only makes his entry in act three when we reveal that the princess was actually controlling the wizard to take the fall for her poor tax policies. Which won’t happen now that the proper flow of events is all borked. Unless…”
A treasure chest appeared in front of Elia with a puff of smoke. There was no way Elia could resist loot. The second she opened it, a great cloud of smoke enveloped her. In one moment, she was standing on the soggy riverside, in the next, Rye had plucked her and placed her down right in front of her.
She climbed on her stool, hiding it with a long dress whose soft frills turned into spiky flourishes. “So you have seen through my dastardly designs, my perilous plans, my Machiavellian machinations. Yet, your curiosity will be your undoing, for it has brought you only one thing: Your doom!”
Elia looked up at her, a languid smile plastered on her face. “Sorry, I didn’t quite get that. My what?”
“Doooom!”
“You should add a bit of reverb, and make your voice lower.”
“… like this?” Rye boomed.
Elia nodded.
“YOUR DOOOOM!” Her scream echoed throughout the halls quite nicely.
Elia sighed. “I missed you.”
Rye spluttered like one of those propeller-planes. She blushed, shrinking her form down. “You could at least have played along a while longer. And you totally threw my encounters off! I had a whole third-act-breakdown planned and all that.”
“Sorry,” she said, and seemed to mean it. “I knew something was up in the village, but I was just so glad I could get a full night’s sleep without having to worry about time passing fast outside. And the troll, well, you took all your inspiration from the latest Witcher game. The trolls there look scary, but are actually really nice.”
Rye huffed. Of course Elia even knew the dream she had made better than her. “They look so ugly though. And evil.”
“That’s rude. I can’t believe I’m sharing a head with a troll-racist.”
“Trolls don’t even exist in real life! They… oh, haha, this is another one of your jokes isn’t it? If you just came in here for a cheap laugh you can leave.”
Elia’s smile wavered. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to be rude.”
“Well, apology accepted!”
“If only everything were as easy as it is with you.” Elia sighed, then sat down on her princess bed, a bed which was actually another mimic.
Fishing Elia out of that without damaging it was moderately more difficult than the teleportation. She didn’t seem to struggle much as Rye pulled at the hem of her mail, thoroughly covering both of them in dream-mimic slobber.
“S-sorry,” Rye said, turning the slop into butterflies that quickly fluttered away. “So why did you come to me?”
In that moment, Elia slumped as if she was carrying the world.
“We’ve got problems. I need your help.”