“Heresy indeed.”

The Journals of William Harwood #5

Summer Firstmoon, the First,
Year of Returning Light 645
Richau, Traul

I now have a book in my possession, a book of certain significance, but of what in particular I am still unsure.  And there is at least one very angry librarian for whom I should take pains to obscure my face in future. Though, given the nature of what was pilfered, I doubt very much that the town guard will be involved.

My story begins in Morbtown.  You, dear reader, may be unfamiliar with such a place, but they are common in the Imperium.  Similar to the giants’ ghetto in Mordoba, the Imperium has decided that it needs somewhere to put all of its dourfolk.  The governors can’t abide having them wander the countryside in their wagons, you see. A detriment to public order. So they’ve been forced to settle, and for most, that meant living in the cities.  The common people have never been terribly accepting of the deadies of course, even here in Richau. So after they moved to the cities, they were forced to stay in Morbtowns.

True to the name, there isn’t much vigor or cheer in a Morbtown.  The dourfolk don’t care much for bright light or colors, hiding their alleys under thick black awnings and decorating their houses in gray pattern work.  Those who venture out during the day wear veils, wide-brimmed hats, or even full blindfolds. Evcen their music has a sparse patience to it that feels lonely to ears like mine.  

Being so frail and pallid, one imagines they could be the ghosts of some great famine.  It wouldn’t have been Darkfall, though. Their history runs much deeper than that. It is a history told from venerable lips, far beyond an ordinary lifetime, and one that I was counting upon during my visit here.

Using our pragmatic, free-thinking bonafides as Genassian traders, Dianora and I managed to win a few friends in la Société Ardoise, a consortium of businesses working out of Morbtown, some with a surprising amount of wealth and influence in the city at large.  From there, we were able to secure a meeting with a figure known simply as “La Conseillere,” an especially old dourwif who purportedly answered the unanswerable.

I detected a whiff of charlatanism in the way they advertised her and was close to backing out to find a better way to spend my favors here, but Di wasn’t having it.  Well, I figured at the very least we might find some entertainment in the ordeal. In hindsight, I think I might do well to put more faith in her instincts.

La Conseillere had a parlor that was as richly apportioned as I could imagine such a place to be without using a single shade of actual color.  The glossy black silk caught my eye in particular, given just how far a bale of high-grade silk would need to go to land here in Richau.

The advisor herself appeared more like a malnourished child than an elderly woman.  I am told she was born in the Age of Revelation, that she witnessed the end of one world and the beginning of another.  Whatever she had seen in the past, however, she didn’t appear to have much grasp on the present. The dim lighting could not obscure the yellowing of her eyes, nor their lack of vital focus.  

A handler was needed to guide her into the room, a squinting rodent of a man named Javin.  He was her ninth husband, merely six centuries her junior. He also served as her interpreter, as she only spoke in an old form of Zinni, a language shared between dourfolk and few others.

I allowed Dianora to tell our tale to them.  She added some dramatic embellishment, but the core questions remained intact.  I’m still not sure how much she really believes in the whole thing, but she’s been more than willing to humor me.

La Conseillere’s voice came back in a slurring monotone, chewing upon the words as if they were a mealy sustenance.  Javin added life to her answer as he related it to us. “The world wants to forget such tragedy. Traul though, Traul remembers their Nightmare Queen.  But now she is only a thing in the corner of your eye, and a thing on the underside of your bed. A villain for a child’s story. She can not reach you in your warm home, far away in Genassia.”

“Her blood may be another matter.  I do not know of this snake child. I have never heard of such a thing.  But if it is kin to the Nightmare Queen, it is dangerous.” She took a moment to say her next words with care.  “More dangerous than you can understand. Perhaps you would be safer to remain ignorant of it.”

Hogwash, of course.  I’ve never given any credence to the superstitious notion that knowledge itself can be a hazard.  Surely one can not gird oneself in ignorance and expect anything for it but folly. I pressed her to tell us more, anything at all that might be useful.

She shook her head and sneered, but the next words she said to Javin had him scratching letters out on a sheet of paper.  “There is a library in the Façon Trame Academy,” Javin said, speaking his own words for the first time. “La Conseillere was a custodian of these books for many years.  She remembers every title. I am giving you the building name, the collection, and the listing number. There were three copies of this book. One may yet remain. They will not admit to its existence, and they will not willingly part with it.”

As he handed us the paper he added, “This is as much as we will give to an outsider, but it is more than we would do for most.”

As Dianora and I walked out we conspired over the next steps.  I’d be more than happy to pay them for the book, but if they wouldn’t even admit to its existence, then what option did that leave me beyond larceny?  There were political maneuvers I could use, perhaps a threat of imperial attention to whatever they were hiding, but they could simply move it before the inspector arrived.  

Dianora was keen enough on thievery.  Told me it would be easy. She would simply bat her eyelashes at the clerk and give me time to prod through anything I wanted.  She didn’t seem to be concerned about the fact that Façon Trame was principally an academy for arcane study and that we could be facing quite a bit more than simple bureaucrats.  I can never argue with her for long, though.

Gaining access to the academy grounds was easier than I’d expected.  The impeccably manicured parks and courtyards of the estate were open to the public, in fact.  I’m told this ensures a steady supply of tranquil minds for the fumbling efforts of apprentice dream crafters.  I made sure to gird myself in a sheath of simmering anxiety.

The Deschier Building was original construction, a textured black cylinder of fused rock crafted by wizards some time before Darkfall.  It seemed an entirely appropriate place for La Conseillere to hole up through the many years of frigid night. Dianora and I passed under the raven’s head at the entry with the least suspicious poise we could muster.  I could feel a slight chill as we passed the threshold, a sign that the door itself was looking for something. Stolen books, no doubt. We would need to find a way around that.

As expected, there was a clerk minding the entryway.  A bespectacled man engrossed in some arcane matter of tables and tallies, his every motion deliberate and slow.  I could tell he was the type to be firm on details, but not so difficult to keep distracted. The two of us glowed with a friendly innocence as we approached.  Dianora leaned in hard, giving him a coy smile as she ran a lock of hair through her fingers.

We asked what collections were here.  He rattled off a list of names, none matching the one we’d come for—but that was to be expected.  He didn’t seem to be warming up to Di, though. Her tongue played along her lips. Her eyes bathed him in rapt attention.  But not only was he uncomfortable with the situation, he had the lightest sneer of what I could only call disgust. This was the look of a man who wanted a different offer.

I gently nudged Di as I leaned in with a few questions of my own.  She caught on as soon as I began talking. As she pulled away, I slipped my lucidity charm into her palm.  It was a pricey little trinket that I’d picked up to safeguard my dealings against unscrupulous magicians. I was hoping it might cut through any spells meant to misdirect a probing eye.

I watched without watching as Dianora disappeared into the sea of books behind us.  My mouth was busy asking the clerk’s name. Mathys, he said. I played up the singsong staccato of the Genassian accent that people in Richau found so charming as I asked for every excruciating detail of his work here.  Mathys was at war with himself, at once demanding to continue his book work, while also melting under the gaze of this dashing stranger spilling color into the middle of his stale, mechanical existence.

He told an artless joke about ink bottles spilling into people’s tea, and I laughed. I laughed at the absurdity of this precarious moment in time, but I channeled it into something merry and companionable.  

I could tell I was winning against Mathys’ need to focus on his work, so I turned our conversation to security measures.  It was too easy. I had the right key to pass through his suspicions, and in turn he showed me the key to unlock the library’s defense.  A literal key, as it was. A small invested item that controlled the wards on the doorway.

I quickly changed the subject to Mathys’ collection of fourth-century speculative war fiction.  It chewed up the minutes as I waited for Dianora to return. And I crept closer into the poor clerk’s workspace, the key on his desk ever present in the corner of my eye.  

I had a moment of guilt, considering what we were doing to him.  We were committed, though. I had come too far to let sympathy stay my hand.  The moment I noticed Dianora’s shadow slinking in from the side passage, I leaned in to whisper in Mathys’ ear.  My fingers wrapped around the key, and my thoughts reached out for the scholar’s switch enchanted into its metal.  I told him I would be back to see him when he was off duty. I could feel an electric heat coming off him, and I pulled away to the shameful cold of my escape, giving a quick wink to keep him distracted for a while after my exit.

As casual as casual may be, I strolled my way back through the flowered courtyards to the steep foot paths down to the city proper.  By the time I’d returned to familiar brick and cobblestone, I could feel eyes on me. Anyone might feel as though they are watched at times, most likely inspired by a touch of guilt or paranoia.  But I knew enough of the occult to understand when I was the subject of a divination.

Into the nearest alley I ducked.  There, within a crevice in the masonry, I stuffed a pouch of golden fidems.  “For your trouble,” I said to no one in particular. I’m sure it would be nowhere near enough to mollify them, but perhaps enough to give pause.  I uncorked a vial of salt then and scattered a bit over my shoulder. Enough of an irritant to keep all but the most determined of mages out of my business a short while.  Long enough to get myself back to the relative safety of the docks.

Dianora met me back at Ilaria’s Promise, laughing, and dancing, and giddy as you please.  Of course, there was no end of teasing about my powers of seduction. I took it in good humor, but in truth, I still can’t help but feel sorry for the poor boy.

You will have to excuse me, dear reader, if I falter in my words for what happened next.  It would be neither prudent nor in good taste to give a full record of the ecstasies that followed.  Suffice it to say that I earned another black mark upon my integrity, and we are both much relieved for it.

As for the book, well, I have as yet only had the barest of time for study, but I have determined that it is a copy of the Ypsili Lexi, the holy scriptures of the old Ionecan faith, translated into an obscure dialect of low Sumican, perhaps a precursor to the versions spoken in Traul today.  The stilted wording makes for slow going, but one aberration stuck out almost immediately. Among the pantheon of god regents, two names are different from the established canon. Instead of Arsya, there is Oroisi, possibly a matter of linguistic drift. But Neshnan is replaced by a god named Kemeten.  And the symbology for both Oroisi and Kemeten differs from the ones they replace.

Kemeten, as the text would have it, holds the sigil of a bell.  Like Jack of the Bell.

Oroisi is a goddess of storms.  Not unlike Our Lady of the Gray.

Heresy indeed.  And a very old one.  But what of the third?  What of the Nightmare Queen?  Surely the answer must lay within.  But it will take time to work my way through this.

For now, I am in love.  And the answers I seek are within reach.  If only I could be at ease with either of these blessings.