《Thanastis》 Chapter 1 Moryac Aletor Thalor, Third Thaumaturge of the Grand Thanastis Mausoleum¡¯s Fifth Rung, sat for the first time in sixteen bells and sighed. The soft whine and occasional buzz of scrying discs and crystal balls threatened to lull him to sleep. Pleasant noises, all, now that most of the major fires were put out. Strange. The ambience typically faded into the background. On normal nights, his fellow thaumaturges inspected, reinforced, and maintained the Mausoleum¡¯s grand workings at their individual leisure. On normal nights, its wards and boundaries hummed steadily, as they did for hundreds of years, and would likely do so for hundreds more despite the concerted efforts of nature, time, and dwindling manpower. On normal nights, he could get some sleep. Moryac reached for his magic. He raised a hand, fingers thrumming with violet energy, drew his cabal¡¯s sigil in the air, and waited. The sanctum¡ªa communal one, shared with four other thaumaturges¡ªcame to life as it sensed one of its masters. Rows of candles flickered to life, bathing the room a deep indigo. Leatherbound volumes flew off shelves and onto his desk, opening to the last pages they remembered him reading. The scrying discs and crystal balls rearranged to match his preferences: a few near his workbench, set to look at key wards of the Fifth Rung, with the rest orbiting him. Not that he planned on looking at them. Or heading anywhere, for that matter. He clapped quietly and set his kettle to boil. The soft crackle of witchflame had grown a little too familiar for his liking, but in exactly two minutes, it would ready his tea. Moryac twitched into a semblance of wakefulness and shivered as one of his smaller workings jolted him awake. Hypnotic suggestions, visual and auditory, that simulated sudden, random, and disorienting movements, much akin to waking up to the sensation of falling down. Relatively harmless, and a measure that was intended to be used rarely¡ªyet this particular enchantment had stayed necessary for two days. Moryac clicked his tongue, whispered, then weaved a lesser working around himself in lieu of a blanket. Before he could settle in his desk, reality shrieked. Space-time tore like glass scratching glass. The air grew damp. Moryac¡¯s skin prickled as the spatial rift¡¯s residue tried to tear through his wards. A construct, three heads taller than Moryac and roughly twice as wide, stepped out. ¡°Lord Thalor,¡± his fellow thaumaturge growled through a skull-shaped faceplate. Moryac sighed. ¡°Ash-Eater. How are you?¡± ¡°I am well,¡± the construct rumbled, each low-pitched syllable distorted by creaking gears and clanking pistons. Its eyes pulsed in mesmeric patterns, and if Moryac focused on them long enough, it gave him headaches. Ash-Eater scanned Moryac from head to toe. It harrumphed in satisfaction, though for what, Moryac was unsure. ¡°Operational efficiency is within acceptable thresholds.¡± Moryac was unsure if the construct was talking about itself. ¡°Your presence is requested,¡± Ash-Eater continued. ¡°The necrohounds¡¯ stasis wards fail. We are on the brink of catastrophe. Lord Itheron requests aid.¡± Moryac raised an eyebrow. ¡°They could escape and start eating the workers, I suppose.¡± ¡°Yes,¡± Ash-Eater growled. Hells. That was likely due to them siphoning excess power off of auxiliary wards to reinforce the upper decks¡¯ failing generators. Moryac frowned. Less excess power than they thought. Their calculations were wrong, then, despite what he assumed were conservative estimates. At least it was a smaller fire than usual. What other systems were affected? He would have to send scrying constructs to inspect other subsections. He took a deep breath, focused, and drew in the Mausoleum¡¯s magic. Moryac quickly felt its pull¡ªa thousand thrumming threads tugging at his skin. He seized them and pulled back. Some of the candles blew out, only to come back to life within moments. Air swirled around him. A delicate layer of frost coated the ground near him, but his heating enchantment held steady. Ice flooded his veins, exhilarating yet deeply alien. Deeply wrong. Like a sunset without a sun. Not of his own reserves. No matter. Those were running low tonight, and he never had much to begin with. Within seconds, Moryac was wide-eyed and bursting with renewed energy. He stood, stretched, and reached for his satchel. Still, it wasn¡¯t the same. Though his fellow thaumaturges theorized that wielding the Mausoleum¡¯s ambient power could potentially allow one to stay awake indefinitely¡ªperhaps even completely eschew basic sustenance¡ªhe was willing to trade just about anything for a warm bed. The crash after borrowing the Mausoleum¡¯s power was never pleasant. Moryac waved a hand and chanted, snuffing out the candles. For a moment, he contemplated letting the kettle boil over¡ªsurely, he could return in time for tea, yes?¡ªbut shook his head. He settled on letting it cool. ¡°Lead the way,¡± he said. Ash-Eater rumbled, its hydraulics hissing as it came to life. His form glowed with the Mausoleum¡¯s dark indigo as he rose a half-fuhm off the ground. Moryac¡¯s clothes billowed against a nonexistent breeze, and the Mausoleum¡¯s whispered temptations were ignored once more. He wouldn¡¯t fall for that again. Ash-Eater¡¯s torso opened, revealing the bright-red gemstone that served as his core. It thrummed with magic, sparks of volatile energy arcing outwards. ¡°We will need to tune you up, soon,¡± Moryac said. The construct looked at him and made a hammering noise. Metal on metal, echoing somewhere deep inside it. Agreement, perhaps. It opened a portal and Moryac glided in.
Lord Threxan Itheron, to Moryac¡¯s bemusement, was halfway into a necrohound¡¯s gullet. Moryac¡¯s gaze swept across the room. Fragments from several dozen skeletons called to assist with corralling the necrohounds were scattered about, slowly dragging themselves together in a doomed attempt to reassemble. It likely wouldn¡¯t work¡ªthe workers¡¯ enchantments barely held, and the colossal necrohounds were designed to tear through magic and mundane alike. He drew in some magic and made a mental note to reassemble them later. ¡°Mors?¡± Lord Itheron said, voice muffled as the teething necrohound shook its head. ¡°Mors, is that you? Can you give me a hand?¡± ¡°Let me get my apron,¡± Moryac said. ¡°What? Please, Mors, it¡¯s disgusting in here,¡± Threxan said. ¡°Like month-old sewage. Do hurry.¡± Moryac sniffed. ¡°Oh, those were the hounds? A hundred apologies, Lord Itheron. My mistake. I could¡¯ve sworn it was your cologne.¡± ¡°Just hurry, will you?¡± Threxan said. His legs flapped about, causing the necrohound to growl. ¡°I should probably look for a mop and bucket, first,¡± Moryac said as he traced a series of sigils in the air. Threxan sighed. ¡°Of all the times to grow a sense of humor, you pick now?¡± The necrohound sensed Moryac¡¯s work, glared at him through burning, glassy eyes, and snarled. It gave Threxan a good shake, then spat the colleague aside in a rolling glob of drool and ichor. The ground shook as its claws hammered and raked against stone. It darted, crossing the room in two heartbeats, scattering chunks of the flooring in its wake. The battering ram of knitted, dead sinew and snapping teeth roared, but passed harmlessly through Moryac¡¯s image. It dissipated upon contact with the necrohound. The beast looked around. It barked, spraying slobber and ichor in its mindless wroth. Its steps wobbled. A few seconds later, it fell to its side, snoring. Moryac crossed his arms. He always found it amusing how necromantic constructs unconsciously imitated living habits. ¡°How many escaped?¡± Moryac said, his illusion peeling back with a shimmer. He opened his inner eye. The stasis wards showed signs of fraying. ¡°Just the two,¡± Threxan replied. He gathered his magic, and with a brush of his hands, swept clean the fluids on his person, collecting it into a harmless blob that he flicked to the side. Not a single hair or thread out of place, Moryac noted. ¡°Got the first one,¡± Threxan continued, ¡°but the second snuck up behind me.¡± ¡°Good work,¡± Moryac hummed in acknowledgement. He walked alongside the walls, eyes closed, hand trailing against stone. Moryac willed his sixth sense through the Mausoleum¡¯s bones. Threxan snapped his fingers. Several portals opened. Skeletal workers spilled through and began collecting their brethren¡¯s bones. He looked at Moryac. ¡°What do you think? More wear?¡± ¡°More wear,¡± Moryac nodded. ¡°The whole day has been like this,¡± Threxan shook his head. ¡°One problem after another. How bad?¡± Moryac hummed. ¡°It will hold for anywhere between two weeks to six months, depending on the strain placed on this wing¡¯s thaumic generators. The necrohound tombs¡¯ aetheric alignment is completely off and needs to be retuned. Pressure and interference bleed from nearby subsections due to the weakening of their respective boundaries, which would also greatly appreciate additional care,¡± he trailed off. If he worked quickly and was given a crew of workers¡ªsentient ones, not skeletons¡ªhe could drag them into fixing a few other projects long left in the backburner. Dare he ask? ¡°Among other things. We would need to relocate this wing¡¯s inhabitants elsewhere and weave replacement wards from scratch.¡± ¡°In the middle of a conquest? Have you gone mad?¡± Threxan gasped. ¡°The Dark Mother demands her armies to be combat-ready.¡± ¡°As she has done for the last three years,¡± Moryac agreed. ¡°I¡¯m sure she could spare a moment.¡± Threxan crossed his arms. ¡°A full rebuild could take months. Melkaros wouldn¡¯t be too happy about that, I imagine.¡± Moryac shrugged. ¡°Not if you ask him. He¡¯s soft on you.¡± ¡°Well, of course he is!¡± Threxan scoffed, then saluted, fist over heart. ¡°Who wouldn¡¯t be? House Itheron prides itself in charisma and keen wit. We are merchants, diplomats, and paragons of virtue, Mors.¡± ¡°His gaze tends to linger somewhat,¡± Moryac paused as he searched for an appropriate word, ¡°lower.¡± ¡°Oh?¡± Threxan smiled, straightened his back, and adjusted his half-robe¡¯s collar. He made a show of rolling up his sleeves. ¡°That another would notice my new training regimen is rather flattering, and humbling besides. I do believe my shoulders are showing greater definition these days.¡± ¡°Melkaros would be deeply interested in help with a training regimen,¡± Moryac¡¯s said. ¡°He¡¯s eagerly looking for a partner, last I recall.¡± ¡°Excellent!¡± Threxan said. ¡°I shall ask him, posthaste. As a scion of House Itheron, I am duty-bound to aid in the betterment of my peers¡¯ overall quality of life. Training builds discipline and control, and I¡¯ve found it a fine balm to self-indulgence. Restraint and moderation, Mors. Diligence is key!¡± ¡°I¡¯m sure he would be thrilled, Lord Itheron,¡± Moryac drew in more magic and patched the frayed ward. It would hold, at least for another day. ¡°He would benefit much. Melkaros oft regales me about his wishes to indulge. Now, about those wards¡ª¡± ¡°¡®A healthy body is the first step to a healthy mind,¡¯ as I always say,¡± Threxan nodded sagely. ¡°I shall ask him. You should join us, too! Hells know you could use a bit of sinew.¡± ¡°I would hate to intrude in your privacy,¡± Moryac said. ¡°Nonsense!¡± Threxan scoffed. ¡°Teaching two people simultaneously is no trouble at all for the likes of me.¡± ¡°It is Melkaros I worry for,¡± Moryac said grimly. ¡°While I dare not doubt your skill, I believe the additional attention towards him from a more intimate, one-on-one session would do more overall good than having to,¡± Moryac cleared his throat, ¡°share you.¡± ¡°A fair point,¡± Threxan conceded. ¡°Very well. Once he overcomes his bashfulness, we shall work on yours.¡± Melkaros? Bashful? Not in the slightest. Himself? Moryac supposed that was one possible interpretation. He shrugged. Moryac hummed. ¡°So, about rebuilding those wards¡ª¡± The space next to Threxan ripped open with a bloody shriek. Both of their protective wards strained and flickered at the arrival. ¡°Lord Thalor,¡± Ash-Eater growled as it materialized. ¡°Lord Itheron. Crises abound. The Crypt of Pale Mist¡¯s seals weaken. Cascading failures are imminent. Zheel¡¯ymh-Cabalist-Sixty-Three requests thaumaturgical assistance with repairs to the antilight conduits. She says heat dissipation falls below acceptable thresholds.¡± ¡°Jolly,¡± Threxan said. Moryac nodded. ¡°I will head to the crypt,¡± Threxan decided. ¡°I rather enjoy speaking with its denizens on the rare chance they awaken. They have such colorful opinions on the Battle of Kuangamiza Stronghold, you know? Fascinating insights, once you get them to calm down. It has been too long,¡± he chuckled. ¡°Though I suppose for them, it has been less than a few minutes. Fare thee well, Mors. You have my eternal gratitude!¡± ¡°Best of luck,¡± Moryac said. Threxan drew in the Mausoleum¡¯s power, began floating, and saluted. ¡°Come, Ash-Eater! Into the breach!¡± Ash-Eater¡¯s mechanisms snapped open and hummed as it opened a shrieking rift. Threxan kicked off and darted into it. ¡°Suppose that¡¯s my cue,¡± Moryac said. He felt Ash-Eater¡¯s gaze before the construct opened another portal. Moryac checked the wards a final time. He sensed unhealthy flickers and pliability, but he had other cats to skin. They would have to hold. Sighing, he returned to his mundane sight and stepped in.
The antilight was contained swiftly enough. Leaks in the conduits set three repair constructs aflame, which would take ages to repair. The potent witchfire was successfully transferred onto the Heart of Galvanor¡ªan amulet created by an ancient pyromancer¡ªthrough a location-displacement spell. It should, in theory, dissipate on its own after a decade or so, with the amulet¡¯s magical resistance winning against the antilight¡¯s corrosive properties. Moryac shoved it into his personal storage dimension for later inspection. Melkaros mentioned roughly seven years back that there were plans to retrofit some of the older infrastructure, including the outdated antilight pumps. Perhaps he was due for a reminder. Next, Moryac traveled to the northwestern blocks of the Fifth Rung, where the soldiers of the XXVIth Eternal Phalanx showed signs of distress. Zheel¡¯ymh-Cabalist-Sixty-Three and her sisters tagged along, forming an odd party with him, which he more than welcomed as the spare hands were a great boon. The repairs were delayed somewhat, as the contained soldiers¡¯ spectral wails drove two of Sixty-Three¡¯s younger sisters into an unstoppable rage. They began clawing at each other. Thankfully, Moryac managed to subdue them before any lasting harm could be done. After creating wards to protect the group from madness, they stabilized the crypt¡ªMoryac held the stasis fields together as the sisters placed the escaped soldiers back into their coffins. All was well, until one of the auxiliary thaumic engines began to sputter out. ¡°Could you pass me my hammer?¡± Sixty-Three said, her pincers clicking in deep thought. ¡°The ball-pein one. Oh, and the three-mihm chisel, please.¡± Moryac gestured, causing the tools to drift towards Sixty-Three¡¯s claws. She grunted in thanks. His magic circle was nearly completed, too. Smooth arrays of sigils, circles, and runes were drawn onto the new engine¡¯s core with his own blood. It took too long to get Melkaros¡¯ approval for the requisition of a new one, and the old lich had the gall to ask him for a timeline! ¡°Sixty-Four! How goes your side of the engine?¡± Sixty-Three buzzed. ¡°Nearly complete!¡± Sixty-Four replied. ¡°Just need to realign the thaumic discs. About a hundred heartbeats!¡± ¡°Seventy-One?¡± Sixty-Three clicked loudly. ¡°Connections all bolted on, my sister,¡± the younger one replied solemnly. ¡°Continuity detected in each segment. No faults found. I offer this demonstration of craftsmanship to the Hive-Queen. Praise Zheel.¡± ¡°Good! Help Sixty-Seven!¡± Sixty-Three said. ¡°Sisters! Sisters!¡± one of the smaller Zheel¡¯ymh said. Sixty-Eight? Could be Sixty-Five, Moryac thought. From where he stood, it was difficult to tell them apart. The smaller sister froze mid-task and dropped her tools. ¡°Sixty-Five?¡± Sixty-Three asked. Sixty-Five clutched her head, drooling. Her antennae twitched erratically. The worker whimpered at first, then screamed, causing the other Zheel¡¯ymh to look up in alarm. She repeatedly pounded her claws against the ground. ¡°The walls, sisters!¡± she bellowed, her voice warped. She pointed in random directions, joints bending in impossible angles as her fingers followed something invisible moving among them. ¡°They speak to me! They move! What do they want? Why do they watch?¡± She shrieked, then looked wildly around the room. ¡°They see all!¡± Her mouth and pincers moved frantically. Multiple voices echoed out, both hers and others. ¡°Blood of the Dark Mother,¡± Sixty-Three cursed. ¡°Lord Thalor!¡± Moryac darted towards the possessed sister, sidestepped a near-decapitating claw swipe, and tackled her. He thanked the stars that Sixty-Five was one of the smaller ones. Calling upon the Mausoleum¡¯s magic, he put his palm on her forehead. Moryac glimpsed through his third eye. Not particularly strong spirits; likely strays from their journey, though certainly malevolent. The sisters instinctively covered their ears. Moryac spoke three syllables in the Midnight Cant, each one attempting to tear through his personal ward, then channeled their effects towards Sixty-Five to dispel the wayward ghosts. A gust of freezing wind blasted through the chamber. Schematics and tools flew about. Some of the smaller Zheel¡¯ymh were knocked aside. After several, too-long heartbeats, Sixty-Five toppled backwards, eyes blank in exhaustion and shock. ¡°Give her half a bell,¡± Moryac said. ¡°She will be fine.¡± ¡°My thanks,¡± Sixty-Three nodded, then looked at each sister. She clapped her claws. ¡°Back to work! We have a deadline!¡± Moryac snorted as he continued to draw his circle. ¡°If other subsections break down, they break down. We are near the end of the night. No need to work your clutch past its limits.¡± ¡°Our efforts venerate the Divine Architect,¡± Sixty-Three said dismissively. She raised her hammer high. ¡°We work! We build! Diligence is our blood! Praise Zheel!¡±This book is hosted on another platform. Read the official version and support the author''s work. The rest of her sisters whooped and yelled praises. ¡°Indeed,¡± Moryac said. ¡°Praise Zheel.¡± ¡°You know, Lord Thalor,¡± Sixty-Three said as she continued chiseling sigils onto the base of the thaumic engine. Precise work, as expected of a veteran Zheel¡¯ymh. ¡°Occasional whining aside, you would have made a great clutch-sister.¡± ¡°Oh? What¡¯s stopping me?¡± Moryac said. ¡°You lack an outer shell,¡± Sixty-Three replied. ¡°Two less limbs, as well. Inefficient. Limited. Unsuitable for hazardous work without your magic.¡± Moryac looked up. ¡°That¡¯s it? Not because I¡¯m male?¡± Sixty-Three¡¯s eyes widened. ¡°You¡¯re not female?¡± ¡°No,¡± Moryac said as he poured some of his magic into the circle. It thrummed to life, bathing the room in a soft, violet glow. The Zheel¡¯ymh sisters went quiet¡ªtheir antennae collectively twitched, a sign of retreat into their telepathic bonds. Moryac looked at them. ¡°Wait, did all of you think I was a girl this whole time?¡± Several of the sisters fidgeted and exchanged bemused looks. ¡°What is a ¡®girl?¡¯¡± Sixty-Three asked. ¡°Another term for ¡®female,¡¯¡± Moryac replied. ¡°Typically referring to those younger than twenty summers. Which I am neither of.¡± ¡°I see,¡± Sixty-Three said. The thaumic engine chamber rang with the din of hammers, chisels, and collective disbelief. ¡°What made you think I was female?¡± said Moryac. ¡°You are wise and incredibly skilled,¡± Sixty-Three replied. ¡°Were you in a clutch, none would contest your authority.¡± ¡°I see,¡± Moryac said, crossing his arms. ¡°Your competence despite your maleness is no less impressive in our eyes,¡± Sixty-Three quickly added. ¡°Rest assured, Lord Thalor, that even with your intrinsic limits, our respect for you diminishes not one whit.¡± The rest of the sisters muttered agreements. One of them walked behind him, patted his back, and gave a reassuring nod. The hammering of tools and clicking of joints continued. ¡°So,¡± Sixty-Three studied him, tone cautious, ¡°how long have you been male?¡± ¡°Pardon?¡± Moryac said. ¡°Apologies,¡± Sixty-Three¡¯s pincers clicked in worry. ¡°Is this a sensitive subject?¡± ¡°No, it¡¯s quite alright,¡± Moryac replied. ¡°I¡¯ve been male since birth.¡± The sisters looked at each other and murmured. ¡°So,¡± Sixty-Three hazarded, ¡°you have never once been female?¡± Moryac shrugged. ¡°Not to my knowledge.¡± ¡°Fascinating,¡± Sixty-Four said. ¡°Her¡ªno, wait, his?¡ªlife must have been fraught with hardship¡­¡± ¡°To think, he could easily pass as female,¡± added another of the sisters. Moryac raised an eyebrow. ¡°Truly, despite their numerous flaws, humanity proves its resilience time and again,¡± said a third. ¡°A testament to endurance,¡± Seventy-One agreed. ¡°Perhaps he is Zheel¡¯ymh in soul, if not in flesh?¡± ¡°Sisters, we are missing the point,¡± Sixty-Three said. ¡°Lord Thalor is a sign that the systems designed by the Dark Mother work flawlessly,¡± she inspected her chisel-work and nodded. ¡°He taught me how to read sigils in Midnight Cant. Imagine, sisters: a male, teaching!¡± Her sisters exchanged solemn nods. ¡°That he, of all people, could be elevated to an honorable station is possible only through Her will,¡± Sixty-Three continued. ¡°Hive-Queen Zheel may engineer grand structures, but the Dark Mother engineers the very bones of society!¡± The sisters clicked excitedly and continued working, their efforts redoubled. Moryac sighed. Minutes passed in relative peace as each sister finished their respective task. Sixty-Three and Sixty-Four, her second, inspected each component for issues. They looked at Moryac and gave a thumbs-up. To his amusement, neither Zheel¡¯ymh were sure of how to make the gesture¡ªthey held their thumb-claw up, but the rest of their digits were stretched open, as if looking for a handshake. Once their entire clutch had collected their tools and stood clear, Moryac summoned his staff and began the ignition process. The staff, aptly named the Staff of Thalor, was as tall as him. A smooth, birch-and-gold piece encrusted with thaumic emeralds. It glowed with coruscating, green geometry as it materialized, and Moryac always felt it was a little too eager for his liking. The symbol of House Thalor decorated its head¡ªsix stars arrayed like a halo around the silhouette of a hawk. It was his badge of office as one of the Dark Mother¡¯s thaumaturges. With a breath, he called upon the Mausoleum¡¯s power. The staff thrummed, warping the air around it as magic coursed through its length. The sisters stood silently as energy swirled across the room. The Ritual of Ignition began. He chanted, trying his best to ignore the voices chanting alongside him. Moryac was unsure where they came from. Other thaumaturges from other timelines was Melkaros¡¯ best guess. Sound went first, followed by light. Moryac stifled the unease from feeling each sense stretch beyond time. One by one, physical laws warped and bent as the staff and thaumic engine attempted to trap extraplanar energies within a paradox, to be reused for years to come. With his inner eye, Moryac sensed some of the newer sisters¡¯ panic, followed by the calming buzz of their hive-mind reassuring them that this was fairly routine. Heat and darkness enveloped the room, and though the Staff of Thalor¡¯s gems glowed brightly, its light never reached further than a few ihms out. The room¡¯s occupants felt time slip, simultaneously a fraction of a moment and a whole eternity. Eventually, light and sound returned, though Moryac ignored the nagging feeling that it may have been present the whole time. He heard one of the newer sisters laugh nervously. Another offered her prayers to Zheel and the Dark Mother. In the middle of the room, the thaumic engine hummed quietly, magical energy arcing from its center to the outer discs. The entire assembly, though new and unblemished during installation, was instead riddled with scuffs and scratches, as if having been a part of the Mausoleum for centuries. Something to do with how the thaumic engine existed simultaneously in the future and the past across all possibilities, according to Melkaros, but, more importantly, a sign that it worked. Moryac and Sixty-Three looked at each other. Both nodded in relief. He tapped the staff against the ground thrice, causing it to float for a few heartbeats before disappearing elsewhere. Likely his House¡¯s ancestral vaults. No matter. He should really look into where it liked to go, as well as stop taking its presence for granted, but it always came when needed. He held his breath and listened. No shrieking, hellish rifts in space-time. No warping of reality into eerie shapes. No Ash-Eater. Just the smooth whirr of the thaumic engine and the echo of the Zheel¡¯ymh sisters¡¯ chatter. Two of them hauled the unconscious, muttering Sixty-Five out of the chamber. Moryac looked quietly through his inner eye and saw no trace of possession. ¡°Well then, Lord Thalor,¡± Sixty-Three saluted. ¡°We shall return to our nest. Please do not hesitate to call on us.¡± Moryac returned the salute, to Sixty-Three¡¯s amusement. ¡°It was a pleasure working with you, Honored Sister. Do keep me informed of Sixty-Five¡¯s situation.¡± Sixty-Three nodded. ¡°You should consider visiting sometime. We have confections and much to talk about regarding human customs. Your expertise would be appreciated.¡± ¡°That sounds fine,¡± he said. ¡°I shall make arrangements.¡± They clasped forearms. To his surprise, Sixty-Three¡¯s touch was firm, but lacked the original bone-crushing grip she once used as a neophyte. ¡°Farewell,¡± Sixty-Three said, then turned to follow her sisters out the chamber. Moryac looked around and listened. Still no Ash-Eater. Dare he hope? He left the thaumic engine chamber after final inspections and sealed the room. What will be, will be, he thought. Moryac glided down the hallway, aglow with the Mausoleum¡¯s energies and anticipating the worst.
The kettle whistled to a boil. Moryac poured its contents into his favorite mug, steeping a mixture of herbs that swirled in a serene circle. Would that he could be like tea leaves, bobbing along the eddy. He took in the fragrance, the warmth, and the pleasant bitterness, then exhaled. Moryac flicked his hand. The tea set floated lazily, following him towards his workbench, and he waited a full four minutes before taking a sip. Moryac hummed in satisfaction. He was a creature of comfort, through and through. The grimoire he read detailed an unexamined portion of the central crypts¡¯ wards¡ªthe very foundation of the Mausoleum¡¯s mystical framework. Over the centuries, the grand structure that served as a resting place for the Dark Mother¡¯s dread legions had grown from a single, looming tower into a multi-tiered city of tunnels and spires. Bones of polished marble stretched outwards, held taut by metal tendon and resin sinew. Its outer walls were routinely scoured by the Thanastis¡¯ caustic winds, day after day, only to be rebuilt each time by devout hands toward ever greater heights¡ªan engorged locust molting in the dead of summer. More crypts for Her ever-growing armies, venerated and eager to serve beyond death, would sprout throughout the years. One after the other, like weeds after tepid rain. More, and more, and more, until it had stopped being a mausoleum. Until it had become the Mausoleum. As the Mausoleum¡¯s physical body grew, however, so, too, did its soul; wards were stacked upon wards, carefully constructed to avoid interference. To not disturb its cherished dead. It had seen many a thaumaturge come and go, and with each one the nuance behind the more innovative repairs done to the great structure. Moryac himself had served for nearly seventy years, though he didn¡¯t look it as the Mausoleum¡¯s magic had long fused with his own. It seemed to want him and his cabal alive, though there were days where he felt otherwise. Shifting corridors leading travelers astray. Chambers that stay locked for days, even weeks, only to open to a long lost room or a new one not in any of the maps. Direction and time bending in odd ways. Once, the Mausoleum trapped his cabal in a loop within the Vault of Whispers, and though it took them only half an hour to get out, six days had passed outside. Was the Mausoleum playing coy, or did it simply stop caring about its living inhabitants? Capricious thing. Either way, he could scarcely remember the repairs he had done during his early years as an apprentice. What of the work done by his predecessors? What of the knowledge from the Mausoleum¡¯s founding? Moryac thought to himself as he sifted through a set of scrolls he borrowed from the Fourth Rung¡¯s cabal. Damnable martyred undead, he thought. Damnable armies. Many of the souls held in stasis were far too resilient or mighty for the rituals that held them, which frayed the wards, which, in turn, frayed other wards. Surely, among the countless worlds under Her purview, the Dark Mother could afford live bodies to throw at Her battle lines? It would have certainly made his job easier. He supposed it created a lesser net loss of life, reusing fallen assets. A lesser net loss of potential, too¡ªthe mind may degrade over the centuries, but it was far better than nothing. Soldiers with an unyielding desire to protect. Scholars at the precipice of breakthrough, bargaining for more time. From the way Threxan described it, most that went through the hallowed process of undeath did so willingly. Hells. He contemplated it at times. Moryac snapped a grimoire shut and sighed. No headway tonight, it seemed. Despite his cabal¡¯s attempts at understanding the Mausoleum¡¯s central infrastructure, much of the original text was written in an older script predating the Midnight Cant. With the combined efforts of other cabals and several of the Mausoleum¡¯s inhabitants, they finally figured out reasonably serviceable translations, but found that the schematics far differed from what currently existed. Much had been replaced, retrofitted, or even completely decommissioned over the centuries. His most recent readings proved no different. It was worse than working blind¡ªthey were attempting to repair a house while referencing schematics for a bookshelf. The sanctum doors slid open. ¡°Mors!¡± Threxan beamed. ¡°Brooding as usual! I knew I¡¯d find you here.¡± Moryac sipped his tea and looked up. Trailing behind Threxan was Melkaros, head of their cabal, whose own gaze trailed Threxan¡¯s behind. The elder lich was in the body of a bespectacled young woman tonight. Moryac hummed in approval. Delicate stitching. The seams were hardly visible under the skin. Fine craftsmanship. ¡°Lord Itheron,¡± Moryac nodded politely. ¡°Lord Pharan. Or Lady, I suppose.¡± Melkaros adjusted her glasses then glanced at Moryac¡¯s stack of grimoires. ¡°Any luck?¡± the elder lich said, her voice unsettlingly girlish. Moryac shook his head. Melkaros nodded, as if expecting the dead end. Threxan whistled a jaunty tune as he poured himself a cup of Moryac¡¯s tea. ¡°You seem in a fine mood, Lord Itheron,¡± Moryac said. Threxan chuckled. ¡°Always, dear Mors! Supreme mental wellness begins with the proper attitude.¡± A few moments passed as Threxan whistled to himself. Melkaros gulped and bit her lip as their cheerful cabalist drank an entire cup in a single swig. He poured himself another. Threxan returned Moryac¡¯s stare. ¡°Oh! Would you like a refill?¡± ¡°Sure,¡± Moryac gestured. His near-empty cup floated towards Threxan. ¡°What¡¯s got you so chipper?¡± Threxan grinned, catching the cup and filling it a smidge too full. ¡°I was exploring the Mausoleum when Mel found me and asked if we could inspect the central wards together!¡± Moryac looked at Melkaros, who seemed distracted by Threxan¡¯s arms. Melkaros noticed Moryac and coughed. ¡°The foundational ward arrays were due for inspection. I thought to seek a keen pair of eyes for assistance.¡± ¡°Indeed!¡± Threxan said, dismissing Moryac¡¯s cup. It floated back towards him, its contents sloshing precariously. ¡°Good catch, Mel.¡± Melkaros straightened her posture and fidgeted with her hands. She blushed. ¡°We were talking about my new training regimen, as you suggested, and had even begun discussing plans for a joint training session, when I noticed the Crypt of Unending Midnight¡¯s aetheric symmetry being two degrees off-center!¡± ¡°Two and five-sixteenths,¡± Melkaros corrected. ¡°Exactly!¡± Threxan said. ¡°It took roughly six hours, but I fixed it. No need to thank me.¡± Moryac looked at Threxan, who nodded sagely, then at Melkaros, who gave a slight shrug. ¡°Is that not the resting place of the Witch of Eclipse?¡± Moryac said. ¡°Yes,¡± Melkaros said. ¡°Sentenced to a three-hundred year slumber, for crimes struck from our rolls. Most curious,¡± Threxan clicked his tongue. ¡°Poor girl. Her sentence is almost finished, though. Less than a century remaining, if I recall correctly.¡± ¡°Eighty-four years, eleven months, and a week,¡± Melkaros added. She adjusted her glasses. ¡°I inspected those wards six months ago,¡± Moryac narrowed his eyes, muttering to himself. ¡°They were weaved with meticulous care¡ª¡± ¡°Perhaps we should plan a celebration for her release?¡± Threxan cut in. ¡°Perhaps,¡± Moryac said after making a mental note to check them the next time he passed by. He glanced at Melkaros. ¡°What do immortal beings with inscrutable goals want, anyway? Melkaros?¡± Melkaros thought for a moment, trying her best to avoid glancing at Threxan¡¯s neck. She sighed. ¡°The Mausoleum¡¯s continued operation and good health of my fellow cabalists.¡± ¡°That¡¯s so touching!¡± Threxan said. He wrapped an arm around the elder lich, who squeaked in response. Threxan dragged Melkaros and marched towards Moryac, then pulled the latter into a huddle. ¡°If only Barbazandar and Ash-Eater were here to hear it! I very much enjoy this cabal¡¯s dynamic.¡± ¡°I¡¯m sure Lady Pharan does, too,¡± Moryac squirmed. ¡°Can you let me loose? I wish to finish my readings.¡± ¡°Lady?¡± Threxan mused. ¡°Oh. Yes, I suppose Mel is female today.¡± Threxan released her. Melkaros looked at the retreating arm with a twinge of disappointment. ¡°Apologies, milady,¡± Threxan bowed. ¡°I meant no offense.¡± ¡°Let me go,¡± Moryac sighed. Threxan gave him a good squeeze, then dropped him. ¡°You take on too much, Mors. Truly. When¡¯s the last time you¡¯ve seen your house? Please! Rest!¡± ¡°I will, eventually,¡± Moryac said. ¡°Repairs, first.¡± ¡°Nonsense!¡± Threxan countered. ¡°The Mausoleum will be here when you get back. Come on! Scram! You should have been home a week ago! Right, Mel?¡± Melkaros looked at Moryac and nodded. ¡°Your service has been more than adequate, Lord Thalor. We will hold the fort. Barbazandar soon returns from his yearly sojourn, and we will have plenty of hands. Rest.¡± ¡°But¡ª¡± Moryac started, only to be cut off by Melkaros¡¯ icy glare. Leave, fool, the elder lich warned through a telepathic channel. Give me my time alone with Threxan. Do you plan on doing anything else aside from blushing and fidgeting like a schoolmaid? Moryac replied. You are five centuries old. Please act your age. Melkaros paused. I have plans. Question me no longer. Go away. Unfair. She truly was soft on Threxan. ¡°Do you not have hobbies? Perhaps social obligations outside of the Mausoleum?¡± Threxan suggested. Moryac shrugged. Nothing came to mind. ¡°A thousand standard years or twenty generations of exemplary service,¡± Moryac sighed. ¡°Whichever came first. Those were the Dark Mother¡¯s terms. Seeing as I am unlikely to have children, I wish to work through my indenture as quickly as possible.¡± ¡°What¡¯s a few days?¡± Threxan said. ¡°Think of it as a taste of freedom. Besides, what do you plan on doing once your service ends?¡± Moryac thought to himself. Once again, nothing came to mind. ¡°I could find a hobby?¡± ¡°Find it now, that way you¡¯re ready for when you retire,¡± Threxan said. ¡°You always say ¡®failure to prepare is preparation to fail,¡¯ yes? Please, Mors. Take your own advice.¡± Moryac grumbled to himself. I will petition to extend your bloodline¡¯s service by an additional century if you don¡¯t leave, Melkaros threatened. Tyrant, Moryac thought. Despot. House Thalor shall remember this slight. Melkaros parroted Moryac¡¯s thoughts and stuck her tongue out. A House of, what, one person? Two, technically, Moryac thought defensively. I believe I have a great-nephew somewhere. He should be in his thirties now. Just go, Melkaros thought. You¡¯re in my way. ¡°Fine,¡± Moryac said. ¡°I will go home for the night and take tomorrow off.¡± ¡°Take three,¡± Melkaros countered. ¡°A week!¡± Threxan argued. ¡°No, wait¡ªtwo weeks, and you must regale us of what you did upon your return.¡± Melkaros glanced at Threxan, then at Moryac. Surely, such an overstep deserved reprimand? Only, the elder lich¡¯s gaze flickered towards Threxan again, then at his chest, and she nodded in agreement. ¡°Two weeks,¡± she said. Moryac groaned. Hells. Would there even be a Mausoleum when he returned? ¡°At least let me finish looking through this,¡± he raised a grimoire, ¡°I doubt I will find anything useful, but missing information will bother me the whole time.¡± Melkaros nodded, but Threxan snatched the book from Moryac¡¯s hand. He looked at the contents, snorted, and snapped it shut before handing it to Melkaros. ¡°Don¡¯t you worry, old friend,¡± Thexan said. ¡°Mel and I will look at it together. It looks complex, but it¡¯s nothing the two of us can¡¯t handle.¡± Melkaros gazed longingly at Threxan and nodded. I do not know what you see in him, Moryac thought. He¡¯s so confident, Melkaros swooned. So alive! Look at how he navigates life. I need him, Moryac. I swear to the Great Matron, I will make him fall for me. Suit yourself. Moryac shrugged, unsure whether the effort was warranted. Or even required. Would it not be quicker to tell Threxan her feelings? ¡°Very well,¡± Moryac said, finishing his cup of tea. ¡°I shall begin packing, then.¡± ¡°Excellent!¡± Threxan said. ¡°Trust us, Mors, if only the once. It¡¯s all under control.¡± Moryac hummed as Threxan shoved him out of the room. From the corner of his eye, he saw Melkaros fidgeting with her glasses. When had she undone the top button of her robe? The door slid shut. Moryac sighed as he began wandering the Mausoleum¡¯s halls. Aside from his robe and satchel of thaumaturgical odds and ends, the rest of his things were still in the sanctum. He could summon his staff anytime, so that was one less worry. Spare changes of clothes would be ideal. His robe was ensorcelled to eliminate odors and stains, and always smelled like lavender, too. Recently, he had added enchantments that provided resistance to high temperatures, general wear, and rudimentary combat magic. Still, very few things beat a freshly laundered set of robes. Toiletries? Socks? An extra pair of boots? He hummed to himself. How did one pack for vacation? Chapter 2 Moryac jolted awake from one of his enchantments. The six-hour nap did much for his constitution, he felt, though he wished he could¡¯ve slept in the sanctum rather than in an abandoned crypt. At some point during the evening, his warming enchantment had worn off. The headache from drawing too much on the Mausoleum subsided after a few hours of laying down against the cold cobblestone. He ate some dried fruit and nuts from his personal dimension after getting his bearings. With no clue of what to do next, he thought to entertain Sixty-Three¡¯s invitation yesterday and began the trek to the Mausoleum¡¯s Zheel¡¯ymh hive. Groups of sisters skittered outwards as he neared their workshops, exchanging greetings and salutes with others marching in. Moryac hugged a wall to make way for a trio hurriedly pushing a cart of tools, headed towards yet another emergency. He brushed away the instinct to offer his help and kept walking. Fine sconces of steel and bone lined the hive¡¯s corridors in perfect symmetry, the latter hewn from the same black and gray-veined marble as the rest of the Mausoleum. Between sections of polished wall, intricate murals were embossed in silver, displaying historic achievements of the Zheel¡¯ymh, schematics of the Hive¡¯s grander works, or imagery of their Hive-Queen. One showed a battalion of sisters, shields locked in a tight phalanx, warpikes poised to strike. Another displayed a filigreed bridge spanning beyond a sunlit horizon. The next were floor plans of an impregnable fortress from an age long past, its design standardized for future generations. Moryac passed by one that startled him: a great worm coiling around a mythical, ocean-dwelling serpent. A contest between Zheel and a titan from a distant plane. Fascinating stuff. Moryac used his magic to etch the murals into his memory. The air around him shimmered, earning a quiet gasp from a passing sister. He bowed in apology and kept walking. Workbenches clicked, banged, and clattered throughout the main workshop, which doubled as the hive¡¯s reception area. Younger sisters manufactured common components for practice¡ªblank runic plates, empty wardstones, even rudimentary tools. Stacks of raw materials were arranged in neat piles, ordered in some inexplicable way that he couldn¡¯t quite figure out. Moryac sniffled. There was the light tang of something bitter in the air, like dried wood and copper. The Cabalist Clutch¡ªoriginally the Sixteenth Clutch before their renaming¡ªchose their name after their founding members were formally recognized as a cabal of the Mausoleum. A somewhat uninspired moniker, belying their otherwise colorful membership. Call a spade a spade, he supposed. Once, Cabalist Clutch numbered a mere ten sisters, but had grown to nearly three-hundred over the last century, with the venerable Zheel¡¯ymh-Cabalist-Thirty-Seven as their latest head. Several of the Zheel¡¯ymh gawked as he passed. Moryac greeted them and politely requested an audience with Sixty-Three. There were few precedents to a Soft One¡¯s visit, according to the kindly pair manning a smithing bench, but they used their telepathic bond to summon Moryac¡¯s colleague and told him to sit anywhere. Odd. With how wondrous and neat the place was, he figured guests would be more regular. He looked around the chamber. Curiously, the workshop did not have chairs, as Zheel¡¯ymh typically rested by laying down on all six limbs. Moryac supposed they didn¡¯t need them. With his third eye, Moryac took a discreet peek into his cabal¡¯s sanctum, where, to his relief, Threxan and Melkaros were absent. He woke one of his constructs¡ªa slate-colored, toad-like golem roughly half of Moryac¡¯s height and created to clean the sanctum¡ªthen ordered it to grab one of the spare chairs. Unfortunately, it did not know what a chair was, so it hopped awkwardly and defaulted to grabbing a broom and dust pan. Its ontological matrix really needed to be updated to account for more nuanced commands. Sighing, Moryac instead partially transferred his soul into the construct to pilot it remotely. He had to work quick, else he might begin thinking like a golem, or, worse, enjoy being one. Soul-splitting was not his forte. Golem-Moryac looked around the sanctum. Chairs. Chairs were important. Then brooms. No. Brooms first. Floors must be clean. What about shelves? Books have a layer of dust. Masters will be displeased. Important documents. Clean floors. Then shelves. Or, shelves first, then floors? Moryac shook off the flood of thoughts, tried to drag a chair, struggled for a few heartbeats to control too-big hands that really needed more fingers, then stumbled into a portal his true self created. The stubby legs almost tripped him, but he made it through and quickly returned to his real body. The golem eagerly handed Moryac the chair. Moryac nodded in thanks and sat down. In a whirr of joints, the construct bobbed its head and scanned the room. It shuffled aimlessly around the workshop, beady eyes searching for dust or a broom. A few sisters hissed and took defensive postures at its approach. One was on the verge of stabbing the construct with the sharp end of a pry bar. Moryac rushed over, apologized, and ordered the wayward golem to sit next to him, though he swore he felt protest in its inanimate eyes. Minutes passed. Sixty-Three walked into the chamber, three other sisters in tow, and looked around. One of them¡ªSixty-Five, who was back in good health, thankfully¡ªspotted Moryac first. Her antennae twitched in acknowledgement as the four wordlessly looked at him. Moryac noted how perfect their telepathic bonds were, unlike the crude imitation that he and other thaumaturges used to communicate. He sensed its emanation across the aether with his inner eye, subtle but certainly present if one knew what to look for. Zheel¡¯ymh telepathy seemed to be a mixture of pheromonal cues and an innate psychic bond rather than true telepathy, but was so effortless and reliable, unlike his cabal¡¯s communication which occasionally refused to work and was mentally draining after prolonged use, besides. He would have to ask for permission to observe them further, once he returned from his supposed vacation. ¡°Lord Thalor,¡± Sixty-Three saluted, upper-right claw clacking against her chest. ¡°Sixty-Three,¡± Moryac stood up, returning the gesture. The other three sisters clicked pincers in amusement. Did he do it wrong? ¡°As you can see, Sister Sixty-Five is well,¡± Sixty-Three said, putting a hand on the younger sister¡¯s back and bringing her closer. The younger Zheel¡¯ymh¡¯s pincers slackened. Sixty-Three nudged her with an elbow. ¡°Well, sister? Have you anything to say to Lord Thalor?¡± Sixty-Three bowed. ¡°Lord Thalor,¡± she muttered. ¡°Thank you for freeing me from possession. I understand we almost came to blows,¡± she fidgeted with her claws. ¡°You were so gallant. Like one of our Champions, from the stories!¡± ¡°Think nothing of it,¡± Moryac said. ¡°I am made of sterner stuff.¡± Warded to the teeth with protective spells, too, but the sisters did not seem to appreciate superfluous magic usage. The sisters looked at each other, antennae twitching. Was that excitement? ¡°So,¡± Sixty-Three said. ¡°What brings you to our nest?¡± ¡°I was ordered to rest,¡± Moryac said. ¡°Oh? How wise,¡± Sixty-Three nodded. ¡°You have been most irritating of late.¡± Moryac raised an eyebrow. ¡°Is that so?¡± ¡°It is the whining,¡± Sixty-Four clarified. She cleared her throat. ¡°¡®Oh, for the love of¡ªcould this night end already?¡¯¡± the sister mimicked, voice deepening. Did he sound like that to others? ¡°Or, ¡®Dark Mother¡¯s mountainous teats! If I have to replace another set of wardstones, I will rip someone in half.¡¯ Or, just the other day: ¡®Threxan, please stop feeding the Zheel¡¯ymh, they will grow attached.¡¯ And so on.¡± ¡°My apologies,¡± Moryac said. ¡°I do not mean to lash out.¡± ¡°We understand,¡± Seventy-One buzzed. ¡°Human biochemistry is unstable, according to the crone-sisters. Prone to volatile behavioral shifts, caused by factors that remain frustratingly unclear to us. Despite being among the more stable specimens, you are, unfortunately, not graced by the Hive-Queens¡¯ perfection. Praise Zheel.¡± ¡°Praise Zheel,¡± the other sisters replied. ¡°And so, you were ordered to rest,¡± Sixty-Five concluded. ¡°I see. Perhaps it will cure what malaise ails you.¡± Moryac shrugged. ¡°That¡¯s what I came here for. ¡°I wish to spend some of my newfound leisure time with your clutch, if you would have me.¡± The sisters exchanged looks, then gathered into a tight huddle, conversing through their bond. Sixty-Three glanced at Moryac then gestured at Sixty-Five, who stiffened in response. Sixty-Four clicked her pincers in amusement. Seventy-One gasped, but nodded enthusiastically. Sixty-Five turned to skitter away, only for Sixty-Four and Seventy-One to grab her. The Zheel¡¯ymh eventually agreed on something and broke their huddle. Sixty-Three looked at Moryac. ¡°As amusing as that sounds, Lord Thalor, we have been called to assist with repairs along the Mausoleum''s outer walls.¡± Moryac hummed in consideration. Those were freshly renovated, no? Last he heard, the Zheel¡¯ymh did a commendable job with its construction. Curious, though he supposed the sisters prided themselves in minutiae. Far be it from him to question other cabals¡¯ directives. Sixty-Three cleared her throat. ¡°As it happens, Sixty-Five will be unfit for regular service for the next few days due to her recent possession,¡± she paused. ¡°Ah, one of the crone-sisters said that psychic intrusions create mental wounds that make it easier for wayward spirits to inhabit the mind. Frayed threads in our gestalt consciousness that need time to heal, or some such. ¡± Moryac shrugged. ¡°I know precious little of Zheel¡¯ymh physiology, Honored Sister.¡± ¡°As do we, at least with regard to post-exorcism convalescence,¡± Sixty-Four said. ¡°To that end, we wish to heed the Dark Mother¡¯s wisdom.¡± ¡°And that is?¡± Moryac asked. ¡°Caution and patience,¡± Seventy-One replied. ¡°Praise Zheel.¡± ¡°Praise Zheel,¡± the sisters replied. ¡°Would you mind taking our little Sixty-Five with you?¡± Sixty-Three said. ¡°She needs time off. I promise she will not be a burden. We are confident that you shall find her to your liking. We treasure her so, after all. As should you.¡± ¡°What?¡± Sixty-Five stared at her, then at Moryac, then at the rest of her sisters. ¡°I don¡¯t even know where I¡¯m going,¡± Moryac said. ¡°Best start thinking, then,¡± Sixty-Four snorted. Sixty-Three and Seventy-One nodded. ¡°Safe travels, Lord Thalor,¡± Sixty-Three saluted. ¡°Sixty-Five. Assist the good thaumaturge to the best of your ability. Learn from him. Bond, so that your gleaned knowledge may join our blood-memory. Discover the secrets of leisure and rest.¡± Sixty-Five¡¯s pincers clicked slowly. ¡°Yes, elder sister.¡± She slouched, then gave a reluctant salute. ¡°Hold a moment,¡± Moryac said. ¡°I feel as if decisions are being made for me without my approval.¡±Love what you''re reading? Discover and support the author on the platform they originally published on. ¡°Rejoice, Lord Thalor,¡± Seventy-One said. ¡°Circumstance has provided you an able-bodied and highly capable sister for a companion. One of our finest, if I do say so myself. The Dark Mother smiles upon the two of you this evening.¡± The other sisters clicked approval. They retreated into their telepathic bond once more. Sixty-Four¡¯s antennae twitched, wrapping around Sixty-Five¡¯s in what seemed to be an encouraging gesture. After half a minute, they let go of each other. Sixty-Five looked at him and bowed. ¡°Sorry! I promise to not get in the way, Lord Thalor. May I come along? I won¡¯t disturb you!¡± Sixty-Four elbowed Sixty-Five in the ribs. Sixty-Five¡¯s antennae drooped. ¡°I mean,¡± Sixty-Five stammered. ¡°We will have to converse, of course, and share experiences, besides, but¡­¡± ¡°We entrust you with our beloved sister,¡± Sixty-Three said. ¡°May the two of you recover swiftly. Or not, I suppose. Apologies. I am not well-versed in courting¡ª¡± she paused, ¡°ah, apprenticeship rituals among your kind. Pray, guide her well.¡± Moryac took a moment to consider. He read somewhere that the floating continent of Varmarhad was a good start. It had been conquered three generations ago and served as an interplanar trade hub. There was also the realm of Acaltapetlan, backdrop to many a prurient novella, said to offer vibrant seas and breathtaking vistas for a reasonable price. ¡°Alright,¡± he agreed. The sisters clicked in excitement. Sixty-Five tensed. Moryac supposed leaving her sisters for a while was a daunting prospect. ¡°I have a few destinations in mind.¡±
Moryac, Sixty-Five, and the toad-golem left the Zheel¡¯ymh nest and headed towards the Mausoleum¡¯s Interplanar Locus. The more Moryac thought about their journey, the less time he seemed to have. By his estimate, a round-trip to Varmarhad would take roughly a day-and-a-half. From there, they should be able to find a two-way rift to Acaltapetlan, as they were metaphysically near each other, though they would need to find a thaumaturge skilled in cross-world jumps as Varmarhad did not have its own Interplanar Locus. Such great works were rare outside the core of the Dominion of Midnight. Taking into account extra time for contingencies? It was, he admitted, a fascinating logistical challenge. ¡°...Lord Thalor?¡± Sixty-Five said. ¡°Lord Thalor?¡± ¡°Sorry,¡± Moryac said. ¡°How can I help?¡± Sixty-Five squirmed. ¡°I was asking if there was anything I could assist with.¡± A beat passed, the silence punctuated by the cleaning construct¡¯s occasional whirring. ¡°You could help me think of travel necessities,¡± Moryac said. ¡°That is simple,¡± Sixty-Five chirped. ¡°Flint. Tinder. A medical kit¡ªthough I am unsure of how to treat human injuries, so ours may look different. Rations, preferably ones that would keep for extended periods, but depending on the area and urgency of our task, we may be able to forage or hunt. Rope, hammers, and wall spikes to help bring up larger equipment for steep climbs. Oh, and weapons!¡± ¡°We are going on a vacation, not a siege,¡± Moryac said. Sixty-Five¡¯s antennae drooped. ¡°Deepest apologies, Lord Thalor. I seem to be lacking context. It is a journey, yes?¡± Moryac nodded. ¡°For leisure. Also, just ¡®Moryac¡¯ is fine.¡± ¡°Lord Moryac,¡± Sixty-Five said, testing the word. She hummed. ¡°I suppose we¡¯re exploring civilized territory,¡± her pincers clicked in thought. ¡°Discretion is required, then. One of my older sisters, Sixty-Four, has a collection of knives in her room¡ª ¡± ¡°No,¡± Moryac said firmly. ¡°No weapons. We aren¡¯t anticipating fights.¡± ¡°I see,¡± Sixty-Five crossed her arms and nodded approvingly. ¡°A diplomatic approach, then. Cunning. As expected of the Dark Mother¡¯s finest.¡± ¡°I suppose,¡± Moryac replied. ¡°Food is a good idea, however. Our first destination is roughly sixteen bells away. What do Zheel¡¯ymh typically eat?¡± ¡°We are omnivorous, Lord Th¡ªLord Moryac,¡± Sixty-Five corrected. ¡°Sorry. We can subsist on many things. Roots, seeds, potatoes, corn, and grain are staples. Most plant matter. Meat. We are exceptionally resilient to toxins, so we can eat just about any kind,¡± she glanced at him. Her antennae shot up in alarm. ¡°Oh, but we do not eat humans or similarly sapient creatures, at least not as a preference,¡± she clicked her pincers nervously. ¡°That¡¯s the Xhak¡¯ymh. They think eating their foes¡¯ entrails makes them stronger.¡± ¡°I appreciate the clarification,¡± Moryac said evenly. ¡°What about sweets? I hear sweets are good for relaxation.¡± ¡°Oh!¡± Sixty-Five¡¯s antennae straightened. ¡°We have a community of cousins specially evolved to secrete nectar for longer deployments. It is positively divine. A few of those cousins arrived two days ago to deliver their regular shipments. They might still be around! I shall grab some!¡± Moryac blinked. ¡°Insectoid milk?¡± ¡°It is more sap-like in texture, but essentially,¡± Sixty-Five nodded. ¡°Alright,¡± Moryac summoned a scrying disc, then looked through it and into his cabal sanctum for the time. Four bells past noon. The Interplanar Locus was open at all times of the day, but if they wanted to beat the rush of travelers, they would need to leave soon. ¡°We¡¯ll split off and meet at the Locus in three hours,¡± he said. ¡°Is that plenty of time to find those cousins and get your nectar?¡± Sixty-Five nodded. ¡°Try to think of other necessities, too,¡± Moryac said. ¡°Things you¡¯re sure you can¡¯t live without.¡± ¡°I have a few ideas, Lord Thalor! I shall be swift!¡± Sixty-Five dropped to all sixes and scurried away. That left him with shopping. Moryac made a mental list of the things he needed. Bedrolls, perhaps? A tent of sorts, too, in case they planned on sleeping out in the wilds. Though, now that he thought about it, some blank wardstones would do¡ªhe could inscribe one with protective magics against outdoor elements and another against ill intent, which was as solid as any overpriced bundle of cloth and sticks could be. Perhaps another that would instill fear in lesser creatures, for good measure? A quick exchange with the automated sentries manning the Mausoleum¡¯s elevator channels saw him and the toad-golem onto a magical platform. A new model, by his regard. When had those been retrofitted? Long ago, he read from a surveyor¡¯s account that food and water from other worlds could make one sick. Likely not an issue for Sixty-Five, due to her more robust constitution, but he would need his own precautions. A smoky scent filled the air, followed by varnish, dust, and leather. Moryac sniffed and looked around, only to be met with rows of bright street lamps, vibrant banners, and dusk. The ceiling had grown rather tall since he last visited, too, now ensorcelled to be indistinguishable from a true evening sky. Without realizing it, Moryac had arrived at the main thoroughfare. The magical platform hummed to a stop, dropping him off by the outskirts of a bustling town. Narrow apartment buildings lined cobblestone streets, more than there were since the last time he visited. Further along were several dozen colorful stalls, with hawkers yelling over each other in nearly as many languages. The sharp hiss of Low Veridisian mixed with the lilting croon of Acaltapetlan seafarers, and even a few passersby spoke in guttural Thtomic. Above him, sparks of magic swirled and whizzed this way and that, in a hundred different hues¡ªmessages traveling between the Mausoleum¡¯s different sections, according to his inner eye. In his reverie, he bumped into a green-scaled merrow worker wearing an oversized breathing mask over their gills. Moryac bowed and apologized for the trouble. The merrow¡¯s luminous eyes blinked twice. They adjusted their satchel and nodded. A hawker caught his eye and shouted in a foreign tongue while gesturing at his stall¡¯s display: skewered meat that smelled like grilled pork, though a smidge too purple to be anything but. Moryac attempted to mime disinterest, only to get enthusiastic nods and a reassuring thumbs-up. Sighing, he drew three cowries from his storage dimension and handed them to the vendor. Moryac hoped it was plenty, but was handed eight skewers in a paper bag in return. More than plenty, then. He was unsure how to return them, however, so he gave a reluctant thumbs-up and kept walking. As he drifted about, he found tools in another stall, ranging from simple hammers and picks to more complex mechanisms for delicate work. At least three held streetside performances. Moryac paused near one while chewing on a stick of the mystery pork¡ªwhich was surprisingly good¡ªand watched a young mage make shadowy caricatures dance to her partner¡¯s lute. The illusions jumped, spun, and flickered to a whimsical melody as the mage and the lutist sang along. He tossed a cowry into their pile, and they responded by making one of the shadows bow to him. Moryac watched for a few more minutes, nodded, then stepped away. He still needed to shop for his own necessities. There were more cabalists around the area than he remembered. The last time he visited was roughly two decades ago, when he welcomed a new batch of apprentices. A damned shame that none stuck with his cabal, as others needed the manpower more. He wondered how Muiri and Kalatman were doing. They were excellent students. Muiri, ever studious, with her sharply drawn sigils. Surly Kalatman, who meant well and oft worked later than anyone else. Moryac stopped in his tracks. It had been, what, three, maybe four years since he¡¯d last seen them? Hells. Had it truly been so long? He should say hello at some point. After finding a new alembic and a set of beakers for his alchemy kit, Moryac strolled the area and marvelled at the quality of medicinal herbs sold. Largely harmless, seemingly regulated by the cabal working the Locus Rung, as their inhabitants were no longer just undead legions or antique war machines. Half of the crowd wore dark tunics and dresses with the elaborate, criss-crossing fastenings common to this plane, the closest thing the Mausoleum¡¯s inhabitants had to a culture. It seemed these new tenants had made it their own¡ª ¡°Lord! Thalor!¡± a familiar voice boomed. Moryac jumped, nearly dropping his alembic, and turned around to the sound of grinding gears. ¡°Ash-Eater. When did you¡ª?¡± he sighed. ¡°Please refrain from further surprises.¡± ¡°Acknowledged,¡± growled the construct. Bystanders gave them a wide berth, though, from their reactions, it was more due to the sudden commotion rather than Ash-Eater¡¯s presence. ¡°Was it not humorous?¡± ¡°No.¡± ¡°Acknowledged,¡± the towering construct replied. Its eyes pulsed slowly. ¡°I was informed it was humorous. I agreed.¡± ¡°It might have been for you, but not for whoever you¡¯re scaring,¡± Moryac said. ¡°Who taught you that?¡± ¡°The Zheel¡¯ymh taught me after they tuned my thaumic engine,¡± Ash-Eater growled. ¡°They find human surprise and agitation amusing. As do I.¡± ¡°We must savor what joys we can, I suppose,¡± Moryac muttered, then cleared his throat. ¡°New directive: do not surprise targets if they are within thirty fuhms of Khomemnor-, Machabriel-, and Jhuchian-class equipment. Otherwise, do as you please.¡± ¡°Acknowledged,¡± Ash-Eater growled. Moryac nodded. ¡°How can I help, then?¡± The construct tilted its head. Its internal workings hissed and clanked. ¡°You do need my help, yes?¡± Moryac said. ¡°Nay,¡± Ash-Eater replied. ¡°Lord Itheron tells me you are to leave for a while. I have come to wish you safe travels and a swift return.¡± ¡°Oh,¡± Moryac grunted. ¡°Apologies.¡± ¡°Yes. Lord Thalor,¡± Ash-Eater rumbled. ¡°The Mausoleum demands much. And so, I, Ash-Eater, bequeath this gift to you,¡± the construct opened a rift. It reached inside with an armored fist, pulling out a long object bundled inside an exquisitely stitched leather sheath. The construct dropped it into Moryac¡¯s hands. ¡°See the stars as the astrologers of eld,¡± Ash-Eater growled. ¡°A relic from before the Great Doom, restored to its full glory. Behold: the Eye of Ea-Shach!¡± Moryac opened the sheathe, looked inside, then glanced at the construct. ¡°A telescope?¡± Ash-Eater¡¯s mechanisms whirred in agreement. ¡°Said to grant a perfect view of the firmament beyond, regardless of time or the elements. May you find much use of it.¡± ¡°I shall return it safely,¡± Moryac said, stuffing it into his storage dimension. ¡°Nay,¡± Ash-Eater said. ¡°It is yours. For it had no owner, until now.¡± Moryac hummed. ¡°I see. My thanks.¡± Ash-Eater rumbled, pistons hissing and popping. Its armor opened to reveal its core, which glowed an ominous red as the construct tore through reality. ¡°I must depart. More duties await.¡± ¡°Good luck,¡± Moryac said. Ash-Eater and Moryac exchanged nods. With clanking footsteps, the construct disappeared through its portal. Moryac checked his satchel. Three dozen wardstones, all reusable. He felt for the mental connection between himself and the Staff of Thalor. Solid. Eager. It will come if summoned. His personal dimension had a fully furnished alchemist¡¯s kit and stockpiles of medicinal herbs. Everything was in place. He hummed to himself, then turned to send the toad-golem back to the sanctum to grab a few grimoires to read. Only, at some point, the toad-golem had disappeared. ¡°Oh, Hells,¡± Moryac sighed.