[Third Era – Year 804 of the Divinity War, Sirithae (formerly known as Hopron), mountains of mist]

  Gwyff and his friends had arrived at the Hall of Enthrallment just in time to see The Treachery of Threllmissel. A vast crowd had already packed into the Gilder's Hall. Even though it was nearly big enough to fit half the village, Salicis had to convince a plump boy to slide over before the four of them found a place to sit together beside Ultorak and the orphans. Gwyff had to rein in his anticipation as a mystic grin formed—a difficult thing after so long away from this place.

  A wizened illusionist sat before the audience, slumped in a high-backed chair carved with flowing scrollwork and gilded as befitted the Gilders Hall. His head was bowed into his lap as he mulled over his thoughts, ignoring the crowd that sat watching him. He cupped his hands and seemed to be casting illusions to himself. At times he was acting out scenes of some kind, making sporadic gestures as if there were no one in the world to see his odd movements. After waiting for a few more moments, it was time.

  The thick curtains were drawn before the doorway, plunging the room into near darkness. Then the world changed.

  Sky and land drew out into a place they had never before seen. Dull blue cloudless skies dampened by smoke, which drifted across the wasted land, so real it even seemed to smell burnt. Within a moment those few who had stumbled in unaware realized that they had the pleasure of watching a gilder at work—one of the few living—those whose illusions were so real they were indistinguishable from reality.

  So it was true. How had he made it to the village? Had he somehow braved the morthel wilds?

  Beautiful illusions began the narration, as figures started to gather upon a massive rune-covered circle of ancient stone out in the desolate plains.

  “Long ago, the world was rocked to its very core when the Severed began a war, the war, the divinity war.”

  The illusionist drew them in with his narration, hearkening back to ancient days. “Driven like flocks of birds, the people of the world fled before the might of the Severed. They fell in droves like drowseed before the sickle. But Elithir stood against them. And he made a force to counter their evil, the drackmoor, beings with two bodies, two lives.”

  Flitting visions of the terrors he told danced in ghostly layers over those gathering on the wasteland. “But Elithir was lost in a terrible accident, leaving behind only a prophecy. And the drackmoor were left alone to stop the Severed.”

  “All the drackmoor, some fifty or sixty, had gathered, bringing their second bodies so they could not be interrupted in the great work they had come to perform.” They huddled together upon that ancient runed block of stone which was said in most lands to be the chief cornerstone from which the Infinite stood to direct the very creation of the first world.

  “Threllmissel stepped forward. He led them, for he alone had reached the rank of baron.”

  The narration ended, and the audience was left to contemplate the illusory world he had crafted.

  “It is time,” Threllmissel stood tall in the center of the stone, dressed from head to toe in dyed leathers covered by a red waistcoat, all of which were wrinkled as a wartrin’s skin. His dark leather hat was encircled by a sunken brim and slumped to one side, drooping as if it had been left out in the rain. Only the deep sapphire mantle he wore remained smooth, waving in the burnt wind.

  Visibly, the drackmoor had only one thing in common, they each had a stone in a circlet upon their brow, not a jewel, just an ordinary-looking jagged piece of stone. Something that easily could have been chipped from any mountain or boulder.

  “As previously decided we have gathered here upon Kor’wroth to fulfill Elithir’s will and stop the Severed. As yet, they are unaware of the fate that awaits them. That is as it should be. And we find ourselves alone upon the plains that we may be uninterrupted in the use of the powers required. Take peace in that, and know that we cannot be harmed now.” It was strange to see the man's lips were moving as the illusions gave his words.

  Gwyff cupped a hand to keep his illusion from bothering the spectators as he asked Ultorak “Why are their lips moving?”

  “There are some who believe people used to communicate with their mouths.”

  It was an interesting detail, but he wondered. “How would anyone do that?” All he could picture was people standing around making rude noises at each other.

  “It's just an old myth. Now watch.”

  Another man stepped forward into the center of the stone. His clothes plainer in color, brown and crimson worked together to form a simple union, devoid of colorful ties or flourishes. He stood in the center of the council, a representation of his aura shining as a lord, nearing the rank of baron, second in power only to Threllmissel. “Although, Threllmissel, it is true that we are safe here from any Severed attack, how can you say we cannot be harmed? Is it not true that some of us, perhaps all of us, will be risking death to bring about this change? Perhaps we meddle too soon with too great a power. We do not know the effects this sacrifice may have upon the universe, or upon us, it may well tear us all asunder.”

  “Becoming timid, Moraithe? Are you meaning to abandon us for fear of what may befall you?”

  Moraithe’s face was a mask of defiance. “I will stand and die if need be to save the people, however, you cannot downplay the risk that you or I take—the risk we all take.”

  Threllmissel snorted. “Once, before the Amnesia Bomb, before we lost our power, we succeeded in this very thing, a grand entanglement, uniting all our wills, our self-assurance, to perform an entanglement far beyond any one of us. Even the women lent us their self-assurance in this, as they do now.”

  “Yes.” Moraithe gave a mystic smile. “Elithir had warned us of the Amnesia Bomb before it came, and warned us to slay the Severed before we lost our power, along with our memories.”

  Threllmissel interjected, “It is not so different from what we are doing now. Then we created the soul covenant—entangling all bodies to match the state of their souls. The Severed, whose souls were corrupt and hateful, became decaying and ugly. Their dead bodies could not hold back the decay, so they rotted away to uselessness. It gave us the time we needed to fight back. Now we will destroy what they have become.”

  Moraithe held up a finger. “While that is true, there was an undesirable consequence. Our grand entanglement made the living who were corrupt also begin to fail, and though their bodies fought back they slowly began to age. They became mortal, burning through gratitude to lengthen their lives.” Moraithe shook his head. “But that was different, we were stronger then … before the Amnesia Bomb. Now only a few of us have regained our former strength. What hope do we have to succeed in this?”

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  “It is true, some of us may die—the weak among us.” His look held a certain disdain, puffing his illusions high above them as if the weakness left a bad taste in his mouth. “But there are more of us now. And we must press on in our cause. We must petrify the golem bodies they have learned to possess. For those bodies are not subject to corruption, since they are not the soul of the body, merely the puppetmaster. It is our only hope to defeat them.”

  “Yes, we must. And to that end, I will stand with you, my brother.” Moraithe turned to the people. “But do you all have the courage, friends?”

  There was an uncertain murmur among them.

  Moraithe stood tall and raised his fist to the sky. “We are drackmoor. Look what we have done. After the Amnesia Bomb, when all the stars failed—all except for the First Star, thanks to Elithir. When Barthum nearly seized control of the entire universe and only one light shone to stop his complete dominion. We were the ones who rallied the people to make these counterfeit stars, to fill the universe with light. We fought back Barthum’s dominion, we sent his shadows scurrying. Whenever the Severed have been there, we stood in defiance of their plans to save the innocent. That is who we are, friends. Will you stand with me once more? Will you risk yourselves to save all souls?”

  “We will.” The brightness of their reply left Gwyff blinking spots from his eyes.

  “Then let us begin,” Threllmissel proclaimed to all the council in attendance. “But first we must be bound together.” His hand shot out from his side, whipping away the mantle, while silk rope materialized from his palm, winding around each of those in attendance. It wrapped around each waist three times and tied a complex knot before moving on to the next person linking them all together physically as much as ceremonially. The drackmoor submitted to his will. When the chain of souls was complete, Threllmissel looped the end around himself and tied a loose knot which he fashioned to look like the complex knot of his brethren.

  “Are you certain this is necessary?” Moraithe asked when the tying was completed, tugging at the rope around his own waist.

  “Absolutely necessary. It will allow us to channel our self-assurance together. A necessity when working such a difficult entanglement with so many.”

  Moraithe shrugged. “As you say.”

  The narrator broke in once more while the drackmoor stood together. “Finally the time had come for them to work an entanglement of such magnitude that once it had been completed could never be broken or undone.”

  The drackmoor began to hum one long note together, drawn out until it seemed they should all be gasping for air. And the illusionist was actually humming in their stead. The audience panted as if they were forced to breathe for those in the illusion. The note finally came to a close and the drackmoor council began the entanglement.

  One by one the drackmoor closed their eyes and furrowed their brows in concentration. The air around them waved and distorted like the heat of the desert at midday and the ancient stone upon which they stood began to glow, faintly at first. A hum continued to rise and fall. The glowing of the stone and the shimmering of the air intensified.

  Several of the drackmoor fell to their knees from the painful exertion, and in the center Threllmissel stood watching them all, chanting and combining his power with theirs under a strain that brought sweat to his brow. The weight of the power being focused into the entanglement bore down upon them like the tightening of a screw press, unrelenting.

  Threllmissel watched and waited until he was sure that all, even Moraithe, were so completely lost in the strain and effort of the spell that they wouldn’t notice as he untied the silk rope from his waist, a simple tug freed the slip knot. He smiled wickedly, then grimaced as he felt the strain of the spell increase.

  Continuing to hum, he pulled out a crystal he’d tucked in his belt. With great effort, focusing on both the entanglement and the crystal, he wrapped the rope around it thrice and completed the complex knot. Trying to smile again he was caught up in pain as the screams of the “weak” mingled with the hum. He stared at the crystal, and he began to draw a second entanglement, another law over those gathered, those bound.

  The narration resumed once more. “Using the combined power of the drackmoor, Threllmissel wove another entanglement, one that he turned upon them.”

  The stone was glowing so brightly that everyone squinted away from it—drackmoor and audience alike. Swirls of power danced through the undulating air and several last screams ruptured from the tortured throats of drackmoor writhing upon the stone uncontrollably. Threllmissel finally screamed, falling to his knees.

  “This new entanglement caused that all drackmoor would forever feel pain when they neared one another. There was only one reason the power did not turn upon Threllmissel. He was no true drackmoor. No, he was in fact a servant of the Severed who had entangled his mind with his brother to seem like a drackmoor. Two ambitious fools sharing both their mind and their self-assurance.”

  In agony, drackmoor fell writhing to the earth. But six still stood, unaffected by the law. “For Threllmissel was not the only false drackmoor in their midst. Five other servants of the Severed had managed to worm their way into the council, copying Threllmissel’s scheme to appear as drackmoor.” These six beings released themselves from the rope and brought out weapons from their robes.

  Threllmissel staggered to his feet, drew a sword, and, with a thunderous cry, slew Moraithe. The others walked among the drackmoor—some they bound tightly, hand and foot with the ropes that had wrapped around them, most they slew. They spared only a few. They gathered up those they had bound and left.

  But after they had departed, Moraithe came back to life, with a sudden breath.

  The narrator clarified, “By some great fortune Moraithe survived. Perhaps the sword had not struck true, or likely another force was at play, for even his wound began to mend.”

  He crawled to the crystal that contained their untriggered grand entanglement.

  “Looking through the bodies, he could not find the girl with stardust freckles, but he found a friend whose luminous veins had gone dim beneath his lifeless silver skin.”

  Then he heard the false drackmoor returning. He snatched the grand entanglement, which they’d fought so hard, even sacrificed their lives to complete. He took it, gathered his other body in his arms, and with tears streaming down his face, Moraithe ran.

  The betrayers returned and began to gather the stones from the circlets which all the people wore. Then they dragged away the bodies of the drackmoor they’d slain.

  “The drackmoor council had fallen for Threllmissel’s guile,” the narrator explained. “He stopped the plan against the Severed and turned it upon the drackmoor. They would reward him well. The universe was theirs to claim, and so they would claim it.”

  Light spilled away leaving only reality to jolt them from the illusion. The mists swirled for a moment as if exhausted.

  Slowly, as if loath to do so, the crowd stood and filed toward the front, dumping crystal pence with a tinkling sound into a basket in front of the illusionist. Salicis, smelling of winterblossoms, led Gwyff and the others forward to toss their pence into the mix. Enough wealth to last a month, maybe even a year. Gwyff stopped to stare, he had never seen such a rich man before. Strangely, he didn’t look it with his plain clothes and his head bowed into his lap once more.

  “What is the story behind the stones they wore?” The gilder slowly looked up, and Gwyff repeated himself.

  “That is a story I do not know. Only that such a detail was recorded.”

  “Do you know any more stories of Elithir?”

  “What kind of stories do you seek?”

  “I want to know where to look for his prophecies. Stories of the future, of how he’s going to save us.”

  “Come back tomorrow and I will give the tale you desire.” Then the gilder’s head bent back down, blocking out the world.

  The crowd jostled Gwyff. He looked around to find Quiin and Rythe with Ultorak and the others.

  Gwyff and Salicis edged their way to their friends. Together they emptied into the circular hallway, some of the younger ones made jokes, but Gwyff didn't pay much attention. Out in the hall, the sounds of the crowd died down.

  “How could they let themselves be tricked like that?” Rythe shook his head.

  “All lies are eventually revealed, but not always before they do a great deal of damage,” Ultorak answered him and his brow furrowed as if remembering something troubling.

  “So what happened to that last drackmoor?” Rythe wondered.

  “How would he know? Those illusions are just stories,” Quiin informed him like an adult patiently explaining it to a child.

  Ultorak ignored her comment, “I don’t remember, but there is more to the tale. Perhaps the gilder can tell you.”

  “What?” Quiin's question bulged in the air. She looked incredulous. “Don’t tell me all these stories are real.”

  “Oh no, they’re not, not most of them anyway. But Master Kinslig tells history.” Ultorak informed them, then as an afterthought he added. “And tells it truer than most historians I would say.”

  “You know him?” Salicis asked curiously. She was always curious, sometimes too curious, as Gwyff had noted earlier that morning.

  “I know many people.” Ultorak shrugged.