Elenore sat in her study, working hard in silence… or near silence, as she discovered. Her eyes slowly raised up and her gaze fixed on a clock on the wall. Its pendulum waved back and forth, ticking as it reached certain points. It seemed the only active thing in this room frozen in time. As it waved, the second hand moved ever onward—tick, tock, she listened to the clock.
Yet in her study, alone, the connections that she’d formed made the world around her move right along with the clock.
She felt Durran soaring through the sky, leading his men against gods with the blessings of Stout Heart Swan at his beck and call. Through wind and rain he tracked those who would claim the land of Berendar as their own. And through fire and storm he rode, cleaving through their meager claims to the lands of Vasquer and the Burnt Desert. Their spirits fed the dwarven instruments they bore, empowering Argrave’s forces day by day. Each day he endured as fiercely as the last, as constant as time.
But was it days, or seconds? Tick, tock, she listened to the clock.
Argrave walked through Blackgard, officiating the things that Elenore deemed necessary to happen. His tongue weaved in and out of conversation, bending egos like he could grasp them. Magisters and nobles walked up to him with a gut full of spite and grievance, but left with smiles and empty pockets. The places he walked upon seemed to sprout buildings—the Church of Law, the Bank of Blackgard, the House of Public Appeals…
Yet his other side, like a face beneath a mask of flesh, delighted in the joys of magic and power. With the Domain of Law strengthening his activities at every turn, he weaved incomprehensible script to his end, perfecting spells one after another. And on his mind was a looming figure he sought to surpass—though whether it was Mozzahr or Erlebnis, Elenore could not tell. On and on he worked, passing the days by.
As for Elenore? Tick, tock, she listened to the clock.
Galamon stood at the head of the three Veidimen officers, Grimalt, Bastel, and Rasten, following their lead into the army that had been made for him to command. He called upon the power of his goddess, Veid, granting those honorable souls beneath him strength equal to what he possessed. He walked like a commander and soldier both, learning names as he made one for himself. Galamon’s prowess as a leader, now with his god at his back, was undeniable. A sorely needed thing, too—it wasn’t long until they pressed into the underground, where the Ebon Cult would await.
But when had the time grown so short? Tick, tock, she listened to the clock.
Anneliese worked with Argrave in the day, giving wisdom by the handful when it was needed. In time, during their party’s search for a champion for Almazora and Rook, she naturally came to advise a large retinue of spellcasters. Teaching came naturally to her, and in only a few days, even Magisters deferred to her insight.
At night, Anneliese went to the Alchemist. No two meetings between them were the same, and she came to marvel at the power her Truesight offered. He role in the heist came to light, taking precedence over even her looming teacher. She accepted this role, bolstered by her curiosity. And as time passed, she grew into her position.
Could Elenore say that a week passed? Tick, tock, she listened to the clock.
Orion did not let time slip him by. In the day, he guarded Argrave, following the king around as he worked miracles with Law. In the night, he met with Melanie, paying little regard to her newfound noble title of Countess of the Low Way of the Rose as he beat her relentlessly. Elenore figured out it was meant to be training after several days of observation.
But after a time, Melanie began to beat him, too. Her sword cut through space itself, attacking from places that Orion could not see or react to. And he was utterly unable to catch her as she danced through reality, swinging chain and blade in an adept show of maneuverability. Her time as an experience lent her experience in learning, it seemed.
What time was it? Tick, tock, she listened to the clock.
Elenore remembered the events of the two weeks before. She had been just as active as everyone, moving desperately to prepare things to be perfect. At the dismay of Anestis, their not-quite captive dwarf, she brought all the tools for dwarven metalworking Melanie had retrieved to the city and set their forges ablaze again. The spirits that Durran collected were poured into the forges, setting them ablaze with wondrous purple fire. Clang, clang, came the hammers, every bit as constant as the clock. The first batch of dwarven steel came free, taking the shape of crude scimitars of purple metal. Though a sorry sight, they were sharp enough to cut through rock. And in time, every man in the field would have a blade capable of slaying a Shadowlander.
Tick, tock, she listened to the clock.
The door opened, and Elenore was drawn from her trance. Argrave walked in.
“It’s time,” Argrave declared, holding his arms out as he entered. “These two weeks seemed to blur by, didn’t they?”
“…yes, they did,” Elenore said quietly as she rose to her feet.
In a few moments, Argrave was alone no longer. Orion was the first to follow, being bodyguard to the king. Galamon and Anneliese followed right behind. Melanie and Durran were the last to join them.
“Everything is ready on our end,” Argrave said, tapping her desk. “Can you think of anything else we might need to prepare?”
“No. We’re prepared to confront the Ebon Cult,” Elenore answered, not believing these words came from her mouth. “What about the Alchemist’s end of things?”
“He is completely ready,” Anneliese said. “Having studied the ritual he performs while under his tutelage… I understand fully what he intends, and how each god we allied has decided to play their role. We will have no trouble breaching Erlebnis’ realm, I’m certain. The uncertainty lies primarily in the before and after—namely, in Mozzahr, and in what Erlebnis has prepared.”
“Then… I will remain here, as the connection between all of us,” Elenore said, sitting back down. “And all of you will confront a man who could be a god, and then rob one who is a god.”
“We’ve come a long way in a short time,” Argrave nodded. “Time was, I came before Erlebnis begging for power. But nobody ever asked him to do what he did in the Bloodwoods. And so, let’s see the mettle of the divine. Both ours and his.”
######
“It’s as you said,” Mial, daughter of Mozzahr, said to Georgina, her voice muffled behind her lifelike purple owl mask. “King Argrave will always choose the possibility of a peaceful outcome, provided it’s offered. And so he comes down to our city.”
She held a piece of paper that had been delivered in response to theirs, speaking of a parley between Mozzahr and Argrave. It had been posted randomly throughout the underground, but by consequence came into the hands of the cult rather quickly. Though some in the Ebon Cult thought this communication was a sign of weakness on both sides, Mozzahr allowed Mial to persist in this strategy. And though it had taken an inordinately long time, a response finally came. King Argrave of Vasquer was coming.
“How will this go?” Georgina questioned. She wore a mask of her own, now, hiding her pretty face. It depicted a fox. “What does Mozzahr intend for Argrave?”
“That depends on what he does,” Mial said. “My father merely sought an opportunity to gain an advantage in the inevitable war. If Argrave comes and fights, he wins. If Argrave comes and genuinely parleys, father will give him the opportunity to submit. If Argrave doesn’t come, he loses nothing. Whatever the outcome, things are swayed in our favor.”
“Will the two actually speak at all?” Georgina questioned.
“If all goes well? I believe so,” she confirmed. “That new arrival you warned me against, Traugott… I believe he talked my father into at least speaking to him.”
“And what if…” Georgina began, but then cut off. “Never mind.”
“Speak freely, Georgina. We are off the record, speaking as friends, not as High Priestess and Initiate,” Mial beckoned.
“What if Argrave has devised something to use against Mozzahr?”
“My father once had a building fall on him,” Mial said. “Not any building—one from down here. The entire ceiling caved in on him, bringing tons of the earth’s soil above bearing down on him. He was fine. For my part, I have cast an S-rank spell at him. I’m not totally certain he even blinked.” Mial crossed her arms. “His Emptiness is his strength. So long as it persists, he remains nigh invulnerable. Not even gods are his peer.”
“Can he be separated from it?” Georgina pressed curiously.
“People have tried this in the past. The answer remains no,” Mial said simply. “He can call it back to him wherever he might be. He is its Castellan, and it heeds his call.” She focused on Georgina’s fox mask. “Do you fear for him? Fret not—Mozzahr is not arrogant, I am merely arrogant in his stead. He makes no moves without calculating every possibility. He operates under the assumption that Argrave might be as strong as Gerechtigkeit himself. And it is because of his humility that I am certain he will prevail.”
“And if Argrave is stronger than Gerechtigkeit?” Georgina continued to push.
Mial laughed. “Then I suppose we must worship him, instead. But you get ahead of yourself. It is not set in stone that he comes as an enemy. If Argrave hears Mozzahr’s vision, and is swayed, perhaps they might fight side-by-side against the gods in service of his dream.”
Argrave and Mozzahr, fighting side-by-side… somehow, as Georgina heard it, she could picture it truly happening. King and Castellan, fighting the gods…
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