Gongs, chimes, and bells sounded as diviners marked the first hour of the day. The sky above had a strange tinge to it, blacker somehow, and the stars seemed to dance and move. Goddess above! There was magic up there! There should still be sunlight. He peered over to the top of the West gate and sure enough, rays of the setting sun pierced the shadowed arch. He marveled. Yes, he admitted, the people here had once done marvelous things.
But not now.
An idea took shape in his mind as he slinked about from shadow to shadow, gliding along the pretentious white hive of estates. He was not much different from them, yet they couldn’t see his shadow-walking. They looked better than him, but they were empty vessels. Pretty, to be sure. They did everything possible to hide their anomalies, but Ren saw through them despite the stains and dyes. The tinctures to alter their eyes couldn’t always mask the redness. The itches, the scratches, the peeling skin around the hem of a sleeve or pant.
All this he noticed.
All this he relished.
Back at the tavern where Maunyn’s lowborn henchmen spent time together, no one had mentioned the deaths at the court. The two laborers had been of Zalkamas’s lowest ranks, so no one cared. Still, it seemed eerie that they didn’t even gossip about the Naukvyrae markings.
He crossed Velkamas without incident and then the bridge into Zalkamas. He took a side street to an old sanctuary on a black ridge to change into his outfit. Below sat the most expensive market in all the crater: the Rilanik, the Sapphire.
It was lovely beyond words. The Zauhune high matron had adorned it like the jewel it was, and the people within, even from this distance, walked through it like gods and goddesses. That’s what any nomad would think, seeing the lights, the columns, the blue-light braziers, and all the rest.
He couldn’t let it dazzle him, though. He was there for a mission he’d never expected to get. The crater had terrified him, but if he was to rise in his employer’s estimation, his master’s, he must prove himself inside the black bowl. He must rub shoulders with true Mornae. It was a challenge that rattled his gut and excited his mind.
He visited the sanctuary’s fountain and washed at the basin. No one was there, so he took his time preparing. In a satchel, he carried an extra set of clothes. Not any clothes, but the uniform of a Rilanik server. He’d taken it from a lad in a Lower Halkamas gambling hall. He dressed quickly and cinched up the long pants, hiding the extra length under the overlong tunic. He had no disguise to solve this problem. Just keep your head down, he told himself. No one notices a servant, even in the Sapphire.
The lad hadn’t shut up the whole night, so happy with his new position, an honor. The Rilanik’s patrons had fattened his coin purse and the residents of Lowkamas were happy to relieve him of it. Ren had encouraged his talk even when others had groaned about hearing it. The lad had wagered his uniform at Ren’s instigation, saying the silk lining alone was worth what Ren had wagered. It was a fine uniform. The lad must not have thought the uniform alone would get anyone into the Rilanik, and he was right. Ren flattered the lad all night, and by the fourth hour, they were best friends. Such a foolish lad. Hadn’t he learned the first and last Mornae lesson? Offer no trust outside one’s house, and even within, rarely. An ancient matron had said that, and it stuck because it was the truth. In a deft move, Ren had palmed away the lad’s Rilanik badge as well.
This lad had learned the lesson in the worst way possible. Ren twitched, thinking how the lad would explain that he’d lost his uniform and his badge. He hoped it would take days to confess his mistake, and by then Ren would be in and out. Not to mention Ren had drugged his drink and packed him off to a brothel to sleep it off. He’d paid the owner the use of a room for two days. An extra silver ensured no one bothered the lad. Plenty of time to work his magic in the Sapphire Market.
Of course, Ren might not pass the security pillar. It would be a test of his power, wouldn’t it? How strong could the pillar be to filter out the lowborn workers necessary to make the market function? Powerful Mornae were in their keeps and citadels, hoarded away like sapphire and kithaun chits, black spears and blades, and their ancient artifacts.
He followed a path leading through stone gardens to the security checkpoints, one for patrons, another for servants. It seemed strange the two should be side by side, but as he got closer, he understood. The servants were part of the service. This wasn’t ordinary service; they took part in the pleasure.
A young priestess in the patron queue eyed him, but then looked away, chin raised. He shook his head and smoothed out his fancy vest. It had an elaborate owl glyph embroidered into it. He swallowed hard. He didn’t need to be a diviner to know it was Lor’Bethic’s, an important Zalkamas house. The lad hadn’t been a servant at all, but the scion of a powerful house granted a position of honor in service to his high matron. Ren hadn’t come prepared for this, and he broke out in a sweat.
Calm! Calm!
He imagined himself as his master, strutting and arrogant. Shadows danced at his fingertips as he approached the security pillar, head high, as noble as he could manage. The pulse stung but had no effect, and he easily dissimulated the discomfort. Not even on his worst day could it knock him out.
Curiosity was growing in him now. What manner of Mornae would he find at the Rilanik’s inner ring, where the greats found pleasure? Once past the gate and the sub-par diviners staffing it, he mimicked what he saw in the others bearing the servant’s livery, all the while taking in the details of clothing, sigils, any marker at all. Here in this concentrated part of Vaidolin, the whole drama of the Mornae played out.
Expensive clothing marked the ranks. The quality of Mornae, too. As he passed within the rings, the Mornae within towered over him, even the women. He’d entered a fabled land, and the buildings matched it. Zalkamas’s grand old lady had outdone herself. He felt himself shrinking despite every effort to keep a sufficient haughtiness. What would they think if someone like him summoned forth shadows from the kith ground they adored so much?
He smirked and stifled a laugh.
There were no other security measures within the Rilanik; even the guards seemed to meld into the decor. The Zauhune high matron wanted nothing disturbing the guests. As he passed through to the inner ring, he understood why.
Music played, thrumming through his limbs, enlivening his body down to the marrow. This was not the ordinary music of the valleys, this was coming from enchanted instruments, played by Mornae with the ability to make the instrument meld with the dark. Non-Mornae wouldn’t understand it. It wasn’t for them. These harmonies were only present within Mornae who thrummed with the black rock as the world moved.
He passed through an arch and stronger enchantments pricked him. The threads in his garb sparkled. His steps slowed, as if stuck in mud. Painful throbs rattled through him, searching him out. They gripped his throat, surging toward his head. He squinted, focusing as his mentor had taught him. The most important thing all Mornae must learn in this sad age is to protect their minds.
He’d learned the lesson early, and it was the thing he must be good at if he was to survive. He let out a hacking breath as the enchantment released him. It didn’t seem to care who he was, really… just that he was strong enough to enter. He broke out in a cold sweat. The people within would have powerful minds. He snagged a tray with crystal tumblers full of pale-yellow liquor and served some guests. He avoided direct eye contact, but couldn’t help admiring the fine hands, jeweled fingers, sleek arms, and lustrous hair. The air hummed with the music of flutes and lyres. Unfamiliar heady fragrances rose from braziers.
The guests chatted while listening, but he was only listening for one name: Verxaen Ilor’Zauhune, the regent consort. He was looking for a dignified fellow, decked like a warlord with many ribbons. Short hair, unfortunately.
Of course, everyone here looked noble. It was going to be a long night.
Servants snuck off into the pleasure houses with a priestess. Fortunately, no priestess was interested in him. Serving drinks was getting him nowhere, though. The regent consort must be within. There were two pleasure houses: one with white columns studded with gems, and the other with a plain black arch. Where would a fancy lord go? A fancy lord whose champion dressed like the knights of old and hearkened to the past with each court?
Ren headed for the black arch. It was today or never. Once the diviners learned of the stolen badge, security would tighten.
He suffered through a barrage of enchantments. His ribs felt pressed to the point of crushing, and he breathed gingerly upon passing. On the other side was a long hallway with no apparent end.
An illusion.
The walls appeared smooth. Squinting, he noticed dark flames flickering on well-hidden kithaun plates. He gulped air through a painful knot in his throat. They could be invisible doors like the entrance of the underdark market, or… portals. His mentor had told him about them, how they bridged vast distances, but he’d never been through one. Why would they need such devices?
He approached the nearest one and placed his palm over a glyph etched on the plaque. I’ll die here, he thought.
My master will hate me even more.
That’s why he sent you, fool. To die here.
Curse me, he thought. I’m cursed already.
He pressed his hand to the plate. A voice spoke to his mind: speak a name. He hesitated, and the voice insisted. An itch started at his temples, a strange sensation, not at the skin, but deeper.
“Verxaen,” he whispered.
The itch grew, working its way to the back of his eyes.
Verxaen Ilor’Zauhune, he said in his mind.
The darklight fluttered in response.
