Descent

[Zadown]

Some of us never visit these places, never step outside the comforting, familiar sphere of planes inhabited by humans and their ilk, and I can understand why. But they do narrow their field of knowledge.

 

The Dreamer landed softly on the absolutely level plane that stretched infinitely to every direction, no haze, vegetation or building blocking the vision. The landscape, if such name could be used for it, was white, the plane illuminated by ambient light that was tinted slightly blue. The planewalker seemed out of place here, a blotch of soft, random shapes staining the peerless purity and simplicity. The Dreamer was clad in his white robes and trousers, Pain resting in its scabbard on his back. He had a short beard and mustache, relatively well trimmed compared to the unruly chaos of medium-length grey hair that did not quite reach his shoulders. He had his wyrmskin boots on his feet but no gloves of any kind, and all the bare skin that was showing was crisscrossed with battlescars long and short, wide and narrow, marks that could've been left by large fangs and marks like healed burns might leave.

 

He looked around but was not surprised when he couldn't see any landmarks to any direction, a faint smile appearing on his face. With practiced ease he let his awarness flow out and drift higher, lifted his point of view high enough to see the plane he was standing on properly. When his own body shrunk to a mere dot, a slight imperfection on the perfect surface, he could see the rune-like marking he was standing on.

 

Ah. So that's where I am.

 

Rejoining his body swiftly he started running towards the right direction, or that had at least been the right direction last time. His loping gait was the same he used on the Lost Paths, fast if ungainly-looking, his eyes fading from harsh yellow to the same light blue the local ambient light was. The Dreamer fell into his travel trance, let his legs do the work somewhere beyond his awarness.

 

This might ... take a while...

 

*

 

The emergence from the trance was soft and slow, pleasant, aided by the tranquil surroundings. The memories and dreams, vague omens and hints to the workings of the Fates he had been going through flickered and faded one by one, the outside world emerging and intruding on his vision as if it had been rising from blue mist. Not much had changed: the landscape was still white, the sky still shining pale azure. Ahead something brighter than the ever-permeating ambient light shone, however, and objects floated above the level plane. The Dreamer eased his high speed as he got nearer, eventually coming to a halt to survey the sight before him.

 

A constellation of globular blue lights danced around themselves in the heart of this set of anomalies, hovering well above the white ground. Various darker objects were arrayed in a circle that surrounded these lights, a few avenues left in it so the lights were not completely encircled. The objects were simple geometrical shapes: balls, cubes, cones - all staying absolutely still in the air without any visible means of support. In contrast the dancing lights shifted their position constantly, moving in jerky, hypnotizing motions.

 

He could feel their magic trying to tug his mind this way and that, whispers of the raging storm it would've been without his wards dampening most of the effect. This was their home plane and their power here was manifold compared to what their manifestations had when they ventured into normal prime material planes. The Dreamer grimaced, his eyes turning dark grey.

 

Good thing they are practically colorblind.

 

The planewalker marched forward, slowly and resolutely, showing his empty arms out of old habit. Their dance shifted, barely perceptible change from idle speculation to alertness and alarm. Their voice, when they spoke, was almost as shocking as it had been the last time, and the time before that, and all the times before that. The will-o'-the-wisps crackled and hissed, their collective voices tangled up in a painful electric mess that would have been impossible to understand without the masterful translator enchantments every planewalker used.

 

"This you. What now? What you?"

 

"Greetings, esteem'd entities. I was told ye might hold some knowledge pertainin' t' a certain item I 'ave aquired durin' my long travels."

 

"Many facts. We know. Many we. Show!"

 

The jagged, clipped voices the wisps used made the Dreamer deepen his grimace, his facial scars rearranging themselves to a more threatening configuration, his eyes turning almost black. His actions showed nothing of his unease as he carefully withdrew a glass vial filled with blue fire from the depths of his robes.

 

The dance of the wisps ceased.

 

Never having seen that particular reaction before, the planewalker's eyes flared bright yellow, his relaxed stance tightening into readiness for battle. As the wisps started moving again, dancing in slow, dazed motions, the yellow fires died into grey ashes again.

 

"Well, esteem'd entities? Ye rec'gnize this fire, ya?"

 

"Yes. Yes. Yes."

 

"An'?"

 

"Give us a spark. Spark only. Small flame.

 

We will show. Notes and words. Show notes."

 

I never really expected to get anything for free, now, did I?

[Zadown]

Sunlight danced on the white columns of wood, touched playfully on the small green leaves sprouting from them. A mild breeze blew through the large, airy hall, carrying notes of playful birdsong from the inner court. Two figures sat on red couches near the middle of the room, a small round table made of darker wood partially between them. On the table were two tall, thin glasses filled with pale yellow liquid, almost like the color of sunlight on the white carpet in the exact middle of the room. The tall planewalker with his back towards the inner court was clad in thick and coarse robes and trousers the color of cream, the wyrmskin boots on his feet glistening dark purple, his hair grey and unruly, same color as his slightly neater moustache and beard. His usual weapon was nowhere to be seen and on his face was a tranquil expression, his eyes deep, vibrant green, his scars immobile. She was clad in pure white, the color of Law almost blinding with its intensity, making her tanned skin look darker than it was. Her curly hair was black, reaching her shoulders, and she had a black belt of loose fabric that kept her robes in place. Her smile took any observers attention away from her three modest scars, reaching all the way to her friendly eyes. She was shorter than the Dreamer and not especially muscular or threatening, but under the harmless surface, somewhere deeper, was a core of unyielding steel. Vague hints of that were in her every motion and gesture, in her assertive tone and in the air of self-possession she projected.

 

At the edges of the room stood six servants wearing more muted white with light green underneath their robes, the bright sunlight drowning their shapes, turning them into mere blurred forms. Their pointed ears and graceful, slender builds marked them as elves of some kind, and he had not noticed any reason to believe they were planar beings in disguise, so he had dismissed their presences as irrelevant.

 

"Intriguin' fortress ye 'ave here, m'lady Faaye. Isn't it hard t' maintain th' needed amount of portals this deep in a full-sized plane's Astral field, neh?"

 

"'Tis not a fortress as such, m'lord. I keep nothin' worth takin' here, something I hope ye do remember if ye ever go back to yer Chaotic ways, Sir Dreamer."

 

"So, th' meaning of th' place is?"

 

"It ... reminds me of my origin, if ye don't mind me breachin' th' subject. I am not sure, after all, if I should've brought ye 'ere."

 

Her eyes narrowed slightly as she reached forward and lifted her glass, took a sip of the elven wine. The Dreamer shrugged slightly, white pinpoints of light appearing in his green eyes.

 

"No need t' worry, m'lady - if ye do not wish this place t' be discussed outside th' present company, I shall be silent as stone. I doubt Chaos would welcome me, whether I'd bring notes of yer harmless villa or not. Even yer head would most likely barely suffice, an' I hold no illusions 'bout my capabilities in succeedin' in such a venture, here or elsewhere, m'lady Faaye Khantius."

 

He grinned and took a sip from his own glass, his tone amused and light.

 

"Quite amusin', m'lord. It pleases me t' know ye rank my martial prowess so highly. Now, as impolite it might sound - may I ask what brings me th' pleasure of entertainin' such an eminent guest as yerself, Sir Wodzan Xe Chanima o' th' Scales? Ye seldom run along th' Lost Paths for th' mere enjoyment of th' speed as some of us do."

 

The Dreamer nodded.

 

"I might enjoy th' speed more if I was as quick as ye are, m'lady - not many can match ye. Ah, but enough of that, ya. Ye inquired as t' th' reason I visit this time, an' a reason there is, as ye so acutely foresaw."

 

He stood up and showed his empty hands once again in the ancient gesture of peace, then slowly drew a glass tube from the depths of his robes. Inside it burned a blue spark, faint but nevertheless powerful enough to tint the whole room azure, fighting against the yellow sunlight and the reflected green hues of the leaves. She exhaled, eyes big out of wonder or surprise, and left the couch she had been sitting on as well.

 

"Heeiii-ii, is that the Blue Flame? I 'eard th' Law had it, aeons ago, before my Ascension."

 

"Ya, 'tis a spark of th' Blue Flame, an' from where I found it I can surmise 'twas held by Law but lost around th' Anvil's Drow Exodus. Ye know anythin' 'bout it, then?"

 

Faaye reached forward the small vial that was in the Dreamer's hand, a questioning look on her open face and a reserved, almost sullen on his scarred face - but he did let her have it after the tiniest of hesistations. She smiled over the vial at him, then, grinning like they had just shared a secret, before giving the blue fire her full attention.

 

"Hmm. There was somethin' about it I knew..."

 

Her face gained a dreamy quality as she dipped into her deeper memory, her eyes almost closing, her head nodding downwards. When she spoke, her voice was faint and far-away, not quite her own - it lost the planewalker accent and was clear if ethereal.

 

"... the three keys to the three philosophies, the three ladies demanding allegiance. The Shield of Skein for Chaos, an impossible web for the Mother Spider to disentangle; the Silver Tears for Balance, an endless river shed in memory of those caught between the two Scales as they clash - and the Blue Flame for Law, a light that will taint the uncompromising white sky blue.

 

These open up the Nine Gates between places, the doors that go through the Impenetrable Wall and connect all the Parallels."

 

She lifted her head slowly, blinked a few times and lifted her eyebrowns at the Dreamer before giving the vial a new and even more respecful look.

 

"So. Ye've found one of th' keys to th' Parallels, have ya?"

 

He nodded, the nod shifting his eyes from green-and-white to deep blue instantly. There was no amusement or lightness in his voice left.

 

"Ya, this all affirms what th' wisps already told me."

 

"Ye already knew what it was, then?"

 

"Would ye trust th' wisps, m'lady? After th' incident with th' Scrolls o' Armageddon, I've considered everythin' they say carefully before acting on their words. They may seem paragons o' Law but they are as inhuman as things go."

 

"I can see what ye mean. Th' Scrolls o' Armageddon..."

 

Faaye shivered, even though the room was warm, and a shadow passed over her downcast eyes.

 

"'Twas an unnecessary cataclysm, it was."

 

She handed the vial to the Dreamer, who put it back into the depths of his white robe. It disappeared into some deep dark pocket, the blue tint it had given to everything nearby vanishing with it.

 

"What do ye think, m'lady?"

 

"Yer asking me what to do with that? I'm no expert in the ways of th' Parallels - even if nobody can claim t' be master of that knowledge, there are planewalkers who have studied th' subject, some for hundreds o' years. I do not even know what that spark is for, even if it is named as a key."

 

He nodded and shrugged, sat down and took another sip of the elven wine. She followed his example and an amiable silence fell on the two, both submerged in their own surface thoughts, words abandoned as unnecessary for now. The immortals did not need to fill every short moment with speech or motion, comfortable with time flowing past them.

 

After a while a narrow portal the size of a small window or a portrait opened in the corner of the room, the portal's open surface facing at the corner. They both glanced towards it, annoyance on Faaye's open face, wariness in the yellow eyes of the scarred Dreamer. She stood up and walked to the corner, sighed silently when she recognized the face on the other side of the contact.

 

"M'lord Atyaer Ra Jahl."

 

"M'lady Faaye Khantius. Are you free to talk, Countess?"

 

The voice that entered through the portal was dry and dead, devoid of the planewalker accent or anything else. It spoke in Old Planewalker Prime, a language most older planewalkers understood without the translator enchantments and that some of the eldest could even speak fluently, a relic from the times before the enchantments had gained wide-spread use in all the different camps of the immortals.

 

Herald of the Law, Palgrave Atyaer? I wonder what that ancient would think if he'd see who Faaye is talking with right now.

 

"Naw, I have a visitor regretfully. I shall contact ye soon enough, m'lord."

 

"Who are you entertaining? This urgent matter may pertain him or her as well - I've had trouble locating some of our captains."

 

Faaye grinned, her face lighting up in a way that made her seem mortal, weaker and softer than she was.

 

"He's a High Commander o' Chaos Armies, I doubt ye have anythin' urgent t' say to him, ya?"

 

"If you wish to conceal the identity of your visitors, I am sure you could do it with less unseemly manner. Do contact me as soon as you may, m'lady - I dislike reaching so deep into Planar Astral, so perhaps it is after all better for you to do the work, so to say."

 

"See ya, m'lord."

 

The portal shrunk into a little dot and vanished, taking Faaye's gleeful look with it.

 

"Somethin' is happenin', m'lord. Perhaps it'd be better if we should continue this conversation later, ya?"

 

The Dreamer stood up and bowed, a faint smile on his face.

 

"Very well, then. I'll be expectin' ye t' keep my secret as well as I shall keep yers. Until next time."

 

He sidestepped into the Astral and was gone.

[Zadown]

The room was sturdy, made of metal and hard wood, reinforced with enchantments to such extent there weren't many forces in the whole multiversum that could have broken the walls or the doors. Some faint scars in the walls, in the ceiling and the floor were reminders of times powerful beings or uncontrolled magics had tried to sunder the place apart without succeeding.

 

"... and that concludes the principles of minmal safety measures when conjuring a random gate. Of course, sometimes none of these are sufficient, but if we would fear the way the lead coin of Fate lands, we would not be here in the first place."

 

The teacher ceased his lecture and turned his small, piercing eyes from the chalked glyphs towards his few pupils. He was a short, faintly purple-skinned man in modest red robes with black markings, the colors declaring him as a teacher who had not yet attained archmagedom. A large burn mark decorated his left cheek, a memory of some spell or conjuration gone wrong. He seemed old, but his hair was still jet black and there was no feebleness in his gestures or posture. His voice was stern and strict, the words pronounced carefully.

 

"I assume you have all studied the proper words of the True Language and the gestures needed. There is no need for any of you to accidently eviscerate himself by getting it wrong - tell me now if you are not ready for this test."

 

His intense gaze swept over the twenty or so young people in front of him, looking for hints of nervousness. The pupils were mostly in their late teens, a few older ones studying their second or third area of occultism, one or two younger ones too gifted to keep them with those born on the same year.

 

"Good. Lazy or easily distracted people should not try these higher aspects of the Art. You do remember what happened to Tessae, I hope. Marchello, show us how it is done."

 

One of the pupils turned paler, with several others sighing in relief. He was perhaps almost twenty years old albeit shorter than most of his classmates, his skin the same pale purple color as the teacher's. His robes were three different shades of grey with red markings, declaring him to be an elder student in demonology, a dagger hanging from his belt finishing his attire. Marchello had black, short hair, brown eyes and small round nose and ears that made him seem vaguely rodent-like, harmless. He walked past the other students and the teacher unconsciously rubbing his hands together, pausing finally in the middle of a magic circle made in the middle of a protective triangle, both of them surrounded by two circles. Runes and glyphs were engraved here and there, very clearly marking the barrier between the inside and the outside, the protective spells lazily blooming into life as Marchello stepped over the various lines. Air rippled between him and the others in places the wards were ready to repel whatever would appear, be it a demon lord, a wild flow of random magic or an angry demi-god.

 

Marchello paused at the last circle, the one meant for whatever he was summoning, and activated its spells of protection himself, the easy routine calming his nervous mind. Diving into the lightest of trances, sinking into that tranquil space just below his everyday anxieties and fears, he started pronouncing the words of the True Language loudly and clearly, his voice crisp and sharp compared to the way he normally spoke. Burning runes flashed in front of his mind's eye, forcing all mundane things away, the spinning symbols controlling him as much as he controlled them, his fingers shaping invisible glyphs into the air as the Art commanded. The ritual seemed to last forever and no time at all, but finally it was done and Marchello uttered the last crystal-clear word, made the last required gesture and ripped the skein of the world open.

 

A shimmering circular gate appeared inside the inner-most of the magic circles. It hung suspended in the air ... waiting. Then a pale, scarred hand shot through it and struck the single imperfectly prepared rune of the protective circle, breaking it. Before anybody had time to react, it snatched Marchello by his lapels and dragged him in.

 

The gate vanished amidst shocked silence.

[Zadown]

Marchello blinked and opened his eyes, immediately wishing he hadn't done that. The nearest thing was a hideously scarred face with two eyes like blue stars shining in the eyesockets, the creature that face was attached to crouched over him like a curious vulture. Far behind it were blue glowing runes against a background of pure darkness, below them both a wedge-shaped pier of stone pointing towards the endless night. Above floated a series of things that seemed like windows or portals, each of them tugging his mind in an uncomfortable way. He realized he was lying on his back on the uneven chilly stone and that his body seemed in better condition than what he had usually associated with conjuring spells gone horribly wrong. Something else was not right, however, a pulsing, stabbing, tearing pain waking up somewhere inside his head and along his spine. He sat up shuddering and coughing, almost gagged from pain.

 

"... ye awake, ya? Are ye? Can ye hear me?"

 

The creature spoke Chamanian with a dialect that mangled the beautiful language into barely understandable growl, but understand them he could even if the surging pain made it hard for Marchello to shake his disorientation.

 

"Bwhl? Huh?"

 

"How much 's four times four, mortal?"

 

"Um .. sixteen. Did you ... drag me through reality to answer that, demon?"

 

The long sentence drained his remaining strength and Marchello fell down again, curling into foetal position. Hugging himself made the pain feel less bad, an alleviation that only lasted a fleeting moment before the tall, pale creature dragged him upright. Its hands seemed hot and misshapen even through the robes, the grip unyielding and strong.

 

"Ye 'ave time t' rest later, mortal. Now, tell me - how do ye feel right now? Describe yer sensory perceptions in such a detail as ye can."

 

"I don't ... feel like..."

 

"Alonque!"

 

The single word set every one of the imaginary blades tearing at his spirit and causing all that barely bearable pain on fire. The world flashed and almost went black - he could feel his toes curl inwards and his teeth try to grind each other to dust from the agony, somewhere far, far away. He was sure he would die of the shock and was ready to welcome the release, but the fiery torment faded with a slowness that left him guessing if he was getting used to the pain or if it was lessening.

 

"My apologies, mortal. 'T seems ye can't withstand yer true name in th' heavy speech. Ye still among th' livin' and th' thinkin', ya?"

 

"... yes."

 

"Most excellent! Now, do ye recall what I ask'd of ya? Please do describe yer sensory perceptions in such a detail as ye can."

 

"... it hurts."

 

"An' what'd be four times five, mortal?"

 

Marchello gasped for breath, trying to make sense of the words before a new searing wave of pain would be his reward for tardiness. Even like this, consciousness nearly shattered by the torture, he thought something was very wrong in a way he could not quite pinpoint, as if there had been another him inside this body trying to answer the question because it was asked, not because there might be consequences in not answering it. He turned his face upwards, the face of his tormentor a wavering white blob above him.

 

"... twenty?"

 

"'Tis acceptable answer, mortal, an' it tells me ye 'aven't lost yer sentience as many test subjects do. Ah, 't seems ye may need a rest before we continue. Ye'd do well t' remember th' exact feelings ye are passin' through at th' moment, however - I shall enquire 'bout them later."

 

"... yes, Master."

 

His last thought before he fell into something between unconsciouness and sleep was the cold realization that part of him meant it when he had called his kidnapper master.

 

*

 

"AAAAAAAAAaaaaaaaaaahhh!"

 

Marchello shook his head and clawed the air, a terrible weight crushing down his heart. He blinked rapidly a few times, trying to sense where he was and what was happening before he realized he had just woken up.

 

That gate spell, smashed circle of protection, the scarred, pale giant - all a dream?

 

He cleaned grime away from his eyes, feeling slightly better. When he managed to open his eyes properly the weight that had crushed him in his dream returned back in force. He wasn't in his own room. Breathing deeply, he looked around the room, trying to stay above the panic that loomed just below the thin veneer of calm he was able to retain. He was in large but short bed, barely long enough for him and clearly not long enough for the creature that had dragged him through the gate. The room was dimly lit, almost dark, but pleasantly warm, the walls stone. A faint fragrance of flowers hang in the air, something that made him pause.

 

Flowers? Who has ever heard of a demon who has flowers in his fortress? Or who puts the mortals he captures into a proper, neat bed?

 

Marchello pinched himself, knowing this wasn't a dream but too confused to think of any other alternatives.

 

A small light the size of a candle flame flared up at the other edge of the room, revealing the face and hands of a beautiful woman clad in white loose robes, a calm smile on her face, the rest of her hidden by the sudden shadows.

 

"You are awake then, m'lord? I shall tell Lord Dreamer. Feel free to refresh yourself, but be swift as he will most likely require your presence soon enough."

 

"Huh?"

 

The woman bowed and released the light which begun to grow brighter, almost blinding his eyes that had adapted to the dark. He could see the woman move out of the room but not much else, frowned at the odd noise that sounded like a huge bird. When he could see properly again, the sound had ceased, the woman was gone, and he realized there was various foods and water set on a low table near the bed. Marchello got out of the bed, tried to smooth out the creases his robe had gotten during his sleep to no avail, then gave up and started eating.

 

That pale demon could've slapped me dead yesterday, makes no sense to poison me now.

 

*

 

"Greetings, mortal. Do ye feel better now?"

 

The kidnapper did not seem as terrifying now, even if his name was still a map of scars and even if he still was taller than anybody Marchello had ever seen. The eyes seemed vividly yellow, something that clashed again his memory of bright blue eyes. He glanced nervously at the angel who had brought him here, not used to seeing those white wings on what otherwise seemed a beautiful human.

 

"Yes, thank you. Um ... is there any chance for me to get back, Master?"

 

The last word leaped out of his mouth automatically, spoken by the part of him that had born yesterday under that torture, and both the involuntary title and the memory it brought to him filled him with sudden dread. The Dreamer did not notice or did not care, spoke with a thoughtful, pondering cadence.

 

"A chance? Aye, maybe. Given ye mortals are suicidal enough t' use th' portals, 'twouldn't be much of an inconvinience to deposit ye somewhere near th' place ye were, though I doubt I'd bother punchin' through th' layers of protective enchantments yer school 'as against th' terrible dangers of planar beings."

 

"So, if it is not too much of a bother, then, Master ...?"

 

"Naw. Did ya think I drag'd ye 'ere by accident, mortal? We still 'ave work t' do, ye an' I, ya?"

 

The Dreamer grinned, his eyes visibly changing color from yellow to white. Suddenly the human was too terrified to speak, the voice of the planewalker resonating deeper inside, somewhere in his spirit or soul.

 

"So, Alonque, can ye tell me exactly how ye felt after I bound ya? Bindin' mortals 's a waste of time, usually, given that th' taint of the one doin' th' binding renders such mortals unsuitable for most of th' rare tasks mortals are more useful than planar soldiers, but oft' what is useless teaches us a lot about what is useful..."

 

The razor-sharp chains around his soul tugged and nudged him, giving him no other options than to comply.

[Zadown]

"An' ye do not feel in any way diminish'd? Mortal souls are such fragile things, 'tis hard t' bind them without breakin' them. Most who try end up creatin' mindless half-corpses or even zombies, truly useless things that are far more easily rais'd and commanded via th' usual necromantic spells."

 

"No, Master, the only thing that is feels odd is the way I need to obey you and add Master after each sentence if I wanted it or not."

 

"Very good, mortal."

 

The Dreamer frowned and turned abruptly to face the approaching angel.

 

"Ya, what 's it, Herald?"

 

"A herald, Master. She is carrying the blue flag of truce and a white pennant featuring a mage sigil that consists simply of two triangles within each other."

 

"This sigil?"

 

The planewalker gestured and the simple design the angel had spoken about appeared, floating in the air. His numerous battle scars begun to dance around like a nest of antagonized centipides, his eyes suddenly burning with yellow flames. His face looked like he was missing what most of us had, the mask of skin, that his was torn away during his countless years of strife. The chaos he had gone through was embedded into him leaving only his eyes untouched, the twin windows to his burning spirit showing the scars left in his soul instead.

 

"Yes, Master. That sigil."

 

"Only th' elders use sigils that simple. Ye have any idea why Palgrave Atyaer'd be interest'd in meeting me, Herald?"

 

"No, Master."

 

The flames burning in the Dreamer's eyes turned darker and were doused, his face turning into a bleached, scarred skull with black, empty holes where his eyes had been. He grabbed empty air and Pain materialized into his waiting hand, its spectral blade moaning softly in anticipation. Last audible words he muttered as he walked away from the mortal were:

 

"We'll just 'ave t' see then, aye?"

[Zadown]

Palgrave Atyaer Ra Jahl stood near the tip of the stone pier pointing towards the endless depths of the Void, his tiny angelic retinue standing mostly behind him, the flag carrying herald of the Herald of Law being the only exception. Atyaer was clad in all black silk, the cut of his clothes severe and simple, his posture almost geometrical in its absolute rigidity. He had black leather shoes that gleamed in the blue light of the Dreamer's runes but wore no gloves, bore no visible arms or armor. Atyaer exuded unshakeable solidity, the raw Law pouring out from the core of his being making the Dreamer's usually shifting eyes itch and stay green and Pain's fickle blade freeze. His eyes were shadowy, his clean-shaven face narrow and old, a black fez with a red braid on his silver hair. It was hard to see if he had any scars - his skin was dark and wrinkled, showing his exceedingly long lifespan even among the immortals. When he spoke, his tone was dry and dead, the words of Old Planewalker Prime pronounced carefully and slowly, flawlessly.

 

"M'lord Wodzan Xe Chanima, of the Scales, I presume?"

 

"Palgrave Atyaer Ra Jahl of the Law - an unexpect'd honor, m'lord."

 

Atyaer nodded and the Dreamer bowed, slightly deeper than usual. Even among the equal and free some were more equal than others, had either more personal power or more influence than others, and a Herald of Law was perhaps even more important position than High Commander of the Chaos Armies. Law did not shift constantly, and anybody given an important rank was expected to keep it, to still be there a century from now, perhaps a millenia. Atyaer had been a Herald of the Law for over three thousand years.

 

"I am sure this will not come to you as any great surprise, sir, but the matter I am about to discuss is not an exceedingly pleasant one from your point of view."

 

"Aye, though I must admit I'm not aware o' any way I've had cross'd th' ways of th' Law, lately."

 

"If it was such a matter, a clash against single one of Law's captains, I'm sure the person involved would settle the issue in the usual planewalker ways. But no - I am here in official capacity, and that means I speak as Law, something that goes beyond such trivialities."

 

The Dreamer made an impatient gesture with his left hand.

 

"Well then, m'lord. What th' Law 'as t' say?"

 

Atyaer coughed closing his eyes and covering his mouth with his delicate right fist, then proclaimed in a voice slightly different than before, more majestetic, alive.

 

"Hear the Law! It has been decided that the combined forces of the Planar Armies of Law give the following ultimatum: one Lord Wodzan Xe Chanima of the Scales is hereby expected to produce an item in his possession and leave it at the hands of Law's representative, to wit: a spark or a flame of the Blue Flame."

 

A silence fell.

 

"An'?"

 

"Ah. I was expecting somebody who has enjoyed a high position in the past should be familiar of how these affairs work. We could have bypassed going into the crude details, but obviously my expectations were set too high. Let me satisfy your curiosity considering "or else", then, m'lord."

 

Atyaer made a tiny, non-threatening gesture, something that did not trigger a prepared doomsday spell or summon a sudden army. Instead, his standard bearer lifted a trumpet to her lips and sounded a short, exact series of notes, typical for the army of Law. In the distance, just beyond easy detection range, a planewalker made his or her signature wards flare with excess energy, something that's only use was in showing who awaited there in the coldness of the Void, past the traps and patrols any sane planewalker had surrounding his fortress. Then another set of wards flared in the dark, and another.

 

The Patriarch ... Sir Khalear ... Lady Onagjina ... Count Lwyfn. And some I can't recognize. If they all have brough their usual armies as well, that's a significant part of Law's strength at my doorstep. And ... Countess Faaye Khantius!? But that's not her normal ward set - out of all the planewalkers I'm aware of, only Khalaer, the late Myrmidon and me use Raex's Bands of Planar Steel.

 

Outwardly, the Dreamer seemed impassive, the only sign of his inner turmoil being his grey eyes. They still itched, but Atyaer's aura of Law had merely hindered their change, not completely made it impossible - not here, in the centre of the Dreamer's main fortress.

 

"Impressive, m'lord. As ye seem t' prefer this t' be done quickly an' without undue hassle, let us skip a few acts of this play."

 

He reached inside his white robes and produced the glass vial that held his spark of the Blue Flame. The light it shed made the Dreamer's eyes seem almost blue, deepened the black hues of Atyaer's silk suit, gave the bright white feathers of the angels surrounding the two a sad tint. The Dreamer held the item on his open palm, extended his hand towards the Herald of Law.

 

"Here it 's, then. Th' Blue Flame."

[Zadown]

Epilogue

 

Half of it in the care of a Devourer of Abyss, one-fourth in the hands of my old employer, one-eight stored away by the wisps, one-sixteenth stolen by the Law - ha! I want to see what hero will combine these bits and pieces back to the full Blue Flame.

 

Last part of the Blue Flame in his possession burned inside a small glass vial, a thin and sickly spark that looked like it was about to fade away and turn to smoke. It still had the power to color everything near it blue, but when examined with the mage-sight, it vanished, turned invisible.

 

It does not radiate heat or magic, does not bend laylines or carry an aura of any kind. It doesn't even carry the taint of elemental fire that all normal flames do. And it does not grow or diminish, does not devour anything or die from lack of fuel.

 

The Dreamer twisted and turned the vial around, looking thoughtfully into it, seeing his own thoughts more than the actual blue spark. Suddenly a smile appeared on his face that had held a worn, tired expression, and he gestured to the nearest angel.

 

"Óellaeh-Ân, bring th' mortal. 'Tis time t' send 'im home, ya?"

 

She nodded and hurried away, towards the part of the Astral Harbour that had housed Jankiize years ago and where Marchello now waited his master's next command.

 

This last spark might be handy, some day.

 

He indulged himself with a smile a moment longer, then started burning runes of protection, misdirection, undetectebility and resilence into the already hardy surface of the glass vial, muttering the appropriate spells with impassive face.