How Wicked Ruler

[Visla Eraclaire]

Visla’s new pair of boots clicked against the cobblestones of Uiria’s streets. The black leather footwear had been carelessly discarded by one of the city’s residents during the mass exodus some weeks prior to her arrival. By fortunate happenstance, they fit well and were worn in enough to be comfortable, a truly win-win situation in the sense that Visla won twice.

The city was hers now, and she took that idea quite seriously. At least, she did now. For the first few days, she sat sheepishly inside the house that the Mephisto’s had built, fearing to redecorate and tidying everything to the exact state Elenore had left it. It didn’t take long for the absurdity and untenability of such a practice to wear her down. She now slept in the master bedroom with a hodgepodge of the most useful furnishings. Her closet was filled with Elenore’s clothes that were close enough to her own size to be salvaged as well as various other items of assorted personalty scavenged from the many abandoned dwellings.

The first house she entered was unlocked, and she still felt like a thief. She walked around cautiously and took only a bit of unspoiled food. Within a week, she was gleefully blasting off locks and taking treasured heirlooms that struck her fancy. As she strolled to the university’s library, she reflected on how quickly she had degenerated.

“It’s all appearance, though,” she said aloud, her voice echoing through vacant streets. “Abandoned property escheats to the sovereign after all.”

And sovereign she was, in name at least. The document that signed the city over to her met with all formalities she was aware of, and even if it didn’t, who would challenge her? She had not seen a single soul in her month or so in residence. Still, as she turned each corner and opened each door, she always somehow expected to see someone. She expected brigands if nothing else, someone who shared her excitement about a whole city’s worth of plunder but lacked the legal title that entitled them to enjoy it. On warmer nights, she would walk the streets hoping to come across such scavengers, but had encountered none.

She made many such routines for herself, to keep her mind sharp and her body in reasonable shape. The ability to craft a potion that ameliorated her weak condition had led her to enjoy strolls in a way she never had before. The errand of this particular day was to retrieve a book or chart from the library which described the city itself. She felt that a proper survey must lie somewhere within the building’s confines, but finding it would be no easy matter.

Visla had visited the city’s library in its heyday, but circumstances were much different. The bustling university had dozens of librarians attending to the labyrinthine expanse that was their book depository. Machines catalogued the voluminous collection with useful cross-references and a detailed system of categorization. There were no guides now, be they human or artificial. The machines lay dormant, powerless, and far beyond the ken of Visla’s pre-industrial understanding. Hall after hall and story upon story of books were now marked only by numbers of no significance.

As the Baronet approached the large entryway doors, she could only hope that there was some written directory as a backup. One would imagine that people who bothered to keep books might also bother to keep tangible records of such books. And yet everything about Uiria suggested that one would be wrong. The many houses Visla had perused had no candles, only the gleaming electrical lights that had long since gone dead. Many of the more massive doors throughout the city showed signs that they were once opened by mighty mechanical contraptions with no consideration of what might happen if their infinite energy finally ran out. The library doors were one such example, and Visla struggled to pull the huge oaken monstrosities open, almost ready to blow a hole in them before they finally gave way.

[Visla Eraclaire]

Inside, the air was stale and dusty, uncirculated by the silent metal grates on the floors. The windows high on the second story let streams of early morning sunlight in, but not enough to overcome the shadows of the towering bookshelves and narrow aisles. From one such sunbeam, Visla could see the long oaken desk where the librarians had stood. She walked over and positioned herself behind it, fumbling through papers and rifling through drawers, holding the contents up to the light.

As she felt along the wooden surface for the handle to another drawer, he fingertips brushed across the leather backing of a large book. Taking the thing in both hands, she flung it up onto the desk. A mark on the spine read “XCLXXII,” a form of notation Visla had found somewhat common across various Uirian inscriptions, but never with the same letters. She threw the hefty book open and glared at its interior with frustration. The contents were little better than the cryptic symbols left in her own tome when it wished to be uncooperative.

In the dim light she could make out the book's apparent title, a pair of nonsense words, only made more frustrating by the fact that they were written using the Tradespeak alphabet. She knew that the Uirians, or at least those who had their origins outside of Althanas, had a language of their own. What surprised her was that it had only come to rear its ugly head now that the devices to translate it and those who were bilingual were all gone. Even without the ability to read it, she could guess that the book she found was precisely what she was looking for, a backup directory of the library's contents.

It would seem that while the books themselves were largely written in Althanian Tradespeak for the benefit of the university's pupils, the directories however were written in something else entirely, whatever tongue was native to the departed leaders of the city. While they might still be useful, as the book titles would likely remain untranslated, she feared that if the Mephistos were cautious enough to write their library directories in what amounted to a cypher, their municipal documents would be similarly encrypted. While it was all conjecture, it was enough to discourage her for the time being. She took a final look around the darkened library and clapped the book shut.

As the cover came down a louder sound overpowered the slap of leather on parchment. The large door at the entrance groaned as it was slowly swung open. Visla ducked behind the ready cover of the circulation desk reflexively. The frightful reaction was quickly overcome with curiosity and indignance at the intrusion. She peaked her head up above the desktop and saw a pair of figures shrouded in light pouring in from outside.

It didn't take long to identify them as the man and woman Visla had seen when she scryed on Elenore some weeks before. The man was unremarkable but his companion's bright red hair and alabaster skin was radiant in the morning light. As easily as Visla picked her out, she too immediately locked eyes with the Baronet even as she was crouched in the shadows.

“There,” she said, extending a red-tipped finger.

Visla rose, defiant and stared back at them.

“What is your business in Uiria?” she called to them.

“Give us some light,” the man said, turning to his companion.

She simply nodded and with the slightest motion of her hand, a circle of blood-red heatless flames erupted around Visla. The fires shared the same unnatural hue with the woman's hair and the flames she had appeared from when Visla first saw her through her scrying window.

“Now, then, I think I should be asking you that question, huddled as you were behind that desk. Even if Elenore cannot afford to pay us, we delight in apprehending brigands,” the man smiled. His tone with crisp and without embellishment, swift and businesslike.

“You two are the interlopers. Elenore is gone. Uiria is my city,” Visla said.

The woman had not spoken another word since pointing out Visla. Instead she had been staring intently at the young woman, her ruby eyes fixed on her but seeming to stare beyond. When she finally spoke up, it was in the same eerily lyrical tone that Visla had heard in her report to Elenore.

“This is the one that killed Leonard.”

[Visla Eraclaire]

Visla kept a stern face, unable to ascertain from the woman's inflection whether they considered her action right or wrong. It was a question she hadn't quite answered for herself yet. Still, since Elenore had condemned her for it and these two were in her service, she had a difficult time imagining it would be well received.

And yet the man clasped his hands together and grinned.

“Then she has done us a service, perhaps enough to forgive her trespass,” the man said, striking his chin in contemplation.

“I told you. I'm no trespasser. I am Baronet Visla Eraclaire, ruler of Uiria.”

The woman peered into her deeper still and turned to report to the man.

“She's telling the truth.”

“She may think it's the truth, but that doesn't make it so. Without a grant of peerage, her claim is meaningless,” he scoffed.

Visla eyed the flames around her and reached carefully into her dress, producing the scroll bearing Elenore's neat signature. She had been carrying it with her since she received it, ready to flash it at whoever questioned her domain. This was not precisely the circumstance she had imagined, and yet it worked just as well.

The man examined it only momentarily in the glinting red light of his companion's flames and then snapped his fingers. The woman and her conjurations vanished and the man moved to the door, holding the massive thing open and extending an arm.

“Then you must forgive me. I am Lictor Avistus Orizov, at your service.”

Visla had been ready to leave in any event and so she accepted his invitation, placing the grant back in her pocket before venturing outside. The two walked down the street in no particular direction with Avistus trailing ever so slightly beyond Visla.

“Lictor isn't a title I'm familiar with. Who do you serve?” Visla asked as they exited the university grounds and proceeded into the town proper.

“I am a cleric of the sixth order in the service of Lord Azmodeus. I lent my aid to the Baronets Mephisto, father and daughter, before their departure.”

While his tone remained quite soothing and matter-of-fact there was more than enough to unsettle Visla in his words. While she was not familiar with the man's deity, she found that the names of gods rarely drifted far from their nature. Azmodeus was an ominous monicker to say the least. And even if he was the god of kindness and good will, Visla had little love for clerics. Finally, something about the word 'departure' to describe a dead man did not sit well with her. Perhaps she was reading too much into things, but it was an element of her personality she was not eager to change, in any event.

[Visla Eraclaire]

“I have many questions for you, but they can wait until you answer the one I posed to you in the library. What is your business in Uiria?”

The man paused for a moment and stood as if he were seriously considering the question. Visla stopped and looked back at him as he delivered his answer.

“I came to report to Baronet Mephisto about her entreaty to the Academy, but as the matter seems moot now, I have no particular errand. I am happy to remain and address your inquiries for the time being, as rightful successor.”

His acceptance of her ascension was far too convenient, but it seemed sincere. There was not a hint of mockery in anything he said, and so the two proceeded back toward the Visla's house on the hill as they talked. Visla pondered briefly what question to ask next, but figured any would do and focused her attention on the man's religion.

“I do not mean to offend, but just as I am unfamiliar with your title, I am unfamiliar with your god. Who is Lord Azmodeus?”

She added the title in hopes of placating the cleric, though her skin crawled a bit as she mouthed the word. The man replied quickly and without the slightest hint of displeasure.

“Lord Azmodeus is Arch-Devil of the Nine Hells, Paragon of Law, Condemnor of Transgressors.”

Visla was taken aback at how forthright the man was with such fearsome titles. While she was certainly no angel, Visla had always admitted to her former status as a warlock and trafficker with demons with some trepidation. Even if there was truly nothing wrong in it, the appearance alone of allegiance to the Lower Planes was enough to warrant distrust from most, if not death.

“I see. And so you recognize me as lawful ruler of this land?”

“You have the proper document. There are no technicalities, only laws.”

Visla had the sinking feeling that she might be hearing that quip frequently if she retained the man's company. She decided to move to a new area of discussion as they passed through what was once the commercial district. Visla had left most of the shops undisturbed, saving their contents like bundled presents for later. As they walked through, the sight of dark, closed shops brought to mind childhood memories of religious holidays where commerce was forbidden.

“Your companion, who is she?”

“She is an Erinyes, one of Azmodeus' many servants, gifted to me for my loyalty.”

He always answered her questions quickly and completely, volunteering some additional information while completely ignoring things that others would be sure to note.

“Does she have a name?”

“I do not know.”

That fact disturbed Visla more than anything else the man had said or done so far. While he was pleased at Leonard's demise, she feared he was little better. Servant of a tyrant god, summoning planar beings to do his bidding, there was little she could do to hide her disgust.

[Visla Eraclaire]

Visla walked silently, followed by the vile cleric, until she reached the chest-high boundary wall of the city. Avistus had not spoken a single word as they walked, save to answer her questions. For all his forthrightness, he was clearly a man of many secrets. Visla wondered if discovering them was worth his unpleasant company in her house.

As she stepped from the paved avenue onto the unfinished dirt path that led up the hill out of town, she turned back to him and opted to continue the questioning. Having failed to find anything of use in the library, she had little else to do for the day. Idleness was something she felt she could no longer afford.

“So, what relation are you to Leonard? You were pleased I killed him, so I take it you weren't friends.”

Before he answered, Avistus seemed to look her over. The object of his search was uncertain, but when he was satisfied at either its presence or absence, he nodded and proceeded with his answer.

“Leonard was a renegade mage from my hometown. He took a very dangerous artifact and fled here. Baronet Mephisto had agreed to assist us in apprehending him and recovering the object. Your killing of him is actually quite the inconvenience to me, but all the same I think it shows a trait of character that I find admirable.”

Visla was absolutely sure she didn't want the man in her house now. There was not a doubt in her mind that the dangerous artifact was the tome sitting open on her kitchen table. She wanted desperately to know what made it so dangerous, but any questions would only make her look more suspicious.

“And what trait is that?”

“Zeal. Baronet Mephisto told me that when you found out he was a demon-binder, you slew him on the spot, even though he offered you aid in overcoming a dread disease. You are a woman of action and resolve. But I do wonder why the object was not found on his corpse.”

Visla couldn't resist smiling. It looked to Avistus as if she were proud of what she did, but in truth she was impressed with Elenore's talent for misdirection. She wondered how many balls the woman had in the air before she left, and how many would come crashing down now that she was gone.

[Visla Eraclaire]

“I have one more question before I take my leave of you. What news did you wish to bring Elenore from the Academy?”

Avistus furrowed his brow as if the question truly confounded him. In truth the answer itself was simple. His mind churned in contemplation of his duties and whether the information Visla requested was properly due to her as Elenore’s successor. The answer arose from a maze of extremely precise distinctions in word and deed, and evidently it was yes.

“They can provide no aid, for they have problems of their own. They are entrapped within the Sovreign’s Domain. Before you ask, I will save you the question. The Domain is a peculiar type of magic that I am particularly familiar with. When invoked by one who is both a ruler and an able spellcaster, it cordons off an area from all intrusion or egress. The Domain is inviolate.”

Visla was spared having to ask one question, but she posted another instead.

“Who cast it?”

“Your sister. I instructed her on the methods and provided her the necessary focus. It is a decision I regret, given what she has done with the power. The Academy is now no more than a prison and Estervale is a pit of chaos, but I have no right to reclaim my gift. You, however…”

Visla scowled. She detested being strung along. The cleric may as well have delivered a call-and-response sermon for how well she had been following his direction. This was what he sought all along. The Baronet refused to continue reading from the script.

“I, however, tire of this conversation. You are welcome here for the time being, but make yourself available again at dusk. I will discuss this with you further then.”

Avistus bowed with a sly grin. It didn’t much matter whether Visla saw through him or not. Therein lay the benefit of his unflinching honesty. He would only ever be caught doing things he’d freely admit. Self-interest was no sin to a cleric of the Arch-Fiend.

The two parted ways with Avistus wandering back into town on an unknown errand and Visla ascending the hill to ponder her next course of action.

[Visla Eraclaire]

As the door fell shut behind her, Visla dropped any pretense of poise. Her hands trembled and her face flushed. No one revelation was so devastating that it had shattered her calm, but as the gravity of the situation sank in placidity died the death of a thousand cuts.

She left the house that morning with a single task and no outstanding problems. She returned having accomplished nothing, laden with new troubles. There were too many to even contemplate. In a manner more befitting a prodigal child than a rightful ruler, she focused first on the most trivial.

She hurried to the kitchen and stared down at the tome. It lay open as if awaiting her with the artful script of a human writer replacing its standard printed lettering.

Avistus is weak. He cannot lie.
I fear him still. And he fears me.
Send me away. We will meet again.

The disjointed half-verse was less than comforting for Visla to read. First and foremost she had already deduced as much and the confirmation did her little good. Second and more seriously, it suggested that the book could and would lie. Third and finally, it was followed by a teleportation diagram which Visla was hesitant to copy.

Still, there seemed little other choice and with all the issues she was facing, she was happy to be rid of the thing. It had been an unreliable crutch at best, and she had no need for it any longer. She had more abilities than she could find use for and while there were still a great many things she wanted to know, she had no confidence that its pages would provide any answers. She was, however, quite certain that if Avistus found her in possession of it, his nameless companion would dispassionately dispose of her.

As Visla scrawled out the diagram, she tried to guess the location it described. From the width of certain sigils she could tell it wasn’t terribly far, but it was still nowhere she had been before. The instant she placed the final mark, the book and the chalk circle itself vanished. Visla took a deep breath and accepted that she would now have to turn to more pressing matters.

“You knew all of this when you left me Uiria, didn’t you Elenore? Fitting punishment, indeed,” she grumbled and filled a teakettle with water, setting it on the stove.

She wondered how long such conveniences would last. It would be no great chore to draw water from a well or light a fire in the stove, but for the moment the ease was a welcome comfort. Visla feared that a day would soon come when nothing was easy.

Such melodramatic thoughts possessed her mind as she waited for the kettle to whistle. Death alone in the ghost town, or worse at the hands of that diabolical meddler, was a genuine possibility. One kind of doom or another always seemed to follow close on Visla’s heels no matter where she ran. All that time spent fleeing had given her a marathon-runner’s constitution for such things. While her mind might be clouded by feelings of dread for a time, she would always manage to find a second wind.

The kettle whistled and Visla set to work on a plan.

[Visla Eraclaire]

Four bags of used up tea sat in the garbage. The sun hung low on the horizon outside the kitchen window. The level of golden liquid in the rum bottle sitting next to Visla was almost as low. An afternoon of planning had turned to stalling and feckless daydreaming rather quickly. Now on the cusp of evening, Visla was startled to action by a knock at the door.

She composed herself and made excuses in her mind for her lassitude. There was hardly enough information to formulate some masterful scheme. Deliberation and inebriation were equally good for reaching a course of action, and in that she had succeeded. Her hand brushed an errand strand of hair that had stuck to her sweat-glossed face and she opened the door.

Avistus stood backlit by the dying sunlight with a parcel wrapped under his arm and awaited her formal invitation. Visla waved him in without a word and the two took their seats in the den by an inactive, ash-filled hearth.

“You’re a bit earlier than I had expected, but I can excuse that since you brought a gift.”

The words stuck in Visla’s throat a bit as she tried to sound demure. She had no genuine desire to impress the officious cleric, but his very nature seemed to enforce a level of formality and decorum.

“Not a gift per se, but something that could be yours nonetheless.”

He statement was cut short, not by any interruption but by evident internal restraint. It was obvious he had a course of action in mind and was merely waiting for Visla to say it for him, as if it were her own decision. The realization of this made the words that came from Visla’s mouth next even more sickening to recite.

“I have decided to visit the Academy and lift the blockade. After all, my sister is only the regent of this island in my absence. To my knowledge I have never been formally disinherited.”

“You have not.”

Avistus’ curt confirmation only further demonstrated that he knew precisely what she would do.

“So what must I do to lift the spell?”

The man smiled and unwrapped his parcel, placing it on the coffee table between them. It was a band of silver suitable for use as a bangle. Set in the front were three jet black stones, beautifully cut and polished, with too great a luster to be onyx. Delicate scrollwork covered the surface, but stopped abruptly at the back. There, instead, was a pair of holes and a bolt of common iron between them, like the fastening-piece of a manacle.

“The bracelet is part of a matched set. Alone, they have limited powers, but together they are a potent implement of political power. They are commonly called Bands of Rulership. Even great kings are fortunate to possess a pair, but I am prepared to provide you with this one provided you retrieve the other half from your sister.”

Evidently Avistus’ patience for his pretense that Visla was deciding her own course of action had run out. It was just as well, the Baronet was happy to move along.

“There is undoubtedly a catch. What is it?”

The cleric stood mum for a moment. He was not bound to answer, only to do so honestly if he did. Still, only a fool would proceed in the face of such silence. Visla’s prying eyes made it clear that whatever else she was, she was not a fool.

“For one band, there is no catch. It allows the user to create Domains and dispel those of lesser rulers.”

Visla interjected, ensuring that he not stop his answer halfway.

“And for the set?”

“The set allows the ruler extraordinary power within her domain. She may travel anywhere therein with a mere thought. She may summon loyal retainers wherever she goes. Such retainers are bound to her and she cannot be harmed while they still live and serve. Her edicts have the force of magic as well as law and she may be ever watchful within the confines of her lands. The cost is personal power. Whatever magic the user possesses is tithed in exchange for the abilities the Bands grant.”

“Tithed to whom? No, I will save you the trouble. Azmodeus, no doubt. And can these shackles be removed?”

“Absolutely, removing them is a simple matter. However, there is somewhat of a delay, a transactional cost one might say. Upon donning the Bands, the user loses her powers immediately, but does not benefit from them until that time the next day. Similarly, upon taking them off, the benefits vanish immediately with one’s natural abilities only returning after a day has passed. The choice to take on the mantle of power is not irrevocable, but it is costly to be equivocate about.”

Visla took up the bracelet from the table and removed the iron bolt, slipping the silver band over her wrist. Its metal warped and bent to fit her arm perfectly and awaited the insertion of the locking piece that would seal her commitment.

“There is no cost whatsoever to putting on one?”

“No.”

She trusted his words, at least this far, and slid the iron rod into place. It glimmered a bit and then fused into the band, leaving no suggestion that it was anything but a fine piece of jewelry.

[Visla Eraclaire]

Visla received instruction of the method necessary to remove the bracelet once fused, a command word spoken, unsurprisingly, in Infernal. She practiced donning and removing the single bracer several times before she was satisfied. Finally, she received instruction on how to perform the Sovereign’s Domain. Those within the effect were compelled to remain and those without forbidden to enter. There were limitations, recited in excruciating detail by Avistus, but none seemed likely enough to be worth remembering. Those above mortal law, the gods themselves, could transgress against the boundaries, but the god of Visla’s island was already dead. She glanced at the pearly ring on her left hand with some satisfaction at the thought.

Within sight of the crater where that deity had fallen, Avistus gave Visla a final instruction on the necessary invocations. Alphonse, the white horse that Visla had brought back from her campaign in Salvar paced the impromptu pasture outside the walls. When she had first come to the city with Aelva, he had taken the grassy plot as his own and no one had questioned it since. There he remained dutifully until Visla called that evening. The beast trotted over and allowed her to climb into the saddle.

She looked back at Avistus and spoke the words he had given to her.

At the edge of the wood, all around the city, a brilliant red line traced the ground along the meets and bounds precisely as they were laid out in the land grant. The air above glowed faintly and intermittently like a mirage, barely visible at a distance. The parchment itself seemed charged with energy, giving off a palpable heat from Visla’s pocket. With the cleric sealed within and trouble kept at bay, she rode off into the forest. As she passed close to the boundary, the demarcation became a towering inferno, apparent to any would-be intruder. Alphonse reared back, but Visla spurred him on. A credit to his obedience, he galloped through the barrier and the two passed to the other side unharmed.

They rode off into the night, through the wood toward the Academy. It was several hours ride, even with Alphone’s admirable speed and almost prescient knowledge of the terrain. The caffeine and alcohol in Visla’s veins battled with one another as she tried to fight off sleep. The result was a restless stupor of half-recalled memories.

“Why Alis?”

She saw her sister’s youthful face looking back at her across the interior of a small carriage. Bags of luggage sat next to each of them and Allistia held a guidebook bearing the emblem of the Academy. It was a sunny morning in early spring.

“Because I don’t live my life according to Visla. I wanted to go, so I’m going. You should ask yourself why you’re here.”

She maintained her smile, even as she delivered the cross reply. Waking somewhat from the recollection, the sky outside the carriage darkened, but Alis still sat across from her, awaiting a response.

“I’m here to take what’s mine.”

The remembered shadow of her sister seemed shocked at her new reply. All those years ago, she had actually said that she was afraid to be left alone at home without her sister’s company. The two had ridden the rest of the way in good natured silence and arrived at the Academy. Now, instead, the vision of her sister stared back at her with contempt.

“What? Aren’t you afraid?”

“I’m afraid of what will happen to you.”

[Visla Eraclaire]

The groggy memories were flung from her mind as her horse reared back. Her eyes came back into focus on the first light of dawn creeping through the treetops. The sun's light paled in comparison to the wall of searing flames that had startled Alphonse. Visla dismounted and led him a distance away, patting his nose and returning the barrier alone.

She approached the flames cautiously with her shackled arm extended. Her fingertips lingered close to the flickering surface for a few moments. She closed her eyes and stepped forward. Feeling no heat, she hastened forward, eyes still closed until she was sure she had passed through. When she opened them again, she saw what had been obscured by the incandescent barrier. Bodies, at least a dozen, were strewn along the ground. Groups of two or three sat together together near the doorway, or just on the other side of the barrier. A few piles of charred remains still smelt of ash where those driven mad at last by their captivity had charged the wall that contained them. The rest were intact but eerily still. They seemed as though they might even be living, their faces downcast and hidden under the hoods of long colored robes that ranked them by year. Far too many were the youngest.

Visla wove past them to the door and paused a moment to look at a lone figure in a grey robe. His body huddled close to the eaves of the door and his fingers were still pink with the faintest blush of life. Visla reached down toward them, and yet as she grasped his hand the flesh was as leathery as the satchel on her back. His bones snapped even in her feeble grip and she drew back with a shudder, cursing whatever reflex or instinct had driven her to reach out in the first place.

She swung open the door and let out a stagnant puff of dead air from within the musty corridors. Silent as a tomb and dark as a moonless night, Visla did not enter lightly. Focusing her frustration and dread, she called three crimson orbs of arcane light to spin about her waist. The faint orbiting lights giving her surroundings an appropriately sinister glow but gave her the means to dispatch whatever might leap from the still lingering shadows.

The marble floor echoed with her shambling, trepid steps as she made her way in the only direction she could recall. It had been years since she had spent only a few months within the building and the only course that was still fixed in her mind was the way to the small dormitory room she had shared with her sister. She expected to find more bodies along the way but the halls were starkly clear. The walls however showed signs that these long passages had been a battleground with streaks of blood and singed or missing bits of stone. Whatever carnage had resulted had been cleared away, though for what purpose Visla could only venture an unsettling guess.

She put it out of her mind as she opened the door that connected to the living quarters. As her fingertips pressed against the metal she felt a jolt. She tried to draw back from the pain but her wrist simply tugged futilely as her grip tightened on the electrified knob. The tingling, burning, aching, numbing sensation spread through her arm and she stifled a scream. Before it was paralyzed, she swatted her other hand toward the door, directing one of her arcane bolts to blast the knob clean off. With a flash and a sizzle, it clanked onto the floor and Visla cradled her seared left hand in the crook of her shoulder. Her eyes darted back and forth, searching for trap's designer come to harvest his prey.

[Visla Eraclaire]

On the other side, two men were ready with blades lowered to charge. A woman stood behind them, indistinct in the sudden moment of shouting. Visla could not see past the fire in the young men's eyes as they rushed toward her. She held out her singed fingers and projected her shield. Their weapons were dull iron training swords and they slid almost effortlessly off the defensive field. And yet they seemed unsurprised and undeterred, perhaps accustomed to fighting spellcasters. They did not relent and they rained their blows down upon Visla until she could hold the shield no longer.

As the rusty points of their blades thrust toward her, she lowered her injured left hand and extended her right, casting her last two energy bolts straight to their hearts. The orbs seared through their flesh and detonated within with a flash, reducing them to crumpled piles of burnt flesh and broken bone. Not even a scream escaped their lips, only the sound of their weapons clattering harmlessly onto the stone floor. With a look of grim determination, Visla examined for the first time the woman standing behind them.

“Vis?”

The soft voice came before she even focus on the slight figure in front of her. She could faintly see in the fading light still emanating from the dead bodies at her feet. Golden hair curled around a pair of pointed elven ears and coiled past slender arms fitted loosely into a white robe grimly marred by bloodstains. A pair of striking blue eyes peered back at her, breaking the harshness of Visla's own glare with their placidity.

“Li'era?”

The young elven orphan had been a classmate during Visla's brief tenure at the Academy. Her purposeful kindness might even have made her a friend in time, were it not for Aelva's intrusion. Once Visla met the succubus, she had seen little of Li'era or anyone else and had almost entirely forgotten about her by the time she left, or rather was driven out by the actions of a zealous exorcist.

The two simply stared at eachother, Visla's mind racing with questions and Li'era seeming to await them patiently even in the face of two bloodied allies. Finally, the elf broke the locked gaze and knelt next to their bodies, verifying with little doubt that they were dead.

“I do not blame you for this, but...”

“I'm sorry.”

Her graceful fingers pulled down the men's eye lids and she struggled the drag one down the hall, still keeping an eye on the woman that was their killer.

“As I said, I do not blame you. These men tried to kill you, and would have done so before I had the chance to recognize you. I fear there is little room left for softness here.”

Hearing such words coming from such a delicate young woman in her lyrical voice was chilling. Visla grabbed the arms of the other man and dragged him along, following down the corridor. She saw the heads of a few others, in similarly tattered and battle-marked robes peek out from the rooms that flanked the hall. There were no lights with Visla's orbs gone, but the way was straight and Visla simply followed the voice of her old acquaintance.

“I could ask you a great many questions, Visla Eraclaire. Why did you come here? Where have you been? Is it true what was said about you when you left? Do not answer those, however. Only one question matters. Can you leave?”

“Then you should.”

“I came back for a reason. I heard Alis sealed you up in here. I'm going to set you free.”

The pair reached what had been Visla's room. Unable to see, the scent that came forth was all the more powerful. Death, rot, and all manner of vileness came as Li'era opened the door and cast the body inside. Visla followed suit with her own and then slammed the door swiftly shut.

“I hope you do not take offense. Those who know of you and your sister consider that room to be bad luck, so...”

“You throw your refuse there. I cannot argue with the logic of it. But you won't need it anymore. I can lower the barrier. Just gather your people and come with me.”

“It is not so simple, Vis. We were sealed here for a reason. Baroness Allistia does not trust us, nor should she. You were not the first to turn to darkness, if indeed you did, within these walls. Nor have you been the last. Come.”

Li'era took Visla by the hand and led her swiftly away from the cursed room and into another of the dozens of bedchambers lining the hall. This one was lit with a candle within and the door was flanked by a man and a woman carrying weapons in a similar state of disrepair to those Visla had already dispatched. It was comforting at least, that these people seemed no threat to her.

Once within, the elf continued.

“After the events in Uiria, Askelbert distanced the Academy from the church. He expelled all the clerics and said that he would no longer be shackled by their dogma. The ecclesiarchy claimed that you or whatever dark masters you served had corrupted him. The conflict brewed and while my adoptive father did his best to control practice of the more sinister arts, without the moral authority of the church his warnings fell on deaf ears. By the arrival of your sister, almost half the academy identified themselves as warlocks, hellcallers, bloodmages and the like. She came with an entorage of clerics bearing a shackle on one arm and sentenced us all to death within these walls for our crimes. For some it came sooner than others, and that is perhaps the only blessing. The good died young, and the wicked continued to fester and flourish, feeding their bellies and their magics with the blood and flesh of the dead. We few who remain are the weak and the pure, those who were unwilling or unable to embrace the practices that allow them to survive. We starve slowly as our conjurers become weaker and weaker from manifesting enough gruel and water to sustain us. Our spells have dried up and we are left with dull blades from the training halls.”

Visla listened in stunned silence to the speech that poured from the woman's lips. Her normally stilted, overly formal diction boiled over with anguish, but still retained the sort of historical recitation that was stereotypical of her elven ancestry.

“If you truly are the devil they brand you as, then I cannot stop you. Set your minions free and kill the last of us. If the church lies, then I hope that you are at least as powerful as they say you are, if not so wicked. If you wish to lower the barrier and free us, you will have to kill the Dark Ones first, lest their poison spill out into the world and make all our suffering for naught."

[Visla Eraclaire]

“I could pepper you with questions, but you've already given me a lot to take in. Can you give me a few minutes?”

Li'era nodded and walked out of the room, gesturing for the guards to leave Visla be for the moment. The would-be Baroness stared into the candle and tried to steel herself for what was to come. As dramatic as it all sounded, she couldn't say she was truly caught off guard by the events within the Academy.

“What did I expect?” she thought as the wax dripped down onto a brass candlestick holder.

As much as she despised the clerics, their excuses and their dogma, she could see herself doing the very same thing that they had. Solve a problem, lose a few innocents along the way, such decisions were all in a days work for a ruler. Still, she wondered whether there was really a problem in the first place. Despite her evidently infamous reputation as a dark spellcaster, she had only met a couple others. One was merely a love struck man clinging to the past. As a whole, they only had a desire for power in common which was not something she could begrudge them. She would have to see for himself whether these Dark Ones were truly a threat worth eliminating. If not, perhaps it would cost her Li'era's loyalty, but she was prepared to set them all free.

Still, there was the sincere possibility that even if they weren't evil to begin with, the confinement and prejudice had driven them mad. Visla hardly considered herself a fiend, but more than once extreme circumstances had brought her to the brink of insanity. Many people had paid the price for underestimating her and even if she hoped that these wayward magicians could be reasoned with, she would not go unprepared.

She closed her eyes and ordered her mind, building within it the mental barricades that would vouchsafe her body. Li'era gave her ample time to complete the Wizard's Ward. Evidently the long confinement had only reinforced her natural elven patience.

When she emerged from the room, her garments glowed faintly with the protective energies of her spell and five new bolts of spite circled her at the waist. She looked at Li'era, resolute and stated her intentions.

“I'm going to find them. I will kill them if I deem it right, but I will not take the word of clerics who would have me burned at the stake. Either way, when I'm done with them, you'll all be free. If you agree with my decision, come back with me to Uiria. There's plenty of space and provisions for your people. Once you're all ready, Allistia will answer for what she's done and surrender the Barony to me.”

Li'era almost managed a smile, formerly her constant companion. Now the lines of worry and despair carved into her face were too deep to be overcome with a simple declaration of purpose.

“Good luck, Lady Eraclaire. Do you remember the way to the Provost's office and the Grand Library? You'll find the Dark Ones there, if they don't find you first.”

Visla nodded. She knew the way well enough and would not endanger anyone else as a guide.

[Visla Eraclaire]

Bloodstained stone and damaged walls become more common as she approached the Academy's former seat of power. The Provost's administrative wing encircled the great library for both expedience and security. Even before the rampant paranoia of corrupted spellcasters, the library was strictly controlled. Students were forbidden from studying above their level without permission and access to all but the most mundane books was restricted. By the light of her orbs, Visla could see bloodsigils painted onto many of the doors. She wasn't particularly familiar with their effects, but it was a safe assumption that she oughtn't touch anything painted over in blood. Shortly after coming to that conclusion, she was forced to reconsider it.

A massive circle was painted on the floor leading to the library staircase, its borders strewn with bone and its interior painted in with thick coats of blood, both dried and much more disturbingly fresh. From the center came an ominous beat, with the rhythm of a marching drum but a deep forboding tone. It seemed ready to greet her with whatever magical payload it had been invested with, even as she stood cautiously eying it from several yards away. There was no way around it and over the droning thump of the symbol's heart she could hear footsteps behind her. She could wait and be discovered or step forward and discover the glyph's effects first hand. It was not an enviable choice. Perhaps the reasonable decision was to ready herself for whatever was skulking up on her.

The decision was made for her as a figure wreathed in flames stepped through the archway behind her. A pair of beady eyes glinted beneath a black cowl. A poorly-fitting salvaged breastplate hung over a boy's sunken chest. Its surface was embossed with bone, but beneath its savage facade Visla suspected she would see nothing but ribs jutting out from an atrophied, emaciated child. His trembling hands gave him away, even as he spoke with a high, dignified air.

“Come seeking death, trespasser? Another cleric come to purge the Dark Ones?”

Visla stared back at him and was thankful she hadn't stepped on the unknown glyph to avoid such a whelp. He was, like so many things in the world, bathed in glory but still feeble at the core. Visla allowed herself the momentary conceit that she was his very antithesis, a woman with humble appearance and a will of steel.

“Do I look like one of the faithful, boy?” she said as she stood in her pilfered pair of boots and grey traveling clothes.

“That tone simply will not do if you are to be my disciple,” he grinned a wily little grin and snapped his fingers.

The bones rattled along the floor behind Visla and the blood flowed into rivulets, receding like the evening tide. The symbol parted, leaving a walkway toward the library beyond.

“Impressive trick for a child, but I have no time to play Grand Wizard and Servant Girl with you. I'm not one of Li'era's clerics but I'm not one of your gawking, mawkish, awkward little companions either. You can lacquer the whole building in blood, but you'll not intimidate me. I've seen and even done far worse. Put out your flames and pull back your little hood. It's time to go home to your mother. I'm sure she's worried.”

The flames that lapped around the boy's head and shoulders crackled with every demeaning word, but he let her finish her little speech. As the last syllable left her lips a gout of flame burst forth from beneath his robes and he let out a squeaking cry, “Impudence!”

[Visla Eraclaire]

Visla's ward flickered and soaked up the flame, leaving little more than a puff of smoke. Like his clothing, his spells were more spectacle than substance. Even without preparation to resist fire, the attack barely pierced Visla's barrier, merely dusting her clothes with a few embers.

“Is that all? Would you like to see what a true arcanist's flame looks like?” Visla crowed and sent forth a plume of fire at the boy's feet. The pillar of flames burned through the air and snuffed itself out on the ceiling, passing a few inches from the young mage's face along the way. “Now, stow your pride. You're no threat to this world and I've come to set you free.”

“Free?”

An unfamiliar voice, likely a girl's, it was higher even than the shrill youngster Visla was currently confronted with. Her figure soon became visible beside him, similarly dressed in hanging black cloth and ossuary accoutrements. Tangled hair and dark, tired eyes were her most striking features, little else was visible beneath baggy borrowed robes.

“Justinian, she says she'll set us free,” she said, tugging on the boy's cloak.

“ENOUGH!” he growled, his voice echoing with arcane acoustics. “I will not be treated so. I am the Avatar of Ardun'Thrull, Lord of Secrets. I bring His dark whispers to life and He will give me the power to silence you. I will cut out your tongue and wear your bones!”

“Another day, another cult,” Visla said, unconcerned. She saw the boy reach into his robes for something and issued forth one of her orbs. Powered by anger and spite, the crimson ball was weakened by Visla's calm. It struck the target but merely stung his hand and caused him to drop what he had grasped for.

A heavy-bound book tumbled to the ground and the boy cradled his only slightly wounded hand. He whimpered pitifully and the girl at his side looked at the red, swollen limb.

“You're lucky that he looks so foolish. If I were genuinely perturbed by this adolescent display, you wouldn't have that hand to hold,” Visla said to the girl, obviously the one to parlay with at this point.

“I'm sorry, mistress,” she cried with the servile tone of a chambermaid. “We've been trapped here so long. Justinian and I grew up here and we don't want to die here. Please--”

“Quiet Attia! This woman is our enemy!” the young mage objected, even as he still clung to the girl's side.

“You be quiet!” she pushed him back and let him fall limply against the wall. “I don't care if you save him. Save me.”

Visla smiled, pleased that the girl had more to her than begging. “How many of you are there? Li'era was convinced you had an army.”

“Her clerics fear the shadows and that is the only reason we survive. Justinian and I are the only ones left. Once we were twenty, with a wise leader from the upper classes, but for weeks now it has been just me and that miserable crybaby and his stupid book,” Attia huffed and kicked the massive tome across the floor toward Visla.

No longer distracted by the boy's posturing, Visla looked down at the book and took it in hand. The binding was thick leather and the pages were covered with the same unintelligible scrawl she had seen in the demon-binder's book she had recently teleported away. She wondered what foolish thoughts the book had put in the boy's mind and pitied him for a moment. For a moment she thought it might have been the same book, but if the boy had it for weeks, then it must be not so unique.

“Leave the dark robes and bones behind. Gather what non-morbid belongings you have. We're going to Estervale.”

“The capital? It was in sad shape even before our imprisonment. Please tell me you've fixed it there as well.” The girl seemed to invest an unreasonable amount of faith in Visla. It took that sort of attitude to follow a boy-cultist, she supposed.

“Not yet, but I will.”

[Visla Eraclaire]

The barriers came down, both around the Academy and, in the distance, around Uiria.

It was a long road to Estervale. Visla rode her white horse at the head of a motley and bedraggled caravan of wizards, and these are the strong ones. The frailest were on their way back to Uiria with a letter instructing that Azmodean cleric to care for them. Visla wondered at first about the propriety of sending them into his waiting claws, but as she drafted the letter, she felt sure he would follow her instructions for the time being. To him, she was a patsy, an easy way to get back the other bracer and once they were united, likely a slave.

The baronnet had no intention of ever putting them both on. That much she had become certain of after a few days pondering along the dreary trail. No one spoke except in small groups, only to eachother. Visla rode alone and neither the young girl Attia nor Li'era said a word to her during the day. When they settled to camp at night, there would be a few pleasantries, mostly gratitude, genuine but uninteresting. While she spent her days thinking about the future, her dreams were haunted with visions of the past.

The prospect of seeing her sister again was a bittersweet reunion. It had taken every ounce of Visla's will not to resent Allistia when they were children. The golden-haired, youngest, favorite child who had never truly known the mother than Visla so desperately missed, Alis bordered on intolerable. But there was no one else to speak with in the manor other than servants who would only speak in humble platitudes. They were friends of necessity, at least for Visla. She often wondered what her sister got out of it. Alis had so many friends, she had no need for a plain, quiet girl, even if it was her sister. The best guess she had was that it was pity, and that was the source of Visla's greatest resentment of the young prima donna.

At least it used to be. Now the pillars of smoke on the horizon and the dire tales of Estervale's fall gave Visla more mature reasons to hate her sister. Her island home had known peace and prosperity for a long time. Visla had done her part in recent years to shatter that, but she was merely a rogue noblewoman, doing her best to survive. Allistia had been Baroness. It was her responsibility to keep the people safe. It was a responsibility she was not fit to hold and Visla would wrest it from her at any cost. Estervale, Uiria, the whole land would be reborn, free of the short-sighted clerics of a dead god, free of the narrow-minded censorship of power-mongering wizards. As that noble thought grew in her mind, she heard a voice.

[Visla Eraclaire]

“Where will you get the power to make it so, young sorceress?”

She was mildly startled, but in the deep of the night it seemed like nothing more than a dream, the doubts of her own mind given a voice. Her answer was silent, thought to herself.

“I do not know yet, but I have become much more powerful in these few short years. If Estervale is truly fallen, I may be the mightiest among them.”

“What about Allistia and her zealots? How will you deal with them? Would you kill your own sister for power?”

“Not for power, for Estervale, for the barony, for Attia to have a home, for me to have a home.”

“But you had a home. You left it with that demon. You chose her over your home.”

“Not her.”

“Then what?”

“Knowledge.”

“Are you sure it was not power? Or... love?”

“No.”

“If you are sure...”

She woke up the next day with Justianian's book on her chest, open to a page covered with crisp, clear letters spelling out words of the common tongue. The shifting symbols and cryptic passages were gone. In their place was a simple treatise.

I am Aroden.

People have called me many things. Ardun'Thrull, lord of secrets. Mysteria, lady of magic. Mechanus, the clockword god. I am these people, but I am more.

I have no love for evil, nor do I have a pure heart. Order keeps my followers safe, but from chaotic minds spring great inventions.

Only one thing about me is a constant. I crave knowledge.

In this we are the same. From now on, I will speak with you plainly and give you my counsel.

In return, you will bring about the world that you dream of.

There is no dotted line on which to sign. No place to press a waxen seal with your signet ring.

This pact was sealed long ago, by the choices you have made, and I know you will not betray it.

You are my Herald. You will speak the Truth that I know, not for me, but for yourself.

Visla clapped the book shut and gazed toward the east. The morning sun's light crept around the ruined facades of Estervale's once great buildings. Her small band of followers still groaned and clung to sleep even as the sunbeams dappled over their eyelids. Visla would let them rest a bit longer for the trials to come. She sat still and quiet and watched the slow rise of the sun. A new day was dawning for Estervale.