Moryac Aletor Thalor, Third Thaumaturge of the Grand Thanastis Mausoleum’s Fifth Rung, sat down for the first time in sixteen bells and sighed.
The soft whine and occasional buzz of scrying discs and crystal balls threatened to lull him to sleep. Pleasant noises, all, now that most of the major fires were put out.
Strange. The ambience typically faded into the background. On normal nights, his fellow thaumaturges inspected, reinforced, and maintained the Mausoleum’s grand workings at their individual leisure. On normal nights, its wards and boundaries hummed steadily, as they did for hundreds of years, and would likely do so for hundreds more despite the concerted efforts of nature, time, and dwindling manpower.
On normal nights, he could get some sleep.
Moryac willed his magic to life. His fingertips thrummed with energy. He raised a hand, drew his cabal’s sigil in the air, and waited.
The sanctum—a communal one, shared with four other thaumaturges—came to life as it sensed one of its masters. Rows of candles flickered to life, bathing the room a deep blue. Leatherbound volumes flew off the shelves and onto his desk, opening to the last pages they remembered. The scrying discs and crystal balls rearranged to match his preferences: a few near his workbench, set to look at key areas of the Fifth Rung, with the rest orbiting him. Not that he planned on looking at them. Or heading anywhere, for that matter. He clapped and set his kettle to boil. The soft crackle of witchflame had grown a little too familiar for his liking. In exactly two minutes, it would ready his tea.
He twitched into a semblance of wakefulness and shivered as one of his smaller workings jolted him awake. Hypnotic suggestions, visual and auditory, that simulated sudden, random, and disorienting movements, much akin to waking up to the sensation of falling down. A natural jolt of adrenaline, relatively harmless, and a measure that would be used rarely—yet this particular enchantment had stayed necessary for two days.
Moryac clicked his tongue, whispered, then weaved a lesser working around himself in lieu of a blanket.
Before he could settle in his desk, reality shrieked like glass scratching glass. The air grew damp. Moryac’s skin prickled as the spatial rift’s residue tried to tear through his wards. A construct, three heads taller than Moryac and roughly twice as wide, stepped out.
“Lord Thalor,” the construct growled, each low-pitched syllable formed by the creak of gears and clanking of machinery. Its eyes pulsed in mesmeric patterns, and if Moryac focused long enough, it gave him headaches. “Lord Thalor.”
Moryac sighed. “Ash-Eater. How are you?”
“I am well,” the construct rumbled. “Operational efficiency is within acceptable thresholds,” it stood still, except for its head, which scanned Moryac from head to toe. It harrumphed in satisfaction, though for what, Moryac was unsure.
“Your aid is requested,” Ash-Eater continued. “The necrohounds’ stasis wards fail. We are on the brink of catastrophe. Lord Itheron worries much.”
Moryac raised an eyebrow. “They could escape and start eating the workers, I suppose.”
“Yes,” Ash-Eater agreed.
Hells. That was likely due to them siphoning excess power off of auxiliary wards to reinforce the upper decks’ failing generators. Moryac frowned. Less excess power than they thought. Their calculations were wrong, then, despite what he assumed were conservative estimates. At least it was a smaller fire than usual.
What other systems were affected? He would have to send constructs to inspect other subsections.
He took a deep breath, focused, and drew in the Mausoleum’s magic. Moryac quickly felt its pull—a thousand thrumming threads tugging at his skin. He seized them and pulled back.
Some of the candles blew out, only to come back to life within moments. Air swirled around him. A delicate layer of frost coated the ground near him, but his heating enchantment held steady. Ice flooded his veins, exhilarating yet deeply alien. Deeply wrong. Like a sunset without a sun. Not of his own reserves.
No matter. Those were running low, tonight, and he never had much to begin with.
Within seconds, he was wide-eyed and bursting with renewed energy. He stood, stretched, and reached for his satchel. Still, it wasn’t the same. Though his fellow thaumaturges theorized that wielding the Mausoleum’s ambient power could potentially allow one to stay awake indefinitely—perhaps even completely eschew basic sustenance—he was willing to trade just about anything for his bed. The crash after borrowing the Mausoleum’s power was never pleasant.
Moryac waved a hand and chanted, snuffing out the candles. For a moment, he contemplated letting the kettle boil over—surely, he could return in time for tea, yes?—but shook his head. He settled on letting it cool.
“Lead the way,” he said. Ash-Eater rumbled, its hydraulics hissing as it came to life.
His form glowed with the Mausoleum’s dark indigo as he rose a few centimeters off the ground. Moryac’s clothes billowed against a nonexistent breeze, and the Mausoleum’s whispered temptations were ignored once more. He wouldn’t fall for that again.
Ash-Eater’s torso opened, revealing the bright-red gemstone that served as his core. It thrummed with magic, sparks of volatile energy sparking outwards.
“We will need to tune you up, soon,” Moryac said.
The construct made a hammering noise. Metal on metal, echoing somewhere deep inside it. Agreement, perhaps.
Ash-Eater opened a portal and Moryac glided in.
***
Lord Threxan Itheron, to Moryac’s bemusement, was halfway into a necrohound’s gullet.
Moryac’s gaze swept across the room. Fragments from several dozen skeletons called to assist with corralling the necrohounds were scattered about, inching slowly together in a doomed attempt to reassemble. It likely wouldn’t work—the workers’ enchantments barely held together, and the colossal necrohounds were designed to tear through magic and mundane alike.
“Mors?” Lord Itheron said, voice muffled as the teething necrohound shook its head. “Mors, is that you? Can you give me a hand?”
“Let me get my apron,” Moryac said.
“What? Please, Mors, it’s disgusting in here,” Threxan said. “Do hurry.”
Moryac sniffed. “Oh, those were the hounds? A hundred apologies, Lord Itheron. My mistake. I could’ve sworn it was your cologne.”
“Just hurry, will you?” Threxan said. His legs flapped about, causing the necrohound to growl.
“I should probably look for a mop and bucket, first,” Moryac said as he traced a series of sigils in the air.
“You are less amusing than you believe,” Threxan replied.
The necrohound sensed Moryac’s work, glared at him through burning, glassy eyes, and snarled. It gave Threxan a good shake, then spat the colleague aside in a rolling glob of drool and ichor. The ground shook as its claws hammered and raked against the stone. It darted, crossing the room in two heartbeats, scattering chunks of the flooring in its wake. The battering ram of knitted sinew and snapping teeth roared, but passed harmlessly through Moryac’s image. It dissipated upon contact with the necrohound.
The beast looked around. It barked, spraying slobber and ichor in its mindless wroth. Its steps wobbled. A few seconds later, it fell to its side, snoring.
Moryac hummed. He always found it amusing how necromantic constructs unconsciously imitated living habits.
“How many escaped?” Moryac said, his illusion peeling back with a shimmer. He opened his inner eye. The stasis wards showed signs of fraying.
“Just the two,” Threxan replied. He gathered his magic, and with a brush of his hands, swept clean the fluids on his person, collecting it into a harmless blob that he flicked to the side. Not a single hair or thread out of place, Moryac noted. “Got the first one,” Threxan continued, “but the second snuck up behind me.”
“Good work,” Moryac hummed in acknowledgement. He walked alongside the walls, eyes closed, hand trailing against stone. Moryac willed his sixth sense through the Mausoleum’s bones.
Threxan snapped his fingers. Several portals opened. Skeletal workers spilled through and began collecting their brethren’s bones. He looked at Moryac. “What do you think? More wear?”
“More wear,” Moryac nodded.
“The whole day has been like this,” Threxan crossed his arms. “One problem after another. How bad?”
Moryac hummed. “It will hold for anywhere between two weeks to six months, depending on the strain placed on this wing’s thaumic generators. The necrohound tombs’ aetheric alignment is completely off and needs to be retuned. Pressure and interference bleed from nearby subsections due to the weakening of their respective boundaries, which would also greatly appreciate additional care,” he trailed off. If he worked quickly and was given a crew of workers—sentient ones, not skeletons—he could drag them into fixing a few other projects long left in the backburner. Dare he ask? “Among other things. We would need to relocate this wing’s inhabitants elsewhere and recast the wards from scratch.”
“In the middle of a conquest? Have you gone mad?” Threxan snorted. “The Dark Mother demands her armies to be combat-ready.”
“As she has done for the last three years,” Moryac agreed. “I’m sure she could spare a moment.”
Threxan crossed his arms. “A full rebuild could take months. Melkaros would tan our hides!”
Moryac shrugged. “Not if you ask him. He’s soft on you.”
“Well, of course he is!” Threxan scoffed. “Who wouldn’t be? House Itheron prides itself in charisma and keen wit. We are merchants, diplomats, and paragons of virtue, Mors.”
“His gaze tends to linger somewhat,” Moryac paused as he searched for an appropriate word, “lower.”
“Oh?” Threxan smiled, straightened his back, and adjusted his half-robe’s collar. He made a show of rolling up his sleeves. “That another would notice my new training regimen is rather flattering, and humbling besides. I do believe my shoulders are showing greater definition these days.”
“I heard Melkaros also needs help with a training regimen,” Moryac’s lips twitched. “He’s eagerly looking for a partner, last I recall.”
“Excellent!” Threxan said. “I shall ask him, posthaste. As a scion of House Itheron, I am duty-bound to aid in the betterment of my peers’ overall quality of life. Training builds discipline and control, and I’ve found it a fine balm to self-indulgence. Restraint and moderation, Mors. Diligence is key!”
“I’m sure he would be thrilled, Lord Itheron,” Moryac drew in more magic and patched the frayed ward. It would hold, at least for another day. “He would benefit much. Melkaros oft regales me about his wishes to indulge. Now, about those wards—”
“‘A healthy body is the first step to a healthy mind,’ as I always say,” Threxan nodded sagely. “I shall ask him. You should join us, too! Hells know you could use a bit of sinew.”
“I would hate to intrude in your privacy,” Moryac said.
“Nonsense!” Threxan scoffed. “Teaching two people simultaneously is no trouble at all for the likes of me.”
“It is Melkaros I worry for,” Moryac said grimly. “While I dare not doubt your skill, I believe the additional attention towards him from a more intimate, one-on-one session would do more overall good than having to,” Moryac cleared his throat, “share you.”
“A fair point,” Threxan conceded. “Very well. Once he overcomes his bashfulness, we shall work on yours.”
Melkaros? Bashful? Not in the slightest. Himself? Moryac supposed that was one possible interpretation. He shrugged.
Moryac hummed. “So, about the rebuilding of those wards—”
The space next to Threxan ripped open with a bloody shriek. Both of their protective wards strained and flickered at the arrival.
“Lord Thalor,” Ash-Eater growled as it materialized. “Lord Itheron. Crises abound. The Crypt of Pale Mist’s seals weaken. Cascading failures are imminent. Zheel’ymh-Cabalist-Sixty-Three requests thaumaturgical assistance with repairs to the antilight conduits. She says heat dissipation falls below acceptable thresholds.”
“Jolly,” Threxan said.
Moryac nodded.
“I will head to the crypt,” Threxan decided. “I rather enjoy speaking with its denizens on the rare chance they awaken. They have such colorful opinions on the Battle of Kuangamiza Stronghold, you know? Fascinating insights, once you get them to calm down. It has been too long,” he chuckled. “Though I suppose for them, it has been less than a few minutes. Fare thee well, Mors. You have my eternal gratitude!”
“Best of luck,” Moryac said.
Threxan drew in the Mausoleum’s power, began floating, and saluted. “Come, Ash-Eater! Into the breach!”
Ash-Eater opened a shrieking rift. Threxan kicked off and darted into it.
“Suppose that’s my cue,” Moryac said.
He felt Ash-Eater’s gaze before the construct opened another portal. Moryac checked the wards a final time. He sensed unhealthy flickers and pliability, but he had other cats to skin. They would have to hold. Sighing, he returned to his mundane sight and stepped in.
***
The antilight was contained swiftly enough. Leaks in the conduits set three repair constructs aflame, which would take ages to repair. The potent witchfire was successfully transferred onto the Heart of Galvanor—an amulet created by an ancient pyromancer—through a location-displacement spell. It should, in theory, dissipate on its own after a decade or so, with the amulet’s magical resistance winning against the antilight’s corrosive properties. Moryac shoved it into his personal storage dimension for later inspection.
Melkaros mentioned roughly seven years back that there were plans to retrofit some of the older infrastructure, including the outdated antilight pumps. Perhaps he was due for a reminder.
Next, Moryac traveled to the northwestern blocks of the Fifth Rung, where the soldiers of the CLXVIth Eternal Phalanx showed signs of distress. Zheel’ymh-Cabalist-Sixty-Three and her sisters tagged along, forming an odd party with him, which he more than welcomed as the spare hands were a great boon.
The repairs were delayed somewhat, as the contained soldiers’ spectral wails drove two of Sixty-Three’s younger sisters into an unstoppable rage. They began clawing at each other. Thankfully, Moryac managed to subdue them before any lasting harm could be done.
After creating wards to protect the group from madness, they stabilized the crypt—Moryac held the stasis fields together as the sisters placed the escaped soldiers back into their coffins.
All was well, until one of the auxiliary thaumic engines began to sputter out.
“Could you pass me my hammer?” Sixty-Three said, her pincers clicking in deep thought. “The ball-pein one. Oh, and the three-mihm chisel, please.”
Moryac gestured, causing the tools to drift towards Sixty-Three’s claws. She grunted in thanks. His magic circle was nearly completed, too. Smooth arrays of sigils, circles, and runes were drawn onto the new engine’s core with his own blood. It took too long to get Melkaros’ approval for the requisition of a new one, and the old lich had the gall to ask him for a timeline!
The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.
“Sixty-Four! How goes your side of the engine?” Sixty-Three buzzed.
“Nearly complete!” Sixty-Four replied. “Just need to realign the thaumic discs. About a hundred heartbeats!”
“Seventy-One?” Sixty-Three clicked loudly.
“Connections all bolted on, my sister,” the younger one replied solemnly. “Continuity detected in each segment. No faults found. I offer this demonstration of craftsmanship to the Hive-Queen. Praise Zheel.”
“Good! Help Sixty-Seven!” Sixty-Three said.
“Sisters! Sisters!” one of the smaller Zheel’ymh said. Sixty-Eight? Could be Sixty-Five, Moryac thought. From where he stood, it was difficult to tell them apart. The smaller sister froze mid-task and dropped her tools.
“Sixty-Five?” Sixty-Three asked.
Sixty-Five clutched her head, drooling. Her antennae twitched erratically. The worker whimpered at first, then screamed, causing the other Zheel’ymh to look up in alarm. She repeatedly pounded her claws against the ground. “The walls, sisters!” she bellowed, her voice warped. She pointed in random directions, joints bending in impossible angles as her fingers followed something invisible moving among them. “They speak to me! They move! What do they want? Why do they watch?” She shrieked, then looked wildly around the room. “They see all!” Her mouth and pincers moved frantically. Multiple voices echoed out, both hers and others.
“Blood of the Dark Mother,” Sixty-Three cursed. “Lord Thalor!”
Moryac darted towards the possessed sister, sidestepped a near-decapitating claw swipe, and tackled her. He thanked the stars that Sixty-Five was one of the smaller ones. Calling upon the Mausoleum’s magic, he put his palm on her forehead. Moryac glimpsed through his third eye. Not particularly strong spirits; likely strays from their journey, though certainly malevolent. The sisters instinctively covered their ears. Moryac spoke three syllables in the Midnight Cant, each one attempting to tear through his personal ward, then channeled their effects towards Sixty-Five to dispel the wayward ghosts. A gust of freezing wind blasted through the chamber. Schematics and tools flew about. Some of the smaller Zheel’ymh were knocked aside.
After several, too-long heartbeats, Sixty-Five toppled backwards, eyes blank in exhaustion and shock.
“Give her half a bell,” Moryac said. “She will be fine.”
“My thanks,” Sixty-Three nodded, then looked at each sister. She clapped her claws. “Back to work! We have a deadline!”
Moryac snorted as he continued to draw his circle. “If other subsections break down, they break down. We are near the end of the night. No need to work your clutch past its limits.”
“Our efforts venerate the Divine Architect,” Sixty-Three said dismissively. She raised her hammer high. “We work! We build! Diligence is our blood! Praise Zheel!”
The rest of her sisters whooped and yelled praises.
“Indeed,” Moryac said. “Praise Zheel.”
“You know, Lord Thalor,” Sixty-Three said as she continued chiseling sigils onto the base of the thaumic engine. Precise work, as expected of a veteran Zheel’ymh. “Occasional whining aside, you would have made a great clutch-sister.”
“Oh? What’s stopping me?” Moryac said.
“You lack an outer shell,” Sixty-Three replied. “Two less limbs, as well. Inefficient. Limited. Unsuitable for hazardous work without your magic.”
Moryac looked up. “That’s it? Not because I’m male?”
Sixty-Three’s eyes widened. “You’re not female?”
“No,” Moryac said as he poured some of his magic into the circle. It thrummed to life, bathing the room in a soft, violet glow.
The Zheel’ymh sisters went quiet—their antennae collectively twitched, a sign of retreat into their telepathic bonds.
Moryac looked at them. “Wait, did all of you think I was a girl this whole time?”
Several of the sisters fidgeted and exchanged bemused looks.
“What is a ‘girl?’” Sixty-Three asked.
“Another term for ‘female,’” Moryac replied. “Typically referring to those younger than twenty summers. Which I am neither of.”
“I see,” Sixty-Three said.
The thaumic engine chamber rang with the din of hammers, chisels, and collective disbelief.
“What made you think I was female?” said Moryac.
“You are wise and incredibly skilled,” Sixty-Three replied. “Were you in a clutch, none would contest your authority.”
“I see,” Moryac said, crossing his arms.
“Your competence despite your maleness is no less impressive in our eyes,” Sixty-Three quickly added. “Rest assured, Lord Thalor, that even with your intrinsic limits, our respect for you diminishes not one whit.”
The rest of the sisters muttered agreements. One of them walked behind him, patted his back, and gave a reassuring nod.
The hammering of tools and clicking of joints continued.
“So,” Sixty-Three studied him, tone cautious, “how long have you been male?”
“Pardon?” Moryac said.
“Apologies,” Sixty-Three’s pincers clicked in worry. “Is this a sensitive subject?”
“No, it’s quite alright,” Moryac replied. “I’ve been male since birth.”
The sisters looked at each other and murmured.
“So,” Sixty-Three hazarded, “you have never once been female?”
Moryac shrugged. “Not to my knowledge.”
“Fascinating,” Sixty-Four said. “Her—no, wait, his?—life must have been fraught with hardship…”
“To think, he could easily pass as female,” added another of the sisters.
Moryac raised an eyebrow.
“Truly, despite their numerous flaws, humanity proves its resilience time and again,” said a third.
“A testament to endurance,” Seventy-One agreed. “Perhaps he is Zheel’ymh in soul, if not in flesh?”
“Sisters, we are missing the point,” Sixty-Three said. “Lord Thalor is a sign that the systems designed by the Dark Mother work flawlessly,” she inspected her chisel-work and nodded. “He taught me how to read sigils in Midnight Cant. Imagine, sisters: a male, teaching!”
Her sisters exchanged solemn nods.
“That he, of all people, could be elevated to an honorable station is possible only through Her will,” Sixty-Three continued. “Hive-Queen Zheel may engineer grand structures, but the Dark Mother engineers the very bones of society!”
The sisters clicked excitedly and continued working, their efforts redoubled.
Moryac sighed.
Minutes passed in relative peace as each sister finished their respective task. Sixty-Three and Sixty-Four, her second, inspected each component for issues. They looked at Moryac and gave a thumbs-up. To his amusement, neither Zheel’ymh were sure of how to make the gesture—they held their thumb-claw up, but the rest of their digits were stretched open, as if looking for a handshake.
Once their entire clutch had collected their tools and stood clear, Moryac summoned his staff and began the ignition process.
The staff, aptly named the Staff of Thalor, was as tall as him. A smooth, birch-and-gold piece encrusted with thaumic emeralds. It glowed with coruscating, green geometry as it materialized, and Moryac always felt it was a little too eager for his liking. The symbol of House Thalor decorated its head—six stars arrayed like a halo around the silhouette of a hawk. It was his badge of office as one of the Dark Mother’s thaumaturges.
With a breath, he called upon the Mausoleum’s power. The staff thrummed, warping the air around it as magic coursed through its length.
The sisters stood silently as energy swirled across the room.
The Ritual of Ignition began.
He chanted, trying his best to ignore the voices chanting alongside him. Moryac was unsure where they came from. Other thaumaturges from other timelines was Melkaros’ best guess.
Sound went first, followed by light. Moryac stifled the unease from feeling each sense stretch beyond time. One by one, physical laws warped and bent as the staff and thaumic engine attempted to trap extraplanar energies within a paradox, to be reused for years to come.
With his inner eye, Moryac sensed some of the newer sisters’ panic, followed by the calming buzz of their hive-mind reassuring them that this was fairly routine.
Heat and darkness enveloped the room, and though the Staff of Thalor’s gems glowed brightly, its light never reached further than a few ihms out. The room’s occupants felt time slip, simultaneously a fraction of a moment and a whole eternity.
Eventually, light and sound returned, though Moryac ignored the nagging feeling that it may have been present the whole time. He heard one of the newer sisters laugh nervously. Another offered her prayers to Zheel and the Dark Mother.
In the middle of the room, the thaumic engine hummed quietly, magical energy arcing from its center to the outer discs. The entire assembly, though new and unblemished during installation, was instead riddled with scuffs and scratches, as if having been a part of the Mausoleum for centuries. Something to do with how the thaumic engine existed simultaneously in the future and the past across all possibilities, according to Melkaros, but, more importantly, a sign that it worked.
Moryac and Sixty-Three looked at each other. Both nodded in relief. He tapped the staff against the ground thrice, causing it to float for a few heartbeats before disappearing elsewhere. Likely his House’s ancestral vaults. No matter. He should really look into where it liked to go, as well as stop taking its presence for granted, but it always came when needed.
He held his breath and listened. No shrieking, hellish rifts in space-time. No warping of reality into eerie shapes. No Ash-Eater. Just the smooth whirr of the thaumic engine and the echo of the Zheel’ymh sisters’ chatter. Two of them hauled the unconscious, muttering Sixty-Five out of the chamber. Moryac looked quietly through his inner eye and saw no trace of possession.
“Well then, Lord Thalor,” Sixty-Three saluted. “We shall return to our nest. Please do not hesitate to call on us.”
Moryac returned the salute, to Sixty-Three’s amusement. “It was a pleasure working with you, Honored Sister. Do keep me informed of Sixty-Five’s situation.”
Sixty-Three nodded. “You should consider visiting sometime. We have confections and much to talk about regarding human customs. Your expertise would be appreciated.”
“That sounds fine,” he said. “I shall make arrangements.”
They clasped forearms. To his surprise, Sixty-Three’s touch was firm, but lacked the original bone-crushing grip she once used as a neophyte.
“Farewell,” Sixty-Three said, then turned to follow her sisters out the chamber.
Moryac looked around and listened. Still no Ash-Eater. Dare he hope?
He left the thaumic engine chamber after final inspections and sealed the room.
What will be, will be, he thought. Moryac glided down the hallway, aglow with the Mausoleum’s energies and anticipating the worst.
***
The kettle whistled to a boil. Moryac poured its contents into his favorite mug, steeping a mixture of herbs that swirled in a serene circle. Would that he could be like tea leaves, bobbing along the eddy. He took in the fragrance, the warmth, and the pleasant bitterness, then exhaled.
Moryac flicked his hand. The tea set floated lazily, following him towards his workbench, and he waited a full four minutes before taking a sip. Moryac hummed in satisfaction. He was a creature of comfort, through and through.
The grimoire he read detailed an unexamined portion of the central crypts’ wards—the very foundation of the Mausoleum’s mystical framework.
Over the centuries, the grand structure that served as a resting place for the Dark Mother’s dread legions had grown from a single, looming tower into a multi-tiered city of tunnels and spires. Bones of polished marble stretched outwards, held taut by metal tendon and resin sinew. Its outer walls were routinely scoured by the Thanastis’ caustic winds, day after day, only to be rebuilt each time by devout hands toward ever greater heights—an engorged locust molting in the dead of summer.
More crypts for Her ever-growing armies, venerated and eager to serve beyond death, would sprout throughout the years. One after the other, like weeds after tepid rain. More, and more, and more, until it had stopped being a mausoleum. Until it had become the Mausoleum.
As the Mausoleum’s physical body grew, however, so, too, did its soul; wards were stacked upon wards, carefully constructed to avoid interference. To not disturb its cherished dead. It had seen many a thaumaturge come and go, and with each one the nuance behind the more innovative repairs done to the great structure. Moryac himself had served for nearly seventy years, though he didn’t look it as the Mausoleum’s magic had long fused with his own.
It seemed to want him and his cabal alive, though there were days where he felt otherwise. Shifting corridors leading travelers astray. Chambers that stay locked for days, even weeks, only to open to a long lost room or a new one not in any of the maps. Direction and time bending in odd ways. Once, the Mausoleum trapped his cabal in a loop within the Vault of Whispers, and though it took them only half an hour to get out, six days had passed outside.
Was the Mausoleum playing coy, or did it simply stop caring about its living inhabitants? Capricious thing.
Either way, he could scarcely remember the repairs he had done during his early years as an apprentice. What of the work done by his predecessors?
What of the knowledge from the Mausoleum’s founding?
Moryac thought to himself as he sifted through a set of scrolls he borrowed from the Fourth Rung’s cabal. Damnable martyred undead, he thought. Damnable armies. Many of the souls held in stasis were far too resilient or mighty for the rituals that held them, which frayed the wards, which, in turn, frayed other wards.
Surely, among the countless worlds under Her purview, the Dark Mother could afford live bodies to throw at Her battle lines? It would have certainly made his job easier. He supposed it created a lesser net loss of life, reusing fallen assets. A lesser net loss of potential, too—the mind may degrade over the centuries, but it was far better than nothing.
Soldiers with an unyielding desire to protect. Scholars at the precipice of breakthrough, bargaining for more time. From the way Threxan described it, most that went through the hallowed process of undeath did so willingly.
Hells. He contemplated it at times.
Moryac snapped a grimoire shut and sighed. No headway tonight, it seemed. Despite his cabal’s attempts at understanding the Mausoleum’s central infrastructure, much of the original text was written in an older script predating the Midnight Cant. With the combined efforts of other cabals and several of the Mausoleum’s inhabitants, they finally figured out reasonably serviceable translations, but found that the schematics far differed from what currently existed. Much had been replaced, retrofitted, or even completely decommissioned over the centuries. His most recent readings proved no different.
It was worse than working blind—they were attempting to repair a house while referencing schematics for a bookshelf.
The sanctum doors slid open.
“Mors!” Threxan beamed. “Brooding as usual! I knew I’d find you here.”
Moryac sipped his tea and looked up. Trailing behind Threxan was Melkaros, head of their cabal, whose own gaze trailed Threxan’s behind. The elder lich was in the body of a bespectacled young woman tonight. Moryac hummed in approval. Delicate stitching. The seams were hardly visible under the skin. Fine craftsmanship.
“Lord Itheron,” Moryac nodded politely. “Lord Pharan. Or Lady, I suppose.”
Melkaros adjusted her glasses then glanced at Moryac’s stack of grimoires. “Any luck?” the elder lich said, her voice unsettlingly girlish.
Moryac shook his head. Melkaros nodded, as if expecting the dead end. Threxan whistled a jaunty tune as he poured himself a cup of Moryac’s tea.
“You seem in a fine mood, Lord Itheron,” Moryac said.
Threxan chuckled. “Always, dear Mors! Supreme mental wellness begins with the proper attitude.”
A few moments passed as Threxan whistled to himself. Melkaros gulped and bit her lip as their cheerful cabalist drank an entire cup in a single swig. He poured himself another.
Threxan returned Moryac’s stare. “Oh! Would you like a refill?”
“Sure,” Moryac gestured. His near-empty cup floated towards Threxan. “What’s got you so chipper?”
Threxan grinned, catching the cup and filling it a smidge too full. “I was exploring the Mausoleum when Mel found me and asked if we could inspect the central wards together!”
Moryac looked at Melkaros, who seemed distracted by Threxan’s arms.
Melkaros noticed Moryac and coughed. “The foundational ward arrays were due for inspection. I thought to seek a keen pair of eyes for assistance.”
“Indeed!” Threxan said, dismissing Moryac’s cup. It floated back towards him, its contents sloshing precariously. “Good catch, Mel.”
Melkaros straightened her posture and fidgeted with her hands. She blushed.
“We were talking about my new training regimen, as you suggested, and had even begun discussing plans for a joint training session, when I noticed the Crypt of Unending Midnight’s aetheric symmetry being two degrees off-center!”
“Two and five-sixteenths,” Melkaros corrected.
“Exactly!” Threxan said. “It took roughly six hours, but I fixed it. No need to thank me.”
Moryac looked at Threxan, who nodded sagely, then at Melkaros, who gave a slight shrug.
“Is that not the resting place of the Witch of Eclipse?” Moryac said.
“Yes,” Melkaros said.
“Sentenced to a three-hundred year slumber, for crimes struck from our rolls. Most curious,” Threxan clicked his tongue. “Poor girl. Her sentence is almost finished, though. Less than a century remaining, if I recall correctly.”
“Eighty-four years, eleven months, and a week,” Melkaros added. She adjusted her glasses.
“I inspected those wards six months ago,” Moryac narrowed his eyes, muttering to himself. “They were weaved with meticulous care—”
“Perhaps we should plan a celebration for her release?” Threxan cut in.
“Perhaps,” Moryac said after making a mental note to check them the next time he passed by. He glanced at Melkaros. “What do immortal beings with inscrutable goals want, anyway? Melkaros?”
Melkaros thought for a moment, trying her best to avoid glancing at Threxan’s neck. She sighed. “The Mausoleum’s continued operation and good health of my fellow cabalists.”
“That’s so touching!” Threxan said. He wrapped an arm around the elder lich, who squeaked in response. Threxan dragged Melkaros and marched towards Moryac, then pulled the latter into a huddle. “If only Barbazandar and Ash-Eater were here to hear it! I very much enjoy this cabal’s dynamic.”
“I’m sure Lady Pharan does, too,” Moryac squirmed. “Can you let me loose? I wish to finish my readings.”
“Lady?” Threxan mused. “Oh. Yes, I suppose Mel is female today.”
Threxan released her. Melkaros looked at the retreating arm with a twinge of disappointment.
“Apologies, milady,” Threxan bowed. “I meant no offense.”
“Let me go,” Moryac sighed.
Threxan gave him a good squeeze, then dropped him. “You take on too much, Mors. Truly. When’s the last time you’ve seen your house? Please! Rest!”
“I will, eventually,” Moryac said. “Repairs, first.”
“Nonsense!” Threxan countered. “The Mausoleum will be here when you get back. Come on! Scram! You should have been home a week ago! Right, Mel?”
Melkaros looked at Moryac and nodded. “Your service has been more than adequate, Lord Thalor. We will hold the fort. Barbazandar soon returns from his yearly sojourn, and we will have plenty of hands. Rest.”
“But—” Moryac started, only to be cut off by Melkaros’ icy glare.
Leave, fool, the elder lich warned through a telepathic channel. Give me my time alone with Threxan.
Do you plan on doing anything else aside from blushing and fidgeting like a schoolmaid? Moryac replied. You are five centuries old. Please act your age.
Melkaros paused. I have plans. Question me no longer. Go away.
Unfair. She truly was soft on Threxan.
“Do you not have hobbies? Perhaps social obligations outside of the Mausoleum?” Threxan suggested.
Moryac shrugged. Nothing came to mind.
“A thousand standard years or twenty generations of exemplary service,” Moryac sighed. “Whichever came first. Those were the Dark Mother’s terms. Seeing as I am unlikely to have children, I wish to work through my indenture as quickly as possible.”
“What’s a few days?” Threxan said. “Think of it as a taste of freedom. Besides, what do you plan on doing once your service ends?”
Moryac thought to himself. Once again, nothing came to mind. “I could find a hobby?”
“Find it now, that way you’re ready for when you retire,” Threxan said. “You always say ‘failure to prepare is preparation to fail,’ yes? Please, Mors. Take your own advice.”
Moryac grumbled to himself.
I will petition to extend your bloodline’s service by an additional century if you don’t leave, Melkaros threatened.
Tyrant, Moryac thought. Despot. House Thalor shall remember this slight.
Melkaros parroted Moryac’s thoughts and stuck her tongue out. A House of, what, one person?
Two, technically, Moryac thought defensively. I believe I have a great-nephew somewhere. He should be in his thirties now.
Just go, Melkaros thought. You’re in my way.
“Fine,” Moryac said. “I will go home for the night and take tomorrow off.”
“Take three,” Melkaros countered.
“A week!” Threxan argued. “No, wait—two weeks, and you must regale us of what you did upon your return.”
Melkaros glanced at Threxan, then at Melkaros. Surely, such an overstep deserved reprimand? Only, the elder lich’s gaze flickered towards Threxan, then at his chest, and she nodded in agreement.
“Two weeks,” she said.
Moryac groaned. Hells. Would there even be a Mausoleum when he returned? “At least let me finish looking through this,” he raised a grimoire, “I doubt I will find anything useful, but missing information will bother me the whole time.”
Melkaros nodded, but Threxan snatched the book from Moryac’s hand. He looked at the contents, snorted, and snapped it shut before handing it to Melkaros.
“Don’t you worry, old friend,” Thexan said. “Mel and I will look at it together. It looks complex, but it’s nothing the two of us can’t handle.”
Melkaros gazed longingly at Threxan and nodded.
I do not know what you see in him, Moryac thought.
He’s so confident, Melkaros swooned. So alive! Look at how he navigates life. I need him, Moryac. I swear to the Great Matron, I will make him fall for me.
Suit yourself. Moryac shrugged, unsure whether the effort was warranted. Or even required. Would it not be quicker to tell Threxan her feelings?
“Very well,” Moryac said, finishing his cup of tea. “I shall begin packing, then.”
“Excellent!” Threxan said. “Trust us, Mors, if only the once. It’s all under control.”
Moryac hummed as Threxan shoved him out of the room. From the corner of his eye, he saw Melkaros fidgeting with her glasses. When had she undone the top button of her robe?
The door slid shut. Moryac sighed as he began wandering the Mausoleum’s halls. Aside from his robe and satchel of thaumaturgical odds and ends, the rest of his things were still in the sanctum. He could summon his staff anytime, so that was one less worry. Spare changes of clothes would be ideal. His robe was ensorcelled to eliminate odors and stains, and always smelled like lavender, too. Recently, he had added enchantments that provided resistance to high temperatures, general wear, and rudimentary combat magic. Still, very few things beat a freshly laundered set of robes.
Toiletries? Socks? An extra pair of boots? He hummed to himself.
How did one pack for vacation?