The S&S Burnout Prevention Series continues with this latest installment of curse gods, pretty tyrants, and a short little riff on a well-known Irish legend! This latter tale is, like last week’s, from an event that sucked ass two years ago I have now given some small updates to and am publishing here forever and ever and ever.
Last week’s S&S will give you all the deets on things moving forward, as well as a tale of war, a magician’s last trick, and the first of three (planned, but you know how that goes) snippets of Carloman day in the life stuff, because he’s not always saving the world. Sometimes he is inconvenienced. You can read that edition HERE!
This week, a desperate search for the Shadow of the Heavens, we learn the price of the Burden of Knowledge, and the red wizard Carloman finds himself solving a curious problem…
Shadow of the Heavens
The higher you went, the more it became something else. Not unreal, but more than real. Too many things at once. After a point, it ceased to be any one thing, and that was where infinity dwelt. But before that was a threshold, guarded and ruled by they who had let Above and Below commingle—an irreversible change in the state of existence. And around it, ten thousand faces peered up every day, led by those who gazed longer, seeking a slice of what dwelt at the very apex.
In the City, death was an occasion. Life was made, or it was broken. But the spectre of death—so mundane and familiar—was a rare visitor to the iridescent stone of the City, vision-hewn from the ether. She turned from the solemn procession before the first tear could be spied by those in attendance, lest it be mistaken for something it was not. They could have their wailing laments and agonized bells. It would amount to nothing. Just like everything else had.
She passed into the house, then. The City never exactly bustled. But you could tell when it was more quiet than usual. The sound of the door hushing over glassy tiles seemed like a stifled breath—as if she shouldn’t be making a sound considering what she was about to do. The chambers were high, the vaulting like alien bones and taught tendons. There was a chill to the bare rooms, connected in a curious jumble, that made it seem like a living soul hadn’t imparted its warmth here in decades, when not a strike of the pendulum before, it was black with mourners. Yet, in truth, could be it was an omen of coldness to come, for there was something that would never come back.
Into another place she went, then, within a strange, silent quarter of smooth, unadorned stone, lightly rippling in places, with low streets that were like chasm depths. A furtive kind of place of opaque windows that watched with cataract eyes, and half-seen shapes might be spied in half-finished alcoves. It felt as if great will had only come through here in passing, leaving it all only partly formed. One thing stood out, though, in the astral haze: a simple door of black wood and black iron fittings set into a slight regress in the stone wall.
Sorcerers lived in places like this. A sorcerer was a thief who stole secrets from those sought to touch the Above and be as gods themselves, and sold those secrets for a price. This one, however...was something different. A sealed packet, stamped in black wax, was slid across a long table of polished oak stained with the remains of candles visible in the red glow of the coals that smouldered in brass fixtures above. It was opened with a long, thin blade, and inspected. A moment’s silence later, she was, with a gesture from a heavy hand, bid wait in the chamber yonder.
Not everyone had the mettle to seek godhood. The sorcerer certainly didn’t. But he knew just what to take so that he might taste of it now and again, and was adept enough that the mere sight of what strode forth was enough to make even her, as she was, forget. The shoulders climbed and flared, the body flowed, the head was like a disk that rose into its own halo—a grand, decorative mantle bore the brunt of the impressive silhouette, the robes were far longer than reasonable but retained either a rigidity or sheerness that made them hold in the air, and the mask was of the City’s own stone, at least in part, with how it petered out into a shimmering phosphorescence at its extremes. Smoke and mirrors. Or an embodied divinity. The distinction did not particularly matter.
She came forth, a tremble in her limbs, but not of fear, and certainly not of the god. No. She was standing on a threshold. This was it. This would be it.
“Pray to me,” it said.
She did not meet its gaze.
“Pray to me...and I will grant you...the perfect curse.”
Her lungs drew a sharp, shuddering breath of their own accord to feed her rapid pulse. She knew what was coming. One foot was already off the side. Come on, she thought to herself. Moving her limbs was like trying to snap a thick branch. She cast her eyes downward.
Upon one knee, bowed, arm resting upon the raised leg, she dredged the words out of a mind that roared like a maelstrom. “O, God of Hate,” it came through gritted teeth, “Spirit of the Evil Eye,” her eyes were clamped shut as her voice rose, “Master of the Black Utterance and the Baleful Whisper,” she gazed up slowly from under a lowering brow, “Shadow of the Heavens, grant me a curse!”
“A curse wants to grow...it wants to spread...it will do everything to keep you under its power...even keep you alive...”
That was the last she ever heard, and all that remained. What left the sorcerer’s chambers was not what had come in, but perhaps, considering where it was to go, and what it was to do, that was for the best.
Burden of Knowledge
Fionn bent over the water’s edge, pushing aside his tousled golden locks so he could gaze right down. The river here looked so absolutely still. Like black ice. When his master Finnegas had cast the lure in the shadow-laden water which coursed through these nameless woods, the surface had nary rippled. It was more like it had passed through a shadow. The boy wondered from what earthen deep this slinking stream came, and to what ocean deep it went, and just what the old druid sought from either source.
It looked like no fish Fionn had ever seen before. Slick black skin pulled taut over very few, warped bones. Half the thing was a gaping maw with teeth like needles. It had no eyes that Fionn could make out, but thin little strands like hair were about where eyes ought to be. Finnegas had said that, in a dream, the shining arm of Nuada Airgeadlámh had pointed to the spot, but Fionn wondered to himself if it hadn’t been something else which spoke to the druid.
Its skin curled up in wrinkles over the little fire, as if, even in death, it was unused to the touch of warmth. The oily stench which came from it seemed to have driven off the animals, and no bird sang. Finnegas would return soon. He had warned the boy to not touch it. Leave it to burn. No matter what happened.
But it was such a waste, he suddenly thought. When next might the fair folk take from his people the hunger they’d set upon them? It was such a little thing, too, Fionn thought as he reached just over the flame and took the shrivelled corpse in his hand, not even thinking as he crunched its brittle bones between his teeth and let the hot greasy flesh slide down his throat and-
gods help him he could see
From somewhere beyond the maelstrom of vision, Fionn could hear Finnegas, weeping.
It began, the red wizard thought, with the passing of some town guard in the street. Now, the town guard were often a good indicator for the state of a town’s governance, general atmosphere, or anything relevant that might be going on. They were usually the first to know and act, if it were known. The way the jingling of their armour announced itself, and the way it made the stall runners stop their work and stand to attention, then the stern countenance of those two guards—garbed more like warriors ready for battle—and how they didn’t return or even acknowledge any of the numerous short bows offered. The stall workers stood for a moment, too, watching, waiting, before slowly returning to their labours.
It started that way, and remained so, every time even a single guard passed by. Some could be seen standing on street corners, their gazes never still, and someone, every so often, meeting that gaze, and shirking from it visibly. Fear? Perhaps. But if so, it didn’t seem to be all. Carloman watched the people as best he could without seeming so obviously inquisitive. He felt he shouldn’t bother them too much, but it would also give him a clearer idea of whatever was going on. He couldn’t have them masking anything. He determined that, in the downcast, furrowed brows, sighs, and shiftless eyes and tired voices, there was almost something of a sense of...what was it, guilt? Shame?
It continued on his way to the keep. Not a very tall structure, even on its raised mound, but it was broad. Extremely so—strangely so, he thought. Like it spread out and might envelope the town below it. He would have ushered such thoughts from his mind, but was, quite frankly, distrustful of the situation in this town. Could it be any number of things? A recent tragedy of some kind, being the most likely? Yes, of course. Everything on edge. He was called here for a reason, after all. But the red wizard had developed a keen sensitivity towards impressions and influences, and he had learned to listen to the things that had passed him by, to take even the slightest notions under advisement. This was not slight. This felt like he was being screamed at.
There were a number of things that chipped away at the wizard’s doubts to reveal his suspicions beneath. For one thing, there was the pomp of the gate guards, in their great plumed helmets and long blue and black surcoats, bearing long-hafted axes with thin, wicked blades, and how they stood tall, with puffed chests and firm-set mouths. Then, when he was admitted and led by two soldiers, there were the inner guards with their dour tabards and leathers, bearing shorter, broad-bladed axes—fearsome fellows who looked ready for a fight at just about any second. And throughout this procession, there were the salutes, bows, and calls. What in the world is all this, he thought, half following it, knowing eyes were on him.
The long audience chamber was in some strange place between austere and stately. A sense of obligation rather than pride. Spans of wooden panels of minimal decoration, which anywhere else would have been warm, a great vaulted roof with high, slender windows showing only a pale light, beaten old flagstones, some dusty tapestries—exceedingly old, he could tell, then a long, handsome wood-carved table, itself entirely bare of even chairs or stools. It all looked so worn with age. A lot of Voerlund did. But this place seemed to be bearing its weight like a noble burden. Then, at the end of this long chamber, a short dais upon which the high, thin throne dwelt. Upon it, the Knight himself. He sat still for a moment, before motioning for some aide who appeared in his stead while he glowered imperiously.
They all stood still for nearly a full minute, eyes fixed on the wizard. Carloman was about to ask something—he wasn’t sure what—when the aide, looking down his nose, droned out the words “You will kneel for afore m’lord.”
Carloman usually deferred to local authority. It was just easier, for one, made things run smoother, but it also made them feel more comfortable, showed he meant well, and so on, but here he felt particularly disinclined to do so. There was an atmosphere about this place he didn’t think he liked. A lot of pomp, a lot of show, and, he was more than sure, a lot of show of might and very likely force he hadn’t been witness to. The signs were all there. If he spent more time in town, looking around, he had no doubt he’d find it. He wasn’t about to let that have any sway over him.
“I don’t think Sir will mind an old man leaning on his walking stick, hmm?”
“Kneel or bow, the choice is yours.”
“Not much of a choice,” said the wizard, realizing he’d somewhat overstepped the mark. The aide was himself armed—the entire court was, as a matter of fact, and a hand was laid upon his axe’s pommel as the aide took several steps forward.
“I need not remind you,” came the aide’s raised voice, dragging out his words, “of where you are.”
A no-name castle from an age long passed desperate for relevancy? Carloman didn’t say this, but he was almost certain they just knew.
“Kneel. Or bow. Or you will be removed, along with your walking stick, you old fool,” the courtier, coming a bit too close.
“Watch your tongue,” the red wizard rumbled, his amber eyes flaring, his staff sounded upon the thin, old carpet with a sound like a gong from the deep. All around him, hands fell to axe handles. The aide stumbled back a step. Carloman strode towards the Knight’s throne, the sound of rustling metal surrounding him yet every clack of his staff sending short shakes through the stone. He eyed the lord, who had sat back into his seat a little, and spoke. “I’ve been having my suspicions about you, so hear me now,” Carloman growled. “I recognize no master, and I certainly do not kneel to the likes of you.” He stopped, and took a breath. “What I do recognize is a fellow in need of aid,” he said, his voice calming, “and I am here to help in whatever way I can. So, will you, or one of your court, deign to give me some details?”
The long and short of it was the Knight, as described by his aide, wanted the wizard, who came recommended, to deal with a troublesome being which suddenly appeared upon the castle battlements. Could this being described? No time, the wizard was to be taken to it directly. Well, is it going out into the town, he asked, his fears flaring, though he suppressed any show of it—usually, it was to keep others calm. Here, he wasn’t so sure he’d like to show what may be construed as weakness. The answer was, again, no. So, what seemed to be the problem? A reply was given, but all Carloman heard was that this had happened without Sir’s approval, and Sir didn’t know a damn thing about how to get rid of it. Troubling indeed, said Carloman, fixing in his mind an impression of the man on the throne. He had not yet, in the wizard’s eyes, earned the name of his rank.
Carloman had seen a number of small, imitation kingbeast carvings on his approach and walk through this keep. They were replicas in miniature of the elemental beings which dwell upon the grand ancient keep of Lundermark in the capital. Not unusual at all, but their presence did belie certain inclinations and pretensions on the part of the keep’s knight-lord, or at least an ancestor whose memory was kept very much alive. Often such miniatures did become animate in some fashion, not really alive, but did seem affected in sympathy by their sources in Lundermark. The one he was taken to, however, was no imitation. It was quite large, and what’s more, quite nimble. And it stood, like a man, winged, crowned, and fearsome of mien, whereas the Lundermark ones walked as beasts upon their four legs. The elemental strode—no, he thought, no, it stalked about the battlements and rooftops, always watching, sometimes peering from some height down on the town. When it noticed the wizard, it turned, and slowly edged about. Testing the perimeter, as it were, never breaking eye contact with him, though it be made of stone. Such a being must be keenly aware of what Carloman was, and could do. He strongly insisted on observing it for a short while, the impatient sounds of the court aide easy enough to ignore until a guardsman’s hand was laid none too gently on his arm. Carloman felt, in that moment, he had the answer, and the Knight wasn’t going to like it.
He had hoped to retire for a while, perhaps until a meal or the next day, to go off and be allowed do whatever it was they thought wizards did and return with a solution, but he was instead prodded back to the audience chamber for what was all but an interrogation. A dozen questions, and, he felt, subtle intimations as to his ability, were levelled at him as a list of demands and queries. Each one was a blow designed to make him falter, to stumble, to slip up in some detail or train of thought. So, he held his staff upright, running a thumb over a familiar spot on the serpent that ran the length of it, and stood before the throne, bringing forth to himself every scrap of his presence in a setting which sought to undermine it. He rolled his shoulders, letting his cloak loosen upon him, and stood straight, chest out, meeting all their displays alike.
“There are a lot of things I could do here, Sir, in dealing with your pesky elemental.” A few glances were subtly shared at that word. They hadn’t a clue what it meant. Good. “But the fact of it is twofold: nothing I can do, with fire and thunder and wards, will do much to uphold the so meticulously cultivated image that spawned this thing, and, in the end, it won’t do a lick of good anyway. All it is going to do is come back. Worse than before, because you couldn’t get rid of it the first time.”
“Explain yourself, magician,” said the aide, words edged with threat.
“Look, I understand this place is leagues from Lundermark—practically on the frontier, and it must feel as if the royal court overlooks you unless they’re looking for tithes. And maybe not even then. You and your bloodline must feel forgotten and useless in this quiet little span. Desperate to be more. As you were, long ago. You dream of it every night, don’t you? But whatever petty tyranny you think you need to stoop to, drop the act-”
“Watch your words, sorcerer,” came a sharp retort from the aide. Carloman ignored him.
“There is no invocation, incantation, or the like to whisk away what you have deemed a problem, because, Sir, there is only one person who can fix this. If you would rise to that challenge, then I would leave you with some choice wisdom.”
The Knight did not speak, but neither did he stop the wizard as he raised to his aide.
“From that throne you do not look down upon your subjects. You look upon all that you are, have been, and will be responsible for.”
With that, Carloman turned and strode out of the keep. He held his head high and kept his pace not too brisk, to let the people who saw him know that, yes, something had indeed been fixed.