Moryac jolted awake from one of his enchantments. The six-hour nap did much for his constitution, he felt, though he wished he could’ve slept in the sanctum rather than in an abandoned crypt.
At some point during the evening, his warming enchantment had worn off. The headache from drawing too much on the Mausoleum subsided after a few hours of laying down against the cold cobblestone. He ate some dried fruit and nuts from his personal dimension after getting his bearings. With no clue of what to do next, he thought to entertain Sixty-Three’s invitation yesterday and began the trek to the Mausoleum’s Zheel’ymh hive.
Groups of sisters skittered outwards as he neared their workshops, exchanging greetings and salutes with others marching in. Moryac hugged a wall to make way for a trio hurriedly pushing a cart of tools, headed towards yet another emergency. He brushed away the instinct to offer his help and kept walking.
Fine sconces of steel and bone lined the hive’s corridors in perfect symmetry, the latter hewn from the same black and gray-veined marble as the rest of the Mausoleum. Between sections of polished wall, intricate murals were embossed in silver, displaying historic achievements of the Zheel’ymh, schematics of the Hive’s grander works, or imagery of their Hive-Queen. One showed a battalion of sisters, shields locked in a tight phalanx, warpikes poised to strike. Another displayed a filigreed bridge spanning beyond a sunlit horizon. The next were floor plans of an impregnable fortress from an age long past, its design standardized for future generations. Moryac passed by one that startled him: a great worm coiling around a mythical, ocean-dwelling serpent. A contest between Zheel and a titan from a distant plane.
Fascinating stuff. Moryac used his magic to etch the murals into his memory. The air around him shimmered, earning a quiet gasp from a passing sister. He bowed in apology and kept walking.
Workbenches clicked, banged, and clattered throughout the main workshop, which doubled as the hive’s reception area. Younger sisters manufactured common components for practice—blank runic plates, empty wardstones, even rudimentary tools. Stacks of raw materials were arranged in neat piles, ordered in some inexplicable way that he couldn’t quite figure out. Moryac sniffled. There was the light tang of something bitter in the air, like dried wood and copper.
The Cabalist Clutch—originally the Sixteenth Clutch before their renaming—chose their name after their founding members were formally recognized as a cabal of the Mausoleum. A somewhat uninspired moniker, belying their otherwise colorful membership. Call a spade a spade, he supposed. Once, Cabalist Clutch numbered a mere ten sisters, but had grown to nearly three-hundred over the last century, with the venerable Zheel’ymh-Cabalist-Thirty-Seven as their latest head.
Several of the Zheel’ymh gawked as he passed.
Moryac greeted them and politely requested an audience with Sixty-Three. There were few precedents to a Soft One’s visit, according to the kindly pair manning a smithing bench, but they used their telepathic bond to summon Moryac’s colleague and told him to sit anywhere.
Odd. With how wondrous and neat the place was, he figured guests would be more regular.
He looked around the chamber. Curiously, the workshop did not have chairs, as Zheel’ymh typically rested by laying down on all six limbs. Moryac supposed they didn’t need them.
With his third eye, Moryac took a discreet peek into his cabal’s sanctum, where, to his relief, Threxan and Melkaros were absent. He woke one of his constructs—a slate-colored, toad-like golem roughly half of Moryac’s height and created to clean the sanctum—then ordered it to grab one of the spare chairs. Unfortunately, it did not know what a chair was, so it hopped awkwardly and defaulted to grabbing a broom and dust pan.
Its ontological matrix really needed to be updated to account for more nuanced commands.
Sighing, Moryac instead partially transferred his soul into the construct to pilot it remotely. He had to work quick, else he might begin thinking like a golem, or, worse, enjoy being one. Soul-splitting was not his forte.
Golem-Moryac looked around the sanctum. Chairs. Chairs were important. Then brooms. No. Brooms first. Floors must be clean. What about shelves? Books have a layer of dust. Masters will be displeased. Important documents. Clean floors. Then shelves. Or, shelves first, then floors?
Moryac shook off the flood of thoughts, tried to drag a chair, struggled for a few heartbeats to control too-big hands that really needed more fingers, then stumbled into a portal his true self created. The stubby legs almost tripped him, but he made it through and quickly returned to his real body.
The golem eagerly handed Moryac the chair. Moryac nodded in thanks and sat down. In a whirr of joints, the construct bobbed its head and scanned the room. It shuffled aimlessly around the workshop, beady eyes searching for dust or a broom.
A few sisters hissed and took defensive postures at its approach. One was on the verge of stabbing the construct with the sharp end of a pry bar. Moryac rushed over, apologized, and ordered the wayward golem to sit next to him, though he swore he felt protest in its inanimate eyes.
Minutes passed. Sixty-Three walked into the chamber, three other sisters in tow, and looked around. One of them—Sixty-Five, who was back in good health, thankfully—spotted Moryac first. Her antennae twitched in acknowledgement as the four wordlessly looked at him.
Moryac noted how perfect their telepathic bonds were, unlike the crude imitation that he and other thaumaturges used to communicate. He sensed its emanation across the aether with his inner eye, subtle but certainly present if one knew what to look for. Zheel’ymh telepathy seemed to be a mixture of pheromonal cues and an innate psychic bond rather than true telepathy, but was so effortless and reliable, unlike his cabal’s communication which occasionally refused to work and was mentally draining after prolonged use, besides.
He would have to ask for permission to observe them further, once he returned from his supposed vacation.
“Lord Thalor,” Sixty-Three saluted, upper-right claw clacking against her chest.
“Sixty-Three,” Moryac stood up, returning the gesture. The other three sisters clicked pincers in amusement. Did he do it wrong?
“As you can see, Sister Sixty-Five is well,” Sixty-Three said, putting a hand on the younger sister’s back and bringing her closer. The younger Zheel’ymh’s pincers slackened. Sixty-Three nudged her with an elbow. “Well, sister? Have you anything to say to Lord Thalor?”
Sixty-Three bowed. “Lord Thalor,” she muttered. “Thank you for freeing me from possession. I understand we almost came to blows,” she fidgeted with her claws. “You were so gallant. Like one of our Champions, from the stories!”
“Think nothing of it,” Moryac said. “I am made of sterner stuff.”
Warded to the teeth with protective spells, too, but the sisters did not seem to appreciate superfluous magic usage.
The sisters looked at each other, antennae twitching. Was that excitement?
“So,” Sixty-Three said. “What brings you to our nest?”
“I was ordered to rest,” Moryac said.
“Oh? How wise,” Sixty-Three nodded. “You have been most irritating of late.”
Moryac raised an eyebrow. “Is that so?”
“It is the whining,” Sixty-Four clarified. She cleared her throat. “‘Oh, for the love of—could this night end already?’” the sister mimicked, voice deepening. Did he sound like that to others? “Or, ‘Dark Mother’s mountainous teats! If I have to replace another set of wardstones, I will rip someone in half.’ Or, just the other day: ‘Threxan, please stop feeding the Zheel’ymh, they will grow attached.’ And so on.”
“My apologies,” Moryac said. “I do not mean to lash out.”
“We understand,” Seventy-One buzzed. “Human biochemistry is unstable, according to the crone-sisters. Prone to volatile behavioral shifts, caused by factors that remain frustratingly unclear to us. Despite being among the more stable specimens, you are, unfortunately, not graced by the Hive-Queens’ perfection. Praise Zheel.”
“Praise Zheel,” the other sisters replied.
“And so, you were ordered to rest,” Sixty-Five concluded. “I see. Perhaps it will cure what malaise ails you.”
Moryac shrugged. “That’s what I came here for. “I wish to spend some of my newfound leisure time with your clutch, if you would have me.”
The sisters exchanged looks, then gathered into a tight huddle, conversing through their bond. Sixty-Three glanced at Moryac then gestured at Sixty-Five, who stiffened in response. Sixty-Four clicked her pincers in amusement. Seventy-One gasped, but nodded enthusiastically. Sixty-Five turned to skitter away, only for Sixty-Four and Seventy-One to grab her. The Zheel’ymh eventually agreed on something and broke their huddle.
Sixty-Three looked at Moryac. “As amusing as that sounds, Lord Thalor, we have been called to assist with repairs along the Mausoleum's outer walls.”
Moryac hummed in consideration. Those were freshly renovated, no? Last he heard, the Zheel’ymh did a commendable job with its construction. Curious, though he supposed the sisters prided themselves in minutiae. Far be it from him to question other cabals’ directives.
Sixty-Three cleared her throat. “As it happens, Sixty-Five will be unfit for regular service for the next few days due to her recent possession,” she paused. “Ah, one of the crone-sisters said that psychic intrusions create mental wounds that make it easier for wayward spirits to inhabit the mind. Frayed threads in our gestalt consciousness that need time to heal, or some such. ”
Moryac shrugged. “I know precious little of Zheel’ymh physiology, Honored Sister.”
“As do we, at least with regard to post-exorcism convalescence,” Sixty-Four said. “To that end, we wish to heed the Dark Mother’s wisdom.”
“And that is?” Moryac asked.
“Caution and patience,” Seventy-One replied. “Praise Zheel.”
“Praise Zheel,” the sisters replied.
“Would you mind taking our little Sixty-Five with you?” Sixty-Three said. “She needs time off. I promise she will not be a burden. We are confident that you shall find her to your liking. We treasure her so, after all. As should you.”
“What?” Sixty-Five stared at her, then at Moryac, then at the rest of her sisters.
“I don’t even know where I’m going,” Moryac said.
“Best start thinking, then,” Sixty-Four snorted. Sixty-Three and Seventy-One nodded.
“Safe travels, Lord Thalor,” Sixty-Three saluted. “Sixty-Five. Assist the good thaumaturge to the best of your ability. Learn from him. Bond, so that your gleaned knowledge may join our blood-memory. Discover the secrets of leisure and rest.”
Sixty-Five’s pincers clicked slowly. “Yes, elder sister.” She slouched, then gave a reluctant salute.
“Hold a moment,” Moryac said. “I feel as if decisions are being made for me without my approval.”
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“Rejoice, Lord Thalor,” Seventy-One said. “Circumstance has provided you an able-bodied and highly capable sister for a companion. One of our finest, if I do say so myself. The Dark Mother smiles upon the two of you this evening.”
The other sisters clicked approval. They retreated into their telepathic bond once more. Sixty-Four’s antennae twitched, wrapping around Sixty-Five’s in what seemed to be an encouraging gesture.
After half a minute, they let go of each other. Sixty-Five looked at him and bowed. “Sorry! I promise to not get in the way, Lord Thalor. May I come along? I won’t disturb you!”
Sixty-Four elbowed Sixty-Five in the ribs. Sixty-Five’s antennae drooped.
“I mean,” Sixty-Five stammered. “We will have to converse, of course, and share experiences, besides, but…”
“We entrust you with our beloved sister,” Sixty-Three said. “May the two of you recover swiftly. Or not, I suppose. Apologies. I am not well-versed in courting—” she paused, “ah, apprenticeship rituals among your kind. Pray, guide her well.”
Moryac took a moment to consider. He read somewhere that the floating continent of Varmarhad was a good start. It had been conquered three generations ago and served as an interplanar trade hub. There was also the realm of Acaltapetlan, backdrop to many a prurient novella, said to offer vibrant seas and breathtaking vistas for a reasonable price.
“Alright,” he agreed. The sisters clicked in excitement. Sixty-Five tensed. Moryac supposed leaving her sisters for a while was a daunting prospect. “I have a few destinations in mind.”
Moryac, Sixty-Five, and the toad-golem left the Zheel’ymh nest and headed towards the Mausoleum’s Interplanar Locus.
The more Moryac thought about their journey, the less time he seemed to have. By his estimate, a round-trip to Varmarhad would take roughly a day-and-a-half. From there, they should be able to find a two-way rift to Acaltapetlan, as they were metaphysically near each other, though they would need to find a thaumaturge skilled in cross-world jumps as Varmarhad did not have its own Interplanar Locus. Such great works were rare outside the core of the Dominion of Midnight. Taking into account extra time for contingencies?
It was, he admitted, a fascinating logistical challenge.
“...Lord Thalor?” Sixty-Five said. “Lord Thalor?”
“Sorry,” Moryac said. “How can I help?”
Sixty-Five squirmed. “I was asking if there was anything I could assist with.”
A beat passed, the silence punctuated by the cleaning construct’s occasional whirring.
“You could help me think of travel necessities,” Moryac said.
“That is simple,” Sixty-Five chirped. “Flint. Tinder. A medical kit—though I am unsure of how to treat human injuries, so ours may look different. Rations, preferably ones that would keep for extended periods, but depending on the area and urgency of our task, we may be able to forage or hunt. Rope, hammers, and wall spikes to help bring up larger equipment for steep climbs. Oh, and weapons!”
“We are going on a vacation, not a siege,” Moryac said.
Sixty-Five’s antennae drooped. “Deepest apologies, Lord Thalor. I seem to be lacking context. It is a journey, yes?”
Moryac nodded. “For leisure. Also, just ‘Moryac’ is fine.”
“Lord Moryac,” Sixty-Five said, testing the word. She hummed. “I suppose we’re exploring civilized territory,” her pincers clicked in thought. “Discretion is required, then. One of my older sisters, Sixty-Four, has a collection of knives in her room— ”
“No,” Moryac said firmly. “No weapons. We aren’t anticipating fights.”
“I see,” Sixty-Five crossed her arms and nodded approvingly. “A diplomatic approach, then. Cunning. As expected of the Dark Mother’s finest.”
“I suppose,” Moryac replied. “Food is a good idea, however. Our first destination is roughly sixteen bells away. What do Zheel’ymh typically eat?”
“We are omnivorous, Lord Th—Lord Moryac,” Sixty-Five corrected. “Sorry. We can subsist on many things. Roots, seeds, potatoes, corn, and grain are staples. Most plant matter. Meat. We are exceptionally resilient to toxins, so we can eat just about any kind,” she glanced at him. Her antennae shot up in alarm. “Oh, but we do not eat humans or similarly sapient creatures, at least not as a preference,” she clicked her pincers nervously. “That’s the Xhak’ymh. They think eating their foes’ entrails makes them stronger.”
“I appreciate the clarification,” Moryac said evenly. “What about sweets? I hear sweets are good for relaxation.”
“Oh!” Sixty-Five’s antennae straightened. “We have a community of cousins specially evolved to secrete nectar for longer deployments. It is positively divine. A few of those cousins arrived two days ago to deliver their regular shipments. They might still be around! I shall grab some!”
Moryac blinked. “Insectoid milk?”
“It is more sap-like in texture, but essentially,” Sixty-Five nodded.
“Alright,” Moryac summoned a scrying disc, then looked through it and into his cabal sanctum for the time. Four bells past noon. The Interplanar Locus was open at all times of the day, but if they wanted to beat the rush of travelers, they would need to leave soon.
“We’ll split off and meet at the Locus in three hours,” he said. “Is that plenty of time to find those cousins and get your nectar?”
Sixty-Five nodded.
“Try to think of other necessities, too,” Moryac said. “Things you’re sure you can’t live without.”
“I have a few ideas, Lord Thalor! I shall be swift!” Sixty-Five dropped to all sixes and scurried away.
That left him with shopping.
Moryac made a mental list of the things he needed. Bedrolls, perhaps? A tent of sorts, too, in case they planned on sleeping out in the wilds. Though, now that he thought about it, some blank wardstones would do—he could inscribe one with protective magics against outdoor elements and another against ill intent, which was as solid as any overpriced bundle of cloth and sticks could be. Perhaps another that would instill fear in lesser creatures, for good measure?
A quick exchange with the automated sentries manning the Mausoleum’s elevator channels saw him and the toad-golem onto a magical platform. A new model, by his regard. When had those been retrofitted?
Long ago, he read from a surveyor’s account that food and water from other worlds could make one sick. Likely not an issue for Sixty-Five, due to her more robust constitution, but he would need his own precautions.
A smoky scent filled the air, followed by varnish, dust, and leather. Moryac sniffed and looked around, only to be met with rows of bright street lamps, vibrant banners, and dusk. The ceiling had grown rather tall since he last visited, too, now ensorcelled to be indistinguishable from a true evening sky. Without realizing it, Moryac had arrived at the main thoroughfare.
The magical platform hummed to a stop, dropping him off by the outskirts of a bustling town. Narrow apartment buildings lined cobblestone streets, more than there were since the last time he visited. Further along were several dozen colorful stalls, with hawkers yelling over each other in nearly as many languages. The sharp hiss of Low Veridisian mixed with the lilting croon of Acaltapetlan seafarers, and even a few passersby spoke in guttural Thtomic.
Above him, sparks of magic swirled and whizzed this way and that, in a hundred different hues—messages traveling between the Mausoleum’s different sections, according to his inner eye. In his reverie, he bumped into a green-scaled merrow worker wearing an oversized breathing mask over their gills. Moryac bowed and apologized for the trouble. The merrow’s luminous eyes blinked twice. They adjusted their satchel and nodded.
A hawker caught his eye and shouted in a foreign tongue while gesturing at his stall’s display: skewered meat that smelled like grilled pork, though a smidge too purple to be anything but. Moryac attempted to mime disinterest, only to get enthusiastic nods and a reassuring thumbs-up. Sighing, he drew three cowries from his storage dimension and handed them to the vendor. Moryac hoped it was plenty, but was handed eight skewers in a paper bag in return. More than plenty, then. He was unsure how to return them, however, so he gave a reluctant thumbs-up and kept walking.
As he drifted about, he found tools in another stall, ranging from simple hammers and picks to more complex mechanisms for delicate work. At least three held streetside performances. Moryac paused near one while chewing on a stick of the mystery pork—which was surprisingly good—and watched a young mage make shadowy caricatures dance to her partner’s lute. The illusions jumped, spun, and flickered to a whimsical melody as the mage and the lutist sang along. He tossed a cowry into their pile, and they responded by making one of the shadows bow to him. Moryac watched for a few more minutes, nodded, then stepped away. He still needed to shop for his own necessities.
There were more cabalists around the area than he remembered. The last time he visited was roughly two decades ago, when he welcomed a new batch of apprentices.
A damned shame that none stuck with his cabal, as others needed the manpower more. He wondered how Muiri and Kalatman were doing. They were excellent students. Muiri, ever studious, with her sharply drawn sigils. Surly Kalatman, who meant well and oft worked later than anyone else.
Moryac stopped in his tracks. It had been, what, three, maybe four years since he’d last seen them? Hells. Had it truly been so long? He should say hello at some point.
After finding a new alembic and a set of beakers for his alchemy kit, Moryac strolled the area and marvelled at the quality of medicinal herbs sold. Largely harmless, seemingly regulated by the cabal working the Locus Rung, as their inhabitants were no longer just undead legions or antique war machines. Half of the crowd wore dark tunics and dresses with the elaborate, criss-crossing fastenings common to this plane, the closest thing the Mausoleum’s inhabitants had to a culture.
It seemed these new tenants had made it their own—
“Lord! Thalor!” a familiar voice boomed.
Moryac jumped, nearly dropping his alembic, and turned around to the sound of grinding gears. “Ash-Eater. When did you—?” he sighed. “Please refrain from further surprises.”
“Acknowledged,” growled the construct. Bystanders gave them a wide berth, though, from their reactions, it was more due to the sudden commotion rather than Ash-Eater’s presence. “Was it not humorous?”
“No.”
“Acknowledged,” the towering construct replied. Its eyes pulsed slowly. “I was informed it was humorous. I agreed.”
“It might have been for you, but not for whoever you’re scaring,” Moryac said. “Who taught you that?”
“The Zheel’ymh taught me after they tuned my thaumic engine,” Ash-Eater growled. “They find human surprise and agitation amusing. As do I.”
“We must savor what joys we can, I suppose,” Moryac muttered, then cleared his throat. “New directive: do not surprise targets if they are within thirty fuhms of Khomemnor-, Machabriel-, and Jhuchian-class equipment. Otherwise, do as you please.”
“Acknowledged,” Ash-Eater growled.
Moryac nodded. “How can I help, then?”
The construct tilted its head. Its internal workings hissed and clanked.
“You do need my help, yes?” Moryac said.
“Nay,” Ash-Eater replied. “Lord Itheron tells me you are to leave for a while. I have come to wish you safe travels and a swift return.”
“Oh,” Moryac grunted. “Apologies.”
“Yes. Lord Thalor,” Ash-Eater rumbled. “The Mausoleum demands much. And so, I, Ash-Eater, bequeath this gift to you,” the construct opened a rift. It reached inside with an armored fist, pulling out a long object bundled inside an exquisitely stitched leather sheath. The construct dropped it into Moryac’s hands.
“See the stars as the astrologers of eld,” Ash-Eater growled. “A relic from before the Great Doom, restored to its full glory. Behold: the Eye of Ea-Shach!”
Moryac opened the sheathe, looked inside, then glanced at the construct. “A telescope?”
Ash-Eater’s mechanisms whirred in agreement. “Said to grant a perfect view of the firmament beyond, regardless of time or the elements. May you find much use of it.”
“I shall return it safely,” Moryac said, stuffing it into his storage dimension.
“Nay,” Ash-Eater said. “It is yours. For it had no owner, until now.”
Moryac hummed. “I see. My thanks.”
Ash-Eater rumbled, pistons hissing and popping. Its armor opened to reveal its core, which glowed an ominous red as the construct tore through reality. “I must depart. More duties await.”
“Good luck,” Moryac said.
Ash-Eater and Moryac exchanged nods. With clanking footsteps, the construct disappeared through its portal.
Moryac checked his satchel. Three dozen wardstones, all reusable. He felt for the mental connection between himself and the Staff of Thalor. Solid. Eager. It will come if summoned. His personal dimension had a fully furnished alchemist’s kit and stockpiles of medicinal herbs. Everything was in place. He hummed to himself, then turned to send the toad-golem back to the sanctum to grab a few grimoires to read.
Only, at some point, the toad-golem had disappeared.
“Oh, Hells,” Moryac sighed.
