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The sun had set over the horizon, and the stifling desert air was gone, replaced first by the chill of night and then by the real cold. Ilkhan's palace was mostly asleep. But Fathir la Fahkhal was not sleepy. The Chief Keeper of the Scrolls of the Great Khan's library was far from young. Like the few remaining hairs on his head, his well-groomed beard was completely gray, and his skin was riddled with deep wrinkles. Soon, he would retire, passing the position to one of his sons. Ten years from now, it would be clear which of the heirs had best mastered a not very prestigious but highly sought-after craft. That's what he'd thought a couple of weeks ago, a naive old fool! Now, he'd have to retire much sooner than that. If he lives at all, may the Eternal Darkness devour the damned Giaours!

The news of the disappearance of the capital of Ilkhan's main enemies was greeted with jubilation by almost all the inhabitants of the steppes and deserts. But very quickly the servants of the Honorable Ilkhan managed to find out who was behind such an unexpected gift. And the jubilation was noticeably diminished, and then there was a serious apprehension. For as much as the northern giaours and their rulers were hated, the Hell brats were a hundred times worse and a threat to all who lived under the light of the sun and the Two Sisters. It was one thing for a skilled mage to make a deal with one of the devils. It is dangerous, deadly dangerous, but those who have learned the Eternal Darkness are capable of such a thing. And it is another matter when the devils themselves manage to commit such unheard-of audacity. Even a few among Shaddat's cronies cautiously offered to help the Northmen save their capital. Not officially, of course, and not for free. And the Honorable Ilkhan listened to his cronies who offered such an unthinkable impertinence and did not even order them to be immediately sent to the dungeons as sacrificial slaves.

But before any real steps could be taken, the Eternal was saved. After that, Fatir's relatively peaceful life, like so many of Ilkhan's subjects, came to an end. And with good reason. Shaddat spared no gold for bribes, no valuable resources and artifacts from the Khan's treasury for the seers, and no sacrificial slaves for divination rituals in order to learn as many details as possible about the rescue of the Eternal and what was going on in the fallen city. Much was learned. But what was learned raised more questions than it answered. Very troubling questions. How did it happen that the Eternal Crown was inherited by the weakest of the dead Emperor's daughters, who no one saw as a threat? How did she survive when the rest of the Eternals and Pradius himself, may his name perish from the memory of the living and the dead? How did the Northmen manage to bring back their cursed creation that had been sealed into oblivion with such difficulty? How deep did the devilish contagion take root? But the question most concerned Ilkhan and the other Lesser Khans now was another. Who is he? Who is he?

Fatir did not know exactly how much it had cost Shaddat. The price was obviously prohibitively high, and not just in gold. But the Elder Keeper of the Scrolls was ready to swear on anything. It was worth it. A crystal into which someone had managed to imprint a rather detailed image of a battle. A battle that decided the fate of a fallen city. A hopeless battle in which the first four and then five men fought. A battle from which only one man emerged victorious. The Crown Prince, the firstborn son of the late Emperor so feared by the Honorable Ilkhan and his vassals, whose life had been tried so many times without success. His slave, who knew the power of Fire like few others, also carried no less of a threat to the children of the Steppes and the Desert. An old man who had long ago fallen into oblivion, the High Priest of an equally long-dead god whose name could not be remembered immediately. An Archdevil whose patience, guile, cunning, and ambition were beyond comprehension. He had prepared his triumph for centuries, escaping the scrutiny of celestials and mortals alike. And still lost. Because of Him.

The one who slew the already victorious Lord of Hell while he was celebrating his victory. The one who was the only one to come out of that battle alive and then disappeared without a trace. It was as if he didn't exist. But he was. And it wasn't just the city he saved that proved it. It wasn't just the images of the battle that had been sifted through in seconds by the best of the Seers at the Honorable Ilkhan's disposal. The best evidence was the impotent rage of the Incarnate Warrior, who had come to the aid of his slaves. For they clashed in battle with the inhabitants of the Twilight Realm, who had come to the fallen city at his will and devoured the Lord of Lust. The servants of the gods, confident in their victory and power, shared eternal loneliness and hunger with an enemy stronger than they had expected. Much stronger. It was all there. Only he was missing.

Fatir knew enough about the Twilight Realm and its inhabitants by virtue of his profession and position. Of course, he would never be able to match the true masters of the Shadow and its secrets. But Ilkhan's library contained many scrolls on the subject, so Fatir knew the theory quite well. And that knowledge was enough to understand many things. First of all, the reason for the serious concern and interest in him not only on the part of the Honorable Ilkhan, the Lesser Khans, and anyone else who had any significant weight in Court. Alishan was renowned throughout the continent for his Shadow masters and experts. Both those who contracted with the inhabitants of the Twilight Realm and those who used the Shadow's power directly. And, Fatir was ready to swear on anything that no one among them could single-handedly replicate what had been imprinted in the crystal that now occupied a separate place in the Khan's treasury. Nor were there any among the foreign famous masters practicing such dangerous magic as Shadow. At least, there were certainly none who could do it as well as he did.

Who is he? The answer to this question was desired by very, very many people. But all attempts to find out, to see anything, were to no avail. He wasn't there. It just wasn't there. Divination, foretelling, sacrificial rituals - all to no avail. No trace. No clue. There were images imprinted in the crystal by some madman whose father had been shared a bed by Fortune herself if he had managed to capture them and stay alive. All this made Ilkhan and the Lesser Khans even more worried for obvious reasons. Although, and this Fatir did not rule out, the possible reason for the failed searches that so irritated Ilkhan was that the seekers were most afraid of finding the one they were looking for. But Ilhan's will is law. And so, tonight, Fatir would once again face a long night. Very possibly his last.

He had gotten his current position many years ago when he had reached the twenty-fifth step of elevation. In addition to the rare class of Archivist, which was a kind of analog of the equally rare Librarian, he had received a second class. Epic Reader of the Hidden. It was a peculiar and very highly specialized clairvoyant class. It allowed him, by entering a trance state, to see and read what was written, which had something to do with what you were trying to clairvoyantly read. Such a narrow specialization had its disadvantages. If no one wrote a word about something, Fatir couldn't find out about it. Even if everyone was talking about it and not hiding it at all. However, the price for specialization was relatively higher in accuracy and specificity of insight. And also greater secrecy and invisibility to other seers.

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Fatir could not say for sure whom he should thank for this gift of Fortune, his grandmother on his mother's side or his great-grandfather on his father's side, so he thanked both ancestors, from whom he could inherit the gift of clairvoyance, even if it was so special. Over the years, he had managed to climb six more steps and mastered his gift quite well. Of course, he was far away from the real masters of clairvoyance, who had been developing their classes since the tenth step. But this was compensated for by the narrow specialization of the class, which allowed him to succeed several times where others failed. It earned him the favor of the Honorable Shaddat. Fatir had no idea how it would turn out for him. Especially now that the accursed giaours had managed to kill the best of Shaddat's seers in such a despicable manner.

Ilkhan wanted to know. Demanded to find the answer to the question. But the seers who served him and those he had hired could find nothing. All their "views," all their attempts to wrest, ransom, and even beg answers from the universe, turned out to be for naught. And the Honorable Shaddat was losing patience. And when that happens, someone usually loses their life\ and that's if they're lucky. Fatir, who had also been brought in on orders to try to find out and had also failed, would hate to be that someone. But he had every chance. Too much of the resources issued from the Khan's treasury had been spent. And the result was not. Someone has to answer for it. And he had no doubt who would be made a scapegoat for Ilkhan's wrath. On whom the high-ranking courtiers, saving their necks, will get even for the "senseless" waste of the most valuable melange. Therefore, everything had to be at stake.

Making sure everything was ready, Fatir nodded to the youngest and middle of his sons, who had been arranged as his junior assistants and were close to reaching the tenth step of elevation. The two offspring looked at each other apprehensively, and then the eldest of them, out of breath, lifted the lid from a small silver dish that stood on a low table in front of them. There, in the very center, was a small hollow filled with a weightless light brown powder. There wasn't much of it, just a pinch of it. A pinch that was worth more than Fatir had earned in a lifetime. Well, at least more than half of it. Holding his breath, he reached forward and scooped up the precious powder with a special spoon before carefully pouring it into a special smoking pipe. Unlike many of his classmates, he preferred to smoke it rather than inhale it or rub it into his gums. Making sure not a grain of it spilled past him. When he was satisfied that all the mélange was in the pipe, Fatir lit it, exhaled, and whispered:

"Pray for me, sons. And be ready for anything."

Then he took a single, powerful puff, inhaling all the smoke at once. The shocking dose of mélange had an immediate effect. The eyes of the Head Keeper of the Scrolls lit up with a blue light. His pupils and whites disappeared, replaced only by a glowing cold blue. The children immediately took the pipe from him and handed him a blank scroll of papyrus along with an enchanted quill. But Fatir no longer realized it. The world had disappeared to him, plunged into a blue haze, a solid blue haze. An endless blue haze where he searched with an effort of will. Searching for something about him. And despite his gift being pushed to its limits by the insidious mélange that had taken a dozen years of his life today, Fatir found nothing. Somewhere in the depths of the puffs of smoke, something indistinct flickered. Some calligraphic writing in his native tongue. The hieroglyphics of the servants of the Monkey God. The crude runes of the northern savages. The lines of words of the hated Giaurs. It's all wrong... It's all empty... It's garbage... No... No! No! There must be something! Something! There has to be something! At least something! Not for his own sake, for his old man, for his sons, who'll be eaten without him. Come on.

Bingo! The response is weak, but it's there! Hold it! Come on, come on! Very reluctantly, the blue haze began to dissipate under the pressure of his will, revealing a sheet of paper written in painstaking handwriting. The writings of the Gyaurs that had begun to imprint themselves on Fathir's mind...

...I am ready to confirm my words on the altars of the Just and the Warrior. None of the masters I know who practice the magic of the Twilight Realm could do such a thing. I can't even imagine what kind of powers one would need to possess and what price one would have to pay to accomplish what you have shown me. I will express my assumptions about the necessary classes and levels in a separate letter. I know some masters who have known the Twilight Realm more deeply than your humble servant. A list of them and everything I know about them will also be compiled and attached separately. But, and I am absolutely sure of this, no one among them would know both the art of fighting with Shadow magic and summoning its inhabitants at such a level. In answer to your question. After much thought, I have come to the following conclusions. It was the same Shadow Master who helped Tialrianrelia, may her name be cursed for all eternity, to end your brother's life, may the River of Time rest his soul. It is not hard to guess that such a master of Shadow could only have been Summoned. I have no proof, but I don't think I'm wrong in my assumption. We all know too well who knows the magic of the Twilight Realm better than your loyal subjects. So I suppose we should look south, among the oases of you-know-who. Unless, as I personally doubt, his masters have decided to let him live. For only a madman would leave someone alive with the degree of planar Shadow contamination he was bound to receive with his demonstrated powers. Also, I strongly recommend a search for those who harbored him in Eternal territory. That is all I have to say per your request.

Sincerely, your loyal subject and servant, Micheel Yernalter.

P.S. Also, I would venture to guess that if it was indeed the one who helped your brother's vile murderer, then there is a chance that she is still alive. I suppose I need not explain what fate awaits her in the hands of the Alishans. I hope that thought will comfort you in this difficult time.....

The blue haze cleared abruptly, replaced by one of Ilkhan's library rooms. It was beginning to lighten outside the window. Fatir collapsed onto his back with a wheeze. Fortunately, soft cushions had been laid out behind him in advance. His sons rushed to him, holding out a goblet of water to help him up, but he only waved them away. Ignoring the messages from the All-Seeing, the changes in his Status, the terrible pain in his temples, the terrible thirst, and the terrible weakness, Fathir reached out for the sheet of papyrus that had fallen from his weakened fingers. At the same instant, the reading appeared on it. Only then did he allow himself to be drunk and whispered:

"I did..."

They were allowed to see Ilkhan at once as he was on his feet. Fatir was not the least of the Honorable's courtiers, and the news that they had found something had played its part. The Chief Keeper of the Scrolls was carried to the foot of Shaddat's throne by the children, as his legs were unsteady. Once at the foot of the throne, all three of them collapsed before him, and Fatir held out the sealed scroll with a trembling hand. The feat took the last of his strength, and as soon as one of Ilkhan's servants took the scroll, Fatir was literally sprawled on the floor, breathing heavily. He had made it. He had. Whatever happened to him now, his children would keep their lives and positions. At least some of them. That's the main thing. That's the main thing.

Fathir did not see how Shaddat's face changed from haughty to amazed and thoughtful as he read the scroll. Nor did he see how the healers rushed to him at Ilkhan's glance and began to repair the effects of the shocking dose of such an insidious and poisonous melange.

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