To my surprise, Obin’s office was on the ground floor of the Enclave, which implied he wasn’t highly esteemed as a wizard. When I walked inside, I was further surprised by the lack of magical apparatus—no alembics, calcinators, furnaces, or bookshelves. Obin wasn’t even wearing a robe. He was a lean man, well into middle age, with hair the color of gunmetal and a patch over his left eye. A burn mark streaked from his right ear down through his neck.
I set the flask of blood on Obin's desk. “I’d like to know more about the creature I fought last night. You said you can help me.”
The man glanced at the flask and then looked me over, his expression mixing grief and indifference. “And so I can.”
“You don’t look like a wizard,” I said.
Obin smiled thinly. “No wizard in the Enclave can assist you, for as you must know, necromancy is forbidden.”
“Then how can you help me?”
“I’m not a necromancer, but I’m an expert on the subject, having learned from one of the most terrible necromancers in history. I’ll introduce you to her for 400 gold, on the condition that you never tell anyone about her.”
I found these requirements bizarre, but I paid the fee and agreed to say nothing. Obin took a ring of keys from a shelf and opened a hatch in the rear of his office. I followed him down a narrow staircase.
“Zeknir forbids the slightest dabbling in necromancy,” Obin said, “but because so many of the kingdom’s enemies are necromancers, the mages want to know what they’re up against. That’s where Queen Delvorra comes in. Twenty years ago, I found her trapped in a golden scepter, where she’d been cursed to an eternity of torment. I brought the scepter to the mages, who agreed to free her if she promised to assist them.”
"Is she really a queen?”
“I believe so, though it’s hard to be certain. She could be a hundred years old or a thousand years old. But if she’s truly Queen Delvorra of Norburne, then she’s Galliel’s great-great-great-grandmother.”
I pondered this as we descended. If Delvorra was that old, she might know something about the Medallion of Darnok. She might also know how to defeat Galliel’s darkwalkers.
Obin knocked twice on a thick iron door with three locks. “We seek your counsel, Your Highness. Have you the time to hear us?”
“I’m always delighted to hear from you.” Delvorra’s voice exuded intelligence and refinement. “Do come in.”
⚔
Obin unlocked the three locks, turned the latch, and beckoned me inside. As I entered, I was amazed to see a splendidly decorated apartment—the walls festooned with paintings and bookcases, the floor covered in rich brocade. Candles mounted in a crystal chandelier gave the underground chamber a warm yet eerie glow.
Obin pointed to a nearby chair, which was positioned next to a wooden hourglass. Obin flipped the hourglass and whispered in my ear, “When the sands run out, the interview is over. No matter what.”
Delvorra wore a black dress that looked like a cross between a necromancer’s robe and an evening gown. As she approached, she held a ponderous book with slips of paper inserted in its pages.
“Tell Trathorn that I found seventeen inaccuracies in his History of the Ansoran Wars. For one thing, King Artaeul didn’t start the third war because Eothis appeared to him in a vision—he attacked because Prince Umast dared him to. They were both quite drunk, you see.”
Obin bowed as he took the book. “Thank you, Your Highness. I’ll see that Trathorn receives your corrections.”
Delvorra turned to face me, her eyes narrowed. “You want me to answer questions of a servant, Obin? A coachman?”
I opened my mouth, but I couldn’t form a response. I’d watched countless movies and spent thousands of hours surfing the Internet, so I thought I’d seen every possible form of female beauty. Actresses, supermodels, celebrities... But Delvorra surpassed them all. She was easy to describe on the surface—she stood about my height with jet black hair and ivory skin—but her eyes radiated elegance, intelligence, and an unfathomable will. If Obin hadn’t told me she was a queen, I would have guessed.
Obin answered her question. “He’s more than a coachman, Your Majesty. You see, he—”
“Wait,” Delvorra interrupted. “That’s not a real servant’s uniform, is it? It’s a disguise crafted from the hide of a chromium dragon. And his boots, gloves, ring, and medallion are all enchanted. He’s no wizard, and Theris and Eothis would never approve of such a disguise. So he can only be a rogue. Am I right?”
Delvorra's smile was so enchanting that I could do nothing more than gaze at her. She raised an eyebrow and turned to Obin. “Can he speak?”
“Yes, I can speak,” I said, “and you’re right in every particular—I’m a rogue. My name is Dylan, Your Highness, and I seek your counsel.”
Delvorra nodded curtly. “Well then, Dylan the Rogue, my name is Delvorra and I’m the rightful Queen of Norburne. What counsel you seek?”
I held out the flask of blood. “Last night, I wounded a creature and collected its blood. I think it’s a demon, and I’d like to better understand what I’m up against.”
Delvorra unstoppered the flask and held it under her nose as though it was a glass of wine. Then, to my shock, she leaned back and took a sip. After a moment, she nodded sagely.
“Your adversary is a nasty form of demon known as a rakshasa. Strong, clever, capable of shapeshifting. They can also turn invisible once per day.”
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I stood speechless. I’d heard of rakshasas in fantasy games, but I’d never encountered one in a roguelike. They were supposed to be extremely powerful, usually guarding hoards of treasure. And now one of them—at least one of them—was trying to kill me.
“To the best of my knowledge, which is quite vast,” Delvorra continued, “you’re one of the first humans to not only survive an encounter with a rakshasa but wound it. You must be a formidable warrior.”
“I had a lot of help.”
“Formidable and honest. An impressive combination.”
“What weaknesses do rakshasas have?”
“They’re immune to spells, but as you’ve seen, they can be wounded by enchanted weapons. They’re particularly vulnerable to fire, which terrifies them.”
I nodded, taking this in. “Thank you, Your Highness.”
“My pleasure. Have you any other questions?”
I did have another question, but at that moment, I was too distracted to think clearly. Who wrote the letter to Palomir? The one the chamberlain was so interested in. Arthur? Ezekiel? Akasur.
“I’m searching for someone named Akasur. He lives in Encelas, and I believe he worships Dhok’kor. Are you familiar with that name?”
Delvorra’s jaw clenched when I mentioned Dhok’kor. “It’s been centuries since I entered a temple of the Lord of Death, so I don't know the names of his worshippers. But if you have the time, I can contact a friend.”
According to the hourglass, I’d used up only half of the time available. Obin nodded.
“Excellent. Now my friend only gives me information when I provide information in return. I’m sure he’d love to know how you received Venabel’s mark of hatred.”
I smiled. “I killed three of her priests. She offered me a priesthood, so I spat on her and dedicated her temple to Motiacca.”
“That was you?”
Delvorra’s regal bearing slipped. She gaped at me with disbelief, then awe, then what appeared to be… desire. Finally, she hugged herself and started giggling.
“I heard about that! Oh, I can just see the fury on her insipid face. How delightful!”
Delvorra continued laughing as she approached a circular mirror mounted on the wall. Like the mirror I’d seen in Zuvil’s cave, it was made of a strange metal that was both reflective and as black as Delvorra’s hair. Once there, she traced a series of patterns on its surface.
“Jal’gar! Can you hear me? I bring news!”
Moments later, green lines formed on the mirror’s surface. They spun, swirled, and coalesced into a face that looked like it had belonged to an obese man with third-degree burns. The eyes appeared lifeless, but the lips curled into a chummy smile.
“Delvorra, you hag! What news do you have?”
“Do you recall telling me that a human spat on the Lady of Murder? Well, his name is Dylan and he stands before me at this very moment, wearing the hide of a chromium dragon. He killed three of Venabel’s priests, and then dedicated her temple to Motiacca.”
The bloated face shook with laughter. “That explains why Venabel has been so upset lately. Well done, Dylan.”
Delvorra continued. “He seeks information about a follower of Dhok’kor named Akasur. Would you, perchance, know who I’m talking about?”
Jal’gar closed his eyes for a long moment. When he opened them, his lips were pulled downward.
“You know I hate to deny you, Delvorra… but I can’t answer that. Akasur’s identity is a well-kept secret, and the master would be furious if word got out. I have some dirt on Zenithir, though. Would that suffice?”
“Excuse me.” I took two steps forward. “But I have more information that might interest you. Dhok’kor obtained a stone key from the king of Norburne, and it bears an inscription that no one can translate. I know what it means.”
Delvorra and Jal’gar both turned to face me, astonished. Jal’gar shook his head.
“Impossible,” he whispered. “How could you possibly know anything of substance?”
I took out my dagger and traced DARNOK in large letters. “That should look familiar. I’ll tell you about the key after you tell me about Akasur.”
Jal’gar’s lifeless eyes stared at the letters I’d written, and then they focused on me. “Very well. Akasur leads a band of rakshasas called the Hidden Ones. They receive assassination orders from Palomir, and after he and his minions commit a murder, they sell the victim’s belongings in their shop in the Encelas slums. Now tell me about the key.”
A message scrolled at the bottom of my view. QUEST COMPLETED: LEARN ABOUT AKASUR. +2,500 XP! A second message appeared shortly afterward. NEW QUEST: DEFEAT AKASUR AND THE HIDDEN ONES.
I took a moment to consider what Jal’gar said. I’d already known that Akasur was the leader of the Hidden Ones, but I hadn’t known that they were rakshasas working in the slums. I needed to report to Wystane, but first, I had to fulfill my side of the bargain.
“In the language of my homeland, the key’s inscription spells Darnok, which is Konrad spelled backwards. Konrad created this world, and his key opens a lock that leads to the Medallion of Darnok, which enables the wearer to pass to another world.”
Jal’gar narrowed his eyes. “If this Konrad is a god, why have I never heard of him? Where are his temples? His priests?”
“He has no presence in this world, either as god or mortal. In fact, I’m almost completely certain he’s dead.”
“Preposterous!” Jalgar shouted. “I know all and see all! If there were other gods and other worlds, I’d be aware of them.”
“If you’re so smart, tell me about my family. Who are my parents?”
Jal’gar stared at me for nearly ten seconds, and a look of shock passed over his face. “You have no family, Dylan. That makes you an alien—an interloper. I’ll have to beg your leave, Delvorra, for I must report this to the master. I trust you understand.”
The light in the mirror flickered out like an old television screen. Delvorra's face bore an unreadable expression, and a thin waft of smoke emerged from the left side of her mouth. A heartbeat later, I heard her voice in my head.
“I’ve cast the Whisper spell because I need to ask you something without Obin hearing. You intend to steal this Key of Darnok, correct?”
I took a deep breath. I wasn’t sure I wanted to reveal my plans to her, but I nodded.
“If you think you can reach, much less enter, the High Temple of Dhok’kor without help, you’re deeply mistaken. But I can help you. Oh yes! I know everything about Norburne and Dhok’kor’s precious temple.”
Obin stood up. “The interview has ended. It’s time to leave.”
“Just a moment.” I looked at the hourglass, which had nearly run its course. “Please.”
“But I can only help you,” Delvorra projected, “if you’ll free me from this prison and help me destroy Zenithir. You have no idea what humiliations these wizards subject me to!”
Obin took me under my right arm and pulled me toward the exit. Delvorra’s voice continued in my head.
“We have so much in common, Dylan! I was a rogue before I was a queen, and a queen before I was a necromancer. Free me, and I’ll be more than just a guide. Our love will set the world aflame! The bards will sing of Dylan and Delvorra!”
I struggled against Obin, but the man was far stronger than I’d expected.
Delvorra reached out her hand. “Remember me, Dylan!”
Obin continued pulling me until we were past the iron door. Then he tossed me on the ground, slammed the door shut, and secured each of its locks.