image [https://i.imgur.com/9JnFmXw.jpg]
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Rick sat at the small dining table in the Floating Chest, nursing a hot cup of tea. He read by the dim light of shaded ether crystal lamps, while his new companions slept nearby.
Father always warned him that reading in low light would ruin his eyesight, but considering he was down to one remaining eye, which itself was half milky and blurred with only a narrow corridor of clear vision left, he figured that ship had already sailed.
Fig was curled up in the foyer in a nest made of a bedroll and some scavenged cushions. She had her new cloak draped over herself, and her hand rested possessively on Whisper’s hilt. Rick could see her eyes moving beneath closed lids. Every now and then she’d stir, and raise her head to look around groggily for a few seconds before settling back down to sleep.
Dorian had claimed the bed. He was tucked under the covers, snoring gently and occasionally mumbling softly about a woman called “Elaina”. It was hard to make out much more of his sleep-talking than the name, which was only discernible because he kept repeating it.
Rick didn’t have much luck when he tried to rest. A couple hours of fitful sleep in a chair were all he managed before the constant nightmares of his death drove him to abandon the effort and go looking for a hot drink. He found a brick of old compacted tea leaves in the cupboard, and now he sat up at the table, passing the time until the others roused from their much needed slumber.
Sleep held no comfort for Rick since the fire. Perhaps it was fortunate then that he found he needed very little of it these days; some unholy vigour ensured that a few hours snatched here or there were enough to see him through, though he felt like he’d lost something important in the trade.
He missed that small solace and routine of reading before bed, drifting off to peaceful slumber, and then feeling refreshed when he woke the next day. When was the last time that had actually happened? He found it hard to imagine feeling truly rested any more.
Rick read an old treatise of magical theory he’d found in a pile of books beside the writing desk. As the minutes crept by, he leafed through with sporadic interest, reading to pass the time more than seriously studying.
The Book of the Undying King lay on the table beside him, closed for now. He could feel it waiting patiently for him to return to it, but he needed a break, and the treatise served as a welcome distraction in the meantime.
The author, one Oroban Fisc, set out to discuss the impact of the destroyed sixteenth Aspect on the integrity of Splinterra’s ethereal superstructure. To Rick’s eyes, the work was largely speculative, but it did pose some interesting questions; foremost was the increased influence of what it called “Outsiders”, wholly alien beings from beyond the ethereal veil of Orot’s creation.
If, as Fisc’s treatise supposed, the loss of an Aspect had weakened Orot, the linchpin of Splinterra’s ethereal stability, might it not also be true that Outsiders now had greater reign to cross the veil and exert their own strange wills upon our world, with often alarming consequences. It was a bold theory to propose, one which the treatise tried to support with several examples from the centuries since the Forgotten War, many of which were entirely new information to Rick. He found his interest growing as he read on.
Fisc brought up the example of The Cult of the Deep Lady, followers of one supposed Outsider, who caused some disturbing events around the city of Westport, a century and a half ago. The alien power’s intrusions culminated in the year 274AFW, when a passenger ship sank mysteriously while entering the harbour in calm conditions, but left no detectable wreck. As soon as it dropped beneath the waves, it was as if the ship had never existed. The authorities didn’t connect the odd vanishing ship to cult activities until some of the missing passengers showed up in the following days, rising from the waterfront and walking the streets at night, dripping wet, and preaching ominously in drowned voices on behalf of the Deep Lady.
Rick sipped his tea, and flicked through the reference list, noting harbourmasters reports and accounts from the city garrison. It was odd that he’d never heard of the incident before, especially because Fisc claimed it had taken the involvement of a High Marshal of the Enduring Dawn to eventually bring the cult down and end the drowned night visitors. It seemed like exactly the kind of information his job in the Order’s records should have exposed him to. If the treatise was any more than an elaborate fiction masquerading as fact, Fisc must have had access to more extensive and possibly classified records than Rick’s own posting allowed. Curious.
The treatise went on to cover a litany of cases from across the Dynasty, each stranger than the last. They ranged widely in location and date, and grew in frequency on a timeline that ran up to a few decades ago when the treatise itself was published. Rick frowned. The implication of the text was that such incursions by Outsiders were reoccurring, widespread, and growing in regularity, with only the clandestine efforts of Dynasty authorities and the Aspects’ various churches to hold back the tide.
He sat back and rubbed his brow. The reading had become more depressing than it was distracting. Didn’t they all have enough to worry about without alien powers from outside reality breaking into their world to wreak havoc on innocents. From what he’d already seen, Splinterra was fucked up and frightening enough without anything new added to the mix.
He looked over at his still sleeping companions, and then to the staircase that led out of the Chest. If he had to be awake, his time could be much better spent finally examining all of those wonderful ancient murals in the Great Hall.
But he didn’t want to disturb either of them from their rest, nor should he wander off alone without letting them know where he was going. Which meant he was stuck down here for a few more hours at least.
Rick sighed and put the treatise back where he found it. He would just have to find another way to pass the time.
The Book beckoned.
After the short rest, he felt somewhat recovered from his prior magical exertions; perhaps it was time for him to stop avoiding the inevitable, and start properly testing these new abilities.
Rick opened the Book of the Undying King and looked for a simple spell. It welcomed him back, glad to be opened and read. He could feel the shifting moods of the Book cast directly into his mind as if they were his own emotions. The feeling was unnerving, but he’d had some time to get used to it.
Text swam on the page, rearranging itself before his eye. He’d found that there was little point turning to the front or back of the Book, as there was no rhyme nor reason to the layout; the pages could entirely change their content to show him whatever it pleased, or whatever he asked to see. The only time he needed to turn the pages was to let it know when he wasn’t finding the right information.
He did just that for a few minutes, flicking through pages of invocations. The wealth of knowledge in the Book was always dizzying; it was vast, yet so much of it remained essentially useless to him because he didn’t have the training or skill to wield it.
Ah, this would do. Rick settled on a short invocation and the Book responded by bringing it to the forefront of the current page. He examined the notes scrawled in the margins. It appeared to be a very simple image spell, quiet, small, and vague in its effect. Something he should be able to try without draining himself too much, or lighting up the room with necrotic flames. Rick half expected Dorian would scream and faint if he woke up to see Rick’s blazing lichlike form.
Rick cleared the table in front of him, and turned his right hand so the palm faced upwards.
‘Here goes,’ he whispered, and took a few breaths, trying to clear his mind with the intent to focus on the feeling of the spell and what exactly was happening when he cast it.
‘Vroshtik Wshantha’, he uttered the invocation and felt the change in his ethereal being as power coalesced around him, gathering on his upturned palm in a shifting vortex.
The words of the invocation were just a signal, a request he put out into the world; the power was a response, originating from somewhere outside of himself. It already wanted to take a certain shape, predetermined by the request he’d made, but he could modify it. The focus, direction and form of the magic were all his to determine, and he felt that he could make more profound changes to the base spell if he gained skill, and exerted the strength of will to rewrite its ethereal template.
Holding and directing the power taxed him. It had something like weight and momentum, even this small amount he held in his palm. Though he found it manageable, it fought against his restraint, urging to be released unformed into the world all at once.
This was how he’d exhausted himself so quickly the previous day, he realised. He’d summoned so much power, and then become overwhelmed by just the burden of holding it, let alone the task of trying to shape its release with his will.
As he watched the vortex swirl on his hand, distorting the space around it, he wondered how this information could actually help him train.
Could he reduce the fatigue of spellcasting through practice? How about if he worked on shaping his will swiftly to direct the power? That way he wouldn’t have to hold it for so long, his casting time would be far shorter, and he wouldn’t get exhausted so quickly.
Rick wished he’d been allowed to go and train properly with the Magisterium. Trying to figure this all out on his own was going to take forever.
The vortex continued to twist and fight against his restraint. In addition to the fatigue, there was a growing feeling associated with holding it, a building ache like the discomfort of holding your breath. Rick could handle it for now, but he could feel that it wouldn’t take too long to become unbearable.
He resisted a few seconds more before deciding that should be enough for a first try.
With a sigh of relief, Rick let the power in his hand go without providing it any will or direction. It fizzled, producing a weak flash of multicoloured light and tumbling half formed shapes that spun in the air for a second before they lost their distinction. It was a pretty visual. Interesting. The invocation would produce generic light and shape even if he didn’t provide any further structure, that was good to know.
It stood to reason that most feats of magic would be beyond him until he began properly dedicating himself to this training. As far as Rick could see, there were two obvious hurdles holding him back.
Firstly, his will shaping was pitiful. Any sufficiently complex effects were beyond his ability to properly conceptualise and encode into the ether, regardless of how much raw power he could pour into a spell.
The most advanced thing he’d managed thus far was opening the magic door that teleported him across the Wine Sea to the entrance of Vishrac-Uramis. That spell used a large ritual setup, with symbolic focuses to create ethereal connection across long distances. It was more like an equation than the swift and unfocused invocation casting he’d been using since. The Book had given him a lot of assistance, and it still took three days of attempts to make the teleportation spell work. Would he even be able to replicate the effect again if he needed to? Rick wasn’t sure.
Most of what he’d been able to achieve under stress was nothing but the simplest of effects; some brutish applications of kinetic force and a weak light enchantment that faded in a couple of hours. If he planned to become a proficient and versatile spellcaster, he still had a lot of learning to do.
The second big issue was his limited control over the quantity of power he drew for each spell. Rick had very nearly crushed himself under the weight of the spells he cast against the slimes the night before. It would be all too easy for him to use the wrong invocation and draw too much power into his grip. If he did, it would rip him apart before he even got the chance to shape it. Whatever unholy force was responding to his invocations, it was far stronger than he was, and he needed to be wary of summoning too much of it at once.
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How easy would it be to vary that flow of ethereal potential, and draw no more than the exact amount he needed? It was worth testing.
Rick spoke the invocation again, ‘Vroshtik Wshantha.’
This time he tried to draw as little power as possible. It was a strange feeling. The ethereal distortion flowed around him in small currents. The invocation brought a certain amount of power within reach, but he held back, only capturing the barest threads of it.
The small vortex that formed in his hand was barely visible as most of the power dissipated unused, sending a weak ripple through the veil as it rejoined the fabric of reality. It was easier to hold this time. With such little power, it didn’t have enough will of its own to be a serious challenge.
He let it go, and the resulting flicker of light was so minor it barely registered before snuffing out of existence.
That was easier than he’d expected. He’d proven that it was possible to vary how much power he tried to shape, but in the end he’d drawn so little that he starved the spell, and it likely would have been ineffective if he’d tried to shape it. It would probably take a lot of trial and error to develop a sense for which spells required which amount of ethereal fuel. There was no shortcut for that kind of experience.
Rick stretched and steadied himself. Ok, now he’d taken a couple of dry runs, it was time for something a bit more ambitious.
He repeated the invocation again, ‘Vroshtik Wshantha.’
This time he grasped a sizeable portion of the power that flowed around him, just as he had during the first casting. But instead of releasing it unformed, he began to shape instructions for it with his will.
It was a painstaking process. Not only did he have to manage the effort of holding the power while he shaped it, he needed to maintain an absolutely clear mind, free of distractions that might distort his will and muddy the instructions he was encoding into the ether. For being a much weaker spell, with a less dramatic effect, this was in many ways more challenging than the blast of kinetic force he’d unleashed upon the slimes the previous day.
After a minute of struggling over the spell, he felt satisfied with the rough shape of it. His will was set, and he let the power flow out in a controlled manner, following the instructions he’d encoded into it.
Above his palm, an image appeared, a phantom structure made of light. It was supposed to be an image of Rick’s face before the fire.
In practice, it was a far cry from the real thing. The colours were all wrong, and they bled into each other, making it look like a crude painting done by an amateur with a very limited palette. Not only that, the proportions of the image so warped that it wasn’t recognisably a person at all; his eyes were bulging and grotesque, his mouth was a sick chasm of red and black cutting across the face at an awkward angle, and his hair looked like a mass of worms squirming on the back of his head.
Rick grimaced. The result was disappointing, and only served to make him feel more disconnected from his unburnt form. Here he was, unable to properly form even an image of what he’d looked like before the fire.
He let the spell dissipate and massaged his chin as he considered the outcome.
Rick was a big believer in the power of diligence in the face of adversity. It was a kind of control he could wield against the often overwhelming circumstances of his life. Watching his sister blaze her trail as a warrior priestess extraordinaire, and knowing from an early age that he’d never follow in her footsteps, had driven him towards a different set of interests.
He’d learnt a lot in his nineteen years; multiple languages, schools of literary thought, mathematics, caste anatomy, scientific principles, magical theory, and religious scripture. Some studies had come easier to him than others, but he’d applied himself to all, and he was very proud of the wide spectrum of skills in which he’d achieved proficiency, even if his parents only ever measured him by the things he was not.
It would take a lot more than a few failed castings to discourage him from his magical practice, in fact, for a first attempt at shaped invocation magic, he thought he’d done pretty well.
He muttered the incantation and prepared to try again.
Rick passed a few hours casting and recasting the spell. It took little physical effort to hold and shape the ethereal potential he was summoning, but it was incredibly mentally taxing, so he stopped a few times to make himself more drinks and give his will a break.
He found that by varying the amount of power he drew, he could vary the vibrance of the image, how long it lasted, and how taxing it was to produce. It was currently easier to shape spells with less power, but he hoped practice would expand his capacity and the strength he could safely pour into invocations.
By the end, he’d cut a good chunk off his casting time, and he could conjure a half passable portrait of himself from memory. The proportions of the image were still the hardest things to get right; his mind didn’t seem to be very good at matching the edges of concepts like nose, chin, and eyes together so that they looked like they belonged on a single face, but the last image he conjured was drastically better than the first.
He leant back with satisfaction, looking at the floating image which almost matched his old face. They could have been siblings, the resemblance was there, even if it wasn’t perfect yet.
‘Who’s that?’ Fig asked behind him, causing him to jump and lose his concentration on the spell.
It faded as he turned to find her standing a few feet away, stretching and rubbing one side of her head where the dark hair had developed a lick from being slept on.
‘I didn’t realise you were awake,’ Rick said, ‘Sorry if I disturbed you.’
‘You didn’t. He did…’ Fig said, yawning and indicating to the bed where Dorian’s snoring had been steadily rising in volume, ‘I hope this “Elaina” he won’t shut up about can put up with a heavy snorer. Anyway, you’re practising magic, good on you! Who’s that person in the illusion?’
‘That was actually supposed to be me,’ Rick responded, ‘from before I got burnt up. The image is still a little off. I was working on it for a while… It’s a helpful exercise while I’m trying to get more control over my spells…’ He trailed off looking back at the table where the image had been.
‘Ah… I should have guessed,’ Fig said, ‘That was an Orend face. You Crichéts are Orend, aren’t you?’
‘Yeah,’ he said, still looking down at the table.
‘I suppose it can’t be easy, looking so different now from how you remember yourself?’ Fig said.
Rick turned and looked up at her, ‘Yeah. It’s not great, if I’m being honest.’
She nodded slowly, ‘Well, shit. I’m sorry, Rick.’
‘Don’t worry about it,’ he said, ‘Maybe once I figure this magic out properly, I can fix myself up good as new.’
It was a long shot, and Rick could tell they both knew it. There was an awkward moment with the two of them just looking at each other, neither seeming sure of what to say next.
‘Did you sleep ok?’ Fig finally asked.
‘Yeah, not so bad,’ he lied, and tried to give a smile to let her know he was ok, but it felt like it came out a little pained.
Fig nodded
‘Well, I bet neither of us slept half as well as our new friend there,’ she said, pointing at Dorian as he rolled over onto his back and snored loudly at the ceiling.
Rick chuckled, and Fig went over to the kitchen to start heating up a can of beans on the stove.
He got up to help her lay the table for breakfast, and got to work making a pot of coffee. For a while their silence was companionable.
A short while later, Dorian jerked awake at the smell of cooking beans, sitting bolt upright in bed and scowling at the stove.
He wrinkled his nose and muttered darkly, ‘Nothing but those detestable beans for months on end! Is there no end to this ordeal?’
‘Well, it’s that, or no breakfast. So make your mind up before I eat them all myself,’ Fig shot back, carrying the pot to the table.
Dorian grumbled, but joined Rick and Fig at the table, wrapping himself in a voluminous red dressing gown he’d discovered in the bedside drawers. He’d shaved his beard away in the bath, and now sported a smart blonde moustache that tapered to curved points beneath his cheekbones.
Rick had to admit that, now he was washed and groomed, the man’s looks had a kind of roguish appeal he could imagine doing well on magazine covers, but completely clashed with his foppish manner in person.
The writer tasted his bowl of beans with a dubious look, but seemed appeased after chewing for a moment.
‘You know, when they’re heated up, they’re almost tolerable. Compliments to the chef!’ Dorian toasted Fig with a mug of grainy coffee, and she inclined her head in turn.
The three of them ate breakfast together before moving on to discuss their plans for getting back to some form of civilization.
‘How do we get the Chest back through the jungle, that’s what I’m most concerned about?’ Fig said after licking her bowl clean, ‘I’m not keen to pass through the Ragon’ta territory again.’
They’d rolled out an old map of Sedalia Rick had found pinned in one of the Chest’s display cases, and used their crockery to hold down the edges. It was slightly outdated, and not the most detailed, but it would do for their purposes. They put a coin on the map to mark the location of Vishrac-Uramis, in the jungle just west of the ruins of Xish.
‘Dear friends, fear not,’ Dorian said, leaning over the map, ‘I’ve faced harsher journeys than this dozens of times before! Allow me to bring my wealth of experience and excellent judgement to bear upon our predicament. I’ll have us safe and home in no time at all!’
Rick caught Fig rolling her eyes as Dorian made a show of grabbing a magnifying glass from the writing desk and scouring over the map.
Finally, with a cry of ‘Ah ha!’ the gentleman adventurer thrust his finger down, pointed at the city of Salissra, a hundred or so miles to the north of their current location, ‘My keen adventuring instincts tell me that this is the closest city geographically. It seems obvious to me that our best move is to head north out of the jungle and cross the Ashram Desert at its narrowest point. We have plenty of water in the taps, a secure place to rest, and my unfailing sense of direction to guide us. It’s perfect! Even crossing difficult sand dunes, I’m sure we could make the journey in a mere handful of days.’
‘Dorian,’ Fig said with exasperation, ‘That’s the complete opposite direction from where Rick and I are trying to go. I already told you this last night, we need to get back to Saltcrust!’
‘Um, guys,’ Rick tried to interject but got spoken over by Dorian.
‘But that’s simplicity itself! Just get a passenger ship from Salissra, down the Jasmine River and around the southern cape to Demerris. That puts you within a day’s boat ride of the island if you can find passage onwards. I really don’t see the problem with my plan,’ he responded.
‘Oh, don’t you!’ Fig retorted, ‘How about the fucking sunworms! Getting to Salissra would be a nightmare if we take the desert route. Remember what happened at that excavation camp, Dorian. They probably had layers of wards to deter sunworms from approaching, and that still wasn’t enough to fully protect them. And that’s not even mentioning the Zoreen hives who’ll trap us and sell us to the Dualspire fighting pits, but you’re suggesting we just march out onto the sand with nothing but your insane optimism to guard us? I’m sorry, but I don’t have that much confidence in your “travel writer” instincts.’
Rick raised his voice, ‘Guys–’
‘–What did you call me!?’ Dorian bristled and his moustache started quivering.
‘You heard me,’ Fig stared him down.
‘I don’t see you suggesting anything better!’ he spat back.
She leant across the table and pointed a finger in his face, ‘That’s because you barged in and started trying to run the show before we even had a chance to share ide–’
‘–Both of you shut up! For fuck’s sake!’ Rick shouted, feeling his withered voice grate painfully as he stretched his scorched vocal cords to their limit.
Fig and Dorian gave him startled looks, and stopped shouting at each other long enough for Rick to get a few words in.
‘We don’t have to worry about any of that,’ he croaked.
‘How come?–’ Fig asked.
‘–What are you suggesting?’ Dorian spoke at the same time.
Rick looked at the pair of them as they stood on opposite sides of the table, shooting each other dark looks, and suddenly felt his nerves return after the bout of emboldening frustration. They might be arguing like children, but Fig and Dorian were both experienced adventurers, albeit allegedly in Dorian’s case, which meant they had far more knowhow about crossing the difficult terrain of the Outerlands than he did.
But neither of them had magic at their fingertips.
‘You remember how I got here from the Heartland?’ he asked Fig, ‘The Book helped me open a door through the veil, and I just had to step through it. I crossed hundreds of miles in an instant.’
Fig nodded slowly, ‘I remember you telling me about it when we met.’
He had their full attention now, so he hoped he wasn’t overstating his abilities as he continued, ‘Well, I think, I can do that again. We won’t even have to leave the temple first. Give me a bit of time to prepare, and I can teleport us and the Chest right to Saltcrust.’
Dorian and Fig both stared at him in stunned silence.
‘Well, shit, Rick! Why didn’t you say so earlier?’ Fig finally exclaimed.
[End of Chapter 8]