Byzantine

[Inkfinger]

Byzantine

1. Of, relating to, or characterized by intrigue; scheming or devious.
2. Highly complicated; intricate and involved.

All your spirit rack abuses come to haunt you back by day -
All your Byzantine excuses, given time, give you away.
So don't be surprised, when daylight comes...

[Inkfinger]

The ink in his inkwell had ice in it. Cael Inkfinger stared at the well where it balanced on his knee. He should take that as a sign to leave, probably. In years previous, weather like this had driven him indoors, or further south – closer to the big cities with their Aeromancers keeping things more clement. Now, he simply pulled his silk robe tighter around his shoulders, rubbing at his fingertips and pointedly ignoring the snowflakes melting around the ice crystals.

He sat in the doorway of a deserted inn in the equally-deserted village of Heivernok, in a small fiefdom whose name he couldn’t quite be bothered to remember. He wasn’t entirely sure what he was doing there in the first place. That seemed to be his lot in life the past few years – to drift from disaster to disaster, and to be dragged in to help. He’d given up fighting it, really, instead just going wherever the wind blew...

And the wind was blowing, streaking the still-damp ink on his parchment in smears. He cursed under his breath when a new gust obliterated an entire line of the letter he was writing, reducing it to a line of black across the page. The following pen-stroke tore through the paper. Oh, bloody… the following string of curses could have turned any listener’s ears blue – if there had been listeners, that is, and if the temperature hadn’t done that already. He let the notebook fall shut with a snap, wiping the pen off on the hem of his already-stained trousers and sliding it into its pocket in his sleeve.

No use even trying to write here anymore.

It took him a few tries, aided by the handle of the inn’s door, to climb to his feet. His leg was stiff and sore from the temperature, scarred musculature not adapting as well to the change in climate as the rest of him did. It was, simply, yet another sign of his life as something other than a scribe. There had been far better results from his past decisions, but the leg’s scarring was, by far, the most visible.

He stood on the stoop for a moment, willing some of the feeling back into his toes, watching the snow drift across the broad, smooth street. The fine layer of white was untouched. No one had traveled the thoroughfare since his arrival – his tracks were already gone from the snow that had begun earlier that morning, and it was likely that no one unexpected would come this way until the snow stopped. And, in Salvar, who knew how long that would truly be? He let out a silent sigh, tucked his notebook to his side, and opened the inn door.

The inn – the Broken Gryphon, if the sign above the door was to be taken seriously – had once been a popular place, judging by the size of its dining rooms, the thick tapestries on the walls, and the intricate carvings on the bar. The winter had forced it into disuse - a fine layer of dust coated nearly every surface, his leather boots leaving tracks of melting snow behind him, transmuting the gray grit into mud. He ignored the slush, stripping his coat off and throwing it over the bar; setting his notebook down more sedately before he made his limping way to the table next to the fireplace.

He’d cleared the candlesticks and silken cloth off when he’d arrived and found the town utterly deserted - they wouldn't be needed when the only patrons weren't supposed to be there in the first place. In retrospect, he should have taken the odd looks from the few people he had passed on the road here as warnings of the desolation - but how was he to know the whole village had just up and left?

Not that I blame them, he thought, setting his inkwell on the fireplace mantel, next to a small carved stone pendent shaped like a scarab. I wouldn't want to wait out winter here if I had a choice.

The village’s location wasn’t the best for most people: a full day's walk from the nearest road (also, helpfully, from the nearest reliable source of firewood), three days longer than that to the next village, and a full week from Knife's Edge. He had been surprised the village even existed when Ludvik had shown it to him, pointing it out on a well-worn map.

It had to have something to do with the nearby river – a tributary from the Western Sea to the lake of Ashkalov, if the map was to be trusted – that was frozen solid now. Perhaps it was merely a summer village, making profits off of the fishing, or something in the clay, or…anything, really; anything that would be affected by the harsh cold.

Not that it mattered. All that truly mattered right now was that it was here, and that it was deserted, and would, therefore, serve his - serve their - purposes. He collapsed into the chair nearest the fire, running a mottled hand through his hair to dislodge the snow caught there, turning his hair dark gold as it melted.

His current project rested upon that table, a parchment stretched tight on the smooth surface, tacked to the wood. It already had a few rows of carefully lettered script, the intricate flowing letters and flowery speech generally found in legal documents. The light was wrong now - the windows letting in only an odd, bluish gloom, beginning to show the darkness outside as the sun set behind the clouds – to finish the calligraphy tonight.

That paper could, in all likelihood, get him killed if the wrong person saw him writing it. But that was all well and good, wasn’t it? It wasn’t as if anyone would catch him making it here. He had a second parchment sticking out of the top flap of his pack, already neatly transformed into a document of the same importance, but for the Church instead of the State.

He left both parchments be for now, reaching out to take up the half-folded paper crane perched on the edge of the table. It was carefully crafted from a previous attempt at one of the documents, and it only took him a few small folds and creases to complete. He set it down to retrieve his pen, groaning when he realized he’d left his notebook on the bar.

He limped back across the room and retrieved the book, snagging the arm of a chair and dragging it back with him as he did. The fire was going to die down soon enough, and he didn’t want to have to get up again for something as trivial as firewood. He’d pay for it - eventually, of course - but right now he needed it more than the inn’s owner.

He took his pen back out of its pocket, reaching out to dip it in the now-pure-liquid inkwell, and quickly sketched the appropriate double-infinity symbol on one of the crane’s wings. The sign flashed so quickly that he would have missed it if he had blinked. All the writing on the crane faded as if it was being soaked into the paper, and then the paper moved. Shifted, small wings flapping once. A tiny beak opened, and –

“Are you sure this is wise?” The words floated through the air between the halves of the beak, noiselessly. Cael chuffed low in his throat, cleaning the pen off again as an excuse not to look at the familiar.

“Is that your new motto or something?”

“Maybe.”

“I don’t like it. For the record and all.”

It felt nice to speak Salvic again, the words flowing easily and smoothly from his mouth, none of the accent that still plagued his tradespeak. It still ‘spoke’ in that language, giving him a look that felt like a disapproving stare, despite its lack of eyes. “Didn’t ask if you liked it.”

Cael rolled his eyes, setting the pen down on the table and moving the inkwell onto the table’s far corner. “Yeah, yeah, I know.” He held his hand out. The crane hopped onto his fingertips without further comment, balancing easily as he stood. “Hopefully,” Cael continued, “We’ll only be here a few days.” Hopefully.

And hopefully, those coming to rescue him from the monotony of the past two days would be people who his brother had passed the paper on to – trustworthy people - and not members of the Church or monarchy looking to remove his head from his shoulders for such insurrection.

He’d spent enough time in Knife’s Edge during his apprenticeship to know that – if they disapproved, and he somehow got the feeling that they would – he’d be lucky if it was that quick.

The paper – the whole famine-and-hunger fighting plan – had seemed such a good idea when it was…well, just that. An idea. Now that the gears were all in motion, he couldn’t help but worry. What if no one came? What if, as he feared all the more, the wrong people came? Had he written the inn name right? The name of the village, the fiefdom, for that matter? There so many things to go wrong…

He was beginning to wish they’d picked a village closer to civilization.

Or further.

He wasn't really sure which.

[Inkfinger]

The winter-bright sun was streaming golden light through the windows and Cael’s fifth cup of tea was lukewarm by the time he finished the papers the next morning. He absently stirred the murky liquid with his index finger as he stared down at the document. It seemed to stare back, burning black words into the back of his brain. He almost considered ripping it up, but where would that leave him, after all those hours of work? He shook his head, rubbing at his eyes and looking down just in time to catch It’s words.

“So, what do you do if nobody shows?”

He tried to keep his ill-ease hidden, absent-mindedly tracing lazy designs on a ruined compress paper with his tea-dripping fingertips, trying to think of how to answer it. It didn’t help that the familiar was voicing his fears.

"I don’t know," he finally said, carefully, still watching his hands flicking over the paper – it was easier than watching the familiar’s words right now. "I can’t do this on my own, and Ludvik’s already put so much work into it…" His voice came low and hesitant, coated in a layer of worry. “But-”

The wooden reverberations of the door slamming open and hitting the wall cut his words off. He scrabbled out of his cocoon of tapestries and linens in an instinctive panic, toppling the table over in a scattering of pens, papers and inkwell as he fumbled for the shaft of his naginata, sliding clumsily behind the bar. His sore fingertips hit polished wood, his half-trained muscles sliding into an awkward – but serviceable – defensive position behind the bar before he really let the scene at the doorway register, convinced he was about to die for a country he didn’t even really like that much. He peeked around the edge of the table, clinging to the weapon – and blinked.

The doorway was all but blocked by the massive man who stood there, a broad-shouldered behemoth who almost seemed to glimmer a vivid blue shade in the sun. Cael gulped, ducking back behind the bar before he heard the voice.

“Oh for Sway’s sake, Damyan, get out of my way, you probably scared him half to death.” The voice was high, clear and bordering on a whine. It was also reassuringly, terrifyingly familiar.

“…F’bael?” Cael popped back up from behind the bar, eyes wide, just in time to see the dark elf squirm his way gracefully between the doorframe and the man blocking most of it. He felt an almost overwhelming surge of relief. “F’bael! It is you!”

“The one and only, spotty!” The elf brushed his dark hands over his jacket to smooth the rumples out of the wine-colored fabric. He eyed the naginata with a skeptical look, one white eyebrow raised, but he didn’t seem half as surprised as Cael. “Expecting someone else?”

Cael set the weapon back down on the bar, feeling sheepish. F’bael had been his landlord during the time he’d spent in Knife’s Edge as a young man. He wouldn’t need the naginata.

“I, uh. Maybe?” He scratched behind his ear, looking almost everywhere but at his old friend. “I didn’t…I mean, I wasn’t…um. Just…it’s good to see you! I never thought you of all people-”

He looked down to see It shaking its head, the words “don’t look a gift horse in the mouth” flickering across its open mouth lightening quick. He cut off the rest of the sentence.

“Who’s your friend?” He nodded at the huge man with a shaky smile to try and cover the reaction he’d had. It was just nerves. You haven’t seen him in six years!

The man in the doorway stepped into the inn proper, stretching his massive shoulders. Out of silhouette, he was still, in fact, blue. It wasn’t his skin, it was his scales: thick, heavy scales that covered every inch of visible flesh. He towered above Cael, his reptilian face split in a polite smile, and his horns almost brushed the ceiling.

“Damyan Partwyrm,” the man rumbled back, holding out one hand. His claws were clipped down and filed smooth, gleaming black against the cerulean, and his hand was as cold as ice. Cael shook it, and let go quickly, almost imagining his hand going numb from the short contact.

F’bael pushed the hood of his coat down, shaking his short white hair free. “So, what, is it just us?” He flopped down on one of the seats, tugging at his boot. Cael nodded, slowly, the unpleasant reality creeping in on the heels of the relief at seeing a friendly face.

“Just the three of us, so far,” he admitted, leaning against the bar. “I was hoping for more, but-”

“Four.” F’bael interrupted, golden eyes dancing in the sunlight.

Cael tilted his head. “What?”

“It’s not, three, it’s four.” F’bael waved at the door, and to the young man stepping through. The man, at a glance, was younger than Cael; scruffy, with a compact, muscular build and what looked like a pitiful attempt at a beard gracing his cheeks. He looked, truth be told, like a soldier; a fact that would have had Cael almost instantly on edge if it hadn’t been for the sad look in his eyes. Cael straightened his threadbare undershirt, and tried to look the part of a tough revolutionary at his respectful nod.

“Oh. Ok. Four.” As if that’s so much better. He kept the thought to himself as F’bael waved between them.

“Kamen, Cael. Cael, this is Kamen. He traveled with us,” His waving grew to include Damyan, “From Sulgolok.” Those strange golden eyes landed on Cael, and Cael felt driven to nod at Kamen again. At least F’bael had understood about no surnames.

“Good to have you aboard.”

An awkward silence fell in the inn once the introductions were done. Damyan wandered off a few paces to look at one of the tapestries. Kamen went digging through his pack, leaving Cael standing where he was, at a loss to understand what, exactly, he was expecting them to do.

“So now what?” F’bael’s soft voice came as the dark elf reached out and gently picked It up from the counter. The familiar seemed to bristle. Cael reached out to take him back from F’bael with a helpless shrug.

“We wait. Still.” He rolled his eyes, limping around the bar to clean up his scattered tools. “Been all waiting the last few days…” Though, this time, he had something to speed up the process, now that someone was here.

The parchment had survived unscathed, still tacked firmly to the table top. He righted his inkwell, wiping the black off on his pants as he pried the thin tacks up, peeling the parchment loose carefully. He used the motion to thumb the strange, scarab shaped pendant in his pocket, almost wincing when he felt the thing heat, briefly, before crumbling away to nothing. F’bael looked dignifiedly bewildered, running a long finger over the bartop, as if looking for dust.

“Wait?”

“For Scarab.” Cael said, simply. They weren’t going to use full names, and Ludvik had left them blessedly free of codenames, but Ulric had insisted on not giving anyone other than the brothers his real name. “My one set contact.” He heaved the table back upright, leaning on it for a moment until his leg adjusted to standing. “He wasn’t coming until I signaled for him.”

“But how’s he to get here?” Kamen spoke, for the first time, his voice strangely deep for one who looked so young. Cael managed a real, warm smile.

“Same way we’re going to do our job.” He pulled his robe off the end of the bar, shrugging into it and sliding his best pen into its pocket. “Come along, I’ll show you.” He looked over the room, spotting Damyan about to head up the stairs. “We’ll be at the church,” he called up to the hulking figure. “Are you coming?”

The man shook his head. “I ss'all remain ‘ere,” He replied. “I will send anyone elsse along, if t'ey arrive.” There wasn’t really any condemnation in his voice at that ‘if’. He had that, at least. Cael slammed the door behind him.

The cold wind bit harder in the daylight; the sun scattered by the pristine snow gave no warmth, though that same sun made it seem as if it should be warmer. Cael tugged his robe closer, and stepped off the porch and into the snow, leading the way through the village with brisk steps, fingers like ice blocks in his pockets.

The frozen fields of ice spread out into the distance, visible between the short, squat houses, reflecting the sun back bright enough to blind. He stopped looking long before it had a chance to hurt his eyes, drawing to a stop at the small, rustic church built on the outskirts of the village, along the bank of the river. He sketched a mocking bow towards the door. “If you would be so kind,” He said in F’bael’s direction; the dark elf had always been good at getting his doors open when he locked himself out. F’bael returned the bow with faux dignity, sliding an old, familiar strip of metal out of his pocket.

“Allow me, my good man.”

Kamen stared, brown eyes wide. “You’re…breaking into the church?”

Cael had been watching F’bael work. His head came up to blink at Kamen owlishly as F’bael continued working at the lock. The young soldier was staring at them, rather aghast.

“Well, I was considering knocking on the window and waiting for the door to open on its own,” F’bael said blithely, before Cael had a chance to explain that if he was so horrified over a little unauthorized entry he probably should go home, “But that didn’t seem likely to happen, so we’re going to play nice. I could have broken the glass...” There was a tiny click, and the door swung open. “There.”

Kamen still looked horrified, but followed when Cael led the way into the tiny church anyways. It was quiet and still, deserted like the rest of the town; but the inside was polished and clean, nothing like the church’s rough exterior. The walls were polished golden wood, the pews sanded as smooth as silk, and the candles before the stained glass saints were in delicate crystal holders, though they had long since guttered out, leaving the sanctuary dim.

The portal was down a narrow winding stair behind the gilded pulpit, sequestered in a tiny room beneath the sanctuary. The room was cold, but dry, and the walls were marble instead of wood, carved and glowing dimly in the light filtering through the translucent panels at the top. The room had the feeling of a tomb or mausoleum, and Cael wasn’t surprised to see Kamen shifting from foot to foot nervously.

“Right, then,” Cael spoke mostly to hear someone speak, cracking his knuckles carefully. The sound echoed like a gunshot in the cramped quarters. He stepped up to the portal, eying it almost suspiciously - it just looked like a doorway into open air. He could see the white wall behind it. It didn’t look like anything special. It most certainly didn’t look like anything remotely helpful. He reached out to brush a hand over the milk-smooth stone…

And the carvings etched on the inside of the arch lit up, glowing with a pure white light that reflected off the polished floors and walls. He jerked his hand away as if he had been burned, taking several hasty steps backwards.

There was a low buzzing drone that slowly rose in pitch, like a finger run along the edge of a wine glass, and the space between the arches’ sides exploded with a silent puff of white-hot light. When the light faded, there was a man standing in the arch.

Kamen just stared, finally finding his tongue. “What was that?”

Cael grinned, striding forward with a hand outstretched. “That’s our way out of here. Or should I say he’s our way out of here. Kamen, meet Scarab.”

Ulric, the second familiar face of the day, was the very picture of a successful mage; tall but not overly so, thin but (again) not overly so, with neatly trimmed black hair and a carefully clipped beard. His clothes were rich, made of high-quality cloth, but nothing fancy, unlike the ornate church robes he’d worn when he’d first met Cael a week ago. The tiny topaz beetle glittering on his collar was the only sign he had of his codename.

He seemed to radiate confidence from his smile and his eyes, and his voice was a warm baritone. “It’s good to see I was expected! Last village, they weren’t expecting me, and the church had been barricaded…had to dig my way through.” He shook Kamen’s hand, and F’bael’s, and paused when he reached Cael, as if gauging.

Is everything alright? The look seemed to ask.

Cael merely nodded, silently. Everything was smaller than he’d hoped, but it was alright.

[Inkfinger]

They moved the base of operations from the inn to the church after the snowstorm nearly threw off the first assignment.

The blizzard-strength wind had blown and twirled the snow into a nigh-impassible wall of white, where Cael could barely see his hand in front of his face. It had taken Damyan doing...something Cael hadn't quite been able to catch to get through it; tossing a small sphere of glowing golden-green into the air before them. It had seemed to disintegrate the snow that entered the radius of its light as it floated.

That was the first real sign that the wyrmfolk man was a magician of some sort. Ulric just grinned, clapping him on the shoulder as they made the rest of the way to the church in record time.

It was still cold inside, but after outside, no one was going to complain. Ulric led the way down the stairs, cloak flapping behind him.

“Alright, believe it or not,” he began once they were halfway down the stairs, “This is a simple process. We’ve got…arrangements,” his eyes flickered when he said that word, silently amused, "With Aouk, where someone’s got connections in Alerar whose got contacts somewhere elseto get food in." F’bael grinned, broadly, but Ulric just waved for him to stay quiet. "Don't ask where the food's coming from, it's just rude and you'll probably get stabbed for asking things you shouldn't be asking. Mind your own business as much as you can."

He stepped up onto the portal's dais, a figure of easy confidence. "They've got carts, but don't ask about stuff to draw it by. You've got a couple of big strong guys here," He nodded at Kamen respectfully, but didn't really look at Damyan. As if that would have been too obvious. "Can you imagine trying to get oxen up stairs and out of a church?" He shook his head and continued.

"First sign of trouble, scatter. I'll find you, just lay low."

The lecture was starting to make Cael nervous again. He was relieved when Ulric reached out to brush his hand down the side of the portal. The same white light flickered into existence. Ulric waved them through.

"After you."

Cael went through last. The sensation of stepping into the light felt almost like burning with no pain - just an itching, licking sensation up and down his limbs, and the disquieting impression that he was falling to pieces so small that he'd never be put back right again. He stumbled out before the feeling really had a chance to set in, feet protesting the solid ground beneath his feet before he could really realize that - for a few seconds that felt like an eternity - the floor was gone.

"That," Kamen was more animated than he had seen the man yet, eyes practically sparkling, "Was incredible! Does it always feel like that, is it always that fast, does-"

"Yes, yes unless something is terribly wrong, and no more questions!" Ulric interrupted, shoving him out of the way so Cael could catch his balance and inspect their new surroundings.

The church they stepped out into was much larger; the roof towering above them, vaulted and painted with the same saints that the Heivernok's chapel had on their windows. The stale chill in the air was the same, though, and there was, against all logic, an ox cart on the dais.

If Ulric was disappointed that they didn't even get to see the Aouk contacts, he didn't show it. He reached out a hand that glinted with silver wires between the fingers, and tapped the cart. There was a puff of air, and something shimmered out of existence around it, a forcefield that Cael hadn't even realized he'd been seeing.

"Right." It poked its' head out of his pocket, nudging him with its' nose. "We need to work on your observational skills; I could smell that from here."

"Oh shut up."

Getting the cart through the portal and back to Heivernok was easy. Getting it out of the church in the next village proved to be a bit more difficult. There were church troops in this town, and they came running into the portal room before the white glow had even faded....

It was also the first real test of Cael's forgery skills. Ulric's robes were almost enough to convince them that they should let the ragtag band through, until one of them had had the wise idea that maybe this was a test.

They must have been really bored, itching for something - anything - other than guarding this town, the way they all congregated in the sanctuary.

They almost seemed disappointed when he produced the papers -permissions from the Church itself, sealed with wax, stamped with a special marking...

Once they left, Cael could finally breathe again.

He was really beginning to regret volunteering for this.

[Inkfinger]

One week later, Kamen finally stopped looking like an awestruck child every time the portals flickered to life, and had, instead, moved on to complaining.

“I don’t understand,” he griped as he and Cael carefully pulled the sacks of grain off the ox cart. “Why is it night here if it was day where we left?”

“Magic, probably,” was Cael’s throwaway, short-of-breath answer as he struggled to keep from dropping the sack he was carrying. The things didn’t exactly feel like pillows. He rubbed his back, only then catching the incredulous look Kamen gave him. “I don’t know. It probably has something to do with distances or something; I’m a scribe not an encyclopedia.”

Kamen fell silent again, shouldering three of the grain sacks with an ease that put Cael to shame. He looked back at the cart and the one remaining sack before shaking his head and following on the former soldier’s heels.

This was the third village they had reached, and Cael was already seeing problems with this whole scheme. It was working now, sure, but…it had only been a week. It wouldn't be that long before someone caught on and-

His thoughts were interrupted when he ran into Kamen’s back. The alleyway from the church was barricaded by a bored looking soldier in monarchy colors. He had an outstretched hand. "Papers?"

Cael had a brief moment of heart-stopping panic when he couldn’t remember which papers were where. "Of course, sir, ah. Right away..." He stalled, setting down the bag of flour as he patted down his jacket, trying to remember, and trying to not look like that was what he was doing. "Terrible weather we've been having lately, aye?" He thought he heard Kamen groan, but he was too busy trying to look innocent to see.

The soldier raised an eyebrow. "Awful." He answered, in a voice as dry and bored as his expression. One of his hands hovered dangerously close to his sword hilt. "My old granny's been having a hell of a time with her arthritis."

"Is that so? Been playin' with most of the scribes, too; makes the ink freeze to your skin." Cael flexed a chapped hand with a grimace, forcing himself to continue the small talk. "Have you ever had something freeze to your flesh? It's not - ahha! Here they are...I could have sworn I checked there," He muttered, finally pulling the thick sheaf of documents from what he desperately hoped was the correct pocket. He slid one hand into one of his outer pockets to cross his fingers, holding the papers out in a hand that quavered with his nerves.

The soldier didn’t look twice at his shaking; the blessing-curse of Salvar’s winter winds presented him with the perfect excuse. He stripped off one leather glove, and ran a practiced thumb over the raised seal. Cael held his breath – the Church's seal had passed earlier, but the Monarchy's seal had taken him hours and hours to learn how to make look just right, years ago when it had all just been for a joke…

"Alright." The soldier folded the parchment again and shoved it in the envelope, offering it back to Cael. Cael managed to start breathing without it being too obvious, feeling dizzy. “Everything seems to be in order…" Cael took the envelope, shoving it back in his pocket. When he looked back up, the soldier was holding out his gloves as well. "Take ‘em." Warm green eyes met his. "You need ‘em more than I do."

Cael didn’t argue as he took them, feeling Kamen practically vibrating nervously next to him. He could have sworn he saw the soldier give him a quick wink, but by the time it really processed he was gone, disappearing into the distance down the lane.

Kamen tugged on his arm. "Let's get out of here."

[Inkfinger]

There was magic dancing on the ceiling. It was reflecting from the vaults and up the short flight of stairs between his floor and the portals, and Viktor Janda couldn’t help but notice it as it glittered and skittered across the lenses of his spectacles, reflecting oddly on his cheeks. The clerk frowned, trying to manage to look at the lights on his face without scrunching it up like a pouting child. It didn’t work so well, so he resorted to simply removing his specs and continuing down the hall.

This was the second night in a row of the lights. Something didn’t seem quite right about that. It was no mystery what they were, mind – they were from the portal network, reflecting off the ceiling and walls up the stairs.

The mystery this time was why the portals would be active right now, with no mage downstairs to oversee them…he shivered to himself, hugging the stack of papers closer to his stomach as he hurried to Portal Keeper Atanas’s office. He spoke with no preamble, blurting out his question.

“Why are the portal markings glowing?”

The Portal Keeper looked up from the stack of papers on his desk, gray eyes confused. “Excuse me?”

Viktor dropped the fresh stack of sheets next to the pile Atanas was going through, trying to ignore the look of utter hatred the motion earned. “The markings. You know, the ones in the walls?” He traced a rough approximation in the air before he trailed off, realizing how silly it looked. “They’re, er. They’re glowing. Sir.”

Antanas stroked his beard once before he answered. Viktor watched his superior, feeling a slight pang of annoyance. He had the distinct impression that he was being patronized.

“I sent out a patrol out to Lovstok at dawn, Viktor.” Antanas yawned, setting aside a paper and picking a new one from the stack Viktor had just brought. “The portals retain much of the magic we use to activate them.”

Viktor tried to seem unconcerned, polishing his specs on his robe sleeve, feeling his ears heating just a bit. “It’s probably just the residual magic. It will fade in time.” Antanas’s face pulled in a strained approximation of a smile. "I swear, you’re worse than my wife, running every time something glows funny. I’ve told you time and time again it won’t hurt you.” Viktor had to admit that Antanas had done that, true, but this was different.

He kept that thought to himself as Antanas finished, waving one bony hand in dismissal. “Steal someone’s office to work in if they concern you that much.”

Viktor was almost fuming when he emerged, lips set in a thin line at the Portal Keeper’s answer. It wasn’t residual magic. He’d seen that before, plenty of times. This was something entirely different, but if Antanas didn’t want to pay any attention, that was his problem, wasn’t it? Not his job – he wasn’t being paid enough to watch out for weird things down below…

But the magic lights were still going when he returned to his small alcove four hours later. He frowned up at them for a long moment before picking up a pen and carefully marking the date and time down on a scrap of parchment.

There was something odd going on.

And he was going to find out what.

[Inkfinger]

Ulric left after that first week as well, returning to Knife’s Edge where he belonged. Cael was sorry to see him go - it helped, to have someone who knew the larger game plan better than he did to steer him right when things were going wrong.

He’d pressed a box into Cael’s hand before he’d stepped back through the portal. “Take it. You’re the only one here that I really know. Use it well, alright?” He added another beetle-shaped stone, shoving it into Cael’s hand before he stepped back through the portal, disappearing in a flash of white.

Cael pocketed the box, and went back up the stairs, into the chaos of organizing the next day's drop offs. There was more paperwork to underground humanitarian work than he ever would have thought possible - records in code names of places where they actually received food, places where they were to drop it off, places to avoid at all costs. He was getting frighteningly good at reading sentences backwards and sideways and whatever ways the particular group they were contacting seemed to prefer.

He didn't get a chance to open the box until late that night. It was a flimsy box, made of low-quality wood and sealed like a letter with a dab of wax. He broke the wax and let it fall open.

There was a strange bracelet inside: a tangle of five strands of delicate, silver wire, twisted together to hold a small, rounded, scarab-shaped talisman. Exactly like the bracelet Ulric was always wearing...

He untangled the wires, and slipped his fingers between them the way he'd seen Ulric do. The strands seemed to tighten to hold the talisman in the middle of his wrist; the smooth, cool back of the pendent flush against his skin, the strings taut but not uncomfortable tight. His skin, where the talisman brushed, felt odd: sort of a crawling, skittering feeling that crept over the back of his hand and his wrist and continued up his arm. He twitched his fingers, noticing with ill-ease that the bracelet left shadowy black smudges where it touched. The feeling left when he stopped thinking about it. That -somehow- made it worse.

There was a map in the box as well, and he turned to that to distract himself from the creeping feeling between his fingers. The map short but wide and it had been folded six times to get it to fit in the box. It was intricate and everything looked up to date: downright accurate for a map of Salvar. He’d only seen one other map this detailed, and that was displayed in the lobby of the Cathedral of Saint Denebriel. He folded it back up, and laid it in the box almost reverently before he looked back at the bracelet.

The tiny scarab - of course it would be a scarab - had tiny designs worked into its back. He frowned, and held it closer to his eyes. The designs were familiar, almost a pattern. The realization made him stand up - box still clutched in his hand - and make his silent way down from the church's balcony to the portal, avoiding the stairs that creaked.

The portal room was brighter than the rest of the church, the walls seemed to contain an ambient light source that bathed the small room in pale blue. It almost looked like the room was underwater. Cael took a hesitant step up onto the dais and stared at the silent archway for a moment, working up the courage to reach out and brush his fingers across the stone.

The arch flared to brilliant life. Cael felt his stomach sink to his feet. Ulric had just made him a necessity to this quest.

He didn’t quite like that.

[Inkfinger]

Ulric met with Ludvik Strandssen the day he returned to Knife’s Edge.

The ‘mastermind’ of this whole plan was at his day – and only paying – job, down in the cave-stables where the Church of the Ethereal Sway kept the ice drakes. Civil war or no civil war, siege or no siege, the beasts needed fed.

The water sloshing in the river that fed through the caves echoed off the walls and mingled with the beasts' roars to cover the conversation; and their stations alone - portals mage and drake trainer - would have provided ample reason to be speaking had anyone noticed.

“So who all knows about me?” Ludvik had the dignity to not ask that until he'd been told nearly everything else, and had checked most of the stables individual caves. They now headed for the hatchling cave. He'd stopped off to pick up a wicker basket before he looked over at Ulric with a curious tilt of his head. It really only served to make him look somewhat ridiculous in his coveralls and boots, the basket flung over his shoulder and the light reflecting off the water to make his face look mottled.

Ulric gave a polished shrug. “Just your brother, as near as I could figure,” he said, trimming his nails with the small folding knife he’d produced, seemingly out of thin air. “He seemed to know one of the gentlemen who did show up, but…well. There are only three of them. Your brother and I make five, and I’m not even going with them. Are you sure…”

“We’re a bit far to be second guessing that way, don’t you think? Cael knew what he was getting into when he agreed to help…" Ludvik sighed, stepping off the rocky bank and into the placid river. "I just wish I could help more."

The screeching squawks of hatchling ice drakes echoed off the vaulted ceiling of the chamber as Ludvik set about emptying a nearby fish trap into his basket. Ulric trod carefully from railing to railing on the fence that lined the river, but Ludvik walked knee deep in the icy water, ignoring it as it splashed his thighs.

“He picked up a spaceworker somewhere,” Ulric finally continued. “Big, wyrmfolk looking guy. He seemed trustworthy, but…I don’t know about the elf...you know of anyone named F'bael?”

There was a splash that made him look up from watching his feet. Ludvik had dropped the fish basket, and was staring, only half-paying attention to the fish escaping. “Wait, F'bael? Was that the one you said Cael knew? Dark elf, about yea tall?” He held a hand up to his shoulder height, laughing when Ulric nodded, shaking his head. "Gods. I’m surprised he made a trek that far out. The man's been practically city bound the whole time I’ve known him…”

Ulric drew to an abrupt halt, eyebrows coming together with concern, balanced on the railing. “Wait, he knows you?”

Ludvik looked up at the sharp, suspicious tone in Ulric’s voice. "Barely. Cael rented lodging from him a few years ago. We’ve only met a couple of times. We didn't get along." Ludvik hoisted the basket back up, sloshing back onto the shore to unlock the hatchlings' pen. "So..what? You don't trust him?"

"You could say that." Ulric flexed his fingers against the chill in the air. He couldn't believe Ludvik was actually sweating. "There was something...he's awfully...I don't know. Foxish."

"Oh, yeah." Ludvik waved a dismissive hand, shoving the basket through the gate and into the pen, slamming the gate shut again as a small wave of baby ice drakes came scrambling over to investigate. "Comes from bein' a landlord, I think. You don't go far in that business unless you're a bit sneaky. Especially not if you've got my brother for a tenant."

"I guess you're probably right..." Ulric leaned against the wall, still perched on the railing. "But...Cael knows to keep his eye out, right?"

Ludvik nodded, but didn't look at Ulric. "Yeah. He knows." He finally looked back at his friend, not entirely hiding the worry flickering in his eyes. "Whether or not he will, though, is another story."

[Inkfinger]

There was magic dancing on the ceiling again.

Viktor lay on his bed in his quarters and stared at it, watching the white-blue light ebb and flow like a river, trickling across the intricate grooves worked into the walls. It was eerily beautiful.

It also wasn’t supposed to be happening.

He lay and watched it blur and twist, his arms crossed behind his head. The lights were a meaningless mess without his glasses. He wasn’t going to mention them this time. Not again. Not after the last time. He scowled, rubbing at his eyes resentfully as his train of thought went elsewhere.

Unfortunately, instead of daydreams of what he would do to Antanas if he were a magician, his thoughts took a more loyalist turn.

There was a war going on, wasn’t there? For all he knew, they could be under attack. Residual magic, his auntie’s nightgown!

He kicked the blanket off, sliding his feet into his slippers, and marched down the hall and up the four flights of steps to the Gate Keeper’s chambers.

“Why would a magical hypochondriac such as yourself pick such a place of employment?” Antanas asked, haughtily, the moment Viktor managed to get him out of bed. "Not every light is an invasion. Last month you thought it was Haidian demons fighting their way up from the pit, remember?"

Viktor merely scowled, shifting from foot to foot. He did remember, sadly. Was that why he was getting all the runaround? He was beginning to wish he’d never even heard of the cathedral. It wasn't turning out to be the glamorous job he had hoped for.

“I don’t know, sir,” he finally answered. Antanas snorted – the action made his thin mustache quiver. "But if you would just look..."

"Fine." Antanas took Viktor's moment of surprise at his surrender to shove him backward and out of the door. "In the morning."

The door slammed in his face.

Viktor stood there staring at the closed portal, scowling at himself for being so easily fooled. Antanas wanted to put him through this, did he? He'd figure out a way to make him listen, he thought as he started to pace down the hall. He'd have to see something, record something more than the sheet of dates and times he had downstairs in his rooms. Something...

He paced back and sat down with his back to the door. He could wait here to make sure the portal keeper saw him first thing and remembered his promise, of course. Not to avoid thinking about the twisting, flickering lights above his bed.

He fell asleep on the portal keeper's doorstep.

When they went down in the morning, the lights were gone.

Of course.

[Inkfinger]

Cael stared at the map in front of him, and had the brief, irrational urge to shove it off onto the floor and stomp on it. Ulric may have thought it a good thing when he’d given it to him, but there was, simply, too much information on its weathered surface, written in thin, neat script that looked as if it was fading.

There was a tiny, color-coded ‘x’ for every fiefdom or village with a church – blue for the villages under the control or influence of the monarchy, red for those under the church’s sway, and green for those few villages that both factions had ignored, abandoned or not reached yet. Each village was surrounded by a further cloud of notes, written so small that Cael had to have his face mere inches away to read the writing.

“You’re going to go blind if you keep that up,” F’bael said, coming down the stairs to the portal room with a pot of coffee. “It’s too dark in here. You need more light.” He set the coffee down on the table and leaned over Cael’s shoulder to peer down at the map. “I don’t see what you find so interesting about this,” he continued, straightening back up and giving Cael room to breathe. “It’s a map.”

“It’s a helpful map!” Cael countered, perplexed but managing to hide it until F’bael was out of the room. On a whim, he pulled Ulric’s talisman back until it no longer brushed his skin for just a second.

Every ‘x’ and dot of color on the parchment vanished as cleanly as if it had been erased from existence. That explained F’bael’s confusion – and his ongoing concern every time he saw Cael with the map in he days that followed.

Soon, though, he took to offering his assistance; apparently thinking Cael was working some form of divination to plot their haphazard course from portal to portal. He offered logic and reason and Cael had to keep his laughter to himself, turning him down politely. Logic and reason had nothing to do with it – besieged villages and neutral towns, however…

Damyan apparently figured out what was going on faster.

He, however, kept it to himself until one night when it was F’bael and Kamen’s turn to cook. Then the hulking man loomed over Cael’s shoulder, much like F’bael had, to tap one claw against the back of the talisman.

“It iss taking a lot out of you,” he said simply, when Cael’s mottled fingers twitched in reaction to the strange feeling the touch shot through his hand – not quite pain, exactly, but it didn’t feel nice. Cael looked up sharply to meet sapphire dark eyes. They held sympathy as their only emotion. “Not your ussual kind of magic, I take it?” He withdrew his hand, leaving impressions of moist cold on the back of Cael’s hand as he sat down. “I could 'elp wit' t'at.”

“Help me with what?”

“T'e pain.” Damyan’s big hand closed around his wrist this time, and this time it really was pain that lanced through his bones. He bit down on a whimper. Damyan pulled his hand away quickly. “Portal c'armss are picky t'ings. T'ey only like certain typess of magic.”

Cael understood. Really he did. But Ulric had trusted him with this. Ludvik had trusted him with this. He shook his head. “I can’t give it to you,” He muttered, rubbing at the talisman. The burning pain had faded, but it still itched. “I don’t even know if I can get it off.”

"O', no. I wouldn't be able to take it." Damyan touched Cael's hand instead of the talisman this time. The chill of his rough fingers felt nice against the fevered, crawling tingle of his skin. "It'ss for a 'uman, not a part-wyrm. Pluss itss joined to you now."

"Joined?"

"Yess. T'e black around t'e edgess?" He traced with his fee hand, not touching where his skin was darkened, much to Cael's relief. "T'will not come off now, unlesss you are dead. Or ssomeone cutss your 'and off."

"...oh." Cael lifted his hand to eye the black smears.

That was reassuring.