The Poems of Madam Albithurst: The Religious Gameboard

I fear the rest of our journey through the tunnels will bore you, and so I shall carefully edit out that which remains incidental. Suffice it to say that there were a great many adventures had with me and my pilgrim as we wandered; a few poems of note, though none deserving of praise.

We spoke little, though it became quite clear that we both understood that the other was searching for the Encinidine. Did we ever truly decide to work together? Perhaps not. All I knew was that somewhere in these tunnels lay the next step on the path. The purportedly knowledgeable Sparker had said so.

Sure enough, when we finally reached the end of the tunnel, that the answer was found. There, piled at the side of the egress, lay a stack of papers. It reached high to the heavens, the top far beyond the reach of any reasonably sized being. With no other option, I set about my work, pulling paper after paper from the middle of the stack and searching for the answer to my question.

Again, I shall shorten the chronicling of this event, as the things I learned in those papers are surely of no interest to you. Suffice it to say that I found my answer at long last: Lady Song resided in the Apex of the Sibilants.

It was, of all the possible answers, the most regrettable. While finding the accurate location of Lady Song had certainly shortened the amount of time we would have spent searching the dangerous environs of the Sibilants, it had unfortunately directed us to its most deepest nadir.

But I could not ignore the truth, so with new destination in mind, my pilgrim and I left the tunnel to find ourselves in a forested land of dangling vines and whirring crickets.

“The Inner Wings,” said my companion. “I heve been here before.”

“Do you know the way out?” I asked.

“Follow,” the pilgrim said, and on we walked, sparing no time for conversation nor effort for commiseration.

I have, in my many years as a Sensate, experienced the domiciles of any number of religious covenants. Cathedrals, shrines, monasteries of all make and model are nestled deep within my memories. Each has their own flavor and style.

The pillars of the Inner Wing Cathedral were wooden trees of no small circumference. Their bark was rough and pliant, like thick rubber tire. To brush against them was to risk either painful abrasion or the sickening crunch of one of the many insects that swarmed about our heads. There were flies, yes, but beetles too, among the other kinds of multi-legged carapace.

We trudged onward, our feet sinking gently into the icy mud of the turgid swamp. Though I struggled greatly, I could not tell how hard it was for my companion, so well covered was she in her thick arraignment. Her bone-colored mask glowed bright in the dim reflecting light, and I found myself resentful of her seeming calm. Why should I suffer when another does not?

But this resentment soon passed, for I remembered — when the glowing visage reflected a particularly bright sheen of swamplight — that her suffering lay behind a mask, and there was no knowing for sure what would happen, what had happened, or what may still happen to cause the poor thing to feel the pains so personal and unique to her.

At long last the curtain of trees and vines parted, revealing a congregation of people sitting in long metal pews. An eclectic menagerie of well dressed and poorly washed, there could not have been fewer than a thousand people all sitting quietly, staring straight ahead.

At the front of the pews sat two people, facing but not looking at each other, separated by a thin table. On the table I could see lay a marble slab, with multi-colored stones resting upon it. An alter of immense import, I could tell, for the two seated folk stared at it with such intensity, I could not call it anything but spiritual reverence.

Behind the table stood a man or woman — I could not tell from so far away — dressed in golden finery. A thick book lay across their arms, from which they read at varying intervals.

When the words were spoken clearly, attendants behind the golden speaker moved colored pieces of wood among a matrix of cubbyholes that rose above the tableau, a mirror of what occurred on the holy altar.

As we watched, the person on the left reached out to the altar, and pushed one of the black stones.

At this, the golden speaker opened their mouth, and their voice carried across the silent crowd:

“IV: And lo, the player may move their por only three spaces, and not if a ka bars their path. So is the path of the righteous made plain by our faith.”

A gentle susurrus rippled across the onlookers, murmuring of amazement, delight, confusion, and revelation. Many looked down into their own laps, moving their own stones across squares of felt.

We walked, my Archonarchian ally and I, down the center aisle of the pews, looking left and right only as movement and curiosity caught our eyes.

“Whet is this?” my companion asked. “I heve never seen something like this before.”

“It is prayer,” I said, for indeed it could have been nothing else. Another stone was moved at the altar, and a gasp arose from the devoted onlookers.

“VIX: And so it is written, that to prevent Han Khor, the defender may place their ka in an orthogonal line between the offending piece and their Khop. So is our lord protected by our cautious foresight.”

The tone of the golden speaker had not changed, though the prayers of the congregation had grown in intensity. And oh, what fortune that in that moment a glint of metal caught my eye. In the middle of the nearby pew, I saw the metallic shoulders and long hair of Sir Juhrooz.

At his side sat Mx. Image, and on the other side was a gap that could only have been where Mr. Porist sat, his short stature not reaching the height required for his head to be visible.

“VIII: If a ka is ever struck with a rom, then removed is the rom, and pushed is the ka to a place of the opponent’s choosing, earning no fewer than five points. So is a wall struck low by the sacrifice of the faithful.”

While the Agent did not move, I made my way down the pew, picking my way through the feet and legs of any manner of beast and body. At long last, I found myself standing next to my companions, as they stared with rapt attention at the communal altar.

“Whatever are you doing here?” I asked. “Sir Juhrooz, Mr. Porist, my dear Image, have you been waiting for me?”

“Of course we have,” Image clicked at me, one of xer eyes swiveling to meet mine. “Though we did not know you would be passing this way. We knew, or perhaps hoped, maybe even prayed, that we would see you again, and were merely waiting for said time to come.”

The golden speaker spoke loud and firm: “V: The most mighty ki-ping may move many spaces, if the turn begins adjacent to their Khop. So is a knight given strength by their lord’s blessing.”

“Tkach” Mr. Porist sniffed loud, muttering under his curving nose, “that’s not the proper translation. When I was young, my preacher would have never used that edition.”

“I did not know you were religious,” I admitted, most embarrassed at my lapse in knowledge.

“Lapsed, I’m afraid,” Mr. Porist grimaced. “And rightly so, if this is what accounts for the faithful these days.”

No sooner had he said these words, then the crowd let loose a mighty roar of celebration. Applause and ceremonial adulation echoed across the clearing, as the congregation stood and clapped and cheered.

The golden speaker waved as well, shouting over the teeming devoted: “X: Hallelujah, faithful. Hallelujah, forsaken. The judgment passed, the loser found wanting, for at the moment of Han Khor is the foolish shown ill-care of their flock. Their Khop surrounded, so is their duties lacking. Arise, ye faithful, and bring adulation to the field, for the loser has been chosen!”

The two figures stood then, shook hands, and made their way from the altar to be carried along on the shoulders of the jubilant.

My companions stood as well, brushing themselves off as they did. “Most interesting,” said Image. “And curious as well. I have played the game myself many times, and I believe I could have performed much better than either player.”

“Played to the end,” Sir Juhrooz said. “We have often played the game on the eve before battle, and I could see, as could we all, that the game was over six turns ago. Why play to the end when the end is foreseen?”

“We must always play to the end,” Mr. Porist said, drawing his pruning sheers from his pocket. “That’s why. Even though the end is clear, we must always play to the end.”

I was about to comment on this curious idea, when the sound of metal unsheathed drew my eye to Sir Juhrooz’s cold face. “What manner of devilry is this? Our hated enemy hunts us even here?”

“Put up your sword, Sir Juhrooz,” I said as I stepped between the Archonarchian agent and the Doppewassl. “She is not our enemy. Not today.”

“The Archonarchy is our enemy, as sure as eggs are eggs,” the man said, his muscles straining against his metal armor. “Mark my words, Madam Albithurst, if you allow her to live, she shall thwart us in the end!”

“Eggs ere eggs,” the pilgrim said, “until they hetch.”

“She seeks the Encinidine as do we,” I said. “I could not leave her stranded.”

Sir Juhrooz stared at me. “You gave aid and comfort to our enemy? My dear lady Albithurst, this is treason!”

“Sir Juhrooz,” I snapped, quite a bit louder than I perhaps should have; “kindly refrain from addressing me in such a crude manner. I am traitor to no one, and the Encinidine must be found. I am certain this pilgrim will be quite willing to fight you for it once we have found it, but until then I see no reason not to travel together.” I thought for only a moment. “After all, better in than out of sight, yes? She might get up to all sorts of Archonarchian trickery without you to keep an eye on her.”

Sir Juhrooz looked between us two, and finally lifted his sword. “While I do not trust you,” he said to the agent with vehement fervor, “I do trust Madam Albithurst. I will walk with you, though know I will not let down my guard, until such time as you have earned my trust.”

“Trust cennot be eerned,” the agent said. “Like forgiveness, it must be given.”

“Where to now?” Mx. Image asked, rubbing xer forelegs together. “We could journey to the Outer Wings, though I hear it is most dangerous for you soft-skins there. We could make our way though the central spine-case, see all manner of markets and festivals there. Or perhaps take a train through the Charnel, and try our luck against the demons and specters that lie in wait for the suspecting?”

“My dear Image,” I smiled at the wiggling noble, “I do believe you are enjoying your time in this horrific domicile.”

“Indeed I am, for what you soft-skins call a nightmare, I merely see as another place. Decorated with different shapes and colors, adorned with different dead things, and populated with people of different mind, but simply another place. Though we may die or despair, the same is true of any land.”

I found this at once odd and refreshing, so I felt some small regret in explaining that we needed explore no longer. “I have learned the location of Lady Song, and so we need only travel to the Apex by whichever route we find most agreeable.”

“The swiftest,” Mr. Porist said, crossing his arms. “This place is horrible, and I would be free of it as soon as possible.”

“The busiest,” Image said, cocking their head in thought. “I would wish to see as much of this place as I can before we leave.”

“The safest,” Sir Juhrooz fingered the hilt of his sword. “By the Hewn, I am not afraid of what lies in wait, but even one as strong as I must favor prudence over pride when their friends’ lives are in danger.”

“The quietest,” my pilgrim whispered. “This plece is loud to my eers, end I wish it not so.”

“There is only one path, then, which will cater to all of us,” I said, having heard of the path in the tunnels from a helpful denizen. “Where is our guide?”

Mr. Porist pulled the square box of Nock from his pocket, and released it into the air to float in front of my face.

After placing the pan in the oven, roast for half an hour, until the skin weeps, the dear thing said by way of gratitude and greeting.

“The same to you, dear Nock,” I said with a sincere smile. “If you would be so kind, please lead us to the Spine-case.”