The group Dreamweaver had gathered in their den appeared ragtag at a glance, but Jorah knew that each had been carefully selected. If what he had just revealed to them was true, then a crisis was almost surely brewing. What had been said could not leave this room, not until they had some semblance of a plan.
As always, Banrai stood at his mate’s side, the twins squirming in his arms. They were excited to see so many beloved and familiar faces in one place. Morpheus reached out for Rue, who they had become fascinated with in recent weeks, while Phobetor held staunchly to Phantasos’ pinky finger.
Solaire and Hollyhock loitered by the mantle. It was rare for Hollyhock to be called away from his duties, but he was Solaire’s mate, and, therefore, equally responsible for leading the clan should tragedy befall its founders or their heir. Still, he looked out of place among grim and hardened veterans, doe-eyed and soft-spoken as he was.
Crucis and Betelgeuse had been summoned for their expertise in magic. Betelgeuse was the clan’s head witch, and although the Arcane arts were not his forte, his unusual connection to the stars granted him a strange wisdom. More importantly, he could keep a secret better than any of them--and ensure that Crucis followed suit.
As a practitioner of the medical sciences, Isaiah felt he did not belong. Then again, he rarely did, and would have much rather been left to his work at the hospital. When Jorah told of Junior’s affliction, however, he sobered considerably. At the very least, Junior’s head would need stitching.
Abaddon’s presence required no explanation.
Predictably, Dreamweaver was the first to speak. “You’re certain?” they asked.
“Yes,” Jorah replied. “He said I was Light-aligned. Da knows I have no alignment--or, if I do, no one’s figured it out.”
“Could be a type of fugue state,” Isaiah suggested. “It would explain the erratic behavior, the aimless wandering, and especially the lapses in memory.”
“Then why did he remember so much else?”
“That...” Isaiah pinched his chin between his thumb and knuckle. “I don’t know,” he conceded. “Magic’s beyond me, but it sounds like a fugue state. I suppose the magical equivalent would be a trance.”
“Or a possession,” Betelgeuse added darkly.
“Exactly,” Jorah said. “It didn’t feel like da talking to me.”
“I do not mean to cause alarm,” Betelgeuse went on, “but possessions are most commonly inflicted by necromancers.”
“Atsushi’s master is gone,” Phantasos reminded, “and with it any motivation he would have to harm the clan. He paid for his crimes in blood and sweat; dede saw to that. Let’s not accuse the poor guy because it’s convenient, especially when he’s not even here to defend himself.”
“I’m not accusing,” Betelgeuse assured, “merely stating what is known.”
“Betelgeuse has a point,” Crucis said. “Do we know of any other necromancers in the territories?”
“It may not be the work of a necromancer,” Rue pointed out.
“No,” Betelgeuse agreed, “it is merely likely. There are other explanations, though I shudder to entertain them. Junior is powerful. What he lacks in emotional fortitude, he makes up for in resilience and raw magical talent. To posses him, it would take either a very skilled necromancer, perhaps even a lich, or...”
“Or?” Phantasos pressed.
Betelgeuse shifted uneasily under the group’s scrutiny. Then, in a voice barely above a whisper, he concluded, “A divine being.”
“Which of the Eleven would betray dragonkind so heinously?!” Solaire exclaimed. “The Arcanist and the Lightweaver have never been on the best of terms, but this--this would be a declaration of war, and against the Lightweaver’s most devout no less!”
“You’re right,” Crucis said, “it’s not something He’d do.”
“Jorah...” Dreamweaver leaned forward in their seat, and took Jorah’s hands in theirs. He hadn’t realized he’d been trembling. “What did you feel?” they asked. “You are not close to him, but you do know Atsushi; did you sense his magic, catch his scent? Were there any signs of him on Junior?”
“No,” Jorah said confidently. “I don’t think Atsushi had anything to do with this.”
Dreamweaver nodded, their expression impassive. In the corner of the room, Abaddon grit his teeth. “The Arcanist,” he growled, “I’ll tear His precious Observatory apart piece by piece.”
“Let’s not be hasty,” Hollyhock said, “let’s all take a moment to collect our thoughts. The last thing we need is a rash decision gone awry.”
“My son is out there,” Abaddon spat, the venom in his tone making Hollyhock shy away behind his mate, “stumbling around in the wilderness, dying, and it’s the work of the same son of a bitch who took Fragment and Sliver from me. I’m going to find him, and then I’m going to rip the Arcanist limb from limb for daring to lay a single spindly finger on him.”
“No one is going anywhere,” Dreamweaver said, “until we know what we’re up against.”
“Junior is my son,” Abaddon reiterated. “You and Banrai both nearly threw yourselves into an active colony of Seat-corrupted pink celestine for yours.”
“And you stopped us from doing so.”
“I should have stayed with him,” Jorah mumbled. “It’s my fault, aba.”
Abaddon’s fierce expression softened. He moved swiftly to his grandson’s side, and pulled him into a crushing embrace. The assembly heaved a collective sigh; thank the gods for a grandfather’s tender heart. “It isn’t your fault,” Abaddon said. “You did the right thing, coming to Dreamweaver. There was nothing you could have done for him.”
“I could have made him come back.”
“Doubtful,” Crucis said. “He’s not himself, Jorah. He would have killed you if you’d pushed him hard enough--or, rather, whoever’s inhabiting him would have used him to kill you.”
“But he’s alone,” Jorah persisted, “and hurt.”
“We’ll find him,” Abaddon said, “and we’ll make sure he’s taken care of. If he’s being possessed, then it’s for a reason. He can’t carry out his mission if he’s dead.” He could not muster a smile, but he tilted Jorah’s chin up to catch his gaze regardless. “I’m sorry I overreacted,” he murmured. “I didn’t mean to frighten you.”
“It’s ok,” Jorah said, “you’re just worried.”
“We all are,” said Hollyhock.
“I know.” Abaddon rubbed at the crook between his neck and shoulders, exhaling a slow, weary breath. “I’m sorry I snapped at you, Hollyhock. I think I’m finally starting to feel my age. I know you care as much as I do.”
“Of course,” Hollyhock said. “There isn’t a dragon in Feldspar who wouldn’t move mountains for you and your family, Abaddon. You’re not alone in this.”
“Junior’s faced worse,” Solaire asserted. “The lad’s a stauncher drake than I, and that’s saying quite a--”
They each felt the magic before its effects, a wave of raw Arcane energy emanating from the city center. Dreamweaver leapt to their feet just as Solaire and Crucis collapsed. “Take the twins,” they said to Banrai, “take them upstairs.”
“What about you?” Banrai asked.
“I’ll take care of them, da,” Phantasos said.
“No,” said Dreamweaver, “I need you to find your brothers. Tell them to get to safety, then fly to Aphaster as fast as your wings will carry you. That was Arcane magic. It can only be connected to Junior.”
“But--”
“Do as your progenitor says,” Crucis said. He was sagged against Dreamweaver’s now vacant seat, his eyes squeezed shut and his hands clutching his head. “I pray to the Eleven they were unaffected. Lutia is bonded to the Seat, and--agh! They need to be warned!”
“I’ll go with him,” Rue offered. “Mother may have some insight.”
“Quickly,” Dreamweaver urged, and, sharing a solemn glance, the two were off, shedding their glamours with sparks of golden magic. The sounds of their wingbeats were joined quickly by Ozymandias’. “Betelgeuse,” Dreamweaver continued, “gather the clan’s witches. Abaddon, Isaiah, Jorah, Hollyhock, you’re with me. We must tend to Solaire and Crucis.”
“No,” Crucis gasped. “Get away. Get away from us.”
“Solaire...” Hollyhock knelt beside his mate, who had begun to beat on the sides of his head. “Solaire, please,” he whispered, “get up. I--I must have something in my garden that will help you.”
“Hollyhock,” Crucis cried, “get away from--!”
Solaire stilled. His knuckles were bloody where he had beaten gashes into his scalp, and bruised from the force of his strikes. Hollyhock took the nearest in his own hands, running his thumbs gingerly across the cuts. He was too distracted, too distraught, to catch the quiet sound of his husband’s free hand moving downward to draw the dagger from its sheath at his hip. It withdrew with a hiss...
...and Solaire buried it to the hilt in Hollyhock’s stomach.
Convincing Abraxas to accompany them was like pulling teeth, of which he had more than his fair share. He had delighted in the power he held over them; Dreamweaver’s frustration was a particularly sweet treat, as they so often got the better of him. Hoping to milk the necessity of the circumstances for all they were worth, each demand he’d made had grown more ridiculous in stature.
“I’ll go if I can eat the Observatory,” he’d said.
“You can’t eat the Observatory,” Dreamweaver had replied.
“I’ll go if I can eat the Arcanist,” he’d countered.
“You can’t eat the Arcanist,” Dreamweaver had replied.
“I’ll go if I can eat Junior.”
At which point, Abaddon had stepped in, things had gotten the tiniest bit messy, and Dreamweaver had been forced to make a compromise that had not been theirs to make. “Your reward shall be a stone from the Beacon of the Radiant Eye,” they’d said, “gifted to you by Her Radiance’s own hands, for your consumption.”
“All right,” Abraxas had relented, “but if you double-cross me, I’ll be well within my rights to eat whatever and whomever I please.”
Jorah had not doubted the veracity of Abraxas’ threat, but it was a worry for his future self. Even as their motley crew had taken to the sky, chaos was rising behind them. Jorah had watched as Dreamweaver made for the capital’s eastern sector amid a sea of fleeing civilians, and felt the fur along his spine bristle as he’d turned from them toward the distant Isles.
Now he stood at the base of the Focal Point, his gaze fixed on its summit.
“Oooh,” Holloway cooed, “the energies here are lovely.”
“You won’t be thinking that when they turn you into an amorphous mass of eyes and mouths,” Atsushi said.
“I wonder if Faust would still love me if I came home an abomination...”
His clanmates’ conversation, born largely of nervousness he wagered, faded into background noise. Jorah held Junior’s sleeping form flush against his chest, as if fearing his father may slip away again if he loosened his grip, like so many of his predecessors had upon this very spot.
He knew that members of his family had climbed to the Observatory before, for better or for worse. Once, so long ago that the stories seemed like fairy tales to him, they had lived and thrived in its shadow. Shard the Radiant had been born beneath it, and all the Shards before him had left this world through its gates.
It was where Abaddon had parted with the only drake he had ever loved. It was where Shard Junior had parted with Fragment and Sliver. It was where Lutia had parted with her son, focused all of her ire and grief, and torn the land asunder.
He did not belong there.
Penumbra tugged meekly at his sleeve. Their form was wavering, their outline inconsistent. Jorah felt like he was staring through water when he looked at them. “We should go,” they said. “The magic here is strong, and time is short.”
Jorah nodded, and, with his heart in his throat, began the ascent. The others naturally fell into line behind him. Holloway and Atsushi continued their banter, but Jorah heard none of it. There was a chill in him so deep that his bones groaned like ice under pressure; he worried that they might break if he climbed much higher.
How many dragons before him had walked this path, never to return? How many had the Arcanist swallowed up? He was treading upon their ghosts, his footprints in the fine pink dust matching those of men and women whose significance he could scarcely comprehend.
He did not belong there.
BE CAUTIOUS. MY BROTHER AWAITS YOU AT THE GATES.
Jorah was glad for the Arcanist’s company in his mind. The Arcanist did not pry, and being reminded of their mission kept him focused. He was here for Junior, to ensure that another of the old guard was not lost to cruel circumstance. A thousand cycles from now, the children of their clan would tell of the long and happy life his father had lived, not of those he had left behind...
...and Junior’s picture would never hang in a museum.
The air grew thin, and beside him, Abraxas’ patience waned. Each of his dozens of mouths licked their lips in thinly veiled anticipation. The Arcanist almost certainly had other plans for the false prophet, and so Abraxas would not consume him--but there were other delicacies awaiting him at the Observatory, as well as the promise of payment from his Mother. He urged them onward with his swift pace, until poor Atsushi was wheezing behind them.
“Necromancers aren’t built for this sort of thing,” he complained.
“I would have thought,” Holloway said, “that several eons in Carnelian’s bed would have improved your stamina.”
“We’re almost there,” Jorah assured. How he knew, he couldn’t have said. He had never set foot in the Isles, let alone made the climb up to the Observatory. Somehow, though, he sensed it.
Junior must have sensed it, too. He writhed in Jorah’s arms, his nostrils flaring as a thousand familiar scents dug their hooks into his most painful memories and dragged them to the forefront of his mind. “Fragment,” he whispered, “Sliver...”
“They’re here, da,” Jorah soothed. “We’re going to see them.”
“What madness is this?”
Jorah stepped up onto the Observatory platform, and received his first look at the false prophet. It lay curled before the gates, its hands resting atop one another, its many eyes blinking slowly, sleepily. A wide yawn revealed its needle-like teeth, but it made no move to intercept them.
It was content to let them come to it.
“Gods,” Atsushi breathed, “what is it?”
“Does it matter?” Abraxas said, saliva dripping from his maw. “It’s delicious.”
“Why have you brought my vessel to me?” the prophet asked. Jorah’s hold on Junior tightened. “I vowed to return what was stolen from him; was that not enough? Have you come seeking further compensation?”
“He doesn’t want anything from you,” Jorah said. “Release your hold on him.”
The false prophet laughed, and the Focal Point shuddered around them. Penumbra pressed close as their form vanished almost entirely. “He wants everything from me,” the false prophet replied. “Only I can return what my brother stole. Only I can return Fragment and Sliver. There is no greater desire in his heart than to see them again.”
“You didn’t bargain with him,” Jorah persisted, “you took his mind without asking and assumed he would be happy with compensation. He never wanted compensation, because he never wanted you.”
“Tell me I am wrong,” the false prophet purred. “Tell me he desires anything with more desperate ferocity, and I shall release him.”
How could he? It was always what Junior had wished for--that one day Fragment and Sliver would return to him, that one day his family would be whole again. The exodus was the defining moment of his life. Not a day had gone by that he had not regretted his actions. He had been charged with convincing them to abandon their research, and instead he had only quickened the inevitable.
It was his fault, his doing, his responsibility, and he would have given anything to undo it. Jorah knew that. He’d known it from the start.
“There’s nothing to be fixed anymore.”
“He wants to get married,” Jorah blurted out, “and he wants to live the life they couldn’t.”
The false prophet drew back, its teeth bared in defiance. “Liar,” it hissed, but Jorah knew that the only lie it told was to itself. It could see into Junior’s mind; Jorah could see into his heart. “Sorrow like that does not heal!” the false prophet shrieked. “Sorrow like that is a cancer, and it devours every part of you, until it is all you have in this miserable world! He wishes to live without them? He cannot live without them!”
“He has,” Jorah said, “for eons. He fell in love with my dad, and he raised me, and he fought to overcome your control of him so that you couldn’t take the life he’d made with us.”
“With all of us,” Holloway added, taking Jorah by the arm. “Junior’s our family as much as Jorah’s.”
“He’s...been kind to me...” Penumbra grasped Jorah’s sleeve timidly. “He’s been good to me...he was never afraid of me...”
“Well,” Atsushi muttered, “I suppose he’s not all bad,” and placed a hand on Jorah’s shoulder.
“I’m just here for the buffet,” Abraxas said, “but he’s never given me any reason to dislike him, so I’m in on, uh, whatever this is.”
“This team is a mess,” Holloway sighed.
“No!”
The false prophet rose at last, its runes flaring with raw energy. Holloway placed himself between Jorah and the beast. Atsushi reached for his tome. Penumbra’s shadow wrapped dark tendrils around them. Abraxas only smiled.
“This is not how I will fall, defeated by love and togetherness!” the false prophet snarled. “What foolish, childish concepts! Do you honestly think a story like mine could have an ending like that--or a story like his? He has known nothing but tragedy! He and I are one in the same! He is mine!”
“You never wanted the Seat, did you?” Jorah asked. “You just wanted someone to acknowledge you.”
Almost an eon had passed since Rebis and Apokathisto’s ill-fated journey to the Starfall Isles. As Junior touched down at the base of the Observatory, he shuddered in response to the lingering magic of the Circle--and of whatever it was Rebis had carried with her through space-time. What he felt then was just one more reason he should not have been there.
It would have been impossible to explain to the founders. Zo may have understood, but he would have surely protested regardless. With their wedding date drawing nearer by the day, and the turmoil of the past eon weighing heavily on their minds, he had grown more protective of Junior and Jorah than ever. Junior wished he could have respected that; he would have given anything to be home in his fiance’s arms.
But how could he ignore a Call?
Scholars had likened Calls to the pull of a Guardian toward their Charge. They were the magic of Sornieth itself, or so it was believed, seeking aid from the peoples it had birthed. Rare and powerful phenomena, a dragon could not refuse them; when one received a Call, one answered.
Junior’s had manifested as an innate knowing, of where he must go and what he must do when he got there. He had awoken on the day following Rebis and Apokathisto’s return with an idea in his head, and he had not known peace since. When even the archives’ vast trove of knowledge had failed to provide, he had made good his flight to the Isles under cover of night.
Somewhere beneath the Observatory, there was a sickness, and he was the only one who could cure it.
Why him? He could not say. Surely Lutia or Crucis would have been better suited to such a delicate task. His magic was powerful, but it was unpredictable. If he lost his head for even a moment, for any reason, the clans would have more on their hands than a time-slipping Fae--like a smoldering crater where the Crystalspines had once stood.
Pulling his coat more tightly around him, and despite his reservations, Junior began the long ascent to the Focal Point’s peak. Even in the dead of summer, the Observatory steps were cold, only growing more so the higher Junior climbed. Eventually, he passed beyond the influence of the Circle, into the oppressive sphere of the Arcanist’s domain. There was a buzz at the back of his skull, but he dismissed it as an effect of the chaotic magic of the Isles.
...TOP...
Junior paused on the final step, cocking his head. The Observatory was still and silent, its doors sealed with faintly-glowing magic. He grit his teeth against the incessant buzzing; it was becoming painful, making his vision blur. Dismissing it again, he strode forward.
Head bowed, he placed his palm flat against the doors. Their magic hummed beneath his fingers. “Hi, Fragment, Sliver,” he murmured, his breath frosting in front of his face, “and the scion, too. Starfall Celebration is right around the corner. Aba misses you so much. I...” He balled his free hand into a fist. “Telos is coming to be with you all,” he went on. “Fragment, I know you’ll be happy to see her. I keep thinking about how the two of you used to look at one another. It’s made saying goodbye easier, knowing you’ll get to hold her.”
...O...EAVE...ST...
Junior hissed. His ears were ringing, and there was an aching pressure behind his eyes. He pressed his forehead to the cool metal of the Observatory. Something was very wrong. This wasn’t the side-effect of errant magic. His head felt like it was splitting in two; a reaction this strong could only have been brought on by--
SHARD.
The Focal Point shook, bringing Junior to his knees. He retched onto the earth as a wave of potent Arcane magic rolled over him. Desperately, clutching his head, he reached for the Observatory doors. “Please,” he croaked, “Arcanus Majoris, I was Called here.”
YOU WERE FOOLED. GO, BEFORE YOU ARE LOST.
The small swell of pride Junior felt at being addressed by his deity turned immediately to panic. He stumbled to his feet, but fell back into the dirt gasping. His body seized; his senses failed. Images of the full moon, reflected upon black, placid waters, flooded his mind. Familiar voices crying out in anguish, the scent of home burning away to ashes. A Wildclaw dressed in white.
He hadn’t learned a damned thing.
Something dark stirred at the edge of his vision, which came back with a painful flash of pale pink light. The Observatory doors had been flung wide--and he was being dragged into them. “No!” he tried to plead, but the word came out as a feral shriek. The Arcanist reached for him through the Veil, His long fingers burning where they touched.
AS ALWAYS, YOU GIVE ME NOTHING BUT GRIEF. I MISS WHEN THE SHARDS WERE (RELATIVELY) WELL-BEHAVED. MY SISTER HAS INFLUENCED YOU ALL TOO GREATLY.
The darkness had begun to coalesce, taking the shape of a writhing lump. Then, with a cheery pop, two large, fuchsia eyes appeared on its oozing surface. They rolled comically in the goop for a moment before focusing on Junior. Help, he thought, please, whoever you are, help me!
With speed belying its form, the lump rushed forward. Its murky tendrils wrapped around Junior, coating him in a thick layer of disgusting slime. There was another flash, a crack like thunder, and the Arcanist withdrew.
YOU ALLOWED HIM INTO YOUR MIND? CAST HIM OUT, OR HE WILL CONSUME YOU.
“Begone, you irksome gnat.”
The Observatory doors slammed shut. Freed of the Arcanist’s binds, Junior went limp, his eyelids fluttering as he clung to consciousness. The lump had withdrawn as well, and now watched him with an almost uncomfortable attentiveness. It did not blink.
“Thank...” Junior coughed. Each breath he took was like swallowing needles. “Thank you,” he rasped. “You saved me.”
“What was that beast?” the lump inquired. Where it spoke from, Junior couldn’t say; it did not appear to possess a mouth. “It was very stubborn. My magic almost wasn’t enough to dismiss it.”
“Dis...?” Junior struggled into a sitting position. The lump drew itself up to remain level with him. “You dismissed Him?”
“Yes.”
“You dismissed the Arcanist?”
“If that is what the beast fashions itself,” the lump said, “then yes.”
Junior ran a trembling hand through his hair. There were many questions he had, for both the lump and Camellia, who knew the Arcanist more intimately than anyone, but all he could manage to blurt out, through a haze of bewilderment, was, “How did you dismiss a god from His own realm?”
The lump rippled. Junior got the feeling it was displeased. “That beast,” it said, “that Arcanist, is the god of these lands?”
“Yes,” Junior replied. “He’s one of the Eleven.”
“That cannot be so.”
Junior blinked slowly. Though the Arcanist no longer inhabited him, his head had yet to settle. It felt as though his brain were swimming in warm salt water. “Why not?” he asked.
“Because,” the lump said, “I govern the Starfall Isles.”
All at once, his mind was clear. He stared at the lump, dumbfounded, as he tried to parse out which hypothesis was most likely: dimensional travel or simple madness. Had he not currently been seated before the Observatory, he would have placed his bet on madness, but he knew all too well what the peculiar magicks of the Isles could do to a dragon.
So many possibilities...
The lump was displeased again. “I have not come from some far off place,” it said, “and I am not mad.”
“You...you can...?”
“You opened your mind to me,” the lump reminded. “In fact, I may be able to extract the information I need from you. This world--yes, I know its name. I was born into it through the machinations of another race, one you wear the likeness of. Yet, you are not they. No, you are draconic, my child. From me you were birthed. Surely this is known.”
“P-please don’t read my thoughts,” Junior requested meekly.
“I am no longer reading your thoughts,” the lump replied, “I am reading your memories.”
“Those are private!”
“Nothing is private to your god.”
“You’re not my god!”
The lump appeared taken aback--or as taken aback as something with no features could appear. Its body broiled, and Junior scrambled back as it doubled, tripled, quadrupled in size. There was a loud whistle, as of steam escaping a cracked pipe. The ooze fell away, dissipating into the earth, and...
The Fae was unlike anything Junior had ever seen. Easily as large as the most formidable Imperial, it possessed the many limbs of its progenitor--but with thrice as many eyes. Its scales were marked by brilliant magenta runes, pulsating as the magic around them twisted and warped. A flick of its tail sealed Junior’s escape; it fixed him once more in its unblinking gaze.
“What...?” Junior gulped. “What are you?”
“The Arcanist,” the Fae hissed, “I see now. I see what He has done, that beast, the Arcanist. While I lay sleeping beneath His feet, He stole my people from me. We were born of the same apocalypse, I the elder, and yet He claims sovereignty over my lands. Yes, I see. He fed me a delusion in my slumber, to pacify me. He took what is rightfully mine. It should have been me. It should have been me upon His throne.”
Junior’s voice caught in his throat, and the next moment he was screaming. He could feel the Fae inside his mind now, poking and prodding, searching for weakness. Its fingers were hot pokers against the soft tissue. He curled in on himself, beating his head against the ground until it bled, but the Fae did not relent.
“You are powerful,” it said, “but there is greater power in the eastern lands. Oh, He is cruel. He took them from you, and left you to suffer in their absence. I will return them; I will rip them from His grasp and return them to you, my vessel. Once I have taken the Seat, you will be with them. You have my word.”
@nostlenne @serthis-archivist @airris-fr @jaxxem (still won’t let me ping you) @reanimatedfr
Hollyhock gripped the hilt of the knife with robotic numbness. Warm blood had begun to seep into his tunic, and stained his fingers red where they met. He opened his mouth to speak, but all that came out was a strangled gasp, the faintest whisper of his husband’s name. A single confused sob escaped him, and then he slumped forward.
The room exploded into chaos.
Abaddon was on Solaire before anyone could think to restrain him. In draconic form, Solaire would have been no match, but under the guise of their glamours, Abaddon struggled to pin him down. A swift strike to Solaire’s temple ended the confrontation.
“Move,” Isaiah said, and Abaddon dragged Solaire’s unconscious body back as the doctor knelt at Hollyhock’s side. “Hollyhock, can you hear me?” he asked. Hollyhock stirred only slightly in response. “Abaddon, help me with him. We need to get him to the hospital.”
“What about Solaire?”
“He’s fine where he is. Hollyhock’s our primary concern.”
The exchange reached Dreamweaver through a dense fog. The sight of so much blood, blooming from the belly of an innocent, had blanked their mind. Hollyhock was no warrior. He should have been at home, tending his herb gardens. Instead, he lay in a pool of red, his eyes glassy, his heart slowing with every labored beat. Each breath could be his last.
Use me, the nightmare implored, I will track your enemy to its nest. Use me.
“Dreamweaver...”
Crucis’ hand on their arm brought them to a dazed attention. He clutched their sleeve tightly, his knuckles white with exertion. “Put me to sleep,” he said. “Abaddon had the right idea; we can’t be used if we aren’t conscious.”
Dreamweaver did as Crucis commanded without a word, and he went slack against them. The Arcane emblem upon his forehead glowed with a faint light, but it was merely the remnants of their enemy’s attempt to breach his mind. Satisfied with their work, Dreamweaver turned to Abaddon and Isaiah.
“Go,” they said, “do whatever you must to save him. Solaire and Crucis sleep; I will see that the rest of our Arcanite brethren do as well.”
“I’ll take Hollyhock,” Banrai offered as he trotted breathlessly into the den. Noting the look of cold panic on his mate’s face, he was quick to add, “Winter returned just now through the back. He’s with the twins, and Abaddon should be here with Jorah. Let me take Hollyhock.”
“How did you...?”
“The whole house smells like blood, Dreamy.”
Dreamweaver nodded stiffly, and Banrai took Hollyhock’s lifeless body from Abaddon. Hollyhock was awake, but only just, his eyes rolling in his head as he searched for his husband. “Solaire,” he said weakly, “is he...?”
“Don’t speak,” Isaiah chided.
“He’s fine, Holly,” Banrai said. “Worry about yourself first.”
“What can I do?” Abaddon asked. He had returned to Jorah, who reached instinctively for his grandfather’s hand to hold, a familiar warmth beneath his fingertips to ground him. Again, Abaddon’s expression melted into one of tender affection. “Whatever it is,” he said, “we can do it together.”
“Abaddon, you’re Light-aligned,” Dreamweaver said. “It may be best for you to keep your distance. Jorah, I know you have no alignment, but if by some chance Junior returns, he will most likely come here. His family should be here to meet him.”
“You’re sure?” Jorah said. “There’s more that I can do. I want to help.”
“The best place for you is where Junior will be able to find you easily,” Dreamweaver insisted. They cupped Jorah’s cheek in one hand, and gripped Abaddon’s shoulder with the other. “I will return shortly,” they said, “hopefully with Junior at my side.”
“No need.”
The front door slammed open, and Atsushi stumbled into the den, struggling under Junior’s weight. His face was red with exhaustion, sweat dripping from his brow; he carried the scent of the summerlands on him. “Met him in Aphaster,” he panted, “he’s possessed.”
“I knew it,” Jorah said, “I knew that wasn’t da.”
“Whatever’s inhabiting him worked some tricky bit of magic,” Atsushi informed, heaving a relieved sigh when Abaddon took Junior from him. He rolled his shoulders, popped his neck, grimaced. “I wasn’t quick enough to stop it, so I knocked him out--er, I mean--”
“I won’t hold it against you,” Abaddon said. “It needed to be done.”
“What did you learn from it?” Dreamweaver asked. They pressed the back of their hand to Junior’s forehead. He was burning with fever, most likely a result of battling his possessor for control. Abaddon sat with him on the couch, resting his son’s head in his lap, while Jorah clasped his hand with desperate strength.
“It’s divine,” Atsushi said, “but it claims it is not one of the Eleven.”
“Do you believe it?”
“Yes.”
“A twelfth deity?” Abaddon said. “Rumors of a twelfth have always been popular among occultists and conspiracy theorists, but there’s never been any proof.”
“I don’t think it’s so much a twelfth deity,” Atsushi clarified, “as it is what would have been one. It spoke of a rivalry with the Arcanist, said that He cheated it out of its throne. I have a theory, but no evidence to substantiate it.”
“Let’s hear it,” Dreamweaver said.
“It’s possible that the Arcanist was not the only divinely powerful being born of the apocalypse that ended the Second Age,” Atsushi elaborated. “The Starfall Isles are enigmatic, even to their residents; there are many ancient beasts inhabiting them that we know of, and many more that we do not. This entity could be one of the latter.”
“Great,” Abaddon said, “how do we stop it?”
“Your guess is as good as mine.” Atsushi’s gaze wandered to Crucis, then to Solaire, marked with his lover’s blood. “Whatever magic it unleashed will drive Arcanites to violent madness,” he said. “I saw nothing amiss when I arrived, but I imagine that will change soon enough, especially if Glamour is affected.”
Jorah leaned in, touching his horn to Junior’s forehead. He wished that he could heal as a unicorn did, but his father’s face remained hot, his eyes darting restlessly beneath their lids. There had to be something more that he could do. There had to be something--
JORAH.
“Yes?” Jorah looked up at the calling of his name, but Abaddon, Atsushi, and Dreamweaver remained deep in conversation.
ILLUMINATOR OF THE HEAVENS. CHILD OF THE BLACK SUN. SON OF--EXACTLY HOW MANY TITLES DO YOU POSSESS, BOY?
He hadn’t been aware he possessed any titles, being far too young to have earned them. The reverence with which the voice spoke them made Jorah blush, even more so when he realized who it must have belonged to. “Can I be of service?” he asked.
Now his elders had grown quiet, and were watching him with wide, curious eyes. “Who has touched you?” Dreamweaver asked. “Is it the Lightweaver?”
“No,” Jorah said, “I think it’s the Arcanist.”
YES.
“Yes, it is.”
YOUR FATHER WAS FOOLED. IN HIS SLEEP, THE FALSE PROPHET CALLED OUT, AND SHARD ANSWERED HIS PLEA.
“He’s saying that da was tricked by some false prophet,” Jorah relayed, “who cried out in his sleep. It must have mimicked a Call; that’s why da went to the Isles.”
WE WERE BORN OF THE SAME CATASTROPHE, BUT WHILE I PURSUED KNOWLEDGE, HE PURSUED POWER. I USURPED HIM FOR THIS REASON, ELSE WE MAY HAVE RULED TOGETHER.
“You were right, Atsushi.”
Atsushi couldn’t help a small grin, which faded promptly with a look from Abaddon. “Of course I was,” he mumbled under his breath.
JORAH, YOU MUST BRING SHARD TO ME AT THE OBSERVATORY.
“No,” Jorah said, so defiantly that Dreamweaver felt faint. “You aren’t taking him like you took papa’s father.”
I DID ATTEMPT TO BRING HIM INTO MY REALM WHEN HE ANSWERED THE FALSE PROPHET’S CALL, BUT I KNOW NOW THAT IT WAS A MISTAKE ON MY PART. THE FALSE PROPHET WOULD ONLY SEEK ANOTHER VESSEL. I WILL NOT FORCE SHARD INTO EXALTATION.
Jorah sensed the truth in the Arcanist’s words, and gave a solemn nod. “He wants me to bring da to the Observatory,” he said. “Will you heal him? Can you purge the prophet from his body?”
I CAN, BUT I REQUIRE YOUR STRENGTH TO DO SO. YOU ARE AN ABOMINATION UNTO THE GODS. SOME MAY CALL IT A WEAKNESS. I CALL IT A BOON. ONLY THOSE WITHOUT ALIGNMENT, WHETHER BY BIRTH OR BY CHOICE, CAN WITHSTAND POSSESSION BY THE DIVINE. IT MUST BE YOU.
“Alone?”
NOT NECESSARILY. IF THERE ARE OTHERS AMONG YOU WITHOUT ALIGNMENT, ENLIST THEIR AID.
“What is He saying?” Abaddon asked. “Surely He isn’t suggesting you face the bastard alone.”
“No,” Jorah said, “but I can only bring certain people. You can’t come, aba, and neither can papa. The false prophet could possess you both, but he can’t possess me--or Atsushi.”
“Me?” Atsushi squeaked. He tried to back away, but Abaddon caught him by the arm. “Oh, no, no,” he said, “I’m sure the Arcanist would rather anyone else. I nearly killed Crucis, and I used a piece of the Seat to do it. I should, ah, stay here and, er--”
“You’re going,” Abaddon said, “and if my grandson comes back with a single scratch on him, I’ll send you back to Spellwall Isle in a pine box. I shudder to think what that lunatic, Sadalbari, could do with a necromancer’s corpse.”
“You really must learn to ask nicely,” Atsushi grumbled.
“Who else, dear?” Dreamweaver asked.
Jorah crinkled his brow. He wasn’t spoiled for options. Most who spurned the Eleven would accompany him only under duress, and perhaps not even then. He would have to rely on the unaligned, his kin. “I need Penumbra and Holloway,” he said. “Penumbra’s alignment has been all but erased by the Shade, and Holloway had none to begin with.”
“I will fetch them.”
“Wait.” Jorah, who had appeared so self-assured a moment ago, now looked to his feet shyly. “There’s someone else,” he muttered. “You aren’t going to like it.”
Dreamweaver steeled themself. “Who?”
Taking in a deep, bracing breath, Jorah met Dreamweaver’s gaze. “I need Abraxas.”
Something was wrong with Shard Junior, and Jorah sensed it the moment he arrived in the square.
It wasn’t an obvious sort of wrongness; anyone who did not know Junior well would have thought he was merely distracted. He spoke to no one, and moved with harried purpose. Undoubtedly, there was some disaster brewing somewhere, perhaps in Aphaster, that required his attention.
Yet, for as frantic as he appeared, his lids were heavy, the eyes beneath them muddy, and he walked with a very slight stiffness, that of a hatchling fresh from the egg. Jorah watched him as he crossed the square, noting every minor peculiarity, then fell into step several yards behind him as he passed into the narrow, winding back alleys of the capital’s northern sector.
There was something very wrong with Shard Junior.
His father’s brisk pace saw them quickly through the northern gate and out into the farmlands beyond. Junior took the roads less traveled, breaking onto the main thoroughfare only when necessary--and when they were alone, Jorah saw him trip and stumble, at times falling limply to the ground only to scramble upright again and continue doggedly on.
It was a miserable sight. Jorah thought he was like a sick animal, its brain fried from fever, seeking a quiet place to die. He touched his head often, sometimes slamming the heel of his hand against it, and Jorah winced with each strike.
When the faint scent of blood reached him, Jorah could wait no longer. Whatever was affecting his father, it required more than a watchful eye. He broke cover, closing the distance between them just as Junior fell again. This time, he was there to catch him.
“Jorah?”
It was his father’s voice, but somehow distant. Jorah clenched his jaw. “It’s ok, da,” he said, “I’m taking you to Isaiah. He’ll know what to do.”
“How long have you been following me?” Junior asked.
“Since the capital.”
Junior sighed, leaning into Jorah’s grasp. He looked like he had aged a hundred cycles in just the few short moments it had taken Jorah to reach him. “I’m sorry I worried you,” he said. “Actually, what you saw--that’s why I’m on my way to Aphaster. I assume you got the note I left you.”
“Yes,” Jorah replied. “You said you’d been Called to the Isles, and not to tell anyone.”
“Things didn’t go as smoothly as I’d hoped they would,” Junior admitted sheepishly. “I did what I was Called to do, but now my head’s full of cotton. I thought Lutia might know something about it.”
“You could have asked Crucis.”
Junior’s eyes widened slightly, and Jorah could see a lack of recognition in them. Then it was gone, replaced by sudden realization. “Oh,” Junior said, “no, Lutia’s connection to the Isles is stronger than Crucis’. Given that I was in close proximity to the Circle, and given Crucis’ detachment from the Isles, I think I should see her before anyone else.”
Jorah could find no logical fault with Junior’s answer. Crucis had been away from the Starfall Isles for many cycles, and although he was an archmage in his own right, Lutia’s intimate bond to her homeland would serve an Arcane-sick dragon better than Crucis’ pet projects. It would have been convincing...
...had it not obviously been cobbled together in a weak attempt to pacify him.
“Then I’ll escort you,” Jorah said.
“No,” Junior replied, much too quickly for Jorah’s liking. “You shouldn’t even be here. I don’t know what this is; for all I know, it could be contagious. If you weren’t Light-aligned, maybe, but Arcane is rising over your element.”
Again, Jorah clenched his jaw, so hard that the bone creaked and pain blossomed in his cheek. He said nothing as he helped Junior to his feet, nor when Junior smiled at him, a hollow imitation of a father’s love. “If it makes you feel better,” Junior said, “why don’t you run back into town and ask Crucis to meet me in Aphaster? Two archmage heads are better than one.”
“...Yes,” Jorah said, “I’ll do that.”
“Thank you, dear.”
Junior’s hand slipped from his, and they parted ways. Jorah stared after his father until he had disappeared around a distant corner, then turned and fled back the way they had come.
He had decided that this was not a job for Crucis, so he made for the founders’ home as fast as his trembling legs would carry him.
Vellichor had been in Dragonhome, acting as the founders’ eyes within warren lands. Jasmine and Hyacinth had been in the Viridian Labyrinth on business. No one was sure where Delucius had gotten off to, but he certainly hadn’t been in-territory. With Solaire and Crucis subdued, mercifully, the false prophet had been left with very few suitable puppets.
The remaining Arcanites, almost all civilians, hadn’t managed more than a handful of broken windows, and the injuries they had inflicted had amounted to minor cuts and bruises (and perhaps some hurt feelings). They had been seen to swiftly and without incident.
Then Glamour had entered the fray.
Due to the uniqueness of his nature, Dreamweaver had been unable to sedate him. Hyde and Juniper had attempted to corner him, but he had been one step ahead at every turn. When it had become clear that his mate intended to risk their own life yet again, Banrai had been forced to act, and had done the only thing he could think to do: torn Glamour limb from limb.
“Juniper has assured me that he and Hyde are perfectly capable of reassembling him,” Dreamweaver had clarified at the sight of tears shimmering in Junior’s eyes, “only that it may take some time before he’s fully functional again.”
This had done nothing to bolster Junior’s spirits, and their visit to Hollyhock had only worsened matters. Though Hollyhock and Solaire had both greeted him with smiles, insisting that he was not in any way to blame, he had remained morose throughout their meeting, speaking only to apologize at every opportunity...
...and that was how he had spent the past three days. He thought it was made all the more unbearable by his clanmates’ insistence that he was not at fault. It was the exodus all over again, only this time, he didn’t even have Lutia to punish him for his failings. She supported him, and Camellia supported him, and Telos supported him, and Zo--oh, Zo loved him too deeply.
So it was that on the fourth day following his return from the Isles, frustration led Junior to the Starlight Museum. At least there, he could imagine that the eyes staring down at him were judgmental ones.
Except, when he arrived, he found a pair of eyes he had not been expecting.
“Jorah,” he said, “what are you doing here?”
Jorah turned from him, back to the reflection of his father that hung upon the wall. The museum was empty and quiet, so that his voice, even low as it was, created a stark echo. “I’ve never been here,” he said. “I’ve only ever heard about it, about the portraits. I didn’t know you had one.”
“Oh,” said Junior, and joined his son beneath his own likeness. “Yes, although I still don’t really understand why. It’s an honor I felt I didn’t deserve; I still feel that way.”
“So you don’t know why you’re here?” Jorah asked.
Junior laughed weakly. “Not entirely,” he replied. “The official explanation was that I was viewed, at least honorarily, as the last Shard. The Arcanist seems to feel the same, so it’s hard for me to argue.”
Reaching out, Junior brushed his fingertips not across his own portrait, but the one beside it. Telos had been beautiful then and fierce, but she was much more so now; watching her grow, and growing with her, had been a far greater honor than his face hanging in a museum.
The fact that this would soon be the only place he could see her made his breath come short and ragged with emotion. “They’ll all be gone come Starfall,” he murmured, “and I’ll be here.”
“At the Observatory,” Jorah said, “I swore to myself that your picture would never hang in this museum. I can’t keep that promise, but I can keep the spirit of it.” He took Junior’s hands, guiding them down to hang between the two of them. “Memories are powerful,” he went on, “but they’re only memories in the end, no matter how much we cherish them. This portrait will never be a memory of you.”
Junior faltered, seeking words to express what he felt in that moment, staring into his son’s wide eyes, in the place where every defining moment of his life now hung in silent reverence, and found that there were none. He pulled Jorah into a crushing embrace, and they stood together without speaking, until the distant sound of Zo’s voice called them away.
They left the museum hand-in-hand, and did not look back.
