“Perriander Lafey, I take it?” said a stout, blonde woman standing at the door of the Citadel constables’ outpost. We shook hands. Her grip was alarmingly strong.
“Yes. You’re Detective Eleanor Malcolm.”
“Aye,” her expression bore no warmth. Her voice was all business. “Friends call me Ellen. You’ll call me Malcolm.”
“Aye, aye, Malcolm.”
Malcolm rolled her eyes. “Inside—lucky for you both bodies are stored in this morgue.”
We went through the lobby, the same night-shift constable sat at the reception desk reading yesterday’s broadsheet. Like last time, she didn’t look up from her reading as we went behind the counter, through a locked door, and down in the dark dreariness of the morgue.
My stomach rolled as we came upon the constables’ Keeper—a thin Valentine in the middle of an autopsy. An old woman laid on a steel operating tables, the flesh of her chest and stomach stomach unfolded like a parcel, revealing a half-baked and gruesome crash course in human anatomy. I thought I might vomit then and there.
“Cover that up, Gomez!” Malcolm yelled.
The Keeper jumped, startled by our sudden presence in his dark workspace, then scrambled for a cloth to cover up his macabre early-morning project. “Detective! I wasn’t aware you were coming so early!”
Malcolm sighed at length. “That’s because you don’t read my letters.”
“Too many dead,” Gomez murmured. “No time to read in detail.”
Malcolm’s letter to me had nothing in the way of detail. This Keeper must have been swamped with work, indeed—or just didn’t pay attention.
“Perriander Lafey, this Hernando Gomez—lead Keeper under the employ of Phrygia Police Constabulary. Gomez, this is Perriander Lafey, recently expelled tenth-year of the Citadel, pardoned of his aiding and abetting an act of terrorism on condition he succeeds in apprehending said terrorist.”
“Ah,” Gomez said. “I’ve heard about you.”
“All good things, I hope,” I said, manufacturing a grin.
He said nothing.
“Show us the dead students from last week.” Malcolm said unceremoniously.
Gomez ambled over to the rear wall adorned with two rows of massive cast iron doors. He opened one on the bottom far right and another in the bottom center, clouds of cold air billowing out as he extended the steel platforms holding the bodies.
“Wystran Frostcaps, right?” I asked, staring into one of the cold chambers—a hole dug into the earth, brimming with glowing white mushrooms protruding form the earth.
“Good eye, Mister Lafey,” Gomez said. “A necessity for my profession to remain sterile. Unfortunately, we had to halt the construction of morgue on the waterfront. Trade embargo, you understand.”
I nodded, looking over the body I hadn’t seen before first—my way of mentally preparing myself for again facing to poor man who had died in my tenement’s boiler room. This one was a much younger lad, very fit, indeterminate ethnicity but by his tanned complexion, certainly hailing natively from Kaldea—that’s to say not Wystran. They came from across the North Sea about thousand years ago.
I gritted my teeth as my eyes traced the burns covering his body. His wounds were nothing like mine, looking more like the result of torture than the leading cause of death, which means his burns were probably not caused by Worldfire.
“You said he died last week, too?” I said over my shoulder to Malcolm, who hovered behind me as if I might try to steal the dead bodies the moment she looked away.
“Aye,” she grunted. “Day before your boiler room.”
“Any trace of burned herbs on the scene? Sage or fenugreek?”
“No.”
“Was there a ritual circle?”
She shook her head.
I threw my hands behind my head and paced to the other side of the morgue to collect myself. Gomez shut the young, fit (dead) lad back into his freezing would-be coffin. Breathing deep, counting backwards from ten—a habit I picked up in my youth, which assists with quelling intrusive thoughts—I circled back around to the dead man I had encountered once already.
He was as I remembered him. Dead. Pallid. Burned. Eyes glazed over. Forcing myself to examine him closely, his burns also did not resemble mine, nor what I had seen in my dream—that must have been a trick of my own mind.
“Neither of these men were burned to death” I said.
“Correct.” Gomez beamed. “I’ve determined both had received a lethal injection of cyanide and were placed in the locations where they were later discovered, post mortem.”
I looked at Malcolm. “You knew that.”
“Aye.”
Just wanted to make me squirm, eh? Callous hag. I looked away from Malcolm as those words came into my mind unbidden, as if she could hear my thoughts. A mighty rude thing to say, even in one’s own head. I’m not one to insult women on the basis of their womanhood. Still, I’m no stranger to intrusive thoughts, so I began counting back from ten.
It’s his eyes… surely, that’s it.
“You alright, Lafey?” Malcolm said, not unkindly but certainly not concerned.
“Bodies…” I said. “This body in particular.”
“I shouldn’t have hazed you like that,” Malcolm said, her voice softening. “But we’ve a job a to do, eh?” She clapped a hand on my shoulder.
“Neither body was killed with Worldfire,” I said after a moment, “which leads me to believe they were never near Worldfire.”
“That doesn’t necessarily rule out Haslow Sparrow Clan as the killer.”
“No…” I said, catching notice of something smooth and white enfolded in the dead man’s hand. “But I knew him well. Granted, I never thought he’d try to murder a classroom full of people… but murdering and individual…” I pinched the cloth, pulling it from the strong grasp of rigor mortis.
“What are you—?” Gomez squealed, then calmed when he saw what was dangling between my forefinger and thumb. “How on earth did I miss that.”
“You don’t pay attention.” I said, my words all but slapping the man across the face. “Look.” I unfolded the cloth for them both to see, it was white silk embossed with golden thread forming the letter G. “Haslow had given me one just like it… a few days before the attack.”
“That bastard…” growled Malcolm. “That bloody bastard!”
“You’ve seen it before?”
“Aye…” she said at length. “That handkerchief belongs to one Councilman Venati Goldenscale.”
Venati Goldenscale sits on the Wizardly Council of Twelve. He has been endowed with countless titles, owns countless properties, enjoy countless wealth, and is one of the seven extant elder dragons still living in the waking world. He is largely regarded as one of the most powerful sorcerers in Phrygia’s history, second only to that of the Citadel’s headmaster and Phrygia’s governor, Pascal Doon the Lavender—who is also one of the seven extant elder dragons.
Named after his shining scales, polished to a mirror finish, Goldenscale has opposed Pascal Doon at nearly every turn of their two-thousand year long feud. This rivalry dates back to even before the creation of Phrygia and the Citadel. Goldenscale is known for his unethical and anti-humanitarian business ventures and shadowy dealings with uncouth individuals.
Where Goldenscale goes, Death follows.
Imagine my horror when I realized Haslow had had dealings with such a monstrous force in the world’s evil. Suddenly, I was no longer surprised by his strike on the Citadel, but surprised he didn’t succeed in dealing more harm with such a powerful benefactor behind him.
Unfortunately—that’s quite the leap of logic. Aside from a handkerchief that I now own and my word that it was given to me by Haslow, there is no legal backing to my claim. There was chance of Malcolm receiving a warrant to search the Goldenscale Estate, and even if she could, treading down that path would likely mean both of our deaths.
“Do not,” Malcolm told me as she shoved me out of the constabulary outpost, “and I mean it—do not go sniffing up Goldenscale’s ass. There was no trace of Worldfire, so as far as I’m concerned, your mark has nothing to do with these killings.”
And that was that. Another door closed and a bridge burned. I’d probably never hear from the detective again. Although, I can’t claim I was much saddened by that prospect.
As I walked down the street, hands shoved in the pockets of my overcoat, I thought about the implication of Malcolm’s words. There was absolutely no hint of Worldfire, I was certain. Call me crazy, but after being bathed in the stuff, nearly killed by it, I had gained some sort of affinity for it—at least, that’s what it felt like.
Worldfire is alive. It corrupts anything it touches. When I looked myself in the mirror, I swore my scars crawled—and even if that was just a trick of a troubled mind, my scars were horrific and my face was ruined. Those men, burned and hurt as they had been, could have lived on with those burns, they would have healed.
I will never heal. My burns, encompassing my entire form, all but some patches on my chest and half my face, will remain mottled and excruciatingly painful until the day the Great Mother finally takes pity on me and allows my scorched soul to cross Her bridge. Looking at those dead men, I felt nothing but barely withheld envy.
And I was bloody furious.
Intrusive thoughts rolled through my mind as the sun rose, warming my back. I was sweating all over, even though the mornings were rather mild, even in late summer. I imagined what I’d do to Haslow when I finally found him. In my mind’s eye, I watched myself throw him to the ground, driving the heel of my boot into his skull. Stomping repeatedly until—
No… this isn’t me. Ten. Nine. Eight…
Intrusive thoughts. I’ve always struggled with them. I’m always stressed by them. Even if they feel like broadcasts beamed sorcerously into my mind rather than something actually processed by my own brain. I’ve always feared that maybe—just maybe—the monster I depict in those vivid daydreams is what I secretly wish to become. Deep down.
Something that’s always helped me through episodes is to point out the absurdity of the unwelcome fantasy. For one thing, Haslow is twice my bulk and a hundred times stronger than I could ever hope to be. There is no scenario where I could beat him to death.
If our next encounter comes to blows—it will be magic that decides which of us will live. Dark as if may be, killing Haslow is a very real possibility I need to accept. Now.
Second—I am not a violent person, nor have I ever struck another in anger. I am known for underachieving in my program due to my reluctance regarding combat. I must stop worrying about losing control. I never have before.
I had just started thinking about my fifth absurdity when I noticed a tall, pale woman watching me from an alley. I looked around, but I was alone on the street. She waved, unmistakably beckoning me to approach.
I reached into my inner coat pocket, assuring myself that I had my wand—I have a bad habit of forgetting things at home. I sighed with relief as my hand closed on the rough beech wood.
“Morning, ma’am!” I said, crossing the street before stopping at the mouth of the alley. “Can I help you?”
The woman squinted and smiled, tilting her head ever so slightly, like a dog that just barely understood a few of the words its master said fussing over it. Her skin was bright white, paler than even the most snowed in northerners, and remarkably smooth, almost as if she wore a mask.
“Be you Perriander?” she croaked—an old woman’s voice gasping from the mouth of woman who looked younger than I.
I nodded, hesitant to verbally agree to anything this person—or being said. Common Law is a fickle thing and I could see clearly I was not dealing with an average woman on the street. A spirit? A demon? Who is this woman?
“Who are you?” I asked. “Rather, what are you?”
“I am a friend…” the woman hissed. “You needn’t fear.”
“Alright then, friend. Who gave you my name?”
“Public records, Perriander.”
I laughed. The thought of an apparition waiting in line at the census office was genuinely a welcome, mirthful image. “Sure.”
The woman widened her eyes, so old and wizened, mismatching the youthful, troubling guise she wore. “I have a gift.”
“The price?” I had never directly interacted with the supernatural, but I am a tenth-year Citadel mage. We role-played conversations just like this as underclassman. Such beings approach wizards for various reasons, and I know that ninety-five percent of graduated sorcerers have had at least one such encounter. Given the chaos surrounding me, I wasn’t surprised in the least I had attracted interest from outside the mortal world.
“No price, dear Perriander. A gift in truth. From a friend.” The woman reached into the folds of her white gown, her arm sinking to elbow as if nothing were inside that troublingly shapely cloth. She produced an ivory half-mask, carved to cover the right side of your face. “A crime most foul has been committed against you. We would offer succor.”
“What are you?” I asked again. “Tell it true.”
“A friend,” she smiled. “I’ve told it true. We are an honest bunch, we do not deal in lies nor do we speak slant.”
Who is we?
“Alright.” I said, flattening my lips, staring the being in her ancient, unsettling eyes. “I accept and thank you for your gift.”
The woman placed the mask in my outstretched hands, then turned and left down the alley without another word. I did not even consider following her—I was too afraid to learn what manner of being I had actually been speaking with.
When I arrived home, two letters were pecking at my window. I let the envelopes flutter in and read both. The first was from Malcolm—she told me (not asked) to meet her at Colover’s for drinks that evening so we could further discuss our findings. She acknowledged (not apologetically) that she had acted rashly).
The second envelope was from Marta. It was folded to resemble a goldfinch and chirped adorably on my shoulder as I put down the detective’s note and opened Marta’s letter, releasing the herbal aroma of her perfume into my dorm.
On a cream-colored card, Marta wrote:
My Sweet,
I hope you are well. My heart swelled to see you up and about as your old self the other day. I know you are busy with all that’s happened, but I wanted to invite you to a Masquerade at the Illusionist’s Round this Wednesday evening. There will be raffles and auctions that fund relief efforts for refugees affected by the rebellion.
I do hope you’ll come. My ticket included a plus one, and there’s no one else I would have by my side. Also, dinner is covered by my ticket.
Yours, Marta de la Rosa
I shivered as I finished reading her elegant handwriting, and I understood the strange gift I had acquired on my way home. Shifting my eyes between the mask and the letter, I was beset by all manner of intrusives thoughts—someone, somewhere needed me at the Masquerade. Marta would be there—alone, if didn’t give in to the bait.
I collapsed onto my sofa, head in my hands.