And the final item for today…
Responding to reports of suspicious activity, our boys in blue descended on Sevensborough in the misty dew of the morning. Their goal? The disruption of a suspected heretical beast trafficking ring. Their welcome? A hail of stones from the ungrateful borough folk. stones!
Two constables injured, one hospitalized.
As Sevensborough is currently without a representative, the Holy Receivership will appoint a temporary magistrate until such time as the Conclave can meet to assign a new one.
That concludes the news for the day.
On a personal note, please stop sending letters asking after the previous jockey. God willing, he will be apprehended soon.
Spring 46 (day)
As foretold by the power of radio, the Conclave convened for an emergency session over lunch.
With attendance light, the Holy Receivership once more offered to vote as present.
This time, with many shadowed gestures and conspiratorial looks, enough Houses agreed to proceed that the naysayers were drowned out.
Then proceedings continued – the same as any other day. The following motions were passed.
First, that Oliver Oshton be held a criminal in contempt of the law for his incitement against the nation and the faithful, his false and misleading statements about the state of his borough, and in particular for the grave suspicions of his involvement in ongoing violence targeting the pious aldersmen of his council.
Second, that House Erudite’s grant to the lands beneath Sevensborough were hereby revoked, with payment in equal value to the land to be disbursed at the treasury’s appropriate convenience.
Third, a bevy of kickbacks and special favors to those who had shown such favor to the Holy Receivership today, all under the guise of infrastructure and tax rebates.
Last – and here the conspiratorial nods of the Houses turned to consternation – that Sevensborough, lacking a sponsor, should thus fall under the administration of the Holy Receivership until such time as a new sponsor could be assigned.
Having been cut from the fold in the space of a bell, half of those that had agreed to this new order now shouted against it.
The Holy Receivership departed and thus deprived the august body of quorum.
Nursing the delusion that this conspiracy of convenience had not just sold their power to the Fire, the Houses continued to argue for hours afterwards.
A few, mostly the followers of Alisandra’s alliance and thus keenly aware that they were the losers to this new hierarchy, sent urgent word to their holdings to prepare for a storm.
Neither House Erudite nor House Mishkan bothered to attend.
***
…and that is our Conclave report for today.
“Look at that,” Oliver hummed to Nix on his lap, one arm out the window and one hand on the steering wheel of the old truck. “Bona-fide criminal. Surprised it took this long, honestly.”
His phoenix preened herself, unperturbed.
“Lumia was easier in a way,” he pondered, guiding the truck over the bumpy farm roads northeast of the boroughs. “With the Wyrm in the sky, we knew who to shoot.”
Wagon ruts and truck tracks competed for the bigger potholes, and the fields around him were peppered with cottages and clusters of houses, the outermost asteroids of Mel’s orbit.
Almost nostalgic. Like living in an old barn outside Lumia, sure I’d get into the Electricians any day now.
Yawning, he mourned the days when he could work through the night and arrive peppy at the job sight. Now he just wanted to pull over for a nap.
Not a good idea, though. Last thing I need is to meet one of those fancy new ‘patrol cars’ this far out.
He should have stayed at the Erudite estate to lend a hand. Truthfully, his own power would swiftly dwindle in the upcoming days now that the last of Mirielle Visage’s lost fortune had burned to a crisp in his diner’s safe.
Always knew it wouldn’t last forever. Sixteen years of profligate spending in the borough’s name at least bought a bit of breathing room, I suppose.
Oliver had not bothered to ask Erudite for cash. He’d been the one bankrolling them!
To his credit, the Lord Erudite had listened to Oliver’s pleas, agreed to every demand, and asked only one thing in return: to take his folk along. Most of his staff were runaways, Azure refugees, and smugglers. Exactly the kind of folk that Oliver needed to reach out to.
He came to charity late, but at least he came to it.
Still, here Oliver was driving back to Mel on zero sleep.
All because he didn’t want to leave Belle alone…
Nix smirked at him.
“Oh, watch for Briarwood,” he groused.
His farm road merged onto the highway, and Oliver pulled himself upright. Shaking his head against fatigue, he swept left and right for checkpoints.
A convoy of trucks rumbled by, riding high.
“Almost there. Two hours max, even in this bucket.”
He slipped into the rear of the convoy and prayed for a quick return.
After an hour, the convoy arrived at a massive refueling compound. More a settlement than a gas stop, the compound hosted as many Spring migrant workers as a proper borough. Most squatted in the shanties for a few coppers a day, telling themselves they had the better lot in life as long as they carried the Catechisms against their brothers in Azure.
Boss beats them both the same. Then they beat the Azure to make sure the line’s clear.
So senseless he had gone numb to it years ago.
Most these boys only knew a world of clawing for every copper; never even imagined there was another world east or south full of opportunity and wonder. Just labeled the whole damn map ‘heretic’ and…
“Bah, I’m getting grouchy in my old age,” Oliver remonstrated himself, pulling into a parking slot. He couldn’t keep his thoughts straight; best to take a nap.
A waitress came by to take his parking fee and ask about food. He set an order for two sandwiches, paid, and leaned back to rest his eyes.
Thirty minutes later, the worst of his swimming head subsided, he sat up. No sandwich.
“Better go get it.”
Exiting his junker, he slouched into the perpetual mill of the station. These kinds of pit stops operated on their own gravity, day or night, and he easily fell into the habits of his younger days: the lazy walk, the low shoulder, the elbow past knots in traffic.
Imagining himself camouflaged, he missed one among the crowd detach and angle for an intercept.
One of Tommy’s boys, eager for revenge and delighted that his watch caught the luck to spot that fat mayor.
The boy slipped free his knife and closed under cover.
A whisper of his bloodthirst caught Oliver’s ear, and the mayor whirled in time to spot the knife.
His first reaction? Blind panic.
Panic that echoed out like a thundering drumbeat.
Hells! He grasped after the echo, but it had already sung out.
Between his gasp and the boy’s lunge, the Tempest exploded into the crowd, seized the boy, and hurled him against the nearest wall.
Hoarfrost blanketed the scene, and her arrival brought black clouds that swallowed the daylight.
“Unusual for you to lower your guard,” the angel commented. She spun the boy’s knife in one hand, testing its edge against her finger.
Metal yielded before angelic flesh.
“Been a long couple days,” Oliver responded.
The crowd stumbled clear from the divinity in their midst, swearing and praying in equal measure. A surprising number of supposedly devout Aurens found room for a prayer to the oceans.
“I apologize that we have not had a chance to talk since the Wyrm.” She flicked the knife away. “Unfortunately, that will continue. The Wyrm is buried, and we must strike now. Can I count on you to handle matters here?”
“Of course,” he agreed quickly.
Hurriedly, even.
Ali…
The crowd squirmed, debating courage against the heretic goddess.
Alisandra Mishkan’s jagged, icy halo spun in idle challenge.
Do you fools think to face me?
You will need more than men
“We’re evacuating,” he whispered. Cleared his throat and repeated a slightly modified version for Auren ears. “The Azure folk are getting out of town. Getting out of everyone’s hair. There’s no reason for a fight.”
“Then you intend the path through Lumia?” the angel asked quietly.
A dangerous place for mortals
“I’ve talked with Walter. There are stable paths.” A note of bitterness crept into his voice. “Good enough for even mortals.”
The Tempest shook her head. “I wish you had spoken to me first.”
“You were busy.”
Sighing, the angel spread her hands in surrender. “And busy I remain. Call for me when the constables overstep their bounds.”
Not if. When.
Oliver glanced at his assailant, crumpled on the ground.
A dent like a mule’s kick in that wall.
All from a moment of angelic attention.
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And here we behold Tempest attention.
Very quietly, he resolved to do no such thing.
“You should take a vacation,” he offered, feigning a smile.
“I cannot. The Bones must be prepared.”
Terrible portent ringing in the space between her words.
“Prepared for what?”
“For the Wyrm’s tomb.” Alisandra smiled, barbed at the edge. “This time, he will suffer my pleasure.”
Then she glanced to the sky and scowled.
“Time yet refuses to yield, and I’ve much to gather.”
What holy quest demands this of you, Ali?
“Be well, Oliver. We will be past the darkness soon.”
The Tempest leaped and was gone.
A glimmer of fire in the sky heralded Nix – guarding not against the knife but her return.
“We’re all under a lot of stress,” Oliver muttered in thin excuse. Louder, to the crowd, he stated, “Let’s not start anything. Wouldn’t want her coming back, would we?”
Tossed out like a joke, but that boy had three broken ribs if Oliver knew the price of bread.
“Here,” he dug in his pocket for his last gold note. “For the boy’s doctor.”
Oliver Oshton, cleaning up another angelic mess. It’s what I’m good for, after all.
***
Warm and safe, Valkyrie woke from the best sleep of her life. Snuggled into the sleek sheets, she curled with her face buried in a pillow that smelled of the Lady Mishkan. There she burrowed, trying to ignore her lingering headache and grumbling stomach.
Plus, a heavy lump atop the covers was smothering both her feet!
“I didn’t figure Alisandra for a dog person,” she mumbled, kicking at the lump.
The offending weight sniffed dismissively.
“Hells, you’re a heavy one,” she grumbled, trying to wiggle free. Brushing hair from her face, she pushed upright to tell that mutt what she thought of…
Across her legs, Father Panther raised his head.
Valkyrie shrieked, hurling up both hands and the first image to come to mind.
A shimmering bunny leaped from her palms and to the edge of the bed. Wiggling its rump enticingly, it bounced away from the tasty young woman for parts unknown.
Father Panther watched it pass, his tail giving a lazy thump across her toes. Languidly, he rose, stretched his length from one side of the bed to the other, and rippled from view.
The rabbit stopped, sniffing imaginary grass.
Then the panther emerged, seizing the creature in his jaws with a single snap.
Mere faerie fire, yet he caught it whole, and Valkyrie felt a snap like a broken rubber band against her palms.
She yelped, and Father Panther destroyed the illusion with a firm shake. Then, amused, he rippled from sight and away.
Valkyrie rubbed at her hands, the skin tickling like she had juggled coals. “What in the icy hells? It wasn’t real!”
Rie stirred in her head. Are dreams real?
“No, or else I’d be rich!”
Then what drives us forward? the guardian wondered.
“Don’t play games. They’re only real inside my – our – head.”
Then it is our mind that is false? Curious.
“I’ll demonstrate. Once I have food.”
She slid from the bed, one eye out for Father Panther. This was twice now she had met him face to face and survived the story…
Here’s hoping he’s a mellow kitty.
The girl hurried through dusty halls, seeking the kitchen, and soon secured a few cold biscuits from a desultory pantry. Once satisfied of her basic needs, she followed the carpets to the display hall.
Most of the great glass cages rattled, empty, but one remained intact: regalia of gold and red worthy of a queen.
“I feel like I’ve seen that before,” the girl muttered pensively. Still, she had a point to make, and she summoned the faerie fire again.
With a spin of her heel and a thought, she spun a copy of that regalia from its case and over the shoulders of a smiling image of herself. That Valkyrie gasped in delight, twisting this way and that, and accepted a royal scepter from an unseen attendant.
“This is a power of illusion. By definition – not real!”
Your wisdom outstrips our own, her guardian demurred.
Valkyrie rolled her eyes and marched through her reflection. Her passage scattered the illusion like a ship breaking a wave.
Satisfying, she started, “So as you can see–”
But the scattered illusion condensed again. This time, another girl wore the queen’s regalia: brunette and tall, proud and somber with her duty, assuming once more the mantle surrendered in an age past.
Hail
Hail to the Queen Eternal!
All that was and might be, her guardian whispered, growing distant.
Rie retreated entirely, leaving Valkyrie to watch the adolescent shade of Ali accept her throne.
“Real illusions,” the girl wondered, flicking a bit of faerie fire from thumb to forefinger.
On the last flick, a spark rose and a butterfly of flame landed atop her nail, shimmering blue.
The illusion of Alisandra glanced sharply her way.
Valkyrie clamped her fists, yanking away her part in this play, and shivered.
For all that she summoned this fire, it could burn with fuel outside her control.
Like the witch I conjured for Margaret.
She reiterated what she knew. “Plausible and small is easy. Little flickers are easy. The more outlandish or the grander my vision, the more it demands of me. Once released, the fire plays for all; I might cast the strings but others might also inject. And the whole scene depends on the ‘mood’…”
Invisible tripwires, some with hooks. Could I summon the wrong illusion and the fire drain me dry?
Or try to summon such a vision that her body simply collapsed?
She envied the angels and their apparent surety.
Right on cue, Alisandra burst into the sky above the manor. All the windows rattled, and Valkyrie suddenly remembered her unkempt hair and prison stink. She hurried to the atrium, tugging fingers through her locks, and nervously pressed her hands together.
As Alisandra pushed open the door, Valkyrie sang out, “Welcome home, Mistress!” in her best Livery aria.
Covered in desert dust, Alisandra arched an eyebrow. “I do not recall adding a maid to payroll.”
“Mistress stated she had use for me,” the girl hummed, though her heart pounded a little faster as she played with such dangerous words. She peeked up through her lashes to stare at the slowly whirling halo of azure thorns, elegant and dangerous among the tides of the Tempest’s sea-foam hair.
Alisandra tapped her lip. “You say ‘Mistress’ like Mirielle.”
“Did she call you Mistress often, Mistress?”
“Time is short, Valkyrie,” the angel warned, though she suppressed a smile.
“Would it please Mistress to know the cat has been set out?”
“Is that so? He was still in Ruhum?” Alisandra shook her head. “Only an angel of cats could divine his intent.”
Valkyrie’s fingers ran across her belly; two pinched at a stray thread in her rumpled overalls. She hesitated, caught between a playful joke and the quiet yearning to push further…
The angel brushed the dust from her shoulders. “Have you eaten?”
“Some biscuits.”
“A Livery maid would refer to me as ‘Lady Mishkan’,” the angel noted, ushering the girl backwards into the manor.
Valkyrie hurried to match the taller woman’s stride. “A-and what should I call you…Lady Mishkan?”
“That depends what you want to be for me,” the angel answered, entering the long hall.
The girl’s pulse increased once more.
“I do not maintain this larder,” the angel mentioned, veering away from the kitchens.
Father Panther rippled into view, and Alisandra paused a moment to rub his blocky head. “T’is almost time for you to head south for your husbandly duties. You have a species to propagate.”
The massive cat leered at Valkyrie from the angel’s side, soaking in the rubbing with a smirking purr.
L-Like I’d be jealous of a cat!
Fantasies abound, Rie murmured, annoyed at the rampant imagination now crowding out her garden.
Patting the cat once more, Alisandra continued through the dust-choked servant’s quarters and into the dark garage.
“You are a mage now. Dangerous by your very nature. The better question: dangerous for whom? Your mother wants you settled in Waves, but I sense in you a unique opportunity. Be honest, Valkyrie. Merely dancing in my court would not satisfy you for long, would it?”
“M-most likely not,” Valkyrie admitted, flushing.
Alisandra flicked the switch, and the lights revealed her black car waiting in the center of the cavernous room.
Despite its metal shell, however, the car sagged like a half-melted candle. Its once-crisp edges drooped; ferocious scorch marks chewed on the chassis; the tires bulged almost square; and the broken edges of the windshield stuck out in heat-warped chaos.
“Once, this car was a gift.”
Nervous, Valkyrie cleared her throat. “I can’t drive.”
Alisandra shook her head. “Neither can it. Its motive force ebbed after Lumia. Yet another casualty.”
Succumbing to curiosity, Valkyrie poked the noble car. Her finger mushed into the black metal, dislodging tiny granules of clumped color.
“Living metal killed. Another mystery too long ignored.” Alisandra pressed her palm against the metal beside Valkyrie’s own, closed her eyes, and hummed under her breath, “Come now, old dog. One more service.”
The car’s engine chugged, and the cab’s floor rippled weakly. Struggling, the panels parted, and slick fabric printed in neat layers from the car. Then, fabric finished, it began to chew on an oval.
Alisandra retrieved a strange leotard, long-sleeved and marked by cross-hatch patterns of unidentified fabric. She tugged lightly on the edges, nodded in satisfaction, and offered it to Valkyrie. “If you please.”
“Thank you?” Valkyrie said, accepting it.
“One of Thea’s last experiments,” the angel explained. “Armor, strange though it may be. Wear it beneath your clothes.”
Then she withdrew an Azure-dyed brooch scored with the slender black spear of the Tempest.
Even Valkyrie knew the sigil of the Stormmother’s chosen.
Alisandra cupped the brooch. “A thousand men a year beg to serve as my Spear, but what use is an army to an angel? What use a peacock to parade in my place?”
Her heart hammering in her cheeks, Valkyrie gawked. “Y-you can’t be serious!”
“We face deadly serious foes,” the angel answered. “Wyrm, Tyrant, or mortal, all must be marked and measured. So too do I measure the events of my absence, and I find you. The girl that took Horace Manwell to safety, though it nearly killed you.”
“W-well, he needed…” Valkyrie huffed. “He was going to die!”
“And he yet lives because you saw the worthiness of that cause.” Alisandra pressed the brooch into her hand. “Time is horribly short, Valkyrie. Shall I deliver you south? Or shall we oppose every senseless regime?”
The jewelry still warm with the angel’s heat in her hands.
“I must journey far afield to prepare the Wyrm’s fate, and I would ask my Spear to aid Oliver in my stead. Usher the folk to safety. Undermine Angela Cecille’s machinations. Show the folk what their deacons do in the dark, and perhaps by Truth we might salvage some sanity amongst this maelstrom.”
My Spear… echoed in her head.
“W-would I have to call you some weird name? Like Holy Tempest of the Black Waters?” Valkyrie muttered.
“I would ask you refrain from using my mortal name in public. ‘Tempest’, however, is acceptable.”
“And in private…is…Ali okay?” Her voice a squeak.
The Archangel considered. “Yes. My Spear has that right.”
A sudden thought made Valkyrie snicker. “Oliver’s going to be so jealous!”
“He might have been my Spear in another life,” Ali reflected, “but neither of us chose that.”
Thanks, Oliver. I owe you one!
“I accept!” she sang, pressing the brooch to her breast.
“Excellent.” Alisandra gave the sagging noble car one final pat. “Now, let us discuss how my Spear might thwart the Inquisition and see my people home.”
***
Rie listened.
Dancers to a grand design
Steps sure and voices clear
What was will have had has been will be
Such was her purpose.
Reaching blind, finding sure
Her place in the world.
Singing proud formless words
Chorus bright
Yes. That was her role!
Divine dancer!
She stepped forth, letting the garden shape her a dancing hall…
…and found Alisandra Mishkan waiting for her, wreathed in a slim blue gown.
No! Fantasies of She Who Sings, her yearning keen! The thirst of flesh and blood, separate and ever hungry for union. That was the fate of all who Sung – to strive against the inevitable end!
So Sings the Chorus, Rie thought.
And what do we think? echoed back the Garden quietly.
Like a bucket of icy water, Rie snapped from her Song-dream…
…and now found herself seated at a cold, hard desk in a shrouded classroom. Row after row of desks stretched for miles to the teacher’s desk; the white board expanded into the night, its every inch covered in prayers.
Peeking left and right, Rie perceived other shadowed forms. Other souls drawn into the back bleachers of the Song, their lips paralyzed.
Detention for the higher self.
“Could there be so many?” Rie whispered in shock.
Just how far did the temptations of Eden echo?
She Who Listens recognized the metaphor of this prison. The desk pressed hard on her thighs, holding her firmly, and she glanced down to find the cheerful red pleats of Valkyrie’s elementary school.
This vision belonged to Valkyrie’s school at nine years old. A very important year. It had been in this desk, in this uniform, that She Who Sings had first decided that she did not like her teacher. Such a small thought formed the pebble that began the avalanche of the girl’s slide into delinquency.
Rie remembered, of course.
The teacher had called Valkyrie an Azure whore in training for tempting the male faculty with her bare shoulders.
Such is the durance, read the chalkboard. Flowers of gold grown from the hardest fields.
Distantly, the Chorus sang: this was for her benefit.
Glancing at the desk, Rie read the title of a waiting paper: A painful necessity.
Answer blank, pen wet.
Too freely given is your bounty
Why is your sword still sheathed, holy guardian?
Because she was that holy guardian, Rie heard the answer inside the question.
For those who resided within the Song, question and answer one and the same.
Even before Eden, the magi defied all order
Even before Time commandeered the river, they attempted to grasp godhood by petty fiat
“Each one empowered by a guardian that allowed the wellspring of Light to flow freely by error of judgement,” Rie whispered.
Obedient words flowed onto the page, repeating what the Chorus gave.
Throughout and even before Time, mages have misused their power for their own benefit. Before the Rules, they enslaved other’s minds, twisted the firmament in their own image, and proclaimed themselves gods. When Eden rose, they offered the secrets of Light to those who would prove the destruction of man’s first home. Those who Sing resent the wisdom and vision of those who Hear. A mage can never truly be trusted with power.
Again, though, discord invaded her thoughts: The cherubim sing back the teacher’s words for perfect marks.
Rie shuddered, disgusted with herself.
What was this rebellion fomenting in her perfect garden?!
Blinding her to the steps of the dance! Her dance!
Where she belonged!
Yearning for counsel, she heard. The Song brought her the words of souls on their march to the Black Gate.
How we loved and how we laughed
Though we slept hungry
Ah, how it glows!
Joy snatched from poverty’s maw
Another:
We ignored the council of our lovers, our children, our doctors
Our body failed, and we suffered for the failing
Ah, the bitter glow of wisdom found only in defeat!
Draught of hubris and at the bottom of the cup we find the wisdom of fools
And one close to her own trial.
Better if we had lived our short years in Grace
A small life and smooth passing
Ah, witness the glories of our magicks!
We have rendered ash, and hatred, and blood!
For the flicker of an instant, Rie envied Valkyrie and the quiet of a solitary mind. Pristine thoughts, grown in solitude, shielded from the Chorus’ crushing demand…
On the page, new words slowly bubbled into view:
So damned sure they know what right is
Gasping at the words, Rie hurriedly rubbed out the ink.
The Song was a march ordained at the beginning! The Chorus its chaperone!
She had but to trust in holy guidance of her elders.
Trust and let it guide her to where Valkyrie was meant to be.