Chapter 32: Into the Arcane

It was cold—freezing, even. Silence pervaded the air, so loud he swore the insides of his ears would shatter. He tried to scream, but found himself voiceless. Drifting, restless, alone.

No, not alone.

Slowly, he opened his eyes. Blinking away the mist of sleep, Saul stared, first, into the darkness ahead. There were lights; flickering golds spangled upon a backdrop of arcane purple. He blinked again, and with each breath, found his surroundings abandoning their otherworldly form. Things took shape. The ground, solid grey marble that lay far beneath the reach of his feet. Stairs. The stars in the sky that surely, could not be real. The lectern of twisted silver and glass that held a large, leather bound tome. And upon the raised dais before them, the ethereal form of a man.

It was only then that he became aware that he was surrounded at all.

Araeya hung limply by his side. Fast asleep or unconscious, he could not tell—but like him, she too, was suspended in mid-air. She, however, was the least of his worries.

The demon spawn scattered about the dais were, at a first glance, frozen solid—deep grey blocks that he had imagined at first to be carved statuettes. Ancient figures reminiscent of ghouls stretched spindly fingers towards the pair of them, red-hot fireballs burning even from within the icy prisons that held them. Ghostly wraiths, near translucent save for eyes of deepest blue hung like oddly-shaped panels of glass. Silver-furred beasts—half men, half goat, bearing weapons poised to kill.

Saul opened his mouth. Tried to scream. Tried to move. And both times, failed.

Before him, the man tilted his head. His voice echoed, as if born of another dimension. Aged, wearied, yet stern. "Do not panic just yet, Saul of Scosglen."

Saul blinked. That much, he could do.

As if sensing unease, the man smiled. "I am not going to hurt you."

The pit in his stomach told him the man was not quite telling him the whole truth. Yet, at present, he had little choice but to obey. He swallowed. Once, and then again, and then found he had the ability to breathe. As if in approval, the man nodded.

"W—" He breathed. Then inhaled sharply as the sound made itself audible. The spell broken, he barely found himself with a moment to spare, before the strings binding him were cut.

He fell with a thump, and groaned as his cheek met the floor. Another groan arose—this one even more involuntary, as the amazon landed on his back. "Gods of the Sanctuary—"

The man laughed, a low, somewhat sinister thing. Daintily-shod feet landed smoothly upon marble, as if he were stepping off a stairwell concocted of nothing but air. "The trick to breaking an enchantment is faith, young druid. Faith that you are free. Broaden your mind, and your ropes will break."

"That." Saul found himself struggling in his attempt to sit up, even as the amazon stirred. His voice was hoarse—given the circumstances, he didn't expect any better. "Doesn't make any sense, sir."

The man laughed again. "You're polite. That is good. Then again, I suppose I've said I mean you no harm. You may call me Horazon, young druid. Or what was once Horazan, I suppose."

"Horazon?" The name took a moment or two to register. It clicked with a feeling of trepidation, and in that moment, his throat fell to his stomach. "…you made this place. Enslaved those demons."

"You know your history. I am glad to hear it, young druid. That will make this much easier."

From where he sat, Saul noted that the ancient mage seemed to glide across the floors. Glide—not walk. Secretly, he understood why. The man was dead, after all—or should be.

A soft, but irritable grunt told him Araeya had finally found consciousness. Her voice equally thick, she nonetheless bore some measure of disdain towards the old man as she muttered, "Make what easier?"

Horazon crooked a slight smile. For a moment or two, Saul fancied he saw the old man laughing at them once more; yet he simply took a smooth, sweeping step forward. One fragile, wrinkled hand, speckled with purple-green spots of age brushed idly at the front of his robes, causing the rich blue velvet to shift. He eyed the druid briefly, then turned solemn eyes to the amazon.

"Patience—" His voice was silken smooth. "—Araeya of Skartara. It has never been your strong suit."

Out of the corner of his eye, Saul thought he saw his companion flex her fingers over the string of her bow. She, however, chose to say nothing.

As if satisfied, Horazon dipped his head. "Good. Now that I have the attention of both you restless children, we may begin to understand what it is that has brought us here."

Saul glanced over towards Araeya; she pursed her lips. "We're listening."

Horazon gestured towards the raised dais at the centre of their platform – it held a marble lectern, veined with gold and silver. For the first time, Saul became aware of the presence there. It was Horazon – or what appeared like Horazon.

"That is not me." The mage's essence glanced over. Saul thought he sensed a slight disdain in his voice. "As you may well have noticed."

He had.

As if sensing his response, the mage continued. "That is a sapling amongst old oaks. A mage of the Vizjerei, as I once was, and a brother to another—just as I was, also."

Somewhere within his mind, Saul thought he could recall a tale as recounted to him by his mother. Two brothers, both mages of the Vizjerei, who had fallen to greed and a lust for power. In seeking more, they had encountered the forces of the burning hells; one fell in line with the great evils, while the other was merely content to study the summoning of demonkin. Their ultimate conflict became the fuel that lit the fires of the Mage Clan Wars.

"This sapling is obviously corrupted. Do you mean he will wage war against his brother, pulling the world into another era of destruction?" Saul gritted his teeth.

Horazon flexed his ethereal fingers mildly. "Hardly. He is nowhere near powerful enough, nor has he garnered the attention of the demon lords of hell." The apparition drifted closer. "But he does pose a problem, you see. This sanctuary was meant to be sealed from your world. His meddling broke my wards for secrecy, caused an outpouring of demonic forces."

Araeya tensed slightly where she stood—he saw her fingers twitch, the string of her bow stretching ever so slightly as she pulled the nocked arrow back just that tiny bit. "So you want us to end this sapling, is that it?"

Horazon let out a wry chuckle. "My dear, I never said he was a full weakling. You may want to be more careful where you stick that arrow. He holds a grudge, this one—if you're going to kill him, make sure you hit your mark."

The ground seemed to waver as Saul got to his feet, but Araeya seemed otherwise unbothered. She remained in her wide-stanced posture, eyes narrowed to slits as she glared towards the apparition. He let out a breath through his teeth, fighting back the frustration and trepidation bubbling within his chest. "How do we get out of here?"

In answer, Horazon merely glanced towards the false summoner.

"So we end him." Araeya raised her bow.

The apparition merely crooked a wry, tired smile. "I daresay that is a very good idea—he'll want to end you too."

Saul wasn't surprised. Horazon merely laughed once again—and in the mere few seconds it took for the apparition to disappear in a wisp of fading mist, the platform exploded in a wave of light, the air searing hot and scorching against the skin of his face.

As the shrill cries of the false summoner echoed within the endless sanctuary, he felt the gush of wind, screamed as the torrent threatened to wash him off his feet.

Voiceless in the current, he fell.

He's not back yet. He's still out there with Aya.

Cordelia gnashed her teeth together, fighting back the surge of panicked anger that had threatened to rise since the others had returned the night before. There'd been a cave in, they'd said. They'd lost the pair.

At the news, Jerhyn had glanced her way—him and her father both. They shared the same grim expression. It was Oberon who had spoken.

"It'll be too dangerous to dig deep for them without assessing the situation first. A greater task-force is required. We don't know what survived and what lived."

The prince of Lut Gholein had nodded his assent. "I am sorry, Cordelia. I know how much you care for them."

She wasn't sure he felt any real remorse.

Across the study, Drognan sat by the window, bathed in the shafts of light that streamed through the dusty panes. Estarra sat by his side, dark brows furrowed in concentration as she watched the ripples in a wide, shallow silver bowl. They were too far to be heard, and spoke too softly—but it was evident he was urging her on.

She knew that tone. It offered guidance, but stern expectance that his student could, and should do better. When Estarra lifted her head at long last, Cordelia saw the tears in her eyes. It wasn't an uncommon sight—she'd seen the same in her mother. She suspected it had everything to do with the visions forced upon them, but she'd never asked.

Estarra met her gaze for the briefest of moments—then she turned away, faced Drognan once more, and spat something no doubt venomous as she wiped at her eyes with the back of her hands. There was bitterness in her voice—bitterness and for some odd reason, determination.

Drognan merely dipped his head at her, one hand rubbing gently at her back. Cordelia judged his knowledge of what Estarra had seen by his face—mild, and concerned for her wellbeing, he knew nothing.

As always, Estarra chose to keep all she saw to herself.

"You look unwell." Cordelia rose to her feet, then made for the pair, settling upon the footstool by her sister's chair. "Star?"

Estarra shook her head, nudging her hands away. "Don't." Her voice was thick. "I'm just fine—don't fawn."

As Drognan moved to lift the bowl away, Cordelia leaned closer. "Do you want to talk about it?"

"No." Estarra let out a long breath, hunching over. She kept her eyes averted, brows furrowed. "I'm not going to discuss everything to death, you know that." A bitter smile curled her lips. "I'm not Asha."

Cordelia let herself smile. "I like you a lot better than I do Asha."

"Good gods, you had better. She's insufferable." Estarra chuckled tiredly, then wiped at her eyes. For a moment or two, she was silent, swallowing, eyes affixed upon a point beyond the window. Then, she turned, her lips falling open, as if about to speak—but Drognan returned, and she clamped her mouth shut.

Cordelia looked towards the elder. He quirked a faint smile as he settled upon his chair. "The two of you need to stop your crusade against Asha. It's unhealthy, you know."

Estarra let out a grunt, and turned her head away again.

"She's not particularly fond of us, neither." Cordelia shrugged a shoulder. "We've always just been her ordinary, dull little sisters."

Drognan arched an eyebrow. "Now how could either of you be considered dull of all things?" He sounded amused.

"If not dull, then droll." Estarra muttered tiredly.

"It does not bode well for brothers and sisters to detest one another the way you three seem to do." Drognan leaned back in his chair, folding his hands. He watched them keenly. "Recall what happened between Horazon and Bartuc. Brothers, who allowed a wedge to be driven between them. Who single-handedly created the circumstances that brought about the mage clan wars. You Medjai, are a clan broken from your ancestors as a result."

"Neither of us are dealing with demons, Drognan." Cordelia placed her elbow upon the corner of Estarra's seat. "But I guess Asha does keep some rather nasty friends."

Estarra let out a quiet little snort—but Drognan's frown deepened, and he let out a sigh. "You are young, my dears. Surely, you more than anyone would know how fickle our fates can be." One wrinkled hand reached to Estarra, patted her wrist gently. "You, who see so much, hm?"

She drew her hand away. When she spoke, Cordelia thought she could hear an edge of fear in her voice, a slight tremor. "Mother says we must never set out to change what we see. It's written in our creed."

"Then you had best make sure your three-sisters'-war never gets so far as Horazon and Bartuc's." Drognan remarked. He let out a breath, and a softer, warmer smile graced his lips. "My brother and I studied those two, you know. We were young and reckless, not unlike those two."

"Did you dabble with demons too?" Cordelia asked. Secretly, she wondered if she would have been surprised if he had.

Drognan flexed his fingers briefly—Cordelia watched as the knotted, gnarled digits entwined themselves, brushing over the rich fabric of his robes. "We did, actually." His voice was light, surprisingly untroubled. "Naturally, in order to study something, one must experience it in full. We were careful, of course."

"How exactly does one remain careful where the summoning of demon spawn are concerned?" Estarra lifted her head. "Doesn't it require tapping into the life-forces of hell?"

"Well, yes." Drognan glanced towards her, his voice patient. "There is that, but you're aware we are exposed to demonic presences quite frequently anyway."

"Yes, but then we are not tapping into hell, itself."

Drognan let out a grim little chuckle. "My dear, where exactly does a demon go once it is slain?"

"I thought it became nothing." Cordelia tilted her head.

"That is what most laypeople think." Drognan got to his feet, and reached towards the bookshelves by the window. Slender fingers brushed across the tomes, some thick, others thin—all worn by age and time. "Demons are granted life from hell itself. Their life-force is fed by the blood of hell; that is why they are reborn after a fashion when they are killed. If you think of hell as an entity in and of itself, with a life-force of its own—the mother, if you will, of all demons, it makes sense."

Cordelia blinked slowly. "The same way the Crystal Arch said to reside in the heavens feeds the life-force of the angels?"

"Very good." Drognan looked pleased. "Now say, what would happen if a demon were to be slain in Sanctuary, and its life-force kept from returning to the hells that spawned it?"

When neither her, nor her sister responded, the mage smiled. "You see, there's no need to tap into the reserves of hell in order to summon demonkin to you. The essence is what fuels the body, and what is the body, but a conjuring of parts? One of the Umbaru tribe could do it—or the priests of Rathma."

"I thought the presence of hell spawn upon this land, whether by choice or not, taints the earth in some manner." Cordelia frowned. "That sounds a most dangerous experiment."

"Dangerous, but necessary." Drognan elicited a light sigh. Cordelia thought she could hear the faintest traces of wistfulness in the tone of his voice. "We learnt much, of course, and kept books now safely tucked away."

Estarra's lips were pursed, her brow furrowed. When she spoke, her voice was oddly tight. "You know the Yshari can't keep them concealed forever."

Drognan let out a quiet chuckle. "Did you see that, Star?" He shook his head briefly. "But you are right—that is where they are kept, and that is where they will one day be fought over."

Cordelia watched as Estarra sat up, her pale-blue eyes flashing. So like her own—yet they saw many things. Past, present, future. Factual, fictitious, possibility. Her voice was all truth, however—statement, and not question. "Your brother went on to study the summoning arts, then."

"Indeed. Then I was sent here by the Vizjerei, and here I have stayed since." Drognan's response was light, serene, even; Estarra's knowledge, and apparent interest in his past did nothing to faze him. "We've lost touch, but surely you know that."

Estarra merely nodded. Drognan, however, had finished—if there was more to his story, he did not tell it. Instead, he glanced towards the door, and rose to his feet just as the shadow of a woman crossed into the light, coupled with soft, even footsteps. "Asurthi-aldyn. Good of you to join us."

"I thought I would find the both of you here."

Cordelia felt Estarra's grip upon her hand long before she'd looked towards their eldest sister. Asha stood by the door, hands clasped. Regal as always, she was draped in midnight hues, deep blues and rich velvets—garments befitting the arid weather of the desert. The travels had tinted her skin golden bronze; beautiful, elegant, and commanding.

In short, everything I am not. The comparison made her balk. Moreso because it reminded her of Saul's current circumstance. Lost, perhaps dead.

At the enduring silence, the eldest Medjai princess arched a dark brow. "Well, you could at least pretend to be happy to see me."

Estarra jerked her head in manner of a response. Cordelia supposed it was her version of an invitation.

"I was just recounting some lore to your sisters." Drognan gestured towards Cordelia's previously-vacated chair. "Do you come with news?"

"No." Asha's footsteps were light and brisk as she made for the offered seat. She focused her eyes upon Cordelia. The meaning was all too clear in her gaze. "I passed Lord Boissevant on the way here. It seems they've begun assembling father's taskforce. Soon we will have news of your friends."

Cordelia met her sister's eyes and felt herself shiver. There was a lump in her throat that seemed to correspond with the heavy throbbing of her heart. What is this? Jealousy? Envy?

She thought it was more akin to blind rage. "I'm sure you're eagerly anticipating this news also."

Asha blinked placidly. "Well, they are my little sister's companions. For that reason, I imagine I should care." Her lips curled, and Cordelia saw the condescension in her smile. "Unless you're worried because you think I want that druid you're simpering after. You needn't be, really. I'm not interested."

Estarra sucked in a breath beside her. Out of sight, Cordelia fisted her hands. "I'm not entirely sure about that."

"Oh, Cordelia." Asha let out a quiet little laugh. "You know, as well as I do, that you are soon to be Princess of Lut Gholein. Why in the realms would I steal your druid away, when I have one golden opportunity to watch you fall into the pit of scandal and adultery?"

"Asurthi-aldyn, I really think—"

"Excuse me, Vizjerei." Asha kept her eyes focused upon Cordelia; the glint did not die, nor did the smile fade. "I am teaching my little sister a lesson. She is to marry the prince. She must listen, obey, endure. Love is irrelevant."

Drognan merely arched a brow. Out of the corner of her eye, Cordelia saw him recline in his seat.

And of course, Star will never say anything.

"How that must burn, sister." Cordelia narrowed her eyes. "How it must burn that Jerhyn chose me instead of you, our eldest, our father's favourite."

Asha drummed her fingertips just once upon the arm of her chair. "It does burn, yes." The words were easily spoken, calm—lacking the seething effect Cordelia had hoped for. "But that means I can choose whomever I wish to marry. I make my own fortune, little sister, I get whatever I want—and you know I always do. And of course, you get a prince. Titles, riches, honours—mother is fortunate that her favoured child is so blessed by the fates."

Cordelia felt her teeth rattle even as she gnashed them together. At her silence, Asha merely quirked a brow. "No retort? That's new."

"No, I believe you've said quite enough." Estarra's voice trembled, but it was clear enough. Cordelia caught the flicker of surprise in Asha's gaze just before the both of them turned to face their sister. Those eyes were ablaze with anger. "I'm not really surprised at this, but I'd expected more from the both of you. Do you even care about anything but yourselves?"

"As opposed to simply not caring about anything," Asha cocked her head slightly, her voice cool. "Or anyone?"

Estarra snarled, deep blue eyes glinting as she got to her feet. "We are in the middle of a war against the forces of hell. Are we so shallow, we of the Medjai, that we begin to argue over husbands? Husbands! For the love of the gods, I wish you both sense!"

Cordelia opened her mouth to respond, but found herself silenced by the sheer intensity of the look upon her bayu-ani's face. Estarra glowered at her—then without another word, strode away into the streets.

It wasn't until Asha had turned her gaze to Drognan that Cordelia found she could appreciate the depth of Estarra's words. Still, her mouth had gone numb, and she said nothing, even when Asha let out a light little laugh, as if nothing had happened. "You must excuse my little sisters, Vizjerei. They are both very passionate."

At that moment, Cordelia wondered if it were possible that one could burn to death in the fires of passion. Only one thing was certain.

Asha was ready to watch her burn.

The burst of fire sent him rolling several feet back—two seconds later and he would have burned. Panting, Saul leapt to his feet, fighting for balance.

What happens if we fall off the edge of this abyss? Do we drift, or do we fall?

"What are you doing? Pay attention, gods be damned!" Araeya was shrieking at him. Her hands drew arrow after arrow, released them one after the other into the fray where goatmen and fire-wielding warlocks clustered. Two flights of stairs away, up upon the raised dais, the false summoner let out a laugh, waving his great staff high. "Watch out!"

He darted for the stairs, teeth gritted as blade-sharp spires of ice speared the ground near his feet. Streaks of silver lightning branched about him, illuminating the dais and reflecting blindingly off the panels of mirrors that seemed to all but surround them—on the floors, on the stairs, on the arches. Blinking hard, the druid stumbled along, his head throbbing—nature was out of reach in the cursed sanctuary.

No earth, no life, no natural elements to conjure up.

The realisation made him feel startlingly naked. Cut off, alone. But there was no time to consider his bonds with nature. The false summoner glided towards the edge of his dais, an ice-storm crackling in the palm of his open hand. From that distance, Saul nonetheless noted the pallor of his face, the ghostly blue of his eyes.

He'd barely made it up the first flight of stairs, kicking at an approaching goatman before leaping onto the platform and landing on his face. By then, the storm had been released in full, raining frost and shards of ice, like spears in the night that split skin and muscle. The wetness in his arm and thigh told him at least two of the shards had pierced his skin, drawing blood. The sting was raw, sharp; his muscles throbbed. Below, Araeya let out a despaired, frustrated cry.

Sluggishly, he lifted his head, his voice weak and strangled. "Cover me."

Araeya's arrows whizzed with greater infrequency than before, though they hit their marks—goatmen fell at his feet as he, with some difficulty, stumbled up the stairs, crackling lightning and shattering ice punctuating his every step. The summoner backed a half-step even as the top of the druid's staff found a warlock's head, the blunt force smashing skull and brain and splattering blood upon boot and robe.

As the false summoner raised his hands, drawing up a wall of fire, Saul summoned the magic in his veins, drew upon the nature he housed within his blood, and felt his limbs contort moments before he pounced.

The summoner released a shrill cry of panic as the wolf landed upon him, but the piteous wail that followed was ripped from his throat.

Don't lose control. You're a man, not a beast.

Clarity followed the silence that fell with the summoner's final cry. The wall of fire flickered away, leaving in its wake a bubbling river of molten lava. By the time the wolf had rolled off its victim, panting deeply, it had flowed in an upwards stream, defying gravity, to form an arching gateway.

Araeya was breathless by the time she'd managed the climb. She slung her bow over her torso; her quiver hung empty and useless. At the sight of the wolf, she narrowed her eyes—then glanced towards the gateway. "Good job." She grunted.

Human form reclaimed the wolf. Saul groaned, rolling over onto his side as the dizziness and nausea surfaced—clumsy hands and legs took getting used to. He suspected blood loss had more than a little to do with how much more dizzy he felt at present.

Araeya was still struggling to catch her breath, but at the sight of the blood coating his lips, she winced. "How's that taste?"

He got up onto his knees, palms supporting his weight, then spat in disgust. "Like a demon summoner."

"No dignity left, eh?" Araeya's hands were cold when she moved to help him up. Despite the nature of her words, she sounded anxious—far too anxious to be really teasing.

Saul wiped at his mouth with his sleeve. His vision was swimming—but even through the hazy blur, he could tell the portal before them, ablaze in its surreal glory, led to greater danger. Araeya was equally aware.

"Think there's a way back to Lut Gholein through there?"

The amazon thinned her lips. "If there isn't, we stand a very high chance of dying in this place that makes no sense. I'd rather not."

"Me neither."

She turned her head towards the portal. "I guess that means we go for it, then?"

He let out a breath.

I guess that does.

Author's note: I have to confess that I started writing this chapter immediately after I posted the old one, and have only just, one year later, finished it. I know I'm terrible, but hey, I did it! Reading over old comments made me feel pretty "WTFrick was I doing/writing?"; but I guess the best part about it all is knowing that I have improved—it's such a good high!

Anyway, my old chapters are all pretty cringeworthy, so I've started editing some of my oldest chapters, and will work through them for now. Those that have been edited, have a little post-script at the end to signal they're less painful to read and refer back to now. For me, anyway.

Also, thanks go out to all my faithful readers and reviewers! I definitely would not have as much fuel to write without you guys, and it's such a pleasure to know that people are still reading after all this time! As always, thanks to Ophelion—fic-collaborator, spazz-solicitor, story-inspirator; thank you, thank you, thank you.

Look forward to my next chapter when it comes—"Warfare Politics"! Until then, cheers and thanks so much, guys!