This World and the Next

Part I

Goodman

Spring has yet to arrive in the Realm of Raisón. Winter’s embrace is a stranglehold; the castle, the grounds, the town, and all within—Goodman and the Master included—are bitterly cold, sick and damn tired of the ice. Though the sun shines and blue skies fly, the air has stayed below freezing for seventy days—at least! (Goodman knows the exact number.) Each morning, the golden glow of sunrise bathes the Castle of the Raisón in deception, and each morning, Goodman meets the daylight with skepticism, checking the mercury bulb for the truth. When the lie is revealed, he scowls, writes the figure in his ledger, muttering curses to the sky.

This morning is one such.

Goodman’s bed is a regal dream-haven, grounding Goodman’s quarters like a massive marble tome; its plushness conjures entire narratives about sea battles, dragons, odysseys. When Goodman sleeps here, he transcends. And so: a privilege it is to nightly helm this vessel, and a tragedy to every morning depart.

It would be the grand centerpiece of his quarters…but alas it is not in the center.

It is off to one side.

When Goodman becomes aware of his dreaming, it intensifies, and becomes so erratic and unbearable that he stirs, shaking off the entirely unreasonable but routine desire to simply stay in bed all day and think. But, they call to him.

All the little things. The numbers. All the words on the pages he must pick and choose and place. The measurements, the musings. The photo waiting to be taken, the story waiting to be heard in his heart. The sunshine through the window. The promise. The enticement of an empty day in the castle only he can fill, free from every obligation except his own. A new canvas on which to see something unseen. To find something unfound. To hear, feel, and know…more.

To be more.

These are the things that call to Goodman, and so he casts his bedding aside and sits up.

Stretching, he goes to the window. His eyes pang lightly as they adjust to the new phase of day. Squinting, he blinks away the night and checks the mercury bulb. He reaches for a quill.

Twenty-third day of Moondawn, 4041. 7 hours and 4 minutes ante meridiem. 17 grades minus.

Ashes that’s cold, Goodman thinks. He shakes his head.

Seventy-eighth day in a row!

Goodman turns back to face his quarters, wondering if today is a day he will design, or a day he will permit to remain undesigned. Each has its own unique merit.

Designed days demand effort but often reward it. Undesigned days carry no such contract, making them less stressful but often less fulfilling. Done poorly, a designed day brings only regret, causing Goodman to think that his designs are always subpar in some way—that the happiness he seeks is a mirage, clambered after clumsily by a daft doornail who hasn’t any business designing days at all, for himself or anyone else.

But of course this is a matter of belief. Some days Goodman believes he can do it and some days he does not. Who cares what the truth is?

Undesigned days take shape on their own. The void may loom, but Goodman has found that surrendering to an undesigned day often neutralizes the dread. With no contract, there’s nothing to fall short of.

But you can’t have both, and there are no lossless gains.

Goodman knows that the key isn’t finding a balance every single day, but to find a good balance between days. He tries to remember what the last few days have been like and comes up empty.

Goodman sighs under the pressure to decide. He looks back at his bed and a powerful, delightful thought goes off like a powder rocket, lighting up his mind.

Coffee.

Goodman has tried a hundred and three ways to make coffee, and he has concluded it is not just desirable but mandatory. Tea drinkers, in his view, are fools. Goodman isn’t intimately familiar with the exact science that produces the coffee bean, but he is familiar enough to know roasting them is better left to professionals. He is not yet one. No, Goodman is content to purchase coffee beans in Town, grind them up fine or coarse, and either press steam through a brick of them or let them sit in kettlewater for a short time before removing them and falling promptly in love with aromatic bliss and better brainpower.

Goodman takes his coffee, untainted by dairy and unsoiled by sugar, iced or hot, steam-pressed or drip, long brew or short, in the morning and early afternoon, and it is one of the few things in all the Cosmos that anchors Goodman in a place where he feels he has any control over anything. (Regular exercise provides the same feeling but Goodman does not care for it.)

Today it’s freeze-dried gravel coffee, a bounty from last year’s voyage. Not bad. Not lawn trimmings.

Goodman returns to the window and smiles through the steam. It’s still too hot to drink but he can wait. These are the two minutes of every morning where no bother bothers him at all.

The rest of Goodman’s quarters, which at this point apparently contains only a bed and window and mercury bulb, are actually so full of wonderful things and delightful oddities and curiosities that one might be overstimulated by it all were it not also incredibly beautiful and cozy to boot. The walls are a deep forest green; crown moulding of a rich dark wood frames the corners and outlines the leviathan door (which has been painstakingly replaced since Goodman sacrificed it for Science). Candlelit sconces bathe the room in impossibly inviting nighttime light when aflame; frames with paintings and photographs, collected over decades, adorn the walls and tell stories of travel, adventure, and friendship. One photograph in particular is of Goodman and the Master. They are smiling gleefully at the viewer, arm in arm. This photo, though, is on Goodman’s desk.

oodman’s desk is at once a humble inanimate thing as well as Goodman’s most treasured sanctum. He knows the contents of his desk at all times. It is not always orderly or usable, but that actually underscores the beauty of Goodman’s desk. Every object—fiction books, well-kept ledgers, small stones from faraway places—exists because Goodman placed it there. They are his, and his alone. Even the Master, for all his hijinks and impropriety, knows better than to disturb Goodman’s desk.

The other thing he knows well enough to steer fully clear of is Goodman’s bookshelf.

Goodman’s bookshelf rivals Goodman’s desk in the same way a leviathan rivals a giant. One wall of his quarters is nothing but books—a billion-colored, trillion-paged tapestry of thought. History and fiction, music and humor, the wisdom of ages and the fundamentally true nonsense of dreamers. Sometimes he simply sits in his reading chair, not to read, but to look—to let the weight of so many minds remind him he is never alone.

He goes to it and pulls out his copy of Theophili Boneti’s Medicinae Doctoris, a compendium of more than two thousand autopsy reports spanning more than half a millennium. The first ever case of Boorhave syndrome is in here and whenever Goodman is feeling particularly morbid or curious, he will peruse the reports and try to identify the cause of death using modern diagnoses. Some are straightforward but most are tricky. Medical knowledge was terribly lacking for much of history.

Goodman drinks too fast, chokes, and sputters coffee onto his sleeve. He swipes his lips, scowling, and slams his glass down. A porcelain chip breaks off.

Sitting at his desk, Goodman reviews his most recent checklists for any outstanding projects or tasks or ideas and thinks about that for a little while before realizing that he is awfully hungry.

Goodman loves it in the galley almost more than he loves it in his quarters. Something about the process of orchestrating a choir of ingredients into a culinary performance, the sensory experience of it all, the danger, the knives and the flame, the creativity, the experimentation, the quiet waiting, the calculating, the hoping, and then the presenting to the Master a work of love and craft, and the warm reception and praise that comes around to validate the whole endeavor—something about all of this—buoys Goodman like few things in the Cosmos can. When Goodman feeds the Master a thoughtfully cooked meal, he gives of his heart, and when he sees that the Master is happy, his soul feels redeemed.

Two slices of bacon in the cast iron skillet, two eggs to follow in their grease. One fat slice of sourdough bread toasted in the aftermath and given a thin layer of yellow butter.

Goodman sits by the galley window and ganders onto the valley beyond, both green and gold, and is reminded of the icy air that most assuredly pervades every single nook and cranny of the terrain. He wonders about the poor animals huddling for any kind of warmth, and how many of them are hungry or ill. He eyes the landscape, and something catches his attention. He squints. At the far end of the field, the Master’s workshop door is hanging open. He watches and waits for the Master, but then he notices the lights are off. Latch probably just came undone. I’ll have to close it later.

When he is finished, he licks up the egg yolk and puts his plate and fork by the basin and returns to his quarters. The day is still young and he has decided to design what remains.

He reads from a humorous book.

He researches a topic.

He takes a photograph, develops it, and puts his camera away.

He listens to a record.

He thinks about a tattoo that he regrets.

He looks around. He sits.

He returns to the galley and eats lunch.

He has a fantastic idea about something.

He forgets it.

He uncovers an old letter and is reminded of something old that happened.

He hunts through his journal, forgetting what he was looking for.

He thinks of his old girlfriend and puts his hand over his face.

He thinks about eternity.

He has an epiphany about himself. Something personal.

He feels a little better.

He feels a little worse.

He hums a tune.

He makes a funny sound.

He looks around.

He finds suddenly that writing a poem is the right thing to do.

He reads the poem he’s written, throwing it promptly in the fire.

He sits and enjoys the fire. He watches the poem’s embers.

He thinks of the Master.

When Goodman wakes from his afternoon nap, he realizes he’s overdone it. The sun is nearly down, making sleep’s return unlikely. Ashes, he thinks. He looks around his quarters and thinks about the day he’s had. He shrugs.

He strikes a matchstick and lights every candle in the room, bringing its grandeur to life. When he is finished, and the fire is good and burning, he looks out the window at the setting sun, awash in something like disappointment or dissatisfaction, when another powerful and exhilarating idea explodes like a powder keg in his brain, lighting everything up.

Whiskey.

Goodman smiles maniacally and his eyes go over to a place on his bookshelf that is not books but bottles. Brown and green glass bottles with cork stoppers and ornate labels that contain delicious and deliciously fiery hell-flame water. For years did Goodman search for the right alcohol, and while he settled for a time on bitter flower-beer, which he still does routinely enjoy, it’s these elixirs of earth and fire, from a small isle in a craggy realm near the ocean, that awaken the nighttime and put the monsters to bed.

Goodman pours a glass of gold and sits by the fire to sip it. The heat spreads through him, slow and smoldering. He is become flame. For a moment he listens to the crackling of the fire and he looks around the darkening room. Shadows dance behind him and the hairs on his neck stand up. He must hear a story now. To push out the darkness. To keep out the fear.

He puts on a narrative record and listens to a story about a female pirate captain and her escapades on the high seas, battling rival pirates and nature Herself for her place in the world. Goodman, with no naval experience, has always wondered what it must truly be like to crash into night-black waves of infinite depth and power, salt-spray battering the ship in the dead of stormy night, hoping that she’ll hold, that somehow the stupendous might of the bottomless waters will not put you out like the infinitesimally tiny flame you are. What danger, Goodman thinks, sipping his whiskey. He glances at his four-poster bed, its blankets still rippled like waves on a wind-tossed sea. He shakes his head, wondering when he’ll sleep tonight.

As he swirls his whiskey, he listens to the fire crackle. Shadows dance behind him. The hairs on his neck rise. Something feels…off. He glances over his shoulder, but the room is still. Just the firelight, he tells himself.

Then—a crash.

Goodman sits up, heart hammering.

Another crash. A shout.

A scream. An echoed scream.

Goodman knows that echo. The Great Hall.

He’s on his feet before he’s even conscious of it.

Flying, he whips on his coat, throws his shoes on, and runs out the door.

“Master!” Goodman says. “What is happening!?”

Just inside the main entrance to the castle, in the great hall which is a terrible mess, the Master is on the floor and an attacker is throwing punches into his face and chest. The Master is trying to deflect them and clearly struggling to get his opponent off of him, but his face is blood-streaked and he’s gasping for air. He is fighting for his life. His eyes dart towards Goodman. “No!” he shouts.

Goodman has never seen the Master so full of fright.

In a mad dash, he lunges at the Master’s attacker and at the last second is bowled over by a second person who practically flies through the main entrance of the castle. Goodman and this second attacker go sprawling onto the stone floor, struggling against each other, frantically grabbing and maneuvering and scratching and squirming, trying to get some sort of advantage. They slam into the stone floor, grappling, gasping, clawing for control.

A fist crushes into Goodman’s ribs—he grits his teeth, shoves forward, and rolls on top. With a headlock nearly complete, and his attacker fighting mightily to get free, he looks up at the Master and to his horror finds him with a blade to his throat.

The Master’s attacker stands behind him, holding the Master at knifepoint. The Master, defeated, stares wide-eyed in terror.

Goodman’s headlock is complete but he freezes, rigidly holding his opponent in a stalemate. His eyes flit around the room madly, searching for something—anything—any idea that might help turn this apparently impossible tide. He looks at the Master, whose face is blood-streaked.

Goodman freezes. Every nerve in his body screams at him to fight, but he knows—he’s already lost.

His grip loosens, and his attacker scrambles free, vanishing into the new night. A steady gale of frigid air swells through the open door and into the great hall, picking up dust and errant straw. The moon peeks out from behind the mountain.

The Master’s captor locks eyes with Goodman, and—

Goodman’s stomach knots.

The attacker’s eyes are white.

“What is the cause of all this?” Goodman asks, hands splayed, still heaving and shaking.

The Master’s attacker looks for a moment like he doesn’t intend to reply. At length, he does. “You will be sent instructions.” He pauses. “Follow them, and your Master lives.”

Goodman scrunches up his face. What on earth? He shakes his head in disbelief and takes a step forward.

“Not another step!” the attacker says. He begins to back away, towards the door, with the Master in his grasp, the silver blade edge perilously close to the Master’s neck.

“Do as they say, Goodman.” the Master says. He and his attacker amble backwards out the door and towards a waiting horse-drawn carriage. Goodman can only look on in perplexed horror. When they make it to the carriage, the attacker forces the Master into the cabin and the second attacker cracks the reins and they roll away. Goodman watches as his companion is ferried into the winter night, into the hands of violent strangers

After a moment, he begins to shiver.

Part II

The Master

The Master bursts into his wood shed and fumbles for the electric light switch, bumping his thigh against the worktable. He curses. Angrily, he engages the brass light switch on the wall and looks around. Six or seven octogenarian bulbs spark haltingly to life overhead, tinkling like tiny bells. He goes over to the shelves, squinting as his eyes adjust. He wipes his brow.

One end of the shed, which is really more of a workshop and cabin to the Master, sports several rows of industrial steel shelves, set up like a hardware store in a survival bunker. They are full of all manner of wire spools, tools, and carpentry resources. One shelf is devoted entirely to electric cords and contraptions; two and a half more boast an impressive selection of aging paints and varnishes. The Master grabs items, apparently indiscriminately and seemingly at random, and brings them to the worktable with great effort. His breathing is heavy and sweat drips onto the floor. He checks the clock on the wall.

While he works, the shed warms quietly and slowly under the golden glow of the old bulbs, without even an ounce of angst. Earthen wood aroma mixes with mildew and moss. Pillars of dusty light lay weightlessly askant in the air where the afternoon sunlight filters between wood slats, giving the impression of slowly falling snow. It certainly could be snowing, though, given how cold it still is, but the Master isn’t bothered. He can hardly tell it’s winter even though every breath he exhales becomes a cloud.

Soon the Master runs out of room on the worktable, and he stops to look at what he’s assembled. He puts his hands on his hips, reassessing his plan once more. After a moment, he goes to the shed door and closes it, trying to slow his breathing. He closes his eyes and exhales slowly. He turns to face the supplies he’s chosen, and, realizing how long it might take to complete it all, he hangs his coat on the wall and lights a fire for some coffee.

The water boils out of the kettle three times before he forces himself to pay attention to it, so consumed he is by his task.

With metal bars and fantastic lengths of wire, he constructs rudimentary locks and latches. He fashions them as formidable as he can, thinking of all the types of doorhandles and window-handles in the castle he must fit them to. He fills aluminum pipes with fire-powder and seals them tight with a fuse and a timepiece and switch trigger. He makes eight of those. He would make more but he runs out of end-caps. By and by, as the Master works, sweating and grunting and sipping cold coffee, the inventory of resources on the workbench in the shed is transformed into a veritable arsenal of traps, locks, latches, and hopefully lethal explosives. When he is finished, and run out of room, his hands are badgered, bloody, and sore. He looks up. The moon has replaced the sun.

In the quiet of the shed, his body calms; exhaustion and hunger make their presence known.

The Master heats an aluminum can of beef stew over a flame. He turns off the electric bulbs and sits by candlelight. A makeshift bed in the corner will serve as his sleeping place tonight. He’s used it before, but not like this. Unable to wait, he inhales his stew before it is even warm and goes reluctantly to sleep. His worry is strong but the pull of slumber is stronger still.

Yesterday

The Master’s bedside alarm springs to life and he whips off his eye mask to start the day.  Throwing his bedding aside, he rolls out of bed and ambles to the icebox. A little clumsily, he pours himself a glass of long-brew coffee and chugs it forthwith. A little spills onto his chin and he wipes it with the back of his hand. Stubble-scrape.

He goes to the lavatory and flips on the electric lights. He looks in the mirror and smirks.

The walls of the Master’s quarters are off-white, the floor flecked marble. Opposite the bed, a large electric screen flickers with moving images from time to time. Below it, a fireplace burns natural gas instead of wood. Chairs and sofas in odd shapes and bright colors dot the room; a bookshelf in the corner is a display case for the finest liquors and most expensive knickknacks. His wardrobe is an extension of this opulence, filled with a rainbow array of shirts, vests, and studded belts—plus every kind of shoe imaginable. The Master loves them; he is of the opinion, which he regularly shares with Goodman, is that a life without luxury is wasted. Technology, Goodman! he’ll say, to which Goodman only rolls his eyes.

In the lavatory, the Master grabs a bath towel from a metal rack that has copper pipes running through it that contain continuously circulating geo-thermally heated water. He brings it to his face and chest, savoring its warmth. Shower time.

When he is clean and dry, hair tousled just right, he grabs a sandwich from the icebox and opens his Secret Door.

A secret door in the Master’s quarters, concealed with nothing more than a piece of tape, opens into a pitch black hallway with motion-activated diode lights on the floor. He bites into his sandwich as he makes his way towards the room at the end, which opens up to contain a multitude of books, tables, maps, images, and newspaper headlines. The walls are plastered with a dizzying number of images, snippets, maps, charts, symbols, and the like, and over top of them, a frantic spider web of red string, held in position by a thousand metal pins. It would appear the work of a madman, but the Master is intimately aware of every single detail—he has been at this for decades: tracking and tracing the doings and whereabouts of the Coven.

The Coven, an underground society of occult worshippers and demon-sooths, has been operating in the shadows for hundreds of years. Present at the creation of the Realms and the dividing of the Stone of Rant, they were adamantly opposed to the empowerment of Masters; they perceived it to be an affront to their sovereignty. Not everyone felt the same way. In the following years, the Coven continued to fall out of public favor, and through a series of laws against their vilified activities, the Coven was forced underground. Some have recently argued the Coven was treated unfairly—misjudged. But the Clergy of the Redeemer, among many others, continue to insist  their dark pursuits represent an apocalyptic threat to the good of humanity, arguing that if legitimized, the Coven would seek to subvert the empowerment of Masters and claim the authority of the Stone of Rant for themselves and their fiendish ends.

Supporters of the Coven, at sometimes great personal risk, point out that even if the Coven did desire to claim realms, they could not. They cite the lore: No person, being, or creature with the intent to unlawfully claim the mantle of a Master can enter the residence of that Master. So they say that the Coven’s intentions are irrelevant, because the Masters of Realms are fundamentally and universally protected by this law.

Few remain who are convinced of this, though, and the Master is no exception. For more than three decades he has been keeping meticulous tabs on the Coven, unbeknownst to anyone, even Goodman.

The Master takes a moment to review his most recent points of investigative discovery. There have been several reports from all over the Cosmos of murders with some striking similarities. Murder is a persistent problem in the Cosmos, to be sure, but there has been an uptick in violence towards the clergy and elected officials, especially. The Master is wary about finding patterns where none likely exist, but he looks anyway.

Harold F. Tawney, ninth Earl of Mince County, Bishop and High Clerk of Antebury Parish in the East Realm, found dead in his home by his wife of fifty-four years. Investigators say they do not suspect foul play, but Mrs. Tawney insists there has been some misdeed. “I know Harold. He was well. He knew which tablets to take— he’s taken them for years.”

Law enforcement officers at the home conducted a thorough search for evidence and came away largely empty. Among the bishop’s personal effects were a letter to the tax collector and a small black stone, appearing of pure glass. If anyone has any information that they feel has not been discovered by the detectives, or has seen anything suspicious, they are encouraged to contact the police.

Fifth day of Moondawn, 4041.

Another.

Mary M. Blick, fourth Duchess of Kent, Senior Advisor to the Chancellor of the Southernmost Realm June Kerrylane, was found dead alongside her employer, the same June Kerrylane, in the suite they shared in the high tower of the Citadel. This apparent double homicide which has sent shockwaves through the community who have long recognized Mrs. Blick and Mrs. Kerrylane as champions for civil rights of the underprivileged, has yet to be solved.

Investigators are calling on the public to assist in finding the alleged culprit or culprits. The decedents are survived by their son James. “Please, anyone. My mothers didn’t deserve this. Please.”

Twelfth day of Moondawn, 4041.

The Master turns the page. Photographs. The image depicts a gruesome scene. The women are seated across from a desk, both face down. A lamp in the corner casts orange glow over the room but the center of the image is cool in color, most likely from the camera’s flash. On the desk between them, amidst a haphazard pile of papers and other items, appears to be a small back stone.

The Master leans back in his chair and he thinks. He looks across his walls at all of the Coven symbols and surveys the myriad of seemingly random connections. A bell in his head is going off but he can’t quite name it. Something nagging, something he’s seen before. He shakes his head. Maybe some more coffee, he thinks. He gets up.

On his way back through the dark hallway it hits him.

He runs back and searches the walls. When he finds the right one, he rips it off and reads. It’s a page from an ancient book, thought to have its origin in the Coven’s fabled Grimoire itself.

Spying stones are not stones at all, but glass. Fragments of glass, darkened by the ashes of the recently extinguished Innocent who have not reached the age of a full year. When created properly, they hijack the soul of the deceased to record sounds and images of those around, and the intentions of those who touch them. This espionage is completed in Holy Seance upon successful placement of the stone, wherein the Exalted of the Dead and Her Council and Appointees may spy deftly on their enemies for the good of the Mother. Keeping with—

The Master goes back to the reports and rereads them, his hands shaking. He tries to unsee the words but he can’t. “small black stone…” “small black stone…”  “small black stone…” He looks again at the photograph, his heart pounding, trying to convince himself that his eyes are deceiving him. At length, he fails, and closes his eyes.

The Master, shaking, sets the papers down and knocks over a candlestick. He smothers the flame with his hand—hot wax burns his fingers.

Now he needs more coffee.

Stepping back into his quarters, which are somehow dimmer, he looks around, a little dazed. He can’t fathom what the implications of his discovery are, but he knows they can’t be good. He goes to his icebox for some long-brew, but the bottle is empty. He searches the shelves and looks all around his quarters. Not a coffee bean or brew in sight. He thinks about where he can find some, and remembers that Goodman has a crate of beans in the dry storage off the galley.

He walks through the corridors with his ceramic glass, taking in deep breaths, struggling to make sense of what he’s learned.

The dry storage off the galley is a marvel. Neither Goodman nor the Master attended culinary school but this is a dry storage that any chef would be proud to have at his disposal. Stores of flour, rice, all manner of spices and oils, salt, and shelf-stable goods. If an apocalypse were to strike, they would be well prepared. The Master looks for Goodman’s crate of coffee beans. It’s on the second-to-top shelf.

Reaching up, he lifts the wooden lid and dips his arm inside. He fumbles around for a bit trying to make sure he’s got a good scoop and he hears an unexpected sound. Clink. He wiggles the cup around. Another clink. Puzzled, he pulls out his mug and looks in. Sitting amongst the top layer of brown beans, half buried, is a shiny black stone of glass. The Master can see his own reflection.

Without thinking, he drops his coffee cup and it shatters at his feet, scattering a thousand coffee beans and one Spying Stone across the floor like marbles. He backs away and closes the door to the dry storage, his hands shaking.

Sunlight peeks through a slat in the shed and pokes the Master in the eye, waking him with a start. He sits up, frantic, looking around, hoping he hasn’t been asleep too long. He gets up and puts on his boots. His hands are still tender from last night. He grabs a pair of gloves and loads a metal cart with his arsenal and barricade supplies. With a swig of cold water, he marches into the morning sun, on a mission, leaving the shed door open behind him.

He makes his way through the castle, affixing latches and locks on as many external doors and windows he can find. He arms exploding pipes and places them at the entrance of windows he can’t latch, taking care not to put one anywhere near where Goodman might go. He lowers the barricading mechanisms of the larger doors that have them built-in and engages the iron locks. For two hours—at least—he goes throughout the castle locking every single internal door with a weighty ring of keys. When it is midday, he is mostly finished and exceedingly famished. He goes to his quarters and eats a cold sandwich. A pang in his head reminds him that he missed his morning coffee, but the thought of coffee makes the Master’s heart sink anew and his dread deepens. He thinks again, of Goodman.

He goes to his desk inside his Investigation Room and drafts a letter. He tells Goodman about his tracking and tracing the Coven, and the troubling series of murders throughout the Cosmos. At the end, he apologizes that he could not do more to protect him, and vows to do everything in his power to prevent any harm from coming to him.

I believe you will be safe in the castle, Goodman, which I have barricaded to the best of my ability. Please stay away from the basement windows as I have placed explosives there. You won’t find me in the castle tomorrow, but please don’t be alarmed. It’s me they’re after, and my mantle. Please stay here and trust as I do that Providence must surely be on our side.

Yours in Friendship, and with love.

The Master closes his eyes and all he can see are the two women, the Chancellor and her First Advisor, dead at their desk with a Spying Stone between them. And the poor bishop, and poor wife. He looks up at the ceiling and sighs heavily, making a silent prayer to the Lord of the Cosmos.

If you’re there, Lord, please protect Goodman. It’s not his fault this trouble has come for him.

He wipes his eye, sniffles, and signs the letter. Amadeus of Montelaine, Esteemed Seventeenth Master of the Raisón. He sets down the quill.

Nothing else to do but wait.

He goes to the Great Hall, making one important pitstop along the way.

The door to the great hall is the door to the castle. It’s the most fortified, because of it’s stature, but that also makes it—counterintuitively, perhaps—the most difficult to barricade. The doors themselves are massive and the crossbar basically a tree, but once that’s breached, it’s game over. The Master’s plan is to wait outside, therefore, and leave Goodman locked in.

He makes one last assessment of his work. Satisfied, he turns back inside the castle to sneak out through a small, unlocked window. Just as he does, a tremendous boom echoes through the great hall. He jumps, and his heart starts to pound.

BOOM! The great hall rafters creak and disturbed dust trickles down.

The Master whips around and runs to the tiny stained glass window by the door. Thirty yards away is a black horse-drawn carriage, and a dark figure not far from it is reaching back his arm, preparing to throw something. What, he can’t tell, but within seconds, a third BOOM reverberates through the great hall. Dread boils over. The Master stands frozen in a moment of pure fear. He wants to surrender, but it’s too late. If he moves, they’ll breach the door—and Goodman will hear. He watches through the window.

Another incendiary. He has no choice.

In a mad dash, the Master lifts the crossbar of the great hall door and pulls the doors open. The Master is about to lift his hands, but when he sees the dark figure running towards him and that there’s only one, something inside him like rage takes over and he screams. When the figure hits him, the Master whips him around and throws him to the floor with all his might. They tumble to the stone floor of the great hall. Mightily, they struggle against each other, the Master now fueled by some wild hope that he might be victorious, but he soon realizes that he is not wrestling with an ordinary man. Every move he makes is blocked with incredible speed and unbelievable strength. When he gets a moment to see into the eyes of his attacker, he sees that they are white as marbles, without an iris or pupil and this chills the Master to his core. He fights with every ounce of strength he has, but he quickly begins to run out of stamina. In an extremely brief moment of stillness, the Master hears them.

Goodman’s footsteps.

Part III

Vicentius

Two police operatives Rone and Alric sit in their motor carriage three blocks away from the center of town, where hidden in a cavern below the Town Library is the Grand Hall of the Coven. Rone, the junior partner, checks his timepiece and nudges Alric, who snoozes beside him. “It is near midnight,” he says. Alric groans awake and complains. “I’m too old for this, Rone!” He rubs his eyes.

“You only have two months until retirement, Alric, and the last two weeks will be administrative. Only ten more seances left.”

“Eleven.”

“Fine, eleven. You’re so close!”

Alric glances out the window, his black hooded robe pooled in his lap. He exhales, long and slow.

“I’m sorry you got stuck on this assignment,” Rone says.

Alric shakes his head. “Enough,” he says. “It’s fine.” He unclasps his seat buckle. “I’ll go in first this time. Follow me in a few minutes or so.”

Rone nods and watches Alric disappear into the gloom, his footsteps swallowed by the hush of midnight.

Thirty feet below the stone floor of the Town Library lies a vaulted stalagmite cavern and network of underground corridors, carved over centuries. For centuries it has been the central meeting place and refuge of the High Council of the Coven and her members, which at last count numbered 1,984. It is where, sometimes, high-profile officials and elected servants of society will come and seek ill favors and broker dark deals, and—as is the case now—where multiple members of the council now reside, overseeing their most vile endeavor to date: the recent re-discovery of the process by which Spying Stones are fashioned.

Rone and Alric have been keeping track of all of this and reporting it to their superiors for almost two years, but the surveillance of the Coven has existed in some form or another for decades. The seances—which three months ago increased in frequency to every third night—are Rone and Alric’s primary duty. Lately, the Coven has shifted its focus in a major way back to one of its oldest desires: to usurp the power of the Stone of Rant by claiming the mantle from a Master of a Realm. The re-emergence of the Spying Stones and the development of a novel way to strip young minds of independent thought and will have invigorated their efforts to these ends.

Alric and Rone, a few minutes apart, descend a spiral stone stairwell and give secret signs through a small opening in a heavy wooden door. They unbutton their shirts to reveal tattoos of circumscribed seven-point stars on their chests—the Coven’s sigil. When they enter, they are escorted through torch-lit tunnels to the center of the cavern where other Coven members are still trickling in, in black hooded robes, seating themselves on terraced stone steps that form an amphitheater. A soot-streaked altar bears an iron brazier. Ash and char litter the altar and the surrounding floor. A podium of skulls stands off to one side, vacant.

The operatives sit on opposite sides of the chamber, careful not to interact or even look at each other.

Rone watches as the Assembly Chamber fills, and a deep voice, dark as night, echoes through the cavern, long and menacing. “My Children.”

The voice comes from nowhere and everywhere, and the congregation stands as one. Thick smoke pours in at their feet and the sconces on the wall burn madly. A moment later, the venerable Council of Eight, cloaked in thick black robes with gold trim, walk slowly down the steps towards the altar. In tow, the Ninth Elder and High Priest of the Order of the Coven, glides in behind them. His robes are covered in an impossibly ornate array of gold stitching; his holy presence is palpable in the cavern air. When he arrives at the podium, the Council of Eight stands ready at their seats for the leader’s command. His gravelly voice permeates the chamber. “Please be seated.”

The roughly two hundred Coven members and the Elders of the Council of Eight take their seats, and some of the smoke dissipates. The sconces on the wall die down a little.

“My Dear Children,” the Ninth Elder begins. “Your patience and persistence in this matter has not gone unnoticed. Myself, as well as the Council of Eight have been toiling here for several fortnights now, and as some of you may know, many of us now eat and sleep in these very rooms. We believe our progress toward our holy goal has renewed our strength. Thank you for your sacrifices and your diligence.”

Rone shifts, uneasy, unsure why. He glances at Alric across the room who appears to be fixating on the proceedings with more interest than usual.

“What many of you may not yet know, is that thanks to the tireless efforts of my fellow elders and many of you, we are finally ready to present a new addition to our ranks, hopefully the first of many.” The Ninth Elder gestures to the stairs, where a figure, cloaked in plain black robes, is walking towards the center of the chamber.

The audience stirs, rising for a better view. Rone stands too.

When the figure reaches the podium, the Ninth Elder places a hand on its shoulder. “Please give a warm welcome to Vicentius, the first Emptied One in more than half a millennium.” He turns to him. “Vicentius, your hood.”

The chamber erupts in applause, the congregation leaping to its feet. Rone has to jump and move around catch a glimpse; when he does, he doesn’t understand what he’s seeing.

Standing next to the Ninth Elder of the Coven is a bald young man, no more than twenty, with eyes as white as the driven snow, without pupil or iris. The Assembly Hall is a thunderous cacophony of enthusiasm. Rone tries to find Alric in the rippling sea of spectators but he cannot.

When it begins to die down, the Ninth Elder continues. “You will now hear from my First Advisor, Elder Veylan. He will remind you of the particulars of these developments and will then officiate the seance wherein we hope to finally have some intelligence from inside the Castle of the Raisón.

There is a moderately enthused response from the audience but this isn’t a surprise to Rone or Alric. For nearly three months now, the Spying Stone that was placed in a shipment of coffee beans bound for the castle has yet to pick up a single sound apart from occasional rustling and garbled clunks.

The Ninth Elder and Vicentius take their seats and Elder Veylan stands at the podium. “Coven members, a delight it always is to speak to you. As the Ninth Elder has mentioned, we have our first member of the Order of the Empty in more than five hundred years.” The crowd cheers lightly but Elder Veylan continues so they quiet down. “Vicentius comes to us from a neighboring Realm where some of the most gifted and promising young men in the Cosmos are trained and taught in the arts, sciences, and sport. We are delighted that Vicentius, like his father and grandfather before him, completed his initiation rituals at the age of sixteen, and that he stands ready to serve the Mother. One year ago, upon completion of his training, Vicentius volunteered to participate in a novel process called “Emptying.” In this process, Vicentius’ faculties of independent thoughts and desires were stripped from him and replaced with the Virtue of Obedience.” A moderate cheer from the crowd at this.

“Our aim, and hope, is that Vicentius and his comrades in arms who are yet to complete their process will be able to bypass the age-old lore of the Masters…”

Mention of the Masters rankles the audience.

“Quiet, please,” Elder Veylan says. “…They will be able to bypass the age-old lore of the Masters that protects their abodes from intrusion by any wishing to unlawfully claim their mantle.”

There are shouts of approval from all over the hall.

“Vicentius is the First of his Order, and we thank him.”

Raucous applause again envelops the chamber as Vicentius, emotionless and cold, replaces his hood and sits next to the Ninth Elder. It takes many seconds before it’s reasonably calm again.

“We will now continue to the seance.”

At this, a handful of Coven members rise quietly and depart.

Rone looks over at Alric who appears enraptured. Unease builds in him.

In the center of the Assembly Hall, Elder Veylan goes to the altar and lights the coals in the wrought-iron basket and the rest of the congregation stands up, including the Ninth Elder and the Council of Eight. The chamber shifts; the floor hums as if a distant stampede approaches.

In an eerie display of unison and vulnerability, everyone, including the leaders and the members, opens their shirts to reveal the Coven sigils on their chests, which begin to faintly glow. The flames in the sconces turn blood red, casting the Assembly Hall into scarlet darkness. The smoke at their feet returns, roiling. A thunderous crack of stone shudders through the hall. Elder Veylan returns to the podium and delivers the first two lines of the incantation.

“By the Mother’s will and the Ashen Rite,

Through death and silence, grant us sight.”

The rest of the congregation joins in.

“From blood made glass, from void made stone,

Unveil the whispers we now own.

Past the veil, beyond the deep,

Reveal the secrets sworn to keep.”

Elder Veylan returns to the altar and deposits a small portion of ash onto the coals; the Assembly Hall is quiet as death. For several moments, nothing but silence; more than a few Coven members squirm in boredom. Rone is no exception. He is about to yawn when suddenly, there is a rumbled clunking sound, and some rustling. Same as before.

Then, clink.

The crowd collectively holds its breath.

Clink.

Then, in an instant, the darkness of the Assembly Hall is thrown into light as if a chandelier has been turned on in the middle of the room, bright as day, but there are no flames or bulbs. Hanging in the air in the center of the room, large as the sun, is the ghostly image of Amadeus of Montelaine, Esteemed Seventeenth Master of the Raisón, looking directly at the audience.

Many gasp, but no one says a thing. The Master’s face twists in horror before the image shrinks and vanishes with a deafening crash. The image changes to the interior of what looks to be a food storage room, and the Master is seen backing away, closing the door, before the image disappears.

The Ninth Elder strides to the podium. His voice is omnipresent and godlike. “Children,” he booms. “Disperse to your homes and await further instruction.” He pauses. “Council of Eight and Senior Coven members down to the front.”

Goodman stands at the door to the Master’s quarters, wondering if he should go in. He’s only been in here once, but that was because of something terrible that almost happened. After hesitating a moment more, he goes in. The Master’s bed, the furniture, the lavatory. The liquor shelf, the fireplace. Nothing appears amiss. He goes to the window and looks at the darkening sky and turns around, surveying the chamber. He examines the bright white walls and quickly notices a section slightly ajar. He rushes to it and pulls, surprised as he’s ever been.

Nearly two hundred Coven members file out, murmuring feverishly. They take their heated energy with them, but the air in the cavern remains charged.

In time, only a couple dozen remain, seated in the first two rows. The Ninth Elder stands at the podium, with the Council of Eight and 14 Senior Members surrounding him. Among them are Alric and Rone. Vicentius sits silently in the third row, his marble eyes cold as ice.

A trail of smoke rises from the ash in the wrought-iron basket on the altar. The Ninth Elder speaks.

“There is no denying what we have all seen, and I know that many of you may feel strongly about what we should do next—“

“We need to attack!” a senior member says. A few others nod vigorously, fidgeting.

The Ninth Elder raises a hand. “I understand that some of you may be inclined to rush towards some kind of final objective, but our careful planning in these last months may very well come to—“

“Your Eminence, if I may.”

It’s Elder Veylan. Reluctantly, the Ninth Elder nods.

“Your Eminence, we have already received reports, from all over the Cosmos, as you well know, of the abodes of Masters being intruded on by those with the express desire to coerce the Master to surrender their mantle.” He pauses, looking at those gathered. “We have plenty of evidence. The lore is false.”

A handful of apparently restless Elders and Senior Members say “that’s correct!” or “indeed.” One claps.

Rone does his best not to look at Alric.

Vicentius is unmoving.

The Ninth Elder lowers his head and sighs. Finally, he looks up. “I will concede to an attempt at capture of the Master of the Raisón on one—“

A couple of the Elders jump up and try to speak—

The Ninth Elder puts up a quick finger, and his tone darkens further. “On one! Condition.” He takes a breath. “We will test for ourselves whether the lore is false.”

Almost immediately, many of the Senior Members start to shout their opposition or ask questions.

Elder Veylan quiets them. “Silence!” He turns to the Ninth Elder. “And how do you propose we do this?”

Goodman pulls open the Master’s secret door and steps cautiously through the darkened hallway to the Master’s Investigation Room, not knowing what he’ll find. Soft diodes glow beneath his feet as he walks.

The Ninth Elder nods and looks at the faces of those gathered before giving an answer, but he is interrupted.

“I will go,” a voice says.

At first, no one can tell who spoke. Rone searches the group, and to his surprise, Vicentius is standing with his hood removed. His ashen eyes give no indication of where he might be looking. Everyone leans away from him a little, as if stunned.

They look at him and then back at the Ninth Elder, who nods and gestures for Vicentius to continue.

They look back at Vicentius.

“I will go on a clandestine mission to the Castle of the Raisón and surreptitiously attempt to enter, through a window or small door.”

The Elders and Senior Members exchange silent, puzzled glances. “But I will need to be accompanied to the Castle of the Raisón because I do not know the way, and more importantly, if one of you, who has not undergone the process of Emptying, can also enter the castle, it will definitively show that the lore is false—that the abode of a Master may be intruded upon by any person, without regard to the intention of their heart.”

Slowly, the room warms to a fervor, approving chatter overtaking it. After a moment, Elder Veylan quiets them. He sighs. “Does the council and all gathered agree to this condition?”

Eyes dart around for a minute and eventually everyone is nodding at each other. “Yes, yes, that’s alright,” they say.

Elder Veylan continues. “In that case, I insist that we send two Coven members to accompany Vicentius to the Castle of the Raisón. Tonight.”

As if on cue, Alric and Rone stand up.

The Master’s Investigation Room unfolds before Goodman as bulbs in the corners flicker to life, casting a dim, stony glow. He gapes at the sprawl of maps, charts, and newspaper clippings covering every surface. What on earth?

Goodman steps closer to the main desk at the end of the room and tries to pick out some details of the paperwork. Murder in the Southernmost Realm, the Coven’s involvement suspected but uncertain…Attempted break-in at the Castle of the Nynes highlights possible complexity of ancient lore…Unexpected transfer of Mantle to known Coven sympathizer in the Realm of Merrimore results in local uproar…Coven-related symbols found in public places…Unusual increase in nighttime foot traffic alarms police…

Goodman shakes his head in wonder. It’s too much to take in.

He takes a step back. Everything in the room has to do with the Coven. Everything.

His eyes settle on the Master’s chair. What had he been reading last?

An envelope is sitting there, addressed My Dear Goodman.

The next day, while the Master is preparing his final protections for the castle, a horse-drawn carriage rolls out of Town, Rone at the reins, Alric and Vicentius inside. The late afternoon sun sinks toward the horizon, casting a warm afterglow over the countryside, but the winter chill blusters through. Rone grits his teeth against the cold and grips the reins with fists of steel. Inside the cabin, Alric eyes the young Emptied One, trying not to look like he is staring, but Vicentius’ white eyes make it impossible to read the poor child’s face. His stoic countenance and broad build make him a formidable presence, but he is barely nineteen. Alric hangs his head and wonders what on earth they’ll do.

All day, he and Rone argued, grasping for a way to turn Vicentius from his directive.

“We have to protect the Master, Alric.”

“I know that! Don’t you think I know that?”

Rone turns to face his partner directly. “He intercepted the Spying Stone. He knows the Coven will do something. If we go there, we will set off a chain of unstoppable events. I just know it.”

Alric, fearing they are already in one, looks away, troubled.

Rone slows their departure from Town, trying to buy time. When he turns onto the last road leading to the castle, a pit in his stomach pangs at him.

In the carriage, Vicentius turns to look out the window and then leans towards Alric, startling him. After a second, he leans in too, curious.

“I know that you and Rone are operatives of the law.”

Alric almost chokes and Vicentius puts out a quick hand as if to steady him. “Don’t worry!” he says. “I mean you no harm.” Vicentius’ countenance is less stoic and somehow warmer despite his marble eyes.

Alric falls back in his seat, stunned. He brings a hand to his chest. “How do you know?”

Vicentius sort of smirks and shrugs. “It doesn’t matter.”

“So…why would you tell me this? What are you going to do?”

Vicentius shakes his head and smiles. He puts a hand on Alric’s shoulder, blinking slowly. “Just tell me what we should do to protect the Master.”

Alric sticks his head out of the carriage and shouts at Rone. “Pull over! And tether the horses!”

“What? Why?”

“Just do it!”

The three of them huddle inside the stopped carriage, some two miles from the castle.

“Are you sure this makes sense?” Vicentius says.

Rone responds. “We have to get the Master out of there and somewhere safe. We can’t guarantee anything about the lore but we can get the Master out of the realm to buy us time. He’ll be safe in the Western Realm; we have hundreds of operatives on standby, waiting to protect him.”

Vicentius considers it, shaking his head. “It seems…reckless.”

Alric puts a hand on the young man’s knee. “Vicentius. I know it sounds like a lot, but if we don’t definitively prevent the Coven from capturing the Master, we stand no chance of stopping them. Especially if they somehow claim his Mantle.” He pauses. “You can do this.”

Vicentius exhales slowly and nods.

When the first incendiary detonates against the front door of the Castle of the Raisón it somehow both deepens Vicentius’ hesitancy and emboldens him. He throws another. And another. When the door opens and the Master appears, Vicentius goes to get him with magnificent strength and speed. Despite his secret antipathy for the Coven, the magic of its rituals empowers him.

When Goodman charges in a moment later, surprising everyone, Rone leaps from the carriage and tackles him. Alric climbs into the drivers’ seat and takes the leather reins.

Vicentius watches as a second man gets the better of Rone and he is forced to make a more threatening move. He pulls out a blade and holds it to the Master’s neck.

Eventually, the man releases Rone, who dashes back to the carriage.

“What is the cause of all this?” the man asks.

Vicentius thinks on his feet. “You will be sent instructions.” He pauses. “Follow them, and your Master will live,” he improvises.

The man appears terrified and confused. He steps forward.

"Not another move!” Vicentius says. He begins to back away, towards the door, with the Master in his custody.

"Do as they say, Goodman.” the Master says, and Vicentius takes him, ambling backwards to the carriage, and pushes him inside.

Inside the cabin, the three men shake with adrenaline, breathing heavy. The Master looks at the two men. Only one of them is white-eyed. When the cabin calms, the Master speaks.

“Who are you?” he says. “Are you from the Coven?”

Rone and Vicentius look at each other. Rone responds. “Technically, yes.”

The Master’s eyes widen in renewed fear. “…Technically?”

Rone nods. “My name is Rone, and this is Vicentius. I’m an operative of the law. I’ve been infiltrating the Coven for the better part of a year, as ordered by the government. Vicentius is..” He turns to him.

“I’m someone the Coven calls an Emptied One.” Vicentius says. “The first, actually.” He pauses. “In the last two years I’ve endured hundreds of mind-erasing rituals, which is why my eyes are like this.”

The master looks at them. His eyes are truly frightening.

Vicentius continues. “The Coven, hesitant to deny the truth of the lore, invented my kind to bypass the protective magic of the Abodes of Masters. In order to steal their Mantles and the Stones of Rant.”

The Master is taken aback. Slowly, he nods, taking it all in, thinking. Then he gasps, and a hand whips to his cloak. “Wait!” he says, breathless. His heart is pounding once more. He sweats.

Vicentius and Rone look at each other, and watch as the Master shakily pulls out a small black pouch from his cloak and holds it up for them to see.

“What is—?” but the Master quickly brings a finger to his lips. He shakes his head. Don’t talk, he mouths. The Master looks around fearfully, and suddenly slides open one of the carriage windows and throws the black pouch onto the country road below. After a moment of bated breath, he falls back in his seat and closes his eyes, shaking his head.

“Was that a…Spying Stone?” Rone says.

At length, the Master nods.

“Why would you have that on you? Don’t you know what it does?”

“Yes, but I couldn’t leave it in the castle with Goodman.”

“Who is Goodman?” Vicentius says. “Is that the man we saw back there?”

The Master nods.

Rone reels. “Ashes,” he says, under his breath. “Ashes!” He slams his fist onto his knee.

He sticks his head out of the window. “Alric! Stop the carriage, we need to talk.”

The four men step inside an abandoned warehouse on the edge of Town, the sun having set. Dusty stacks of corrugated iron sheeting and other raw materials nearly fill the cavernous space, which is illuminated by gentle moonlight through a large defect in the roof. Vermin scatter as they approach.

“I’ll be safe here?” the Master says, looking around.

Alric shakes his head and turns to him, visibly on-edge. “You’ve forced our hands, sir.”

The Master looks at his feet.

He continues. “Our plan was to take you to a neighboring realm.”

“Then why don’t you do that?” the Master asks.

“Because of the Spying Stone, sir! We have to return to the Coven! If they conduct a seance tonight—and I’m sure they will—we’ll lose our cover…and who knows what will happen to Vicentius.”

Vicentius fidgets. His lips are pursed.

“You’ll be safe here for a short time,” Rone says. “But for your sake as well as the realm’s, we have to detain you.”

Shaking, the Master complies, and Rone engages an iron latch around one of the Master’s wrists. He fastens the other end to a piece of pipe near the wall.

“Either we will return, or other operatives will. This warehouse is regularly surveilled by the police and you may be in their protective custody, far away from any harm by the time we are able to come get you,” Rone says. “It shouldn’t be long.”

The Master, speechless, watches through the dirty warehouse windows as his rescuers disappear into the shadows. As the isolation sets in, he wonders if they are rescuers at all.

As Vicentius, Rone, and Alric make their way down into the Assembly Hall of the Coven, the weight of their deception presses heavily on them. Rone especially feels as if they are a hair’s width away from being found out. He hopes to the Lord of the Cosmos they haven’t already conducted another seance, but the ash and coal on the altar is quiet and cold.

The Council of Eight is there, waiting. They watch with a mixture of great anticipation and sinister expectations as the three men approach. When they do, Vicentius steps forward, but Elder Veylan raises a hand. He stands and approaches Vicentius, his face a strange shade of sad resolve. Slowly, he puts a finger under Vicentius’ chin and looks into his eyes. They all stand there silently, watching. Rone and Alric glance nervously at each other, and quickly notice that the number of their company has dramatically increased. From all around the Assembly Hall, more than fifty hooded figures with shining white eyes march stoically toward them. When they are nearly shoulder-to-shoulder, they stop. Vicentius’ eyes dart around, afraid and unbelieving. He never knew there were going to be so many of his Order.

Elder Veylan steps away from him and takes his seat, and the Ninth Elder glides through the ranks of the Emptied and stands behind Vicentius, who freezes. The gold stitching on the Ninth Elder’s robes glitters in the candlelight. In a swift move, he brings his hands to the sides of Vicentius’ face and delivers a haunting two lines of ancient enchantment.

Vicentius’ neck arches and his body stiffens. His mouth and eyes, instantly black as obsidian, gape toward the cavern ceiling. His skin pales, and a guttural sound emerges from Vicentius’ throat. Then, in a chilling monotone voice so different from his own, he speaks.

“I am a deceiver. I am false. I am not a true Empty One, the unholy process rejected within my heart. I have acted against my directives and conspired with spies to sequester the Master of the Raisón in a place of safety where no Coven member knows.”

A heavy silence invades the Assembly Hall. Alric and Rone can hear their own heartbeats. Vicentius, still as death, is ghostly pale. Beads of sweat track down his face, and the Ninth Elder’s hands quiver in rage. He shouts. “Where is he!”

The question echoes through the cavern. Even the Council of Eight shift uneasily in their seats.

“Detained in a warehouse on the edge of Town. 441 Leebrook Street.”

The Ninth Elder removes his hands. Vicentius, blood returning to his face, collapses like a rag doll, unconscious.

Elder Veylan stands and points to Alric and Rone. “Bind them.”

With frightening speed, six Emptied Ones descend on the two operatives, seizing them.

Elder Veylan goes to the Ninth Elder and speaks quickly with him in hushed tones. After a moment, the Ninth Elder nods and turns to the Emptied Ones. Twenty of you with Elder Veylan, the rest with me.

One of the Emptied Ones  forward. “What shall we do with Vicentius?” he asks.

“He’s coming with us,” Elder Veylan says, and strides out of the Assembly Hall, gold-trimmed robes flowing behind him. Twenty Emptied Ones turn and follow with Alric and Rone and their captors close behind. Vicentius, groggy and delirious, is dragged along.

Elder Veylan blasts the warehouse doors off their hinges with a surge of powerful dark magic. They go tumbling into the dusty storage space, clattering over spools of wire and stacks of metal sheeting, echoing through the empty space. Emptied Ones pour in behind him. Alric and Rone breathe a sigh of relief for once in this terrible day.

Elder Veylan turns around.

"Well?” he says, voice rising. He gestures around himself. The warehouse is empty.

Vicentius, visibly afraid, looks at the pipe where they chained the Master up and points. He was right there. We detained him here. A pair of hand-shackles dangles from an alloy pipe, quietly reflecting the moonlight.

Elder Veylan sighs, and approaches Vicentius with unsettling speed. “Hold him,” he says.

Two burly Emptied Ones restrain Vicentius.

Reaching into his cloak, Elder Veylan produces a small sharp hook and a short blade. “Open his shirt.”

Strong hands rip open Vicentius’ shirt, exposing the sigil of the Coven on his chest—the circumscribed seven-point star. Vicentius’ eyes, which are again white, gape in terror as Elder Veylan reaches up and sinks the sharp metal hook in the center of the tattoo, cutting the sigil away with the blade. Vicentius screams and writhes. A steady flow of blood pours down his chest as the tattoo on his chest is viciously removed. When Elder Veylan is finished, he stands with a circular piece of Vicentius’ skin on the hook, and before everyone’s eyes, Vicentius shrinks into the decrepit form of a hundred-year-old man on the brink of death. He crumples to the floor, lifeless.

Alric and Rone look on in horror. Elder Veylan turns to them and holds up the hook. Blood drips from it. “See what you have done?” he says, before throwing the knife and hook to the ground and striding past them, out of the warehouse.

“Kill them both!” he shouts back.

The Emptied Ones close in, snapping their necks before they can draw their next breath.

The Master, across the street, peers through parted curtains in an empty home. He watches the scene unfold with growing confusion and fear. As the hooded figures leave, he pulls away from the window and backs into a wall. Panic settles in. When the warehouse is again quiet, he steps out into the night. He hasn’t seen a single soul since the operatives detained him there; his doubts about the veracity or reliability of the police intensify. Winter wind rifles through his cloak and he pulls his arms in tight.

He turns to face the direction of the Castle of the Raisón, and his heart sinks to the floor. Far in the distance, a faint and flickering orange glow bathes the clouds in the sky with ominous light. Goodman!

He runs.

With every step, he becomes more and more certain that he is running towards the end of his life as he knows it. Hope in any form is left behind him, but his love for Goodman propels him with a superhuman strength and stamina.

When he closes in on the Castle of the Raisón, he is instantly bereft of everything that ever was The Master.

The Castle of the Raisón looms over the lawn, ablaze like the heart of a volcano. Mountainous flames engulf every tower, flowing out of windows and doors like rivers of heat and destruction. The malignant warmth of this hellscape is felt more than a hundred yards off, and the Master has to squint to see. It burns his face. It is the eleventh hour of the night but the near countryside is bright as summer day.

He falls to his knees, and seemingly out of nowhere, dozens of hooded figures emerge, surrounding him, pale eyes all. Then, an opening in their ranks and another figure glides across the lawn towards him. His form is more imposing than the rest, and his robes sparkle in the firelight. When he reaches the Master, who has nothing left in him with which to resist, he grips the Master’s neck and lifts him up from his knees. The Master stands, and the Ninth Elder, steps aside and gestures. “Behold, Amadeus, the might of the Coven,” he says over the roar of the inferno.

The Emptied Ones in front of him step away; thirty yards ahead of him is Goodman, on his knees, hands bound behind him. A hooded figure stands with his hand on Goodman’s shoulder.

The Master’s breath shudders. His lips part, but no sound comes. His hands tremble at his sides. He looks at Goodman, at the burning wreckage of everything he’s fought for. A sob catches in his throat. He turns to the Ninth Elder. “Just… tell me what you want.”

The Ninth Elder grins.

“You already know the words, Amadeus. Why don’t you go ahead and say them.”

Tears stream down the Master’s face. He shakes his head in defeat. He looks over at Goodman’s frightened face and overflows with regret. How could I have been so shortsighted? How could I have let this happen? He is lost in a sea of brokenness.

“Any day now, my child.”

The Master, bitterly, turns to the Ninth Elder. With his face awash in the light of the burning castle, he begins. “I, Amadeus of Montelaine,” he pauses to catch his breath. “Esteemed Seventeenth Master of the Raisón, do, without reservation or coercion, willingly and deliberately surrender the Holy Mantle of Master of the Raisón and all the powers and privileges therewith associated, to the…”

The Ninth Elder nods. “You know who I am.”

“…to the Ninth Elder of the Coven of the Underworld, this day, the 18th day of Moondawn, 4041.” He pauses, and takes a final deep breath. “Lord of the Cosmos, hear these my words.”

The ground beneath the castle rumbles with a sound as deep as the earth, and the Ninth Elder takes a step back. He raises his arms, and as the Mantle of the Master of the Raisón comes to rest on his shoulders, he is lifted off the ground and enveloped in the ancient magic of the Stone of Rant. The air itself ripples and shimmers around him. It is a transformation more felt and sensed than seen, but the Ninth Elder, now with his power combined with that of the Stone of Rant, is even more imposing and full of life than before. Slowly, he lowers until his feet reach the ground and the ground-shaking ceases. He is beaming with malignant pride.

Marveling at himself, he laughs at the sky, his stature no longer that of an older man. The life-force of the Mantle courses through him. He shakes his fists in exalted victory. His hands—once wrinkled—are smooth and steady.

The Master looks at Goodman with teary eyes, and the Ninth Elder steps in front of him. “I can do away with you now,” he says, grinning. “But first…” He looks at the burning castle and then over to Goodman. He chuckles.

The Ninth Elder steps aside and gestures to the castle, and with a wave of his hand, the colossal flames engulfing his home vanish into the blackness of the night, as if they never were there. The castle, perfectly intact and unharmed, sits stoic and regal in the moonlight. Goodman, held by Elder Veylan, stands up and comes closer, but it is not Goodman.

Before the Master stands a very weak old man with white eyes and bloodstained clothes.

“This is Vicentius. I think you’ve met him.”

The Master struggles to see it, but he eventually does. He hangs his head. He feels forever lost.

“Kill him,” the Ninth Elder says, and in a flash, Vicentius’ hand is at the Master’s throat, unbelievably powerful and fast. The Master’s face becomes blood-red and his vision clouds. He claws helplessly at Vicentius’ fingers, who, eyes welling up, whispers “I want to go home.”

The Castle of the Raisón has a different look to it from nearly every angle. It is sat on a hill but also surrounded by hills. The rock facade is hewn granite and limestone, overgrown with greedy ivy in places and streaked with rainwater residue in others. There are a number of towers, scores of chambers, and thousands of windows that let the light in and keep the insects out. Most of those towers, chambers, and windows are ordinary, but one is not. The Left Tower, for centuries, has been the keystone of the Realm of Raisón’s existence.

Goodman kneels here, in the Left Tower, next to an oaken royal chest. The brass plaque on the front bears the name and title of the Master. He touches the engraved letters for a moment and then opens the chest. From a secret compartment, he pulls out a small purple stone that glows in the darkness of the tower. He brings it to his face and marvels at it. The Stone of Rant. He breathes deeply.

The air in the castle, charged with unease, rattles around him and he closes the chest. A very small movement catches his eye, and he looks at the brass plaque in wonder. The engraved lettering shimmers and ripples like the surface of water, and become something else. Valmoris di Athalos, Ninth Elder of the Coven and High Priest of the Council of Eight, Exalted Eighteenth Master of the Raisón.

Goodman shakes his head in disbelief. It was only a matter of time.

Standing and approaching the center of the room, he opens his shirt, revealing the tattooed outline of a seven-pointed star inside a circle. He takes a deep breath and brings the Stone of Rant to his chest.

“I warned you, father,” he says, and with the purple stone, digs into his flesh, tearing apart the sigil. Excruciating pain sears through him and blood trickles down his torso as he repeatedly cuts and mangles the skin on his chest bearing the star. He screams, and the light of the Stone of Rant explodes outward, lighting up the Left Tower like a violet beacon.

Lightning cracks overhead, rumbling throughout the Realm. An indigo storm swirls around Goodman with gale force, reaching a fever pitch. Ancient magic fills Goodman, wrestling with the power of the Coven that still resides in his flesh, evicting it from Goodman’s earthly frame.

When he stops, he falls to his knees and drops the stone. It flickers faintly.

The storm clouds disperse, and the sky settles. Goodman, breathing deeply, illuminated again only by the light of a candle, is skin and bones. It is as if Goodman’s life force has evaporated from him. He falls fully to the floor, and the lights behind his eyes go out.

An icy gust sweeps the lawn of the Castle of the Raisón, and the first inkling of the morning sun brightens the sky. An owl calls nearby. The Master comes to on the cold and dewy grass, gasping for air. He leaps up and looks around. He is surrounded by commotion. More than a hundred police operatives escort dozens of emaciated Empty Ones and deathly frail Elders into prisoner transport vehicles. Police carriages are parked across the lawn and along the castle road. Shouts and orders cut through the morning air. He looks in all directions, mystified. In a daze, he turns toward the castle, and his heart breaks again, full of dread. He runs. I’m coming, Goodman.

On the way, he passes the Ninth Elder, who is being helped to his feet by two officers. He spares not a word or even glance.

EPILOGUE

Birdsong fills the air and the countryside is awake. Fields impossibly green, the sky impossibly blue. Foliage bursts to life in every shade, and creatures great and small scurry about, free from winter’s grip. Floral breezes flow through the Castle of the Raisón; the curtains gently sway.

Merek, one of Town’s two physicians, wakes in his quarters, two doors down from Goodman. He rises to meet the day and prepares his tools and tinctures like the consummate professional he is, but not without straightening and smoothing his bedsheets, and giving himself a close, clean shave.

Knocking, he enters Goodman’s quarters where the once-strong companion to the Master is in his bed, recovering from the ordeal of four weeks past. “Don’t touch that!” Goodman yells across the room.

The Master is seated at Goodman’s desk, looking at some papers. “Do you write poems, Goodman? Poems?” he laughs, and Goodman is going red in the face.

“Yes! Leave that all alone. Get your hands off!”

The Master drops the papers, laughing, and puts his hands up. “Fine, fine,” he says. He goes over to Goodman, where Merek is mixing some powders with a milky white liquid. He looks at the physician and smirks.

“Merek. I do say. You look like a nerd,” he says.

Merek looks up, confused.  “A nerd? What’s that?”

Goodman’s face is scrunched up too. “Yes what is that?”

The Master shrugs. “I don’t know.”

Merek raises an eyebrow and shrugs, suppressing an exasperated sigh. He stirs the mixture and hands it to Goodman, who drinks it, grimacing.

Goodman looks at Merek and tilts his head. “You know Master you’re exactly right. Merek does look like a nerd.”

Merek huffs.

The Master laughs.