The courtyard of Doom Keep was little more than a pile of mud. There were no paths walked by mortal feet anymore, save the aimless drifting of the soulless bodies clad in rusting armor. They stared, unblinking, into the dark skies that rained with black ichor.
Raiselig and Shosushai walked side by side down the slick stone steps, each holding onto the other so they did not fall. The corpses watched them pass.
Fitting, that the thunder split the sky like a sword. Well did it suit the mood of the warlord that rain fell like arrows, piercing the heart with their chill. It was meet that the distant fogs billowed like acrid smoke towards the fortress gates.
Drozior, the Dark Lord, Slayer of the Seven Moons and bringer of death and blood to the lands of Illshir, had slain thousands of men and women. He slaughtered the peasantry with no hint of fear nor dissatisfaction. For all of Drozior’s reign, the great palisades of Doom Keep rose high over a land run wet with red blood. So they said it was this that gave the stones their dark red hue.
Day later. Week later. Don’t know. Sitting on the steps outside Binny’s. Darla comes by. Dressed to the nines.
“Hi,” I say. “Haven’t seen you around.”
“I’m not staying,” she says.
I nod, suck on my stick. “Yeah?”
“Gotta go.”
I nod. Suck again. “Where?”
“Don’t know.”
What did she want from me? Did she really not give a care? Try as I might, I had no idea what caused her to change her mind. Must have been something miserable I had done, but I had no idea what.
Deep in the darkest night it lay.
It had learned, over the years, to be patient. Good things would always come to those who wait, and it had waited a very long time indeed. Empires rose and fell, languages came and went. Certain words fell in and out of fashion, and sometimes took on new meanings all together.
Before long, it could feel the time was right…
And it reached out a shadowy claw…
It took only an hour for Raiselig and Vharpanu to prepare themselves.
As it was in Vharpanu’s ancient nature to find things hidden, she acquired the necessary tools. A sprig of living holly and a twig of dead birch. Shavings from a newborn calf’s hoof. Three drops of innocent blood. A plank of wood from an old woman’s bed. It was makeshift, but satisfactory.
Raiselig, for their part, sharpened their steel memory with the ancient laws. Contracts were studied, decisions were analyzed, and the myriad strings that wove the tapestry of ritual together were made plain.
The clatter of teacups and china saucers filled the air of the Café Couronne des Prés. A perfumed bouquet of infusions from across the world tantalized the nose. Travelers and locals laughed and spoke of many things across tables of ivory and bronze. Cakes as soft as pillows and breads as tough as leather provided suitable accent to the marvelous tastes that sweetened every gullet in that marvelous Café.
It was the one place in perhaps all the land that two Scriveners could meet in public without attracting undue attention.
It feels like you’re alone. Like really alone for the first time in your life.
Even when there is no one else around, there’s a part of you that’s still there. It’s looking over your shoulder and critiquing everything you do. It shows you every facet of your life, and makes you watch. It rubs your nose in every failing, and laughs at every foible. That part of you that hates you is always there. That part of you that draws the lines and puts up walls. The part of you that warns you about what might happen, or what could happen. The part that is always looking ahead of you for stray banana peels and sharp rocks. All the neurosis and psychosis that life lays over the real you are there, even when there’s no one else around. Especially when there’s no one else to drown out the voices in your head. When there’s no telephone ringing. When there’s no car rushing you somewhere else.
The House of the Horned Serpent was bustling that night, loud cheers for more wine and women flowed through the air as freely as the liquor. To call it mirth would be a disservice.
Raiselig was not taking part in the gaiety; or rather, they were not taking part in the noise. They were celebrating as loudly and as energetically as they ever did, which is to say they had a fresh and young bottle — young by their standards, at any rate — of a rich red Carménère, which they had been working through for most of the evening.
The boy’s name was Edvin Coineagan, and little else is known about him.
That is, little else is known by the mortal men and women who tell the tale. More is known by the wise and learned Scriveners, for it is their tale as well, and their methods of telling tales are mysterious and inscrutable.
There are countless things we do not know of the boy; such as what brought him to the misty moor that dark morning, what caused his breath to come in ragged sobs, and perhaps why he chose to run towards the woman when she looked at him, and not flee.
“Name?”
Raiselig didn’t bother to look at the guardsman, instead pulling a thin scrip out of their pocket and flashing it at him.
“Ah. Scrivener, eh?”
Now Raiselig looked.
“I am Scrivener, Keeper of the Law and follower of Ritual. Bringer of order and Hand of the Seven Manifold Prayer. The Willow Scribe herself wrote my name in the Book of the Rite, and thereby granted me the rights and duties therein. I speak the Law, and maintain the magics of the world thereby.”
