Heretical Fishing: A Cozy Guide to Annoying the Cults, Outsmarting the Fish, and Alienating Oneself

With sweat peppering his brow, a lone alchemist trudged up a grassy hill. If not for the exhaustion lingering throughout his entire body, he would be fairly skipping up the slope. He had left his shack yesterday at the crack of dawn, heading deep into the mountains in search of his final ingredient. He glanced down at the thick roots held in his bloodied hand, a smile crossing his face despite the weariness.

With its addition—after proper preparation, of course—his potion of ascension would be complete. Solomon was sure of it.

It had taken him weeks to gather everything necessary. Milk of thistle, arrow stem, slimpuff bulbs, dendrod leaves, the decayed bark of the blue true, and finally, his secret ingredient. He held his hand up, staring into the roots he’d found high atop a mountain peak. An odd sensation came over him, as if the plump roots were a lodestone that drew in his vision. The moment he’d first dug them up and caught sight of them, this anomalous feeling was how he’d known they were the missing ingredient. The very thing his potion needed.

Solomon suspected that they’d need to be prepared in a certain way, which was the very reason he’d stayed out all day and night, collecting enough of the sparsely grown weed’s roots that he could process some in every way possible. For the umpteenth time since he first discovered the plant, he cursed their appearance.

It was no wonder they’d never been discovered and recorded in the Cult of the Alchemist’s books. They were only visible on the surface as a tiny vine-like structure that liked to grow underneath rocks, a pale-green leaf or two poking out into the light of day to absorb the sun’s energy. It made them almost impossible to spot, and only Solomon’s genius had allowed him to discover them. He’d sat down to catch his breath when he spotted one of the leaves. The moment he did, it tugged on his vision, demanding that he investigate.

Extracting them from the hard earth was the cause of his raw and bloodied fingers. He had his tools of course, but the soft skin of his hands was no match for wooden handles and repetition. Thankfully he barely felt the numerous cuts and burst blisters through the haze of his tiredness.

The ground grew flat as he approached his place of power, and when he crested the final section of hill, he fell to his knees, smiling at the sight that greeted him. His self-constructed shack all but called his name, beckoning him toward its dark and cool depths. Perhaps he would allow himself some rest before working with the unnamed root.

Solomon’s eyes slowly widened as the realization struck him. “By the gods,” he said aloud, his voice strained with disuse.

Excited as he had been to find the final piece of his ascension, it hadn’t really hit him that he’d discovered a new root. He lifted it once more. What would he name it...?

“Solomon root,” he decided, wheezing out a laugh.

The name rolled off his tongue. He sat looking at the collected specimens for a long moment, soaking up the accomplishment. The very world seemed to hiss its approval, an unfelt breeze making a barely audible whistle as it wound through the surrounding trees. When the whistling grew louder, he cast his gaze around, his brow furrowing. The trees weren’t moving and the air was completely still. So what was the sound...?

He looked up at the sky, his search coming to an end when he spotted something flickering high above. There was a speck in the sky, a star burning so brightly that it was visible in the light of day.

If he’d been standing, Solomon would have fallen to his knees. He stared up at the sign, completely speechless as it grew more and more visible. The gods had long ago fled this realm, yet he and the rest of the Cult of the Alchemist believed that their influence remained, mere echoes and aftershocks of their power. This had to be one such event.

The wills of alchemists past had witnessed his accomplishment, and they had approved.

He laughed softly at first, but it steadily built, growing louder as the star shone brighter, defying the sun’s oppressive rays with its blue brilliance. His throat grew pained, yet Solomon continued cackling, unable to hold back his celebration. The whistling sound was much more noticeable now, seeming to get closer by the second.

Tears welled in Solomon’s eyes. He was an ambitious man, and he’d hoped and prayed that he would one day become the Alchemist of prophecy. As much as he manifested that eventuality, to have the departed pantheon recognize his efforts was an indescribable experience. The tears fell, rolling down his cheeks as he stared up at the star, its form now large enough that he could see blue flames arcing out from its blue mass.

The whistling grew to a fever pitch, and as the star appeared to shift positions in the sky, he blinked away his tears, not understanding. The shining light was moving subtly, so slight that it was almost imperceptible. But it was definitely moving.

Not moving, he realized. Falling.

With his eyes glued to it, he tried to get to his feet. As he stood on wobbly legs, the star robbed him of his strength. His body gave out and he crashed back down to the floor. The shooting star fell directly toward his clearing, its blue flames flaring out and consuming the sky. The whistle was deafening, and all he could do was watch as his death approached. His hand went limp, the gathered roots falling to the grass before him.

Time seemed to crawl to a freeze as the star descended, hurtling for the center of his place of power, right where his shack sat. The shack that held all the ingredients he was going to use to ascend. A wave of ice-cold comprehension drove into Solomon. The departed gods of alchemy had witnessed his attempted ascension, and they had found him wanting.

They sought not only his destruction, but the annihilation of the means with which he meant to ascend. Solomon clenched his jaw. If he was to die, cast aside by his forebears, the least he could do was stare defiantly at the heavens, challenging them to the very last. He forced his eyes to remain open, tracking the star as it sought to break his spirit. Its flames licked out, barbing through the air like bolts of lightning. An eyebrow arched, climbing high on his forehead. The flames weren’t like lightning. They were lightning.

“Zeus’s tempestuous beard!” he screamed, the star’s whistling so loud that he barely heard himself.

It wasn’t his alchemist ancestors that sought to deny him—it was the will of Zeus himself. Solomon’s strength and fear of death returned all at once. He turned and lunged to his feet, unfeeling legs stumbling over the grassy clearing. He had to flee. He had to get away. The very future of the Cult of the Alchemist depended on it. He was almost there. If he could just live through this, he could relocate and—

Boooom!

Solomon was thrown forward when the star collided. He hurtled headlong into a tree, only his enhanced reaction time allowing him to cushion the blow with his forearms. He skidded to a stop downhill from his place of power, where he remained for entirely too long, winded and gasping for air. When he could breathe again, he rolled over and got to his feet.

His arms ached where they’d impacted the tree. Thankfully, the bones didn’t appear broken.

Cradling them against each other, he trudged back up the hill, his entire body feeling cold. When he crested the peak this time, he found nothing worth celebrating. Where his shack and the blue-barked tree had previously been, only a crater remained. In the center of it, half a giant boulder was visible, the other half lodged firmly in the earth. Broken chunks of what had been his shack were strewn all over, most small enough to be called splinters.

Solomon stumbled to the edge of the hole and knelt down, looking for anything he could salvage. All his ingredients, carefully collected and prepared over the past two weeks. Gone. He spun, looking for the roots he’d left behind in his flight. They were nowhere to be seen. The only things left in the clearing were the boulder, debris, and him.

Move, a voice seemed to scream from inside of him.

He pushed it away. If he could just find his ingredients, he could make his potion and—

Move! the internal voice screamed again.

This time, he stilled, shaking his head as a fog lifted from his awareness.

What in the Alchemist’s blessed concoction was he doing?

The will of Zeus had attacked him. Had tried to kill him. As long as he survived, he could gather more ingredients. He fumbled around his neck, finding his pouch still hanging there. His shaking fingers pulled the draw string open, revealing the handful of blue tree bark he’d squirreled away.

With more than just determination fueling his steps, Solomon fled the former place of power as fast as he could, never once looking back.

***

With a pleasant numbness radiating from his core, Augustus Reginald Gormona stepped into the ruins of the castle. The grand reception chamber no longer looked so grand. Most of the roof had collapsed, as had the floors about it. Augustus climbed over the rubble, heading deeper in.

Everyone followed close behind, likely not wanting to be too far from his power while within the desolate city.

“Torch,” Augustus demanded.

“Yes, king,” Marcus replied, immediately lighting one and passing it to Augustus.

The king strode forward, leading them from the reception chamber into a hallway beyond. With flames lighting the walls, visions of his youth flashed by.

Augustus had visited these halls many a time in his adolescence, and though his memory of that time was hazy, flashes of colored tapestries, severe servants, and smiling faces sped by in a confusing stream. He recalled running his fingers along a woolen tapestry that ran the entire length of the hallway, its fibers soft to the touch.

“Augustus?” his wife asked, her tone worried. “Is everything okay?”

He returned to the present, finding his hand pressed to a blackened stone wall where the art had been. It was cold and hard, a far cry from the plush wool it had once worn.

He shot his wife a venomous look for making him look weak. “Remain silent while we travel. That goes for everyone.”

He marched the rest of the way, having traversed these halls enough to recall the path. Before long, they reached the stairs. After descending three flights, they arrived. Augustus raised an eyebrow at the door. It should have been barred, as the Cult of the Alchemist well knew. He swallowed his fury. If the prison still needed a caretaker when they were done here, it was time to replace Francis.

Augustus opened the door and the sound of its hinges creaking shattered the silence of the underground halls. Their boots crunched as they strode over what appeared to be dirt and small stones.

“Dinner already?” Someone called. They laughed then, the sound high-pitched, slow, and entirely unnatural.

A chorus of cackles crawled through the air, the other prisoners joining in with the speaker’s mirth. The hair on Augustus’s neck stood tall and a shiver ran down his spine. Annoyed that they still had this effect on him, he arched his shoulders and stood tall. He strode to the first cell and peered inside, barely recognizing the creature within. He was a far cry from the man he’d put there so long ago, but as Augustus continued to stare at the grime-covered face, the lines formed a pattern he once knew well.

The prisoner crept forward, his head twisting to the side, his eyes wide. “Ah,” he said. “I am madder than I thought.”

“Hello, Tiberius,” Augustus said, giving him a nod. “I’m not a vision. I am truly here.”

Tiberius giggled. “That’s what they all say.” He snapped a salute, then spun on the spot, marched to the back of his cell with an oddly inhuman gait, and sat against the rear wall, his rigid posture melting away. “Be gone, ghost of my past. Go bother some other poor soul—perhaps a sane one.”

Tom stepped up beside Augustus, resting his hand on the bar. “We’re real, Tiberius.”

“Oooooh!” Tiberius called. “Lord Tom Osnan is here, gents!”

“Duh!” another replied from deeper in. “He’s sitting right beside me!”

Tiberius nodded knowingly. “You see, spirits mine? You are not real, so leave me be.”

“Can you two keep it down!” a female voice snarled. “Princess Tryphena is trying to sleep!”

“Daughter,” Augustus said, gesturing for Tryphena. “Come here please.”

“Ah,” Tiberius said. “Two Tom’s, a king, and two princesses? What a treat the visions provide for us to… today…” he trailed off as Tryphena strode into view. “Princess...?” His odd gait returned as he strode to the bars and grabbed them with shaking hands. “You... you’ve grown...”

“Hello, uncle Tiberius.” The smile she gave was tinged with sadness. “It has been a long time. Mother is here, too.”

Penelope stepped up and curtsied. “It’s good to see you, Tiberius. House Ward has been sorely missed in Gormona.”

“You’re all real...” Tiberius Ward fell to his knees, staring at the ground. “You’ve truly returned...”

“Tiberius has gone madder,” the feminine voice called. “He thinks they’re real!”

A chorus of laughter, each as unhinged as the last, bounced off the stone walls and metal bars.

Augustus sighed. “Come, family. Let us show them.”

As they walked up the hallway and passed more of the cells, the laughter slowly died.

“Real...”

“They’re here...”

“My king!”

“Real,” “Real,” “Real!”

Tryphena paused before the cell containing the woman’s voice. “Hello, aunt Livia. It’s been too long.”

“Tryphena...” Livia Ward, Tiberius’s wife and former matriarch of house Ward, stumbled forward into the light. She cradled a bundle of blankets in her arms, and as she spied the real Tryphena, she dropped the bundle to the floor. Tears welled in her eyes as she reached a smudged hand through the bars. “Tryphena...”

The princess reached out, resting the back of her hand in Livia’s palm. Though they were imprisoned here, it wasn’t because they presented a threat to the royal family. They clasped hands, Tryphena unbothered by how dirty Livia was.

Tryphena clenched her jaw, unhidden fury crossing her face as she turned toward Augustus. “They are filthy, father. Francis told me he provided them with baths.”

“Baths?” Livia chortled, withdrawing her hand. “Oh, yes! Dirt baths!” She pointed to the corner, and when Augustus lifted the torch, it revealed a mound of dirt in the corner. “For his birds, you see.”

“Birds!”

“Birds!”

“Such pretty birds!”

“Cawww!”

The prisoners all laughed at the facsimile of a bird call that came from further in, sounding even more disjointed given the context.

Tryphena’s lip twitched. “I’m going to kill him.”

“Now, now, princess.” Livia put her hands on her hips. “That is no way for a noble woman to talk! Birds like dirt baths! Things aren’t so bad down here—it’s how we serve our king!”

A chorus of agreement bounced down the halls, not a hint of malice or deception seeping into their voices.

“It is good to see you well, Livia,” Augustus said, reassured by their loyalty.

“And you, my king.” She bowed at the waist, and Augustus finally realized what was off about how Tiberius had strutted.

They moved like birds.

Tryphena clearly spotted it too. She struck out, slamming her closed fist in the metal bars before her.

Livia leaped backwards, her eyes wide as she retreated to a corner.

“Sorry.” Tryphena averted her eyes, hiding them. “Let’s go, father.”

When they reached Tiberius’s cell again, he was waiting for them. “What are you doing here?” His gaze searched each of their faces. “Why have you come back...?”

Augustus nodded, glad they were finally at the heart of it. “You made me an offer once, Tiberius. You said you could teach me to channel the corrupted chi that surrounds Theogonia.”

In the blink of an eye, Tiberius prostrated himself. “I apologize again, king. It was not for me to offer. If you changed your mind and want my life, it is yours to take.”

“Oh, I did change my mind, Tiberius. But it wasn’t in regard to taking your life as penance.”

“Then what...?” Tiberius asked, his head twisting to stare up at them like a curious pigeon.

“After decades of peace, Gormona is once again under threat by a foreign power.”

The former lord of Gormona jumped to his feet, his face a vision of fury. “Give me the order, king, and I will scour them from Kallis and feast on their bones.”

“It may come to that, Tiberius, but I had something else in mind.” He grinned, already knowing what Tiberius’s answer would be. “I wish to learn how to cultivate corrupted chi.”