Unbound

In a short span of months, Elderthrone had grown. Where there was once only the Temple in the cliff and rudimentary houses at its foot, now the town had split into several discrete districts. The first was, of course, the Temple itself. It was named The Eye, ostensibly in honor of their Autarch and his crest, which looked like a blazing blue eye surmounted by tendrils of fire and lightning. In truth, Zara knew that it was named for the view that nearly all denizens of Elderthrone were met with whenever they looked heavenward.

The Spirit Tree’s dark canopy—unaffected by winter’s cold touch—hung above like a great, unblinking circle that provided them cover from snow and rain while also leaving them beneath a titan’s shadow. At its center, the smooth trunk glowed with a radiance that could be clearly seen no matter the time of day, and if one were to stare long enough, it would appear as a gleaming rent in the dark sky. As if a god held them all in its gaze, she had heard more than once. It was silly and more than a little superstitious, but it was an image that could not be denied. Many drew comfort from the effect, but the newer arrivals still shuddered.

The Eye included the Spirit Tree—Atlantes Anima—and the Nymean Temple buried within the cliff itself. A set of grand stairs led from the Upper Hall of the Temple, hugging the towering cliff all the way to its base. The stairs were formed of blue-black stone, shaped into place by the Autarch himself over the course of one fitful night, and were wide enough to accommodate twenty people shoulder to shoulder along its entire length. Wooden statues had since been installed along the outer edge, gifts of the Henaari, depicting monsters with such startling skill that it seemed they would come to life at any moment. Each one was a monument to one of the Autarch’s defeated enemies, ranging from the banal to the truly terrifying.

It was a strange choice for decoration, but it served to keep many away from the Temple. Perhaps that was why Felix allowed them to remain. He was not one to brag about his accomplishments.

After the drama of the steps, the district referred to as The Foot began. While certainly not a noble name, it was pragmatic and factual. It boasted housing that clung to the base of the cliff, built into the stone in many places, and was highly desired for its proximity to the Temple as well as its relative scarcity. There was only so much space, after all, before one either ran into the river or the forests outside the town walls. This was where Zara’s home was built, and like many of the others had also been magically transmuted into the same blue-black stone, chased with glimmering red-gold veins. The material, commonly called Fiendstone now, stretched most of the way up the cliff itself, before petering out some fifty strides of the top. It was incredibly durable and despite the plain design of the buildings, the recent influx of nobles were feverishly trying to acquire even the meanest of dwellings there.

I am thankful that is not my problem to handle. Zara sipped her tea, while behind her the lilting voice of Chanter Isla continued unabated. Zara refrained from massaging the bridge of her nose by clenching her cup. I have enough on my hands as it is.

A chill wind stirred the powder between cobblestones, sending eddies down the winding streets of Elderthrone. Just beyond the Foot were two thick walls and wide gates, all made of Fiendstone, as were the barracks at the north and south ends of the town. Tiny fortresses to contain a growing Legion; soon another would be required. The town itself was swelling with people as they trickled in from Haarwatch, not to mention the influx of those that fled Ahkestria. The population was dense with all manner of Races, and for the first time in a decade Zara found herself in a place where Humans were in the minority.

Henaari, Nagas, Orc, Goblin, Yttin. Even the Risi, System-classified as monsters. So many are gathered here, advancing peacefully, all under his banner. That has to mean something.

All told, Felix’s fledgling reign was striking, expansive, and just the thing to impress her superiors—if he ever deigned to show up to their meetings.

“...and we have found a number of reagents once thought extinct. Redneedle and Metier’s Heart are abundant in the southern most reaches, while Mograss Cap can be found in nearly any spot hidden from the sun. A veritable treasure trove, one I have used to establish a large healing facility in the Wings.” Isla adjusted the sleeves of her elegantly embroidered dress, letting her accomplishments linger in the silence.

“The Wings?” Atop the circular table was a basin of beaten metal, and within it glowed a measure of potent liquid Mana. Suspended atop that liquid was a small head, formed of Mana into a simulacrum of their superior, Mauvim.

“The common living district of Elderthrone,” Isla supplied. “It is where my healing could help the greatest numbers.”

“And Felix? How has he responded to you establishing such a facility?”

“It…was his idea,” Isla admitted, her face twisting slightly. Zara hid her smile behind her teacup. “The boy is no master of Alchemy but he has remarkable talents. The potions that come from his Laboratory are effective and cheap to produce, allowing my facility to thrive.”

“A handy resource for the days to come,” Mauvim’s little head said, her wrinkled expression as always a bit more exaggerated in the basin. “And where is our intrepid Unbound now?”

Zara feigned inattention, looking to the streets below in futile hope. “What was that?”

“I asked if your charge is planning on missing this meeting, as he has all the rest?” The liquid Mana cast a soft white glow over the entirety of the small chamber. “I am growing impatient.”

The raucous sound of thunder crashed above, and Zara caught a bolt a blue-white lightning flash across the Spirit Tree’s dark canopy. Felix… He did not land at her door, nor on any part of the Foot—instead, the lightning had streaked toward the Temple itself. An unnecessary stop were he intending to head in their direction.

Zara clenched her sharp teeth for only a moment before schooling her features and Spirit. She turned back to the basin. “He appears to be waylaid once again.”

“That is twice now I’ve been ignored, Zara,” Mauvim said in her artificially thin voice. The face in the basin flickered, as if experiencing some interference. “The boy’s head swells with his Authority.”

Isla nodded sagely. “He is cavalier with the needs of others, I have noticed. He lacks the steadiness Michael exemplifies.”

Zara snorted. Beef was a kind boy and quite capable, but Isla was gilding the lily. “That comparison disregards the responsibility already thrust upon Felix’s shoulders.”

“You forget that Michael is involved in developing better Manaships. Crafts that will allow Nevarre’s armies far greater maneuverability, not to mention the benefits to trade.”

The Naiad opened her mouth, lips drawn back over her fangs. “Isla—”

“Enough,” Mauvim said, her tinny voice somehow booming in the small chamber. “I cannot wait. The waters draw near.”

“You mean—?” Isla asked, her delicate features brightening.

“Indeed. You must corral your charge, Zara. There are answers to be had, and soon.”

Zara bit back the words she wanted to relay, and instead bowed low. “Of course, Mauvim.”

“Dangerous days lie ahead.” she warned. “The Ruin rushes for us, but there are other tribulations coming that we cannot fail to weather.”

“The Hierocracy. Does it move?” Zara asked. “We have seen no sign of reprisals for their defeat.”

“They are thankfully preoccupied on many fronts.” The image flickered twice before resetting. “The waters are before me. I cannot wait. Keep those Unbound safe and on the path. We need them, but they need us to guide them through the growing dark. The Hierophant is not idle, even if they have not gathered another army. Dangers abound. As it was.”

"As it ever shall be.” The two junior Chanters spoke in near-unison. The basin went dark.

“Damnable rock!” A woman, veiled and wrapped in a dress of dark-blue, struggled up the wide stone steps. All at once, her cane slipped against the polished stone but hand thick with callouses caught her by the elbow.

“Let me aid you, Lil—”

“Do not use that name, fool!” the woman hissed, clawing into the man’s arm with her too-thin fingers. She dragged herself back to standing, ignoring her companion’s wince of pain. “Or do you wish to waste all our effort with a single, mumble-mouthed utterance?”

“Sorry…Ophelia,” he said, and it was notable that the oaf did not draw away from her harsh grip. If anything, he stood closer as he glanced behind them. “But you must not strain yourself. You know the healers’ warnings.”

The woman bit back a retort designed to flay the skin from her companions bones…and sighed. “You are right, Rodrik.” She patted his hand and ignored the foolish smile that spread across his face. “A rarity. Do not revel in it.”

“Of course.” Rodrick inclined his shaved head and lifted his arm in tandem. His smile did not fade. “After you, my lady.”

Ophelia wished to adjust the veil across her face and shoulders, but with one hand trapped in Rodrick’s cloddish grip and the other managing her cane she was forced to ascend. Perhaps she could have stopped, but that neither favored her injured leg nor the crowd that had bunched up behind them. Whispers had started to fly from the moment she’d stumbled, and no doubt in the morning there would be talk of Ophelia and Rodrick upon the Temple’s staircase. Already she could pick out snippets from the crowd—romantic drivel, mostly. Nothing to be done about it now, but her lips pursed in annoyance and no little nervousness.

I would rather be invisible, but crippled is as close as I can manage. She ignored the savage burn in her legs and torso, made all the worse by the forced march up such ridiculous steps. I must use what I can.

She had not escaped death twice to be foiled here, within sight of her goals.

The stone beneath her feet pulsed with each step, so lightly that those without mage training might miss it. She did not. It was the red-gold that veined the dark marble, brightening within a finger-span of each person’s footfalls. Ophelia watched it with a derision that grew by the moment. The stone was a magical marvel, the entirety of the blighted town was, and to know in whose hands it laid drew a bitter note from her soul.

The monstrous, wooden statues that lined the edge were better markers for the Autarch’s character. Each one leered down at all those that traveled from the Foot, carved with such fidelity that it seemed their eyes burned with true malice. When she saw the horrific visage of a Revenant, she had frozen in true terror. The awful moment had passed, but it was burnt into her Mind, an indelible affirmation of her desire to do what must be done.

Gasps filled the air as those above reached the final landing, and Ophelia banished useless thoughts and hastened their ascent. Rodrick gave a half-hearted protest but followed, as he always did.

“By the light,” he huffed. It was a deep bellows exhale, and the man’s face was transformed with wonder.

A waterfall thundered to her immediate right, cascading from far above to crash into the river hundreds of spans below. That she had not heard it until they had crested the steps was an impressive feat, considering its size and proximity. More notable still was the wide vista that greeted every person that climbed the Temple’s tortuous steps. An opening in the wall, framed with raw stone, displayed a breathtaking view of the River Eile. Snow fell in the distance, a pale blanketing that was fading with the dimming sun. No wet or chill permeated the space, either from winds or water. Ophelia spotted a series of thin sigils carved all around the opening. She focused and perceived a thin barrier of blue Mana, though the effort cost her quite a bit of Mana.

“It is…sufficient,” she allowed.

The Upper Hall itself was perhaps forty strides in width and twice that in length, and lined with hexagonal pillars the same bluff color as the non-magical rock of the cliff outside. Between many of the pillars were alcoves filled with colorful mosaics, those nearest depicting men and women in armored robes and bearing stars in their hands. A number of people—artisans, craftsmen—were busy repairing one of the mosaics. It looked to have been damaged by a severe impact and burned, perhaps by fire or lightning.

The space was otherwise filled with messengers and servants carrying various supplies to and fro. Visitors abounded, many of them simply looking around the Hall. A clutch of Gnomes carried baskets of food about, filled with bread and fruits that they handed out carelessly to workers and visitors alike.

Carvings of leaves and vines predominated wherever the wall met the floor or ceiling, and steady golden magelights hovered above. The floor itself was cut into stars, each one fitting into another like a strange puzzle that led the eye across the Hall, to a number of doors surmounted by three pointed archways. The largest door was fashioned of a verdant metal and decorated with more robed figures.

Nym. She recognized them, and the stars they carried. He truly made a Nymean Temple his Stronghold.

She would have been impressed were she not so disgusted. Not of the Nym, for all that their name was synonymous with deadly danger, but for he who had claimed their legacy.

You are not worth this, butcher.

In the center, so dominant that she could not avoid it, was the trunk of a Spirit Tree. It soared in from above, through an uneven hole in the ceiling, and took up a large swath of the floor and far wall. It struck her in a way that the rest of the marvels around them did not, and as the mindless supplicants filtered into the Upper Hall, she stood transfixed.

I…can feel its presence. It was like a balm upon the air, a sweetness she couldn’t taste with her tongue but her Spirit. An almost irresistible urge to touch its rough bark welled up within her, but sight of its base put that out of her mind immediately. A wide structure made of blue-black Fiendstone clung to the point where Tree and floor met, twenty feet tall and almost completely flat on every side she could perceive. It bore a heavy door on a single side and was guarded by no less than six journeyman soldiers.

So many strong soldiers to waste on guard duty. Before it fell, the Guild had feted Journeyman Tiers and gave them positions of power and grandeur. They were worth more respect than standing beside a door. It was yet another example of the fraud mismanaging his resources.

“Ah, I do not see the Autarch,” a finely-dressed man near Ophelia’s side said. His face was a curious mixture of relief and disappointment. “Must we wait?”

A woman at his side, outfitted to compliment the man, sniffed. “What else would you do? Go back down and live in the outer district? That Wing place? Or perhaps with the child-thieves or the ice monsters?”

Ophelia rolled her eyes. She had inserted herself into a group of supplicants treading the Fiend’s steps as part of her plan, but their inane prattle had nearly driven her to leap off the side. Thirty in all, they were minor nobility that had relocated from Haarwatch in the hopes that they would find greater favor with the ruler of the Territory than the blunt disregard of Lady Boscal. Most of them were begging for housing among the Foot, planning to offer tribute of gold and silver or even enchanted items in exchange. Ophelia had heard their pitiful plans on the way up, and she had nothing but contempt for them.

Fools. Felix Nevarre had no kindness in his soul. He was a predator.

She had the scars to prove it.

Ophelia adjusted her veil and the number of amulets and rings that were hidden just below the cover of fabric. Their enchantments buzzed against her skin, but were supposedly undetectable by others, in addition to disguising her emotions. Rodrick had a similar set on himself. They were provided specifically by her benefactor. Her savior. She would put them to good use.

“Rodrick. Let us find—”

With a blinding crash, lightning struck in the center of the Upper Hall.

Screams filled the Hall for only a second as the supplicants around her cowered against the walls, throwing up whisper thin wardings. Ophelia herself stumbled back, too surprised to muster any defense, but Rodrick stepped in front of her with his arms raised. Dusty-brown earth Mana surged around his palms and feet. “My lady, take cover.”

She growled and smacked him on the back. “Stand down, oaf. Look.”

The lightning had faded, and in its place stood Felix Nevarre, Autarch of Nagast.

“Oh, sorry about that,” he said, smiling in a way that Ophelia hated. That she found it charming only made her more angry. “Forgot people are in here, sometimes.”

The bastard was wearing some sort of fleece-lined laborer’s coat and thick trousers. He would have looked almost normal, were it not for his being half a span taller than he had been before and considerably more broad across the shoulders.

“W-what happened to him? How?” Rodrick stuttered. “His hands…”

Ophelia stared at the Autarch’s savage claws. They were black as midnight and belied his true nature. “Monster,” she whispered.

The wretched nobles around her watched in fear and awe, unspeaking and unmoving. After a few heartbeats, the man’s apologetic grin faded into something more stoic before he simply turned and walked away.

“Go! Before he leaves again!” the waspish woman ordered, slapping at her husband’s balding pate.

As if it were the starting bell of a race, the group surged forward, only to meet a sudden wall of jagged ice.

“Step away from the Autarch,” intoned a heavy voice. A literal giant, fifteen strides tall if he were a span, had interposed himself between the throng and his liege. He wore a cloak and cowl of purple, and his armor was made of some sort of bone, fashioned into scale mail. As if they were imitating their master.

“Thank you, Veddi.” Felix said, and Ophelia watched the man walk away. He spoke over his shoulder. “I don’t have time to speak today, but my friend here will guide you to my…liason, Alister Knacht.”

Ophelia stepped back at that name, fighting the urge to tug at her veil as a man in blue battlerobes stepped from the general crowd. “Yes, well, I was on my break, but I suppose duty always calls.” He smiled, and Ophelia felt her stomach flop when his gaze crossed hers…before moving on. “I suppose you are here to inquire about housing.”

Rodrick put a large hand on her shoulder. “Lil—Ophelia, we need to leave.”

She gave him a look that, even through her veil, made the man flinch. “And waste the time and effort climbing those stairs? No. He did not recognize us. Besides, our business is not with my dear cousin.”

Ophelia looked beyond the crowd, toward the Spirit Tree where the Autarch disappeared into the fortified building. Its door opened and closed without making a single sound.

“Good. He’s gone as well. Come, oaf.”

Off to the side, set up against the far wall, three structures had been constructed of wood. They were beautifully decorated and carved with ravens, foxes, and odd crawling…things on it. Ophelia blinked as she approached. Within each structure were three figures in distinctive dress, their appearances matching the sign that hung above them.

Forge, Glyph, and Alchemy. Crafting Hall representatives.

Ophelia approached a Henaari woman wearing a quilted jacket and apron stained with innumerable concoctions. “Hello, I would like to become an Alchemist.”

Felix Nevarre was not worthy of his gifts.

Ophelia—no. Lilian Knacht would take them from him.