“A summon-mother I shall be...”
Fiero Corsin finds his wife in her study for what feels like the thousandth consecutive night. For once she hasn’t locked the door. Once upon a time Fiero would’ve considered this an invitation, but now he knows it is nothing more or less than a simple oversight. She doesn’t turn to face him as the floorboards protest his crossing of the threshold. Stepping silently is nothing for a Corsin, yet Fiero is not trying to hide tonight. On the contrary, he wants nothing more than to be seen.
​Tierrel looks even worse than she did yesterday. Her hair, once as bright and golden as her regal niece’s, is so very unkempt Fiero has trouble remembering what it looks like kempt. The food he brought her for evening meal is still right were he left it, cold and untouched. He can hear Tierrel whispering to herself, reciting the words of whatever ancient volume lay open before her. Fiero knows not why, and also knows it would be useless to ask.
​She shudders as he lays a hand on her shoulder, drawing herself further into the great purple cloak that she has wrapped herself in. He hopes that she will speak with him tonight. A silence hangs in the air for a moment. Tierrel begins chanting to herself again, still enthralled by the words of the dead.
​“Tierrel…?” he says, as quietly as possible. If he shouts, she recedes even further into her books and purple cloak. Only gentleness can coax her out of her silence and sorrow. “Tierrel?” he says again. “Tierrel?” he asks a third time, for all things have most power in threes. He applies a little more pressure to her shoulder as he says her name the third and magic time.
​Her chanting stops. One of her hands stops tracing its way through the arcane labyrinth of symbols on the page before her. She raises the other to his. It hovers there for a moment, unable to brave the nothingness that lies between them.
​He takes her hand in his. She’s cold. He massages her hand gently, trying to impart some of his warmth unto her. He waits for her to speak.
​When she does, her voice sounds as tired as she looks. “Fiero?” she says, just now realizing he stood behind her. “I’m sorry,” she says, “I just get so engrossed in these grimoires. I’ve been losing so much time, lately.” Fiero knows she means it.
​“Not to worry, Lady Dargoth,” he says, lacking his wife’s conviction. “Thought I’d come up and check on you before I went to bed.” He lets go of her hand, letting his hands move to her shoulders. She’s as tense as usual, her entire body drawn taut. Fiero marvels that she hasn’t snapped yet, as frail as she feels in his hands. He starts to massage her shoulders with his usually tenderness, trying to relieve the what little weight of her curse he can.
​“Aren’t you a gentleman, my Lord Corsin,” she says. A ghost of a smile haunts her lips as he continues to knead her shoulders.
​“Nothing of the sort,” he says. “A gentlemen stabs you in the front. We Corsins much prefer to stab you in the back.” She laughs at his little joke. The cavernous library swallows the sound as it comes, shortly returning Fiero and Tierrel to their mutual silence. He wonders how to best bridge the gap between them. He fears to ask about how her research is coming. He fears to ask how she feels. Most of all, he fears being told there’s nothing he can do.
​“I think…” she starts, and then trails off. She still does not look at him, focusing instead on the book open before her. The images and symbols contained within the book mean nothing to Fiero, yet he feels a strange dread descend upon him whenever he looks at the book.
​“Did you say something, Sunshine?” The nickname fits better when her hair is its natural color and luster, bright and blazing as the sun.
​Tierrel sighs, as she so often does these days. She puts her hand to his, signaling that the massage is over. She rises from her desk, letting the purple cloak draped about her fall away. She turns to face Fiero, the dull blue of her eyes a pale shade of the brilliant sapphires Fiero remembered falling in love with. She still does not meet his eyes.
​She wraps her arms about herself, shivering from the cold. Fiero knows that nothing he could bring or do would warm her now, for the chill she feels comes from her bones, her blood. The curse freezes her heart, or so she says.
​In a small voice, she speaks. “What do you see in that book, Fiero?”
​“Nothing, my lady. You arcanists study these ancient tomes- to me, it’s just a book.”
​She sighs again. “I thought maybe you could feel it…” she trails off again. Fiero feels her disappointment dig into him more deeply than any blade could.
​He considers the book again. The symbols remain arcane to him, the images and diagrams just as obtuse. There’s a massive circle spread across the two pages, with what looks like thousands of tiny glyphs held within in an arrangement that he is sure Tierrel understands, but he cannot. He feels ghostly fingers run up and down his spine as he puzzles over the book.
​“I don’t like looking at it,” he says, turning to her. “It makes me feel… I don’t really know. Cold, somehow. Is it enchanted?” Her eyes regain a bit of their brightness. She shakes her head and smiles.
​“Not quite. It’s a…” she says, wracking her brain for the right words. “It’s a gateway, of a sort.”
​“A gateway to where?” Fiero asks. He has no idea where this is going, but he has the distinct suspicion he doesn’t like it.
​“The dark,” she says. He waits for her to explain. She does not.
​She sighs again, picking her cloak up from where it fell and wrapping it around her. “It’s not exactly a place, Fiero. Not in a conventional sense, anyway. This book is a glimpse into the true dark. The primordial darkness beyond the veil of night, beyond the astral plane, beyond even the very edge of dreams.”
​He shudders. “Why would anyone ever want a gateway into such a place?”
​“The spell on that page,” she says, pointing to the book, “calls a being from the dark into the material world.” The blood drains from Fiero’s face. He feels the chill again.
​“No, Tierrel,” he says. She refuses to meet his gaze. “You can’t. You can’t meddle with such magics, there must be some other way-“
​A third sigh. “We’ve tried all the other ways, Fiero,” she says, in a very small voice. “This is my last resort.” He takes her in his arms. Holding her as tightly as he can. He feels his tears flow down his face. She is not crying. Not this time. Her well of tears has run dry. Her eyes are barren, as is she.
​“If this is truly what you want,” he says.
​“It is, Fiero,” she says, stronger now than before. “If nature decrees I cannot be a mother, then a summon-mother I shall be.”
​Fiero finds himself smiling at her conviction, even if her words give him pause. “Very well, my lady. How can I help?”
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