The Scholar's Tale(Original Fantasy)

[Strigoi Grey]

Interlude: One With The World

***
Aina thinks of herself as a boring girl.

This is not a sign of self-criticism, ironic or otherwise, like her friend Ryz is prone to. Aina know a caustic tongue and mind can help one to survive on Midworld as much as it can endanger them. She does not wish for such traits.

Aina is thankful to Vhaarn for being boring, and hopes to never change.

(She will. Hopes for good things are dashed almost as often as fears of suffering are made reality)

Exciting lives, she thinks, are dangerous and short. Take her parents, for one. They left Copper's Cradle, a perfectly safe, habitable island, to explore the sea, not in search of other islands to live on after disaster inevitably struck, but out of boredom. Life on the Cradle, they claimed, had become too predictable, wearing on them.

Aina only knows these things from the other islanders. She has never met her parents, whose names are never spoken, for they are cursed as reckless fools, wasting their lives when their fellows could have use them. Even her family name is unknown.

Aina is thankful for that, too. There are many Midworlders without family names! Why, some who do have one often have exciting lives, too, and Aina does not want that. She wants to live, for as long as she can.

As she, Ryzhan and the other children(the adults, save for the elderly or weak, who serve as foremen in the mines, are always on the lookout for raiders or animals, when they are not helping the mages with their rituals) search for the metal that gives their island its name, Aina muses that Ryz has a family name, like her parents used to do.

A hand rises to tug at her short, sky-blue hair-a nervous tick the adults have tried to beat out of her, for it annoys them, to no avail. She prays again, asking Lord Vhaarn to watch over Ryzhan, too, and give him a boring life as well.

Aina doubts Ryzhan will ever do something reckless, though. His parents scare him too much for him to be stupid, and beat him more than enough.

***
Aina knows, like all Vhaarnists do, that, in the beginning, before time and space, matter and magic, life and death, there was nothing except for Vhaarn and his brother, Fhaalqi. Vhaarn wanted to create, because he was lonely in the void with only his cruel, mocking brother for company. He created the infinite waters and islands of Midworld, as well as the endless stars above, and the sun and moon, always visible from everywhere on Midworld, regardless of distance. Their light is boundless without destroying everything through limitless energy, for Vhaarn willed it so. Midworld's moon does not reflect the light of its sun, as mundane moons in the heavens above do; its light is its own, despite some claiming it to be a mere sphere of rock.

Others have claimed the moon to be made of silver light and magic, though all who try to reach it, or speak and think too much of it, disappear. Or, worse, the moon looks into them, and laughs, and they laugh too, never stopping, until the chains Vhaarn wrapped around the shape of his creations break, and they become every monster ever imagined, and some that have never been.

Fhaalqi scoffed when his brother first began creating things, and sought to oppose him, as he had in all their contests in the void. So was created entropy, decay, as things were worn down by time or the elements, and became lesser, until they faded away. Vhaarn then created animals, and Fhaalqi was pleased he did not try to instill his beliefs into them, instead leaving them instinct.

After innumerable years, Vhaarn sought to create something more, like him and his brother, if lesser, and Fhaalqi agreed. That was how the Tetrarha, able to shift between states of matter, came to be; the Gzaalnokhs, who shaped the world by thought without possessing mana, bodies or souls; the Yvharnii, with their love for learning, and countless more.

Humans, too. No natural advantages over other thinking beings, save for the potential for magic even some animals had.

Whenever a species became too virtuous, or too vile, they were destroyed, by their enemies of by natural disasters, though some saw the Twin Gods in everything, and proclaimed they merely sought to keep each other in check whenever one gained too much of an advantage.

Aina was not particularly inclined, at the moment, to give a damn about religious intricacies. Midworld's religions rarely tended towards complexity, anyhow, as most of its inhabitants lived short, rough lives, and only believed enough to make sure there was a place for them to go after death, and gods or spirits to help them before it.

No, Aina was thinking about the creation of the world because, having heard it so often in her short, short life, it represented stability, familiarity, in her young mind. And she...she needed all t-the stability she could....g-get-

The moon wasn't looking away. Aina had hoped not becoming a lunatic, a term which meant far worse on Midworld than on the alien worlds that spun around stars, would cause it to become bored and leave her be, mind whole, if terrified and scarred irreparably.

It had not. Her resistance had, if anything, made it more curious, and more of its attention was on her than had been on any mortal for centuries. In fact, if Aina listened to the call of the void(the moon, the moon, a jagged, cracked corner of her mind corrected, laughing breathlessly) she could feel something more than its all-seeing, unblinking gaze.

Something like...

-a sMIlE-

But the moon was not smiling anymore. Aina was. Her face had become just as white and round as the silver sphere, bloating as her throat thickened, voice becoming simultaneously thick and choked, and shrill, sharp enough to make ears bleed, fit to speak words that meant nothing, so all they passed over became nothing.

But Aina was not smiling anymore. She was laughing, in time with the moon's voiceless, wordless call.

Ryzhan finds the creature while its shape is still roughly human, sitting-no, crouching-on the shore of the lake they always met to talk, and laugh, and...

Ryzhan's heart bleeds, literally, as it turns to grin at him. His eyes boil in their sockets, while his arcane sense gibbers to itself, trying to limit his perception, protect his human mind as much as it can.

Good, Ryzhan thinks, grinning with cracked teeth. No reason to let a present that should not be distract him from a beautiful past.

Ryzhan accepts the creature's embrace, though it makes his bones wrap around each other under flesh that shrivels like parchment, and turns his blood into dust the colour of old rust. He does not care about this. He, through instinct, arcane sense or Vhaarn's blessing, recognises this is, used to be(will become, once more, he swears to himself) his friend.

Ryzhan wraps his arms around it, and kisses what had been its mouth. Clumsily, as any boy his age would; lovingly, as only he would.

And, all the while, his newly-awakened magic churns through the creature's body, turning it back into a little girl that has always wanted a quiet life, as Ryzhan remembers Aina.

She gasps when her wits return to her, unfamiliar in her own old body. Her shock only lasts a few moments, as she sees Ryzhan fall on broken knees, using the last of his strength to raise a twitching, trembling hand, telling her to stay way.

Then, he remembers himself before the creature touched him, and heals.

It is not a gentle process. It will not be for many, many years. But, even though it is almost as painful as the mangling itself, Ryzhan remains silent, biting his tongue in half when it threatens to let a scream slip past. He spits the half on the long grass along with the blood, to prevent choking on it. It would be a thoroughly pathetic death, worthy of those dark stories he never liked, where the hero returned home victorious from adventure or battle, only to die shamefully, stabbed by a drunkard in a dark alley, or falling off a bridge.

When Ryzhan's body heals, he is not happy for it. Oh, he is thankful, of course; to Vhaarn, for allowing him to do one more good deed, this time for a person better than himself; to his magic, for being good enough. He is, however, far more appreciative of the way Aina wraps herself around him, hugging him so hard it almost hurts. He wishes she would not cry, though, and tells her so.

"Why?" She manages to rasp, eventually, deep purple eyes staring into his sharp green ones.

"I am leaving tonight." He replies, the meager confidence he built up shattering in the face of her sadness. The guilt in his voice cannot hide his savage joy at finally, finally paying his parents back, though. "And I do not want my last memory of you to be sad."

Aina swallows like she is about to break into tears, or perhaps go mad, again. She will talk him out of it after he stops being so damned dense, though. "No. Why did you tell me to...stop...?"

"Because..." Ryzhan tries to be charming, to push a strand of hair behind one of her ears, to tell her she is too beautiful to cry. "You're pretty." He finishes awkwardly, after almost poking one of her eyes out, and stammering apologies. Aina laughs, slapping his wringing hands away.

"I did something..." Ryzhan almost says 'bad', before shaking his head. "Something our people will judge harshly. I cannot remain, or they will kill me-at best. I...I would not want you to see that, Aina."

She does not agree. Ryzha, perhaps taking her silence and slack expression as understanding, gently pushes her away and turns his back on her, beginning his walk towards the docks.

After five steps, he feels the earth tremble underfoot. Earthquake? Tide? Another reason to get away.

After another five, the earth rises and wraps around his boots, rooting him in place. Ryzhan turns, baffled, and screams to see the moon creature in Aina's place, once more.

"Please, Ryz." It says in his friend's voice, and, through his haze of panic(half at the other islanders hunting him down after finding his parents, half at this thing being back), Ryzhan realises the unnatural effects caused by its earlier unsounds are gone. Its face, too, is softer-beautiful, actually. Aina's features, wrought from silver light, and an equally-luminous body. "Do not leave me."

Ryzhan almost glances at the moon himself, wondering if he's gone mad without being aware, and stops himself before doing something so suicidally stupid. In the back of his head, he hears a deep, inhuman laugh.

"You saved me, when everyone knows not to stare into the light too long, lest they become monsters; I did it because...because I had nothing else to do, I suppose." Aina laughs self-deprecatingly, and Ryzhan cracks a smile, though his eyes are on the horizon, alert for signs of torches and spells cast in rage.

"Don't you always tell me to stay away from exciting things?" He quips, and she shrugs, chuckling sadly.

"Seems I', better at giving advice than taking it. I...I did not deserve to be saved from such a stupid fate, Ryz. Please, do not leave." She repeats, clasping her hands in front of her. "Together, maybe we can convince them not to..."

Ryzhan turns away, remembering being free to walk, and suddenly is. "I'm sorry, Aina. But I will not die for you."

When Ryzhan breaks into a run, it is the moon creature he hears roaring, amidst his friend's pleas for him to remain. Reality cracks around him, but, he notices, Aina does not harm him, or even try to stop him. Not even once.

Years later, when a proud Ghyrrian swordsman looks into his mind, he will not see his memory. Ryzhan will force himself to forget, not from fear of going mad, but from guilt of hurting his friend.

And so, Ryzhan Yldii reaches the docks, steals a boat, and sets off on his journey of Midworld, while running away from pursuers he only imagines.

For that night, in her grief, the monster that has become half of Aina takes over, harnessing her grief and newly-awakened magic, meant for shaping the world, and combining them with its own. That night, the nameless island inhabited by the people of lost Copper's Cradle does not sink: it folds and crumples onto itself, as does reality around it, allowing for the things behind the curtain of what is to reach through, and grasp at the panicked humans.

Aina is spared, for she is the worst monster, and predators avoid rivals.

However, when she comes to, finding herself standing on water in the middle of the sea, and realises she let Ryzhan go, and allowed the monster to kill her people, she wishes the monster had taken her, too.

She sets out on a journey of her own, far more attuned to the world than Ryzhan will be for years, shaping the elements, space and time with her will, moving them as if they were additional limbs. She meets many strange people while searching for her lost friend. The Swordsaint and the Bladefiend, who see her monstrous guise for what it is, and train her to control it, just as the Swordsaint helped her wife shackle her worst impulses, after she freed it from the fate meant to keep a bloodthirsty monster; Mendax, who sees creation as the punchline to a joke only it knows, and who makes her feel almost normal. A little, dark-skinned man in colourful clothes, who makes her laugh and cry with tricks whose nature even her inhuman senses cannot discern.

Finally, she meets the Clockwork King and the Weaver Queen, who welcome her. Just another strange being in their shared domain, another traveler who has lost her home. They understand, and sympathise, for they have done far worse, and not by mistake. There, they promise, she can search and study all she wants, while she waits for Ryzhan, or until she finds her way back to him.

[Strigoi Grey]

Book III, Chapter 1

***
"A man." Ib echoed. "We only have two of those, though don't take my word on the captain. Or did you mean 'a person'?"

"I do not believe it would work on you." Theo replied. "For all my fears it could destroy you. You are all but immune to esoteric outside influences. As for the ghosts, their kind has always been unpredictable."

"So, you want a test subject sure to be vulnerable." Ib crossed its lower and middle arms, steepling its upper hands. The grey giant was thankful its face was featureless unless it wished otherwise, because, were it human, its ugly smile would have likely made Theo take back their offer-bribe? They had promised to truly, permanently restore its mind.

"We work with the tools we are given." Theo said mildly, ignoring the way Ib's body rippled at the phrasing. "But it is only human to wish for better ones."

Greed is shared by all species, actually. "I'll ask them." Ib grunted, uncrossing its arms and beginning to walk towards the exit. "But don't be surprised when they refuse."

***
" 'Course I'll go! What's it even gonna do, kill me?" One of Three's selves scoffed, the other two elbowing each other. "At least this time, I'd know the cause."

"You are not going anywhere." I frowned, giving the ghost a stern glare, before looking at Ib. Three had only volunteered first because he'd spoken faster than me, as he often did.

We weren't in the interrogation cham-ah, Electoral Council meeting room. Instead, we had been escorted through a confusing series of featureless, twisting, identical corridors and into a small, empty room, by a squad of Freed and one of the blue Ib lookalikes. Probably so we wouldn't be able to remember our way back if we decided to escape.

This would have been a good idea-if I had trouble remembering the way, most people would have veen helpless-if we had been mundane humans. However, Ib could have easily bulled its way straight through the ship itself, I doubt they'd have been able to stop Three, and I was sure Mharra had a trick or twelve for getting out of situations like this. The man was far too annoyingly cheerful not to have gotten jailed at least a few times.

"You still need to remember your death and find peace." I continued, looking back at the ghost. "I, for one, know exactly how I'll die: either at my people's hands, if they're still hunting me, or of old age, convinced they could appear any moment, if not." I tried to smile self-deprecatingly, but given the pitying looks I got from Three and Mharra, and the hand Ib put on my back, it didn't work.

"I won't let you do it, Three." I said, face serious once more. "Ib can't, either: even if it worked, I wouldn't risk the experiment destroying or damaging it, physically or...otherwise." Ib, obviously, didn't remembers its lapses into unconsciousness, only that they had happened. Even so, I didn't want to mention them and hurt it, or worse, trigger one.

"And the captain is the soul of the troupe. All of you...are valuable to the crew. Let me."

There was some fatalism at play, I would say. The idea of finally being free of living in fear and simultaneously helping a friend live the best way it could appealed to a certain part of me.

The part that shirked responsibility, I suppose.

Mharra swept his gaze across us, shaking his head at Ib when the giant hesitantly lifted and opened a hand, looking like it wanted to say something.

"This is like that 'no, you first' joke," The captain murmured to himself, sitting down in one corner of the whitewashed room, then drawing his knees to his chest and crossing his arms over them. "Except it's not funny. No one...is going to laugh at this, save whoever wishes us ill."

To my surprise, he did not look at me when he said this, but at Three, whose selves pursed their lips. Finally, the one in the middle smiled shakily. "Come on now, love. I'm sure  some people would get a kick seeing how courteous we are in the face of uncertain death."

Mharra didn't laugh. He didn't smile back, either, so I looked at the giant.

"Ib." I said, causing it to tilt its head at me. Even though it wasn't mimicking a face, I could feel its weariness, permeating the hatred for its former home and the hope for finally becoming all it could be, a hope balanced by the fear of losing a friend. "Do you think they'll kill us once the experiment is over, whether it succeeds or not?"

They'd obviously try to kill us if we refused, whether we tried to escape or negotiate another way for Ib to regain its memories.

The giant's chin rippled, before becoming solid once more, now gleaming. "I will not let them."

So, it believed they would. Just as well...

"Shall you choose one of us, captain?" I asked, turning back to Mharra, knowing he'd refuse as soon as he stood up.

"I had to ask." I said at his look, hands raised placatingly. A few months ago, I'd have probably thought he was just pretending to care about his subordinates to prevent future mutinies, but...I knew better now. Even if he just didn't want me on his conscience, I knew he loved Three and liked Ib, just as I knew any of us dying would have shaken the whole crew.

So, instead, we voted, and began making plans for our next destination after departing the Free Fleet, however the experiment ended.

[Strigoi Grey]

Book III, Chapter 2

***
As we came out of the room, none of us looked nearly as sullen as we felt. In my and Mharra's case, that was because we were both experienced, and, more importantly, skilled liars. Why was skill more important? Because I had a feeling Three had been lying for longer than I'd been alive, but was worse at it than I'd be on my worst day.

There is a certain breed of dissemblers, mostly represented by card players, in my experience, who have a tendency to express the opposite of what they feel through their faces and gestures. You might think there is no problem with that-after all, it's not like you're being honest, right?-but there is. Coming back to playing cards, nobody who grins like a moron the whole match is actually experiencing good hand after good hand. They're either horrendously unlucky at both playing and lying, or, somehow, as lucky as their faces suggest, in which case you should be very, very worried, and very, very far away. Midworld does not abide such quantities of luck concentrated within a single culture, never mind a single person, which likely means your island or ship is going to be torn apart in a particularly spectacular manner.

How, then, should you mislead others? Certainly not as Three was trying to do. Seeing his faces, you'd have thought he was going to marry Mharra, rather than help try out whatever insane contraption the Free Fleet had built. If even they would rather use a stranger to try it out first, rather than resort to their usual callousness...well. Either they suddenly cared about the Freed, or believed Three was worth less than them.

And if anyone even looked ready to suggest the latter, I'd remember the worst deaths I'd ever witnessed, in quick enough succession they'd get to experience all of them.

No, to mislead, one should show nothing, nothing at all. Don't show you're happy, don't show you're sad, don't show you're confident or scared. Appear as neutral as possible. This method is beloved by fence-sitters, opportunists and politicians everywhere, but I repeat myself.

As for Ib...Libertas...usually, my friend was more expressive than most humans, for all it was faceless. Even when not actively changing its shape, its body responded to its mood, resulting in smiles, frowns and the like. Now...now, if anything, it seemed like it was following my advice without knowing it was. Like it was actively trying not to change its shape or reveal what it had on its mind.

It was...unsettling. Was this how people felt when I played things close to my chest?

Our escorts intercepted us as soon as we left the impromptu meeting room, and led the way back to the Council without even a word or gesture. Not that I knew if they could even speak.

The Councilors turned to us, stone-faced, as we entered. It was only Raymond who betrayed any kind of emotion, and even then, only with his eyes. I could see the expectation, though I would have been hard-pressed to tell if he was excited, bored, or dreading the experiment's failure. Perhaps a mix of two, or all three. He definitely did not seem like he expected us to refuse.

"Right." Three snickered with the fakest smiles I had ever seen on their faces. "How do we start?"

***
"And...there." The androgynous engineer Ib said had created it rose from their crouch before the glass sphere Three had been placed into. It was thicker and darker than any glass I had ever seen, almost opaque, and I wondered if it was actually a kind of metal, whether natural or created in the Fleet's laboratories. "Now, just be sure to stand...er, float...still. Hover?" They gave Three a sheepish smile as they walked to the edge of the testing area, where they were teleported hundreds of metres above. Save for the glass sphere, which didn't appear to be connected to any machine, the circular testing area was a flat, featureless metal floor, ending in thick, steep metal walls that moved to cover it. Around and above it rose a series of rings filled with seats, like a tiered theatre gallery. Through the use of certain devices-a pair of opaque glass spheres mounted on a metal band, which covered the eyes, like some sort of nightmarish glasses-we could see inside the covered testing area.

So useful, these 'glasses', if they could let you see through wall. Even my magic wouldn't have allowed me to do that, for, while I could enhance my senses, I only had mine to work with, and no matter-piercing vision or the like. If the Free Fleet had been open to sharing their technology with the rest of Midworld, these could have saved countless lives, letting people see through fog, or even underwater, thus avoiding sea monsters, sea geysers, and the like. They would have been just as useful on land, not only while exploring unknown or newly-created islands covered in forests or other obstructions, but on populated ones, too, letting people find things with more ease, letting law enforcement catch thieves or protect rulers from assassins...

Tch. Perhaps that was why they didn't share them. Bein rivalled when it came to exploration was hardly in the Fleet's interests, but making small powers stronger, more stable? What if they banded together to the point they could match or surpass the Fleet?

My musing was cut off by a sharp sound, something between water boiling in a kettle and that time during my lonely travels when, at a festival on a long-gone island, I had seen an octopus-like seafolk spin eight crystals on the tips of knives.

Ah, nostalgia...just when I was about to decide whether I had the mindset to be a Fleet member or not.

Instead of dredging up more memories or thinking about switching my allegiance like an arsehole(something I had an extensive history of, though I'd never had better reasons to stay loyal than I did at the moment), I focused my arcane sense on Three. I could feel him burning under the cold metal and glass, like a candle with three ends. Without flesh to trammel his spirit and pollute the flow of mana, I could see him, shining brightly enough to be visible through the layers of metal.

And then...

I-

***
Bindings. Chains. Shackles. Cages. All beings, alive, dead and otherwise, have them. As do objects. As do places. Thought itself is not unbound, despite what some philosophies may suggest.

(Those philosophers are more and less than dead now. This is not coincidence)

People are bound to each other by thoughts, by oaths, by obligations. Places are bound to their past and future, and, physically, to locations, and so on.

Ghosts are exempt to many things, and barred from many more. But unbound, they are not.

Three was shackled by his past, by his loyalty to and friendship with his crew. By his love for his captain. His selves were bound to each other by thought, spell and death.

Exposed to freedom itself, in its rawest form, is it a surprise that this threefold soul, already wanting to liberate himself from so many things, the truth of his death first among them, would come apart?

It is not a surprise at all.

Or, rather, it would not be, if it happened.

But the truth, as it always is, is that-

***
-couldn't perceive Three anymore. Not only was his metaphysical imprint gone, the place where he had been felt more devoid of life and mana than anything I had ever witnessed. A shudder, born of wrongness as much as my friend's disappearance, ran through my body, any I gripped the railing as my knees buckled. I had not sat down, both because I had been too stressed for that and to be as close to Three to help as possible, but...

Useless. Useless. Can never protect anything you love, can you Ryzhan? So much good you did, being ready to help, but-

Before I could pull myself together to demand answers, or search for Three if none were forthcoming, a roar that shook my bones filled the chamber, nearly making me fall down again.

To my surprise, it did not come from Ib, however inhuman it had sounded.

...It was a sign of what a great friend I was, I supposed, that, upon seeing Mharra's devastated face, my first thought was that I'd never really seen him angry, and was almost as grateful for that as I wanted to never see it again.

[Strigoi Grey]

Book III, Chapter 3

***
While I might have left the impression that the Scholar's Tale was on hiatus, it was not. I was caught up in my other projects, namely finishing the main plotline of my urban fantasy series (which ended up over six times longer than I had expected it would be, when I set out to write it, but, paradoxically, also took less time to write than I expected; which is to say, less than an year).

That said, I do apologise to everyone who waited for this story to be updated for three months, and I will try to keep a reasonable rate of updates from now on, potential writer's block or real life issues notwithstanding. I am also going to keep working on my other series, though they're all smaller scale than my UF, so I'm not sure when each work will be updated. But, again, I'll try not to be absent for so long again.

The Scholar's Tale's plot has always been the hardest to put on page for me, out of all my stories'; the ideas for the other ones have always been easier to articulate. I'm not sure why, but it's just how it is.
That aside, let's return to the story.

"An interruption is good for the soul, do you not agree? Breaking up the...routine." Xharkhin Vhei, butcher-mechanic of the Clockwork Court, to an automaton, before beginning to work.

***

There were some people who, when they got angry, appeared calm at first, or showed a calm face throughout it, while actually boiling with anger.

Mharra, my captain, however? He was the opposite. He looked ready to rip someone in half, then his expression...smoothed over, as if it had been washed away by a tide. I saw him look around a few times, lips pursed, before removing his glasses, tossing them down, and leaving the observation area, all without saying a word.

It felt...unreal. Not unsettling-I had seen worse and stranger, sometimes at once-, but so unusual as to be almost surreal. Mharra was like his clothes, loud and colourful, and, as I followed him and Ib, the giant having moved after him faster than I could see, I realised something I'd never paid much attention to: Mharra was never quiet.

Never for long. Not like this, when his blood was running hot. He was always humming, or muttering, or tapping his fingers on something, or his foot. Whistling, laughing, chuckling. Always alive. Never quiet.

I guess the old saying was right. You never really appreciated something-or noticed it-until you lost it.

Mharra's silence, which continued even as I caught up with him an Ib, dashing away from the shouting Fleet members with a burst of remembered speed, scratched at the back of my mind, like a missing tooth, or the phantom pain of a missing limb.

I could only imagine how he felt.

***

I quickly, and painfully, learned two things following our departure from the Free Fleet.

Well. Both sides had departed, really. Us three on the sea, the Fleet on stranger tides; possibility itself, if Ib was to be believed. But I couldn't shake off the sensation of the Fleet letting us go, or telling us to leave, rather than us doing so of our own volition.

My mouth would've probably tasted like ash, if it hadn't been full of seawater.

I spat a salty mouthful as I stood up, shaking. I hadn't lost my sea legs, the damn ship was just swaying like a leaf in a storm-on the calmest waters I'd ever seen in my life, too!

Had it not been bucking like a frenzied horse, I might have wistfully pondered the cruelty of creation, how it had gifted us such a beautiful day after depriving us of a friend.

As things were, however, the Rainbow Burst's mood swings just compounded my foul mood.

I had mentioned two things, yes? They were related, both to each other, because a disaster never came alone, and to the sensation Mharra's silence, which had occasionally been broken by sharp, curt commands, but continued in spirit, had caused.

You never appreciated, or noticed, something until you lost it. And damn if Three hadn't kept things running smoothly and quietly as an engineer, because they'd gotten really rough and loud now that he was gone.

With Ib's memories returned and its shapeshifting reaching greater and greater heights with seemingly every moment, the grey giant could, effectively, run the ship by itself without moving at all. Which left Mharra with nothing to do except decide on our course, plans and future destinations, and me with even less.

To prevent myself from going mad (der), I occasionally took up Three's old post in the engine room, sometimes accompanied by one of Ib's extensions. My friend was always in the engine room when I wasn't, and didn't always leave when I was.

Its presence wasn't unpleasant, Vhaarn knew I'd cried myself to sleep after it had regained its memories, but the air around Ib was always heavy with tension. Not aggression, more of a feeling of obsession, and I couldn't spend too long in its presence, lest I be crushed.

The first thing I had noticed was that, without Three to take care of it, the steamer's random bouts of apparent sentience stopped being random, brief, or in any way unclear. The ship was alive and aware, every moment, and crazy.

Or just angry. But after a certain point, "mad" could mean many things.

The second thing was that the Burst couldn't just think and move of its own accord, it could shapeshift too, the bastard. Most sailors affectionately referred to their ships as female, but the steamer acted like the sort of once-bedridden, cantankerous old man who revealed previously unseen physical prowess just to annoy his caretakers.

The engine room was a mess of machinery I'd never once seen, heard or read about before, much less handled. Gears that spun endlessly in midair, connected to nothing; floating, meaningless counterweights; furnaces and spherical protrusions that alternated between turning the room into a stove or a freezer appeared at random intervals, bursting out of the walls to fire steam and flames or blasts of frost and chilling air.

Luckily, at least if you wanted to see things that way, necessity was the mother of invention. And, to prevent the ship from directly attempting to kill us (something Mharra had failed miserably at; I think it blamed him for Three's disappearance), Ib and I took turns or worked together to try and keep it under relative control.

But, while Ib seemed impervious to sudden charges in temperature, flying projectiles, lightning bolts and assorted traps, I was physically human. Or I had been, before I'd started remembering.

Repeatedly thinking about my toughness-for examples, times I'd walked off punches-increased it in reality. Permanently. Magic moving alongside emotion, I'd undergone a significant growth spurt as our crew became smaller.

So it was that, when a tide of white-hot fire washed over me, I was merely annoyed, rather than vapourised. It didn't even singe my hair. Then, when the heat was replaced by a sudden, howling blizzard, I just shook my head to get rid of the frost, instead of being frozen solid.

I was naked, but that was mortifying rather than dangerous. I'd quickly realised I'd literally burn through all my clothes if I spent time dressed in this madhouse.

I suddenly felt a slight pressure against my left eye, and noticed a huge blade, tons and tons of steel glowing white from the speed it had been launched at, pressing against the eyeball. It was harmless, of course, but it reminded me that I'd better remember speed, too, lest I be caught by surprise by something I couldn't shrug off.

Frowning, I flicked the blade, my remembered strength turning it into dust, which I swept aside with one hand. Dammit, what did the steamer even want?

I'd stopped trying to make sense of its inner workings; the ship only had insides when it felt like it. The rest of the time? It was a solid mass of metals and things I couldn't quite classify, rooms notwithstanding. When it wasn't randomly trying to crush us.

I'd suggested selling or scrapping it, and getting a new one, but Mharra had refused, claiming that no one sane would want such a ship, and anyone we tricked would want revenge, if they survived, but I thought he just didn't want to lose more familiar things.

'I could do it, boss,' Ib had said quietly. 'Turn into a ship, or whatever you want to travel in. I'm fast. I can change shape. Accommodate you.'

Mharra had turned to it, surprised. 'You want to get rid of her, too?'

The giant had said nothing.

The point was, there clearly wasn't some mechanical problem. It was all-for lack of a better word-mental.

I tensed, then relaxed as Ib, or a fraction of it, slithered into the engine room. The little grey blob had been more quiet than a heartbeat, but to my enhanced ears, it might as well have emitted thunderclaps with every move.

'No luck, friend?' the sliver of Ib asked softly, before growing into a full-sized replica of the giant's original body, creating matter from nothing.

'As always,' I replied, only glancing at the transformation from the corner of my eye. Ib had changed, but at least its changes were, while unknown to me in full, nowhere near as bad as what the ship was going through. 'But I think I might have an idea.'

'I could always lobotomise it,' Ib said, sounding regretful, like someone talking about putting down a sick pet. Could it...? Never mind.

'We'll keep that in mind,' I said, turning to it. My friend looked the same: a four-armed, faceless being, twice my height and nearly as broad, with a body made of miraculous grey false matter. 'But my idea is more...delicate.'

'Is it, now?' it asked doubtfully. I frowned slightly, feeling somewhat offended. Did it think I always resorted to violence first?

Had its creator messed with it, in some way?

The thought made my blood boil, something Ib definitely noticed, given how it cleared its nonexistent throat. 'Ryz? Your idea?'

If anything had been done to Ib, I'd run on water until I found the Fleet, ripped their ships apart, then... 'Yes, it is,' I answered its previous question. 'We'll get nothing by prodding at the steamer, except injured.'

'That would be bad.'

'I'm glad you're worried about me, Ib,' I half-joked. 'The Rainbow Burst started going crazy when we lost Three, because we lost him. Or at least I think so.'

'No, I agree.' Its face shifted to form the outline of a thoughtful moue. 'Its frustration is plain as day. It wants the void filled, and is angry at us for not doing that.'

'Not for tinkering with her?' I asked, slightly surprised, but choosing to err on the side of caution. I didn't know whether the ship would feel dehumanised and get offended at being called "it". With my luck, it would feel offended at getting humanised.

'That, too,' Ib nodded, becoming faceless once more. 'But it is a small annoyance, compared to its rage at being...ah...' its face rippled. 'I don't think I can translate that. "Orphaned" would be the closest equivalent, but it knows Three is not its creator, nor does it see him as a father figure.'

'Well, we're all in the same...' I almost said "boat", before realising that would have probably been insensitive. Or maybe the ship would have thought I was coming onto it. Nothing would have surprised me at that point. 'Situation. We all miss him, but Ib...' I gave my friend a questioning look, brow furrowed. 'What do you mean, its frustration is clear as day? I've gathered that, but you sounded like you could...see it, or...'

'You cannot, because you only have human senses and magic to fall upon,' the giant's voice was gentle, but I still felt like it was talking down to me. I knew it wasn't, of course, but no one in the crew was in a good mood.

In the month since we'd left the Free Fleet behind, we hadn't come across one island, or ship, or even a little boat. Pit, we hadn't even been attacked by a sea monster, or passed through a storm, or airquake. It was as if Midworld was trying to, clumsily, or perhaps mockingly, make up for the loss of our friend.

'I, however,' Ib placed a large hand over its chest, where a human's heart would have been, drawing my attention away from my brooding and back to it. 'Have always had a clearer view of creation. And my recent awakening has only broadened my horizons.' It smiled. 'Your righteous anger is flattering, Ryzhan, as well as your desire to avenge me. But rest assured, my maker did nothing except keep their promise.'

'Self-preservation,' I grunted, eyes tracking a series of chrome spheres, each moving many times faster than sound, the grey metal begininning to glow white with heat in slow motion as I remembered speed and my eyes adjusted.

'Quite,' Ib agreed. 'But in this case, the motive does not matter so much when the desired result is achieved.' I felt it shift its footing, and it would be long, long seconds, before the sound reached my ears. As such, I was surprised when I heard Ib's voice again, mere subjective moments after it had adjusted its balance. 'But, if it will put your mind to rest, I will allow you to see mine.'

As perplexed by the offer as the impossibly-fast sound, I turned to stare up at my friend. 'Ib?' I said, and the word took an eternity to fill the air, from my perspective, but the giant waited patiently. 'How did you speak so fast?'

'The aether, Ryzhan.'

'The aether...?'

It nodded. 'It can carry many things. Spells, people, messages...mana has few limits, in truth. One of the few constant things about it is thatit is created by the harmony of mind, body and soul. And so is the aether, which spans Midworld and beyond.'

I laughed. 'Spawned by the harmony of...what? A god?'

It sounded like a beautiful fantasy, but Ib sounded serious at it replied. 'If you wish. Now...' it placed a heavy finger on my forehead. 'Open you eyes, Ryzhan.'

***

There was a sense of disconnection, from everything. Of falling in all directions at once, but not moving. Then, of distance and location itself falling away, leaving only the knowledge that everything was a cage when it wasn't an obstacle, and a distaste for such things.

The distaste brought alarm, because it-I-remembered it did not believe that. Its friends were not obstacles, and our comradeship no shackle. This was only its primal essence, the rawest face of myself, and I wouldn't be subsumed or overcome by it.

I-Libertas-would emerge into the world once again, as myself, not some alien monster obsessed with freedom in its most chaotic form.

Its creator looked on patiently as I ascended, leaving its physical form and Midworld behind...no, below. The infinite seascape shone like a coin beneath it as I ascended, and learned.

My body wasn't separate from it; an invisible thread, thin as a metaphor, bound it to its counterparts in the higher layers of creation, with the one in the fourth's shadow being my body in the third layer, and the one in the fourth layer being the shadow of the one in the fifth...

This continued unto infinity, I saw, but what separated it from other beings was that my bodies moved in unison-so to speak. Time ceased being a thing past the fourth layer.

I saw, too, that each layer contained not only Midworld, but an endless number of universes like it, stacked side by side but infinitely distant, separated by the aether flowing through creation water under ice.

And, though each layer contained an infinity of cosmoses like mine, each possibility spawned a new one, just as vast, at dazzling speed.

As I saw the worlds become small under me, looking like a sphere would have, had it possessed an infinity of dimensions, rather than three, I noticed something like a gate.

It parted easily at my touch, and now I walked through lands of dreams, where the worlds would have been like a dream, like a drawing of paper. Just like each layer transcended the previous one, so did these lands transcend mundane reality.

So did the void the lands were located in surpass them, surpassed in turn by another, and another...an endless procession of voids, another gate...

Voids within voids, again, endless-more?-until I reached the ultimate one, and felt creation grow thin as I reached for the edge of thee dream it was in its maker's mind...

And stopped, as much as I could do anything in this realm of ideas, with no place or moment. No need for that. I was home.

I was, once again, one with all of myself. The Idea of Freedom, of Liberty. And I was crippled no more.

***

I drew back with a gasp, like I'd just emerged to the surface after a deep dive. At first, delving into Ib's memories-and wasn't that strange? I'd only shared mine, until now-after its creator had removed the shackles that weakened it whenever it was far from the Free Fleet, had been a...chilling experience.

At first, my perspective had shifted constantly, so that I was myself one moment, and Ib the other. Guest, then host, but...towards the end, surrounded by sights that would have blasted my mind to nothing without the protection of Ib's mind, I had been overwhelmed.

I didn't know if it had been the intensity of the memories, or whether Ib had taken over for my sake, but I hadn't liked it. My not so old paranoia resurfaced, muttering querulously about the giant trying to crush my mind and leave me dead or a puppet, but I pushed it down.

'I believe you,' I told Ib, fighting to keep my voice steady. 'And you...believe me.' I blinked, shaking my head to try and clear it. Why was I talking sso awkwardly? 'So you agree. But do you have a solution?'

'My power removes restrictions. For example, were I trapped in metal, it would give me the ability to melt or pass through it.'

'Something that will leave the ship as it is?' I asked, not liking the hesitation in its voice. 'Besides you turning into a boat and towing this one along.' Because we had both grown fond of the damned scrapheap, dammit, even if I wanted to sink it half of the time.

'Perhaps.' It matched my sarcastic smile with a thin one. 'But I think we should talk to the captain first.'

'Isn't one of your slivers always standing guard over him?' I asked the giant as we left the engine room, and I locked the door behind us, for all the good it would do, before remembering my clothes, causing them to materialise: a sturdy pair of brown pants and a tailcoat, along with a pair of thick, knee-high boots and a band of leather to tie my green hair into a ponytail.

I'd let it grow, alongside my beard, because I was, in a way, mourning Three, even though I still wanted to...believed he was somewhere out there, and that we would find him, if he didn't find us first. It was a way of showing the time you would otherwise spend on grooming went towards remembering a fallen friend.

'I am, yes,' Ib replied. 'You know I appreciate redundancy, Ryzhan. The captain hardly needs protection.'

'Does the captain know about your new powers?' At its silence, I continued. 'You don't ahve to tell me if he does, but at least tell him about them. You shouldn't hide such things from your crewmates, Ib.'

The giant stopped in its tracks, shaping eyes for itself just to fix me with a dry stare. 'Ryzhan...' it deadpanned.

'I know, I know,' I waved it off. 'But all of you already know my secrets! I'm not being hypocritical, Ib. I'm just...concerned.' I lowered my voice as we walked up to the deck. 'And you've all made me a better man than I was before I joined the crew, so I don't think it's wrong to expect better of people I know are better than me.'

The grey giant sighed, turning around and dropping onto one knee, wrapping me up into a hug in the same motion. 'Thank you, Ryz,' it whispered. 'But we only brought out what was already there.'

***

'Where's my engineer?'

'We do not know. We cannot even find a trace of-'

He cut them off with a chop of his hand. The scientist looked dismayed. 'But will you look for him? Send word if you find Three, or his whereabouts?'

They pursed their lips. 'Should the Fleet's upper echelons determine such an endeavour to be necessary...'

Mharra tuned them out at that point. He was familiar with polite, but overly-long refusals. They wouldn't, unless they could gain something from it, and definitely after they did.

It might have been a boon in disguise, though, he mused to himself as his crew entered his cabin, Ryzhan looking thoughtful, Ib nodding at the incarnation it had assigned as his bodyguard. At least, now that his lover had disappeared, perhaps the Fleet would be discouraged from attempting to recreate the probability experiment, and their troops wouldn't gain the ability to manifest wherever and whenever they wanted. It was cold comfort, but, in a way, Midworld was safer.

For the time being, at least.

'We're going to the Clockwork Court,' he announced before Ryzhan could open his mouth. 'The King might be able to repair our ship, or give us something else in exchange. I'm sure it might interest him.'

Mharra smiled slightly as Ryzhan's eyebrows went on to visit his hairline. 'That was actually what we wanted to ask about, sir.'

'It's my duty to know my crew,' he replied.

'Well, part of what we wanted,' Ib chimed in. 'Sir, what about the shows? And Three?'

Mharra shrugged, looking far more relaxed than he felt. 'We haven't held performances because we haven't found audiences, not because we didn't want to. We'll keep our eyes peeled for those, as well as any signs of Three along the way. It's all we can do. And, on that note...I've heard the Weaver Queen can do many things with death, not just life. She might at least know something about him.'

'...Do you even know where the King and Queen are, sir?'

'Dammit, Ryzhan!' Mharra cursed good-naturedly, trying to smile and force some of his characteristic bluster into his voice. 'Always with the doom and gloom, aren't you?'

***

The quote at the beginning of the chapter, something that has been missing for a few ones, references exactly that. The break from the routine of quotes, the type you'd expect to find in an explorer's journal, full of notes detailing a tumultuous, but essentially beautiful journey, was caused by the stay at the Fleet, which was filled with tension.

[Strigoi Grey]

AN: Longer break than I'd intended, but, between writer's block, my other projects and stuff irl, I just haven't been able to pick up ST again. I can't promise this won't happen again, but I hope it won't.

* * *

I'd gotten so used to the hustle and bustle of the ship-as Mharra, Three and Ib bickered with and called after each other-that now, the sound of the waves crashing against the steamer seemed almost...lonely. Such a small, sad thing; like my captain, in a way.

I'd always been a withdrawn sort, even before leaving Copper's Cradle behind without a backwards glance. It hadn't spared me for beatings as a child, but it had brought some peace of mind. When I'd first met them, Mharra's unrelenting cheer and Ib and Three's boisterous attempts at camaraderie had-I won't mince words-annoyed me. I'd never really been comfortable around cheerful people, on the brief occasions I'd met any. There had always been expectations, if not actual requests, of leaving my quiet corner and metaphorical shell, and joining in. Nagging that had only fed into my resentfulness.

Not just at anyone being so carefree in Midworld. But at being happy when I wasn't. At being able to let their guard now, without the memory or threat of danger looming over them, at laughing about life's worries, rather than brooding over or taking dry, bitter jabs at them.

Just another thing I'd taken for granted, and not even appreciated properly. Just like my first and last love...

We might've lost a crewmate, and our engineer at that, but, if anything, Three's absence didn't feel as...crushing, as I'd expected.

'It's because he had three selves,' Ib had started to joke one night. 'So it's really like one void, spread thin.'

'Oh?' I'd arched an eyebrow, just to be contrary. 'Isn't it closer to three voids?'

'Three's selves were rarely apart, friend.''

Mharra had joined in, a rather unexpected situation, these days.

We had been leaning on the railing, me with my elbows on it, Ib with its back to it, lower arms slung over the edge, the middle and upper pairs crossed. Talking, just so we wouldn't be quiet.

The captain had started alternating between sitting in his cabin, brooding and occasionally shouting or coming out to tell us about possible things of interest ahead as he checked his instruments, and sitting or standing quietly in a corner when Ib and I got together.

There were, however, more unsettling episodes. Having started to remember being fully-rested, I'd mostly stopped sleeping, so I could always be available and, more importantly, alert. Between my perpetual wakefulness and magically-enhanced senses, I had started...seeing things.

No, I wasn't going mad (der). I meant actual things, events happening in the real world. Mostly, at night, when I sat in bed, watching the exterior and surrounding of the Burst through my cabin's sightscreen, I saw thick, heavy mists surround the ship, leaving only enough visibility at the port, starboard and prow to taunt the watcher. Despite the weather being far too dry for fog this dense. The mists, which varied from white-grey and black to eerie green and other, unnatural colours I could not describe, much less name, were filled with lights. They moved through them, flickering, winking on and off, as if taunting.

A handful of years ago, while trekking through a marshy island during a monsoon, a group of local guides I'd half-bribed, half-threatened to guide me to the safest place available (so I could wait out the weather, then look for a way to get off the waterlogged mess) had warned me about will-o'-wisps, unnatural lights that lured foolish or just weary travellers to their miserable deaths in the depths of swamps.

My instincts, both magical and mundane, told me the lights in the mists were less intended to be lures, althought they could undoubtedly accomplish that function as well, and more meant as psychological warfare. Wearing the mind down, making it think of questions and see patterns were there were none.

To what purpose? I knew not. There were many unexplained, unexplainable dangers, in Midworld.

But the lights were not the worst things in the mists. Not by far. On some nights, I saw and heard things that made them seem quaint.

Formless silhouettes, darting in and out of the fog, dark and featureless even under the moonlight. Illusionary ships, like mirages in a desert, that sailed straight at the steamer, but passed through it without even denting the hull.

Mostly, they were sailships. Made of wood, yellowed by age or blackened by rot. They looked as if they'd spent years underwater, if not longer. They came at us, using torn sails that needed no wind, dark sludge dripping from them like sludge from an old corpse. The ships' timbers creaked, sounding like the wails of the dead that crewed them.

Not all of the ghoulish vessels were wooden. Some were steamers like ours, contraptions of once-gleaming metals or magical constructs of crystal and dreams.

Nightmares, now.

The crews consisted of revenants, though not all were flaking flesh and cracked bone. The ones on the sailships looked like a child's idea of pirates, all piercings and knives between teeth and death's head grins. Some were freshly deaded, bloated with saltwater. Others could've been dead for longer than I'd lived, except, instead of falling apart into dust, they'd become fouler and fouler, skin sticking tightly to skulls whose eye sockets blazed with green fire.

There were dead men with two peg legs or hooks for hands, steering wells stuck in cracked heads and cutlasses piercing unbeating hearts and useless lungs. Grotesque mockeries of parrots and monkeys scampered across, in and out of the captains' hole-riddled bodies.

The dead on the other ships were stranger still. Revenants that stalked or crawled on endless mechanical legs, like spiders or caterpillars; or flew using boxy, metallic contraptions fused with their torsos, which pulsed sickly. There were cadavers made almost entirely of rocks or gemstones, with so little flesh left, they looked more like golems that had dismembered and flayed people to wear their remains.

The thought seemed to please them. Their endless, droning chuckle grew louder at every such comparison that entered my mind.

The hardest part was always when the false ghost ships passed through the steamer. My arcane sense told me there was nothing there, as did my instincts, but it was hard to listen to the small, rational part of my mind while the rest of it was torn between fight or flight.

I struggled not to stand up and strike or run when decks full of corpses filled my sight, and though they passed through me without leaving any sensation-even the mists were more substantial, for, at least, they existed-, my soul still reeled in disgust at their approach. Monstrous limbs and bloodless, gaping mouths stretched forward and spread wider, as if their owners sough to embrace or kiss me.

'It's good you can keep your nerve, Ryzhan,' Ib grimly told me one night. 'I've seen the like before. The more you believe in them, the more real they are.' It had smiled almost shily. 'So they should have no power over you, but still...want me to sleep with you?'

Years ago, anyone would've received a deadpan look or slap for asking me that, depending on my mood. As it were...

'I wouldn't mind sharing my room with you,' I had replied. 'We are all in a dark mood now. It would not help anyone to remain alone, with the monsters.'

And that was how I'd ended up leaning against Ib's torso or sitting in its lap, its strong arms wrapped around me in a reassuring embrace that was only slightly crushing.

I'd have objected to Ib leaving Mharra on his own, but my friend's fragments were all over the ship, and any could become it-like a fist opening into a hand, it had told me; a blunt tool becoming more versatile-in a moment, if it was necessary.

Of course, while I was grateful for its presence, I was also a grown man, and a mage to boot. It felt...just slightly degrading, having someone hold mr as I tried to sleep.

'Do not think it's childish, Ryz,' Ib said. 'I'd be more worried if you weren't scared of such things. We are talking about real dangers here...well, unreal dangers. But they could become painful fact in a moment.' It patted my head, only rattling my brain slightly. 'Besides, it's not like only children comfort each other like this. Soldiers do it too, as do lovers...and we are comrades, at least, aren't we?'

Such things didn't need to be confirmed anymore. As such, I didn't answer.

I would hold on to my remaining crewmates for as long as possible, in any way I could...

No.

Forever.

And why not? Why not, when there seemed to be no end to how much I could enhance myself with my magic? The additions stacked, with no limit in sight. I felt like I could do anything. Like I could...

Well. Not bring Three back, at least. So, not anything.

And I'd tried, so, so many times. Hoped to make a surprise of it, for the captain. Show him the runaway he'd picked up for his magic was good for more than parlour tricks during the shows that now seemed vague, distant memories.

But I'd failed. It had felt like pressing my hand (or ramming my head, with how frustrating it got) against an unyielding wall, or tugging on a rope someone was pulling in the other direction.

That damned analogy was so bloody fitting, I actually got rope burns during one of the attempts. Found myself staring down at my bloody hands in irritated bemusement, ears filled by distant, empty laughter.

It seemed that whatever force the Free Fleet had unleashed or tapped into during their experiment was intelligent, though I used that term loosely, given its apparent sense of humour.

It was strange, though. I was trying to reach out to Three, wherever he might've been, not it. The larger, more cynical part of me though that another menace had been allowed to prowl the seas because of human ambition, a menace that was now hindering me because it found my efforts amusing.

The smaller, newer, more optimistic part of me thought that maybe, just maybe, Three was still out there, somewhere, maybe trapped or imprisoned by the Fleet's experiment-or the Fleet itself. Or maybe he was gone, but the thing striking back against my magic knew of a way to bring him back.

Thoughts for another day. I hadn't told Mharra, or Ib, but I wouldn't have been surprised to learn they both knew. I'd have been more surprised if they didn't, really. Ib had eyes and ears everywhere, almost literally, and Mharra...knew people.

And so went our days. The stretch of ocean we'd reached was incredibly peaceful, disturbingly so, in fact. I'd seen fiercer inland seas on larger islands. There were no tides on the expanse stretching out before us, no wind and no clouds above it. It was as still as a sapphire mirror.

I didn't spend much time on the deck, not because the weather was bad, but because it was better than I'd ever seen or read about, and that unsettled me. Still, one day, I looked down into the water,on a whim, and realised it was as clear as crystal. The only thing stopping me from seeing the seafloor was the fact there was none, for Midworld's waters stretched infinitely beneath and around us. Looking into the endless, azure depths, my mind rebelled at the sight, and I stepped back, lest I get dizzy.

And so, an year passed. We saw no other ships, no islands-not just already formed ones; Midworlders often saw masses of steaming rock rise from the waters and cool down before their eyes-, not even any animals. It was as if Midworld was trying to tell us our journey was pointless.

That, as long as we travelled in search of Three, rather than just out of necessity, like everyone else, we would never achieve anything, never go anywhere.

"Haven't others lost friends, too?"

I knew it was absurd, of course. The frustration and paranoia, scratching at my patience. I'd heard stories about sailors who'd only seen water their entire lives. But it didn't help with that nagging feeling, nor make it disappear. Nor did the nights, which got worse and worse as time dragged on.

While at first the phantasms had been mere illusions and tricks, the dangers became very much real, over months.

One night, while Ib and I were in my cabin, I was watching it shapeshift, my eyes sometimes drifting to the sifhtscreen for brief moments. The mists were rising, as always. The nights were almost as gloomy as the days were bright, like Midworld was punishing us for not taking the hint and forgetting Three, or not appreciating the beauty of the still waters it paraded before us.

I looked back as Ib began turning into an impressively realistic rendition of the Free Fleet's mangled command in miniature, then saw something jump out of the fog and land on the deck, an instant before I felt it.

The ship shook like a leaf in a hurricane, the deck shattering for several metres around as the steamer's hull almost rippled, before resuming its prior shape. The tortured shriek of metal was replaced by an actual shriek, as the  Burst let its hatred of the intruder be known.

The attacker looked like Mharra, except with sickly-grey skin and stringy black hair, as dark as his sunken eyes. At first, I'd thought the sockets were empty, but then I saw a dark joy gleam in the ebony orbs.

In contrast with my captain's colourful outfits, the creature wore a drab, dark green coat, brown pants and black boats, frayed and falling apart, rotten and dripping saltwater. The dripping never stop, as if the monster had an ocean trapped inside itself.

Its mouth was fanged, its nose hooked, and its limbs broken. They twised at impossible angles, stretched out of true, bones shining in the moonlight as they poked through flesh the colour of ash.

The joints were raw wounds, black ooze gathering on the edges. Elbows, knees, ankles, all were barely held together by threads of meat, as were the neck and crotch. I could see behind the thing by looking through it.

Ib's face rippled into a determined expression as it met my questioning look. 'Captain's in his cabin,' it said. 'I'm going to throw that impostor overboard.'

Not waiting for a reply, it dashed out of my cabin, dozens of times faster than sound, the metal of the corridor glowing white from its passing. I followed, almost as fast, and saw the steamer had already repaired the damage as we ran to the deck. I didn't know if I could do anything to help against whatever this was, but I didn't want Ib to face it alone. I couldn't afford to lose it, too, not after we'd saved it.

But if it lost you, a voice said in my mind, because of your recklessness, do you think it could forgive itself?

I didn't answer it. I had nothing to say.

By the time I arrived on the deck, Ib had already tackled the fake Mharra, forcing it onto its back. It laughed, even as its ribs cracked like seeds thrown into a fire. I stood back, trying to keep my footing, but the ship was swaying, and not from their struggle.

It felt more like it was shivering.

The mists were closing in, and I was staggering across the deck like a child who'd never stepped onto a boat, all because the damn stramer was twitchy.

I didn't realise, at the moment, that it was trying to save me. To keep me away, for my own safety.

With a mouthed curse, I dashed forward, and the fog rushed over the deck from all sides, obscuring Ib and the boarder from more than my sight. I could no longer see or smell them, feel them displacing air or shaking the deck with their movements. I couldn't even feel them with my arcane sense anymore. Ib's power, wild and free as a coursing river, was gone, as was the creature's sinister aura, like the moon hidden by a dark cloud.

As I strode through the mists, ignoring the way my senses insisted they were infinite, but that I was still on our decidedly finite ship, I began remembering traits. Strength, speed, durability, senses, increasing faster the more I enhanced them.

I kept my fists clenched at my sides after realising that, no matter how hard or fast I struck the air, the fog didn't move. Of course, it was beyond obvious, by now, that this wasn't natural weather.

My boot finally hit something other than the deck. Usually warm, it was now cold and wet, with patches of heat appearing and dissppearing across it at irregular intervals. Like the ship was sick, or scared.

I knew it was petty, but I still thought it had been far more tolerable when it hadn't been so... expressive.

Quashing the irritation, which had only reminded me of how much Three had done for the crew, I focused once more on my suroundings.

Specifically, the ugly mess I'd stepped on.

Mharra's nightmarish doppelganger grinned up at me, all needle teeth, as it clamped its clammy hands on my knee, trying to rip my leg off. I responded by remembering more strength, forcing my boot through its shattering ribcage and into the deck, keeping it still as surely as if it'd been impaled with a sword.

Its ugly grimave actually widened at this, so, glad I'd stomped a mudhole through it, I brought my other foot down onto its mouth, leaving a gory crater through its skull and into the deck. I then stomped on its neck, flattening it like a piece of parchment.

It was still struggling, through. And talking. Despite its punctured lungs, caved-in mouth and flattened throat.

Its voice only made it more grotesque, if only because it was completely mundane, even pleasant. My captain's voice, flowing from a monster's maw.

So to speak...

'So quick to violence, "Dhalgo",' it leered up at me. 'Unsurprising, but disappointing. I smelled the assassin in you when we first met, but I hoped you'd be kinder, in this world.'

I raised an eyebrow. If not for the recent revelation I'd received from Ib's memories, I might've been skeptical of the implication. As it were, though...'You're from a different universe? Another Midworld?'

It seemed confused at the second question, but answered me nonetheless. 'If that's what you want to call it.' The creature struggled, trying to rip itself free, more frustrated at being pinned than at the damage. Though, given that it had appeared bearing death wounds, maybe I shouldn't have been surprised. 'Let me go!'

'Why? So you can try to kill me, like you did Ib?' Where was it, anyway? I doubted this fool had killed or escaped it, if only because I'd crushed it so easily. How much of that had to do with satisfying my inner cynic, better not to dwell on it.

It let out an ugly, cawing chuckle. Unsurprisingly (at this point, I'd have guessed it was some sort of undead even without my arcane sense, or the wet corpse smell), its voice didn't seem to be affected by its body's condition at all. It just sounded like a jackass, and something told me it also laughed like a donkey.

'Like you killed mine? You might as well have!' it said accusingly, eyes narrowing as I fiught to keep my face blank. 'Handed it over to the Free Fleet, in exchange for them hunting down anyone chasing you!'

It tried to crawl up my legs, so I snapped its arms in half at the elbows, pulling each off with one hand, then throwing them overboard.

At least, I thought so. The weather was playing tricks on my sense of scale, and the rotting maggot tryint to thrash itself free wasn't helping with concentration.

'Where's my Three?! I want my Three!' it shrieked, like a spoiled child, and I remembered more and more strength. By now, the ship was shivering like a man dying of frostbite.

' Our Three,' I began in a clipped done. I wasn't sure if it was reality an alternate Mharra from another reality, or simply some monster spat out by Midworld's waters, but I thought the phrasing would help get its attention. 'Is missing-'

'Killed! Dead once more, and by your hand!'

'No!' I snapped, resisting the urge to rip its head off. I didn't know if it could survive that, or still talk, if it did, and I might yet drag something useful out of it, even if literally. 'The Free Fleet saved our Ib, but in exchange for their help, they wanted a subject for an experiment. Three went. And...' I trailed off, but didn't look away from it, much as I wanted to.

In fact...now that I thought about it, I badly, deeply wanted to look away. Why? Disgust, at my captain's image being disfigured like this? Wistfulness? Guilt?

It didn't matter. I had a duty to defend the ship and help my crewmates, by removing this danger, and maybe gaining something useful for our search.

They'd accepted me. How could I do any less?

'We lost him,' I continued, more firmly. 'And if you think I wouldn't have gone in his place, that brain is more mouldy than it looks.' I was glad I'd gotten rid of its mouth. Smirking was more satisfying when the butt off the joke couldn't sneer back. My parents had taught me that. 'That's what we're trying to do. Find him.' I narrowed my eyes. 'What happened to your Three? Did you lose him, too?'

It stared at me in incomprehension, then its chest began rattling as it laughed pityingly. The bones in my legs were shaking, too, but I stood firm.

' My Three is where he belongs. Next to my heart~' When I scowled at its hooded, lewd look, it giggled. 'Peel back the flesh, and see for yourself. What, don't believe me? I'd ask if those miraculous magical senses can't show you the truth, but...' it slowly shook its head. 'They never have.'

'Do you think condescension will make me throw you overboard in fewer pieces?'

It scoffed. 'Nothing new under the sun. Three was horrified at your treachery, which you compounded by joining the Fleet. Although,' it looked at me slyly. 'Maybe that's the wrong word. You must believe in something at first, in order to betray it. What would you suggest instead? Infiltration?' It wiggled like a worm on a hook. 'You've always had such a way with words...far more so than stupid, naïve captain Mharra.'

I didn't know whether my counterpart had been a traitor, and cared even less. I had no responsibility for his actions, and the way it was calling me arrogant did nothing more than stoke my temper.

But what if that was what it wanted? To make me prove I was no better than the Ryzhan it had known? Or just distract me in order to achieve whatever it wanted?

'You're wasting my time,' I told it. 'Answer my questions.'

'Three never wanted to lose anyone again. He knew we could protect each other.'

'Really? I wonder why he isn't talking to me, too. Is he this quiet in your mind as well?' I whispered the next words. 'Is anyone else there, besides the voices?' I wasn't taken aback by its fat, oily tears. It had proven it was emotional already. 'Ib. What'd you do to my friend?'

'I don't know,' it said tiredly, looking past me, at the misty night sky. 'I lost it during the grapple. Threw it off me, and it never came back.'

Better finish this quickly, then, so I could look for it.

'Interesting. Now, why don't you tell me why you came here cackling like a villain out of a bedtime story? What were you hoping to find? Besides this beating.'

I smiled its withering glare off, quietly praising myself for leaving its eyes intact. It made things better.

'I came here for Three,' it said, suddenly calm, all traces of agitation or mockery gone. 'I told you. I recognised your acent, even if we were never...sailors, in our world. I want him.'

'So do we,' I said, bemused at its almost plaintive tone. 'But you turned your Three into, what, a source of power? Is that what you want to do to ours?'

'I want him,' it said with an ugly scowl. As much of one as it could make without a mouth. 'I need my love. I will take him and kill you, and things will be as they should have been.' It tried to sit up, even after I stomped its legs to pieces. 'You won't be the last.'

As if I'd let it put its inane plan into practice. Travel between worlds, killing my counterparts, because his Ryzhan had hurt him? I had no doubt some of my alternates were utter bastards, most likely were, but this-

Move!

I jumped away on reflex at the aetheric voice, a tenth of a thousand of a second before Ib landed on Mharra's doppelganger, shattering it.

'I'd heard enough,' the grey giant said, not looking at me. 'I got lost, but your voices guided me. The more you talked, the closer I came, until I finally found you.' It stood up, the undead's remains sliding off its body like water off glass. 'Thank you, Ryzhan,' its voice became sheepish. 'I should've finished the job. You shouldn't have to worry about protecting the ship, friend.'

'Of bloody course I shouldn't,' I snapped. 'What do we even keep you around for?'

My ire only rose when it bowed its head wordlessly. Honestly...we'd made it whole again, and it couldn't even do its damn duty, for all its power? What if I'd died?

I turned on my heel, not waiting to see if it was following me, though its heavy tread soon shook the deck beneath me. And so, we headed back not stopping until we reached the captain's cabin.

Mharra was happy to see us, though he didn't show it, lips turned down in his customary frown.

'Don't worry, Ryzhan,' the captain said, not looking at me. The table in fron of him was covered in leatherbound journals and parchments, detailing the travels of long-gone Midworlders. In the hope if finding anything that could help our quest, doubtlessly; strange events, how to find the trail of the Clockwork Court. 'You got everything you could have from that wretch.'

I stood up straighter in the chair Ib had become, and almost harrumphed. And what had he done? Sat there, poring over books like some withered librarian? 'I told Ib the truth,' I kicked the chair, drawing an apologetic murmur. 'But you're even worse. At least it has powers. Why the Pit are you captain?'

Mharra held up his hands. 'Forgive me, Ryz. I know you're angry. We've never understood your struggle.'

'I'm yet to get what I deserve,' I added, glad he finally understood.

Mharra nodded. 'Why don't you tell us more about your pursuers? I can chart a course, and we'll track them down instead.'

My last thought, before we began planning, was that sailing had been far smoother when Three had been with us.

Bloody getting lost, the only time we needed him.

[Strigoi Grey]

AN: Forgot to title the last post as Book III, Chapter 4.

* * *

Book III, Chapter 5

* * *

Ib was ill at ease.

Contrary to what some believed - it faking good cheer because it always felt awkward, marginalised - it was genuinely happy most of the time. Even now, after the revelation and the loss.

It understood Midworld's myriad facets and more numerous possibilities, as well as those of creation beyond. The sensation of freedom that had always appealed to it; its true self, speaking to its corporeal one.

Even if it had only recently become able to hear the call, much less understand it.

Now, however, Ib felt like it was about to lose another crewmate, another member of the family it had found, the only one it had ever had.

If Ryzhan wasn't gone already.

Contrary to what it had expected, the thought didn't unsettle it, though it make it angry. Some part of it knew the mage was still somewhere out there, lost in the endless fog. The part that was most in tune with its power, to overcome anything it viewed as an obstacle.

Passively. Ib couldn't help but think it would've gone faster if it could direct the...process? Was it even a process, or something already finished, which it had only to reach out and take?

Well. Necessity was always a good, if demanding, teacher. Ib only regretted that it was being pushed to discover its abilities while Ryzhan's wellbeing, if not life, hung in the balance.

It cursed the fact they hadn't encountered anything dangerous in the past year, any threat or obstacle demanding enough to push it, make it evolve. The thought drew a dark chuckle from it, despite itself.

Wishing to be in danger for the sake of more power suited the Free Fleet, if anyone, but it was no longer what they had built it to be, if it had ever been.

Striding purposefully seemed to yield no result, so Ib stopped walking, to gather its thoughts and catch its breath - so to speak.

Maybe, if it planned enough, its power would see its inability to reach Ryzhan as an obstacle, and kick it. Ib viewed the idea with sullen disdain, lip curling just as it formed on its face, then chastised itself at the ridiculous gripe.

Its power was part of it, no different from a limb. Just because it had only possessed access to a fraction of it until last year, it didn't mean it was...betraying itself, or failing, or disappointing anyone.

Maybe the last part was a lie, but Ib would wrestle with that later. Its power was not foreign to it. Using it was what breathing was to humans. Natural. Necessary, even. Maybe, if it used it enough, such worries would disappear.

For now...it had to think.

What was the fog? It had never seen or heard of anything like it, but then, that wasn't too surprising. Midworld's very nature meant sailors could encounter dangers they would never get to tell others about, even if they survived them, merely because of distance.

At the same time, two crews could encounter identical menaces, but never know it, their lives and experiences separated by trillions of leagues...ah.

A smile dawned on Ib's face. It had thought about the fog enough its power had awakened, filling in the blanks that had prevented it from learning the truth and reaching a conclusion.

So; the fog was a natural phenomenon, inasmuch as Midworld's navigational hazards could be called natural. It was produced by the environment rather than engineered by any thinking being.

The damages wrought by such being the fog brought to the steamer notwithstanding.

As far as Ib could tell, the fog did not think for itself, nor was it even evil on instinct. If anything, it acted like an exagerrated version of the fog that always seemed to be present in ghost stories, or tales about disaster at sea.

Ib searched for a proper term and, sensing it was floundering, its power reached out, far beyond the boundaries of Midworld and the ocean of magic that surrounded it, and into a finite universe, into a small, blue world spinning around a sun. A strange concept, to be sure, but Ib persevered. And in this world of caged lightning and immaterial books, was the term Ib desired, even if it did not know until it had it.

Meme. A living story, or concept, much like...no. Not at all like itself, now that it thought more about it. An idea, but not an Idea. There was nothing of the Void Beyond Voids within it.

Ib tried to sense Ryzhan through the piece of itself it had left on him, and failed. Oh, the piece was still out there, as easy to feel as its main self's fingers. It hadn't been destroyed. Ib highly doubted any of it could be permanently damaged now, much less ended.

But it was no longer on Ryzhan. Either he had thrown it off, when his mind had come under the fog's influence, or it had simply been lost in the agitation, sent flying by his movements.

Ib frowned to itself. That's what it got for trying to be unobtrusive. Yes, the piece of itself had easy stuck to the inside of Ryz's collar, what with being the size of a grain of sand, but that only meant it also lacked stability.

It should have shapeshifted it into something heavier, since it hadn't done the job itself, but it had been too busy fighting that undead facsimile of the captain. It had thought breaking its joints and ripping off its manhood would at least give it pause, if only out of shock, but it hadn't.

Then again, it had only removed a shrivelled, rotten thing. It wouldn't have felt overly dismayed in the undead's place. Not like it needed it for anything.

Ib took cold comfort in having damaged the revenant enough for Ryzhan to overpower it, before finishing the job.

But then its friend had wandered off, lost in delusion, and it was up to it to bring him back to reality.

If Ib had been in a poetic mood, it would have, perhaps, been moved. As things were, its mood was sardonic at best. At least retrieving Ryzhan would be a simpler affair than the meeting with the Free Fleet, and it had been waiting for a chance to truly pay its friend back.

The fog, though not artificial, was decidedly bizarre, compared to any weather hazard Ib had ever encountered before. Its mundane senses were, at first, baffled by the apparent endlessness of the mist. Even before its awakening, Ib's sight had been able to cover any distance, unless an obstacle happened to be in the way; which, in hindsight, should have made it think more than it had, on the days its mind had allowed it to.

Its hearing and smell had been similarly sharp. Unless obstructed by an unusually powerful noise or stench, they had reached out over endless leagues.

Now that it knew what it was, Ib had grown in all aspects. Its power sensed the immensity of the fog, saw it as a barrier, and furiously set to work, in search of a way to overcome it.

The first step consisted of broadening its senses. An instant after this came the realisation that the fog actually was infinite, which irritated Ib more than it surprised or shocked it. It wondered whether it was becoming jaded, or simply short-tempered, and if that had to do with its old, newfound power.

Perhaps the Free Fleet had been right, in its fears. Perhaps, one day, it would grow tired of indulging the petty needs of insufferable mortals, and crown itself god and king of Midworld. It liked to think it would do a better job than any past or present pretenders.

Of course, Ib thought to itself, I must be in a bloody foul mood if I'm entertaining the idea of godhood as a cure for boredom.

With a shake of its head, the grey giant pushed the thought aside. Later. It had all of eternity ahead of itself.

Ryzhan was easy enough to find, with its improved senses and reflexes: in order to search across an endless expanse in a finite amount of time, its perception, cognition and reflexes had to be infinite. And, since its body standing still from its own perspective would've been an obstacle to its peace of mind, that had, as well, been enhanced.

Which had brought some interesting, but appreciated, and not entirely unexpected side effects. After all, boundless strength to generate limitless speed, and durability to withstand it, were only logical.

Ib snorted in amusement. Very little about its creation or nature was logical. Its power was just spoiling it, really, not that it minded.

In Midworld, you cherished every true gift with the same passion with which you loathed the poisonous ones.

His mage friend was walking the deck with surety that would've been surprising, had Ib not known he was being made to live his fantasies. It was not hard to accept that Ryzhan saw himself as being in control, at least of himself, even in his nightmares.

Ib wished it could do something, anything, to make him forget such dark things once and forever, but, alas, it was nowhere near that wise.

And altering Ryzhan's mind, while the easy way out, was not something it wanted to do. Like many easy options, it would stain its conscience forever, even if the mage would probably be grateful, after a few millennia, or eons,

Creation had always had a perverse sense of humour.

The least it could do for him would be to end this sad farce, then bring him back to safety.

Surely tinkering with the mage's mind to save it from the outside force that had already twisted it was forgivable? Even heroic, in a certain light?

You would not be having such qualms, a voice hissed into Ib's mind, if you were not so shaken by your origin. And it is only by the dint of the power you've had since birth that you've had time to ponder all this, before he could be harmed.

Ib held back a groan - was it really this annoying? It must've been insufferable, if it couldn't stand its own voice whispering into its head - and began to move towards Ryzhan. At the same time, it sought a different fraction of itself, thankfully still attached and watching over its charge.

* * *

'Sorry, boss,' the blob of grey substance told Mharra, who glared at it shrewdly. 'But I cannot let you out into the fog. I've found Ryzhan, but I shouldn't have lost him in the first place. I can't bear the thought of endangering another friend.'

Mharra's eyes softened, and he stood up from his chair, clasping his hands behind his back as he walked around his captain's desk. 'That's very kind of you, Ib,' he said honestly. 'If you have judged this mist to be too dangerous for me, I am inclined to believe you. After all, you couldn't lie or mislead me to save your life, and the possibility of you being wrong, despite your marvelous power, scared me far too much to contemplate it.'

The blob reared up, like an upset cobra, before becoming an identical copy of Ib's main self. Mharra pretended to miss the way it casually leaned against the wall next to his cabin's door.

Not like he was insane enough to think he could force his way past it, nor suicidal enough to want to.

'However,' Mharra continued, testing the waters. 'I cannot help but be curious.'

'A dangerous habit, captain,' Ib quipped. 'Might I suggest being keelhauled instead?'

Mharra smiled into his beard. 'What if I were to order you to stand aside, and let me pass? Go out to face the danger.'

'With me at your side?' the giant asked.

'Obviously.'

Ib tilted its head to one side, which Mharra knew was solely for his benefit. Its thoughts were so fast, and its face so impassive, that Ib had to indicate when it was having them. 'I would have to disobey, sir. For your own safety.'

Mharra breathed a sigh of exaggerrated relief. 'Oh, goodness. For a moment there, I was worried you would simply countermand because you wanted. And could.'

Ib shifted its footing, crossing its middle and upper arms. Its lower ones extended, hands spread in a questioning gesture. 'What brought this on, Mharra? You've always been the weakest member of our crew, in terms of power. And you've never complained about it, it's...never bothered you.' It seemed to give him its equivalent of a considering look, but Ib refused to permanently have a humanlike face. Mharra sometimes wondered whether it was out of habit, or because it didn't like looking like one.

Mharra shrugged, reaching behind him without looking and grabbing his tricorn hat. 'I guess it's just the mood...we've sailed for so long, without seeing anything new. I've never been this unlucky, in decades of sailing.'

Ib nodded in agreement. 'Are you sure it's just that, though?' it asked softly, with what sounded like real worry in its voice. 'You've never brought this up before, sir. I mean, I always noticed the flashes of jealousy, but that's only human. Forgive me if I seem startled.' It tried for a conciliatory smile. 'The cabin fever is getting to me too, I think.'

Mharra arched an eyebrow at the phrasing, but did not comment. 'Quite possibly.' "Only" human, Ib? Are you calling me - us - limited, or flawed, specifically? Jealous, unlike whatever miraculous creature you are?

Mharra returned the smile. Are you even wrong, if I'm thinking like this? 'Don't let me hold you up, though!' he made himself laugh, raising a hand. 'I'm sure I'll stop brooding as soon as we find an island, or at least a ship.' If only because I'll have something to busy myself with. If I start feeling more like a figurehead, you could mount me on the steamer.

Ib now folded all its arms. 'You don't have to worry, boss. You're not distracting me. My power gave me the means to find Ryzhan while being here with you.'

* * *

I gave my chair a cold, piercing look, and Ib cringed, as if grovelling would erase its incompetence. It was swaying as if the ship was in a storm, but I knew for a damn fact the sea around as couldn't have been more still if it had been frozen.

Fhaalqi...if it couldn't even be good at the things it chose to do, why the Pit had we even helped it?

I jumped to my feet, because the chair was a hair's breadth away from leaving me flat on my arse, and gave it a good kick, toppling it. Ib whimpered, more hurt than harmed, but it was its own bloody fault.

I whirled around, ready to give Mharra an earful for allowing such incompetence on his watch, but he was still.

He hadn't merely stopped moving. Even then, he'd have continued blinking, breathing. All the little, involuntary actions that made humans human. Not even people who never fidgeted were ever completely still. Mharra, though? He looked more like a mannequin, like a character from the pages of some picture book, than a living person.

I reached out to touch him, uneasily, gently poking his forehead. Maybe he'd fallen asleep at his desk? Such slothfulness was enough to drive me up a wall, but he had been quite stressed since his lover's disappearance.

I couldn't help but sneer. Stressed. Like he had anything to do on he ship. I'd survived Midworld by myself, with no one to love and be loved by, and I'd never been a burden.

As if fretting over something he couldn't affect would help anyone, much less himself or his precious ghost. Why did the powerless always wave their weakness around like a flag? "Look at me! See how little I can do! What choice do I have, except to give up and drag down those better than me?"

I swear...

While I was ruminating, Mharaa leaned backwards from my touch, which slightly surprised me. He was a small man, but stout, and I hadn't put much strength behind that. Had he moved by himself? Why?

Just as I thought Mharra's skin had felt wrong to my touch - like wax, or leather, or wood - his chair groaned hideously under his weight, making me grit my teeth.

Then, as if he had been balancing on the chair, Mharra leaned forwards, placing both hands flat against the desk. His eyes were dark pits that seemed to draw light into themselves, which widened with every moment, and his grin was fanged. I was instantly reminded of the dead man I'd crushed, and whether this was him returned or another alternate, I neither knew nor wanted to learn.

A heavy grey hand wrapped around my wrist before my fist could smash through the freak's skull, and I almost thought Ib had stopped being useless just to be actively detrimental, but the chair was gone, smashed into a shapeless mess by the giant's foot. Faster than I could see, another of its hands had caved the ugly bastard's head in, reducing him to a headless torso, cracked in two like rotten fruit, black blood spurting from the stump of its neck.

I looked around the room, then up at Ib, demanding an answer.

Its face formed a smile for my sake. 'It's the weather, Ryz. It's bringing out the worst in you.'

I struggled in its grip. 'What's that supposed to mean? What happened to Mharra? Is...was that even him?'

'It was the worst of the mental images of Mharra you had built up: feckless, spineless, good for nothing but complaining. Yet all the while, a monster hiding in plain sight. Luring you in with false sympathy or weakness, perhaps, then striking you down while you were at your most vulnerable, Working with your pursuers, or maybe just angered by your secrecy when you joined the crew.'

It let me go, and I rubbed my wrist, looking for bruises, even though its grasp hadn't hurt. 'How do you know all of that? What's this?'

Ib raised a clenched fist, and something like a sourceless grey light washed over and through the cabin, which rippled like oil on water, before being washed away like blood by a wave. Or burned like rotten flesh in a fire.

We were now standing in a corridor...no, a tunnel. There were bookshelves behind me, seemingly endless, but I knew where they began, and why they had. In front of me, a swirling vortex of light and meaningless vistas that made me wish for darkness.

I huffed upon noticing the chains linking me to each bookshelf full of sealed volumes. Very subtle, my mind. Held back by closed-off memories, and scared of an unsure future.

Ib stood at my side, the light now radiating from it. 'I am sorry, Ryz.'

'Don't be,' I snapped, not wanting to appear vulnerable after my earlier thoughts. 'It's the life I've made for myself. So...' I stuck my hands in my coat's pockets, but I still had to ball them into fists to stop them from trembling. 'The...fog, right? I really need to work more on my mind's defences.' I looked at the dismal place with weary contempt. Nothing I hadn't been disgusted yet already. 'Take me out of here.'

'I cannot, Ryz,' Ib replied, making me round on it.

'You mean you won't!' It was unmoved by the venom in my voice. 'Didn't you tell me your power removes whatever keeps you down? You made it sound like you're on the path to being all-powerful!'

'That is, by definition, a never-ending journey, friend,' it said, posture dripping dismay. At its alleged limitations? Or me? 'Were I to do everything for you, I would rob you of agency. And that would be a worthless existence, which you'd hate me for trapping you in, unless I forced you to think otherwise.'

I didn't press the point. 'So...the fog trapped me in a cage made of my worst expectations.' Or, I should've said, most of them. 'But you broke that, right? This is me, thinking naturally.' Ib nodded. 'Then why are we in my mindscape?'

'It seems you have been upset for quite a while, Ryzhan,' the giant answered. 'About things you never voiced, maybe even to yourself. This...resentment...' It sounded less ignorant of the concept, and more heartbroken I could feel such things about our crew. 'Has clearly been festering for a while. The mist just made you confront them, though in a rather dramatic, not to mention unhealthy, manner.'

I considered this. 'What would've happened if you hadn't saved me, Ib?'

Its silence was enough of an answer. I swallowed drily. 'Alright, then. What must I do to return to the real world?'

Ib pointed behind me, and I turned, seeing a chain that, unlike the others, was not made of heavy black iron. But, unlike the one reading to the memories of my parents, which was dripping with still-fresh blood, this one was as silver as the moon it descended from.

I took in my mind, and noticed that the tunnel's ceiling was still there. Yet, at the same time, I was under the open sky. Or was it just a part of my mind?

But...no. "Part" was definitely the wrong word. The sky, the moon, they felt more like a gap than anything, and the chain like a rope dangling over an abyss. I almost entertained the thought that, maybe, the moon represented something I'd forgotten, but such things did not appear in my mindscape. They weren't tears in its fabric, just...absent.

This nonexistent sky, though, dominated by a full moon I had never seen like this, was, however, very much here.

[Strigoi Grey]

'Ib?' I breathed softly, then felt stupid for it. There was no air in my mindscape, because why would I have needed to breathe here? There was no need for silence, either, unless I was missing something. Alright, I did have a tendency to annoy myself when thinking about certain things, but it wasn't like my subconscious would evict me if it got upset. If it could have, it'd have happened already.

I scoffed. That point in life when assuming the worst is comforting...

'Yes, Ryz?'

'Do you think...' I gestured at the moon, and the silver chain leading to it. 'Do you have any idea what these could represent?'

'I daresay one of you memories might be related to the moon, friend.'

I turned, giving it my most deadpan look, and a blank face stared serenely back. I could still practically hear it chuckling, the big lug. 'A bold assumption,' I said dryly. 'In lieu of better alternatives, I say we take it.'

Ib nodded, becoming more serious. It seemed...pleased with me, for some reason, or - no. Relieved? My eyes narrowed as I realised my arcane sense was either becoming sharper in general, or here, in the palace of my mind. It had to be good for something, nothing as draughty as this ugly hovel had any right to be useless.

But then, I'd been let down by enough people who'd been just what they'd seemed, or even worse. Thankfully, few had fallen in the second category. When you had no expectations, it was hard to be disappointed, but some did their best.

'Ib?' I asked carefully, warier of some hidden danger than the giant's temper. After all, I didn't know how close I was to being jumped by some repressed memory, forgotten nightmare or mental predator. 'Why did you relax when I agreed with you?'

'Am I not allowed to enjoy unity between friends, when this fog conspires to drive us apart?' it asked, five arms folded. One was raised, palm up, almost like a lumpen caricature of a reasonable philosopher.

It must've been goading me. Using visual cues to make me realise something. Because it would've been dangerous to tell me directly? Or because it was so concerned with my free will, with not stunting my growth?

Was there even a difference, as far as it was concerned?

I smiled darkly. How was Ib becoming harder to understand now that we - and it - knew the truth about it? Maybe I was just more comfortable with lies. Or ignorance. Ironic, with how my magic was to remember, but that was Midworld for you. If it so rarely gave people what they needed or deserved, why should it have given them powers that suited their temperaments?

'Of course you are,' I replied smoothly. 'Apologies. I am...still on edge.'

'Don't worry,' it said patiently. Reassurance, or veiled advice? Don't think about upsetting it, focus on the memory? Don't think about it, so it could do whatever it wanted?

A small part of me hoped I was still being influenced by the fog, absurd as it might've sounded. I liked to think I'd gotten over being that paranoid, at least when it came to my crewmates.

Nodding, I turned my attention back to the moon, and the chain leading to it. I gingerly tapped a link with one fingertip, and the whole chain swayed, making a faint whistling sound, as if there was air moving through the links.

Just more confirmation this place worked nothing like Midworld. In reality, the moon floated infinitely high above the waters, only visible by dint of its nature, which cared nothing for the laws of science. If the moon had been just as far away here, and the chain long enough to reach it, it would've been endless, and I couldn't have moved it at all, let alone with such a light touch.

Either I imagined myself far stronger than I was, or the moon and its chain as much less of a challenge. There was an obvious metaphor there, I was sure, just as I was sure I was missing something.

'Ib?' I traced the chain with one hand, not looking at my friend. 'I know you've already saved me - and I'm thankful for that, don't misunderstand - but I fear I might have to ask something of you again.'

Ib harrumphed. 'We're friends, Ryzhan. Why are you acting like I've got some reservoir of kindness you're afraid to use up? I'll always help you, and I don't want to hear any nonsense about debts.'

I smiled guardedly. 'Good to hear.' The chain swayed gently as I pulled my hand away from it. 'But that wasn't really what I was cagey about. I've been trying to access this memory, or whatever the moon is or leads to, as we've been speaking, but I can't. It's like it's slipping between my fingers, always moving out of reach. I was wondering if you'd mind giving me a boost.'

It hesitated, shifting on its heavy feet. 'I could do that.'

'Yes, I know you could,' I said, unsurprised by its halting voice. 'That's why I asked if you'd mind. I know I was a pushy bastard in the hallucination, but you know I'm not really like that.' Anymore. At least, not to everyone.

'Ryz, if I minded doing as I'm told, I wouldn't be working for Mharra,' it said, forcing a chuckle. 'But I'm not sure it would be for the best, if I solved your problems by myself.'

'Can't your power free you from the indecision? It's clearly holding you back.'

My tone hadn't been sharp, but it still sighed. 'You're jealous.'

Not even a question? Either Ib was better at reading people than I thought, or I'd got rusty at maintaining my mask. 'Of bloody course I am,' I muttered. 'A power that automatically lets you overcome your obstacles? You could bring peace to Midworld, Ib. Stop the deaths caused by nature, or other people. Lift them up.'

'And then what?' it retorted. 'Repeat the process across all creation? Rule over it because I think I know best?'

'I don't know,' I admitted. 'But it's not like anyone could tell you now.'

Its chuckle was more sincere now, though just as joyless. 'You are mistaken, Ryz. There are many beings across and beyond creation who could, at the least, stalemate me. Two of them even gave abilities centred around freedom. I have even less interest in an eternal deadlock than in ruling.'

So, there was some interest. Or maybe not. I wondered if Ib knew about negative numbers, and almost asked, but mathematics never brightened my day. Shelving the idea, I addressed it again. 'I think you're labouring under a misconception, Ib. I asked you for a boost, not a solution.' I tugged the chain. 'I clearly need to brush up on my mental magic, but, for the sake of my laziness, I'd sooner look for a shortcut.' I dropped it a heavy wink, which suited my flat expression perfectly. 'Don't worry. I'll train more once things are back to normal.'

Ib came forward, taking a knee so it could press its forehead to mine. It still took some shapeshifting to bridge the gap, but in the end, we managed.

Ib's body was usually cool, so smooth to the touch your hands would've slipped right off it. More like steel-coloured glass than metal or stone, like its appearance suggested. Now, I winced at the touch. Its forehead was as cold as those bleak islands caught in permanent winter, then instantly heated up until it felt like my skin was boiling, a sensation made worse for the sudden, contrasting change. Ib's forehead became to bubble, becoming sticky, like grey tar, and my reddening face was being inadvertently drawn into it.

I'd sometimes seen exaggerated paintings of people known to be foolish in contemplative pictures, smoke rising from their ears as they struggled to think. My mind clearly needed some adjusting if it'd turned the jokes into reality.

Of course, it could've been Ib's doing, but that would've robbed me of one more excuse to blame myself, and there where would I be?

I felt Ib's power bond with my magic, like metals being alloyed together, even if only briefly. When it pulled back, rising to its feet, I stumbled, the disappearance of the heat as startling as its sudden arrival.

Ib rubbed its chin. 'Do you feel any different, Ryzhan?'

'Stronger.' I shrugged. 'Watch my back, would you?'

'I can do better than that.' Before I could ask what it meant, the giant fell apart into a shapeless mass, which then flowed through the air faster than I could see, slamming into my chest hard enough to almost knock me off my feet. I gasped, more surprised than hurt, as Ib covered me like armour. I somehow knew I could've breathed through my faceplate, had I needed air here.

I glared down at myself, for lack of a better target, when I felt small appendages trying to slip through my skin. 'Watch it.'

'Apologies,' it said sheepishly. 'I just want to protect you, Ryz. I've already failed once.'

My eyes softened. 'I understand. I don't blame you, Ib. You never do less than your best. I'm sure the captain agrees.'

It didn't comment. My optimism, briefly managing to resurface, suggested that maybe, there just wasn't anything to add.

I awkwardly cleared my throat, gesturing upwards. 'I still don't remember anything, but I'll keep trying.'

'You've never had any experience with the moon?' It sounded surprise, and I knew what it meant. No nightmares, no visions or fits upon glancing at it by mistake, or when heeding the call of the void.

'No. I've always been careful. And lucky, I suppose,' I added after some consideration. In this aspect, if no other, I'd been spared. Maybe my nightmares of being caught and tortured by the people I'd left behind left no place for any others. How much horror could one mind break before it broke?

'You're wrong, Ryzhan,' it said firmly. 'You're right that this does not represent a gap in your memories. You did not forget anything about the moon, because people forget by mistake. This...is something you chose not to remember.'

I looked sharply at my hands, wishing Ib hadn't chosen such an awkward way to protect me. 'Are you reading my mind?'

'Ryzhan, we're inside it,' it answered patiently. 'There's nothing to read in the representation of your body.' The armour rippled. 'Perhaps I sounded too sure of myself. Let me rephrase: I think it's a memory you repressed, rather than forgot. The alternative is some implanted order, or other long-term, foreign influence. And I'd recognise that.'

Ah...of course. From experience. 'The most likely option, then?'

'Quite. I'm sure we'll learn more as we go.'

A brief surge of force flowed through my legs, and I took the hint, making my way to the chain. It was as responsive as before - barely, and not at all helpful.

'Try to climb it,' Ib suggested. 'Maybe you must reach the moon.'

Leave it to my mind to put me to work through visual metaphors. Grumbling, I tried to jump onto the chain and walk it as if it were a tightrope, but I just kept slipping and falling off it. Ib had the grace not to comment, and even provide various grips for my feet, but none took.

'Not a word,' I muttered, jumping onto the chain and landing on my belly, limbs wrapped around it. I crawled this way up as if the chain were a rope, like I'd used in my youth to strengthen my body, when my magic was rudimentary. With each movement, the moon seemed closer, for all the endless gap there would've been between us in reality, and I smiled under my helmet. Then, the incomprehensible visage it was rumoured to have appeared, its silver-white surface wrinkling, then splitting. My bond with Ib shielded my sanity, but I still couldn't make sense of what I was seeing. There were jagged maws and leering eyes and all manner of appendages: arms, legs, wings, tendrils, wings, pincers. Often, these features overlapped or combined as they flashed in and out of existence. The moon's laughter rang in my ears, a deep, hollow sound radiating sarcastic amusement.

'Do you think,' I began, more to take my mind off it than to try and drown out the laugh. I doubted all the clamour in Midworld would've sufficed. 'That this is what I think about the moon? Or is the real moon somehow reaching here, influencing me?'

'What difference does it make?' Ib asked. 'We must reach it, friend. As for the real world, don't fret. I've moved your body so it's facing away from the sky, and covered your eyes.'

Just as well...

The moon's surface was even less welcoming up close than it had been from a distance, if that was possible. The pale matter that made it up, if matter it was, boiled and seethed, and I remained on the chain rather than attempt to land on it. I was reminded of the cauldrons that so often featured in tales about witches, where the mangled parts of various creatures were broken down to create even worse abominations.

Somehow, the thought that, maybe, Midworld's monstrous moon was a breeding ground for worse creatures in the making did not cheer me up. My inner cynic would've been appalled, I was sure. Maybe I'd find him on the way down.

Holding onto the chain with both legs, one arm and a myriad small, grasping limbs emerging from my armour, I reached out with my right hand, fingertips barely brushing against the moon. A darting tongue flashed out of a mouth that hadn't been there a moment ago, wrapping around my arm all the way to the shoulder, trying to pull me in. I pulled back, and the chain began cracking as we struggled.

The moon grunted, half confused, half irritated. I got the feeling it hadn't ever been challenged before. It'd never needed to struggle to get something it wanted.

How nice that must've been, I thought to myself, grimacing under my faceplate. And, in that instant when it was distracted, I reached out for its mind, my own intertwined with Ib's, and...

Ah...

Oh, Vhaarn, no...

* * *

I sat on the deck, face pressed into one hand. I tried to fool myself into thinking I wasn't brooding: it was just the fog, which had turned poisonous, attacking my body after it had failed to break my mind. I failed.

Ib, limbless, coiled around me like a protective snake. I'd declined to return to Mharra's cabin, and my rasping voice and unfocused eyes must've alarmed it. I couldn't find it in me to apologise yet, though. I wasn't trying to worry it, just...tired.

Few reacted well to learning most of their life was a lie, plagued and defined by pointless fears. Most of those who did were former prisoners of their own minds, caught in unending nightmares caused by twisted magic or darker sciences. For them, the truth was liberating.

Learning I'd never been pursued, and would never be, unless I made new enemies, should have had the same effect on me. And it would've had, if it hadn't been only half of the memory I'd remembered.

Aina had become monstrous, because of me. Oh, she'd looked at the moon out of a fatalistic impulse, but I'd saved her, only to make things worse with my selfishness. She'd been so devastated by my departure, she'd slaughtered our people and destroyed the islands we'd been living on when I'd left.

My people had never set out after me, if only because they'd never got the chance. Aina had killed them, in a child's mad, unthinking grief. Would they have hunted me if I'd stayed? Perhaps. They'd have exiled me, almost certainly. Pushed me away, until I was a stranger in all but name. My people had been fiercely practical, and I...had been a wounded boy, spitefully lashing out at my parents, who'd been respected for their work and contributions to the community, if not for their manner.

But maybe I should've faced them. I could have, with Aina by my side. Had I not left her, she'd have been a powerful friend; even a lover, one day. Strange, yes, but not mad. And I was hardly the most usual person, either.

Instead, I'd ran, and for what? To save my own skin, out of fears that might or might have not been justified. Not that I'd ever learn, now. I'd chosen cowardice over love, and never found happiness until I'd met my crew.

I'd hurt so many people...cut them off when they needed me most, because I'd got a bad feeling. Led them to their deaths, in ambushes or spots of ocean inescapable to any but me.

Out of fear. Out of fear?

I'd never been chased. All those people I'd tricked and driven off and killed had suffered for nothing. Died for the sake of my paranoia.

I had to make amends.

[Strigoi Grey]

Book III, Chapter 7

* * *
My brooding ended with a growl, not with a whimper - something that hadn't changed from my fugitive days.

For all my cowardice in using every imaginable avenue to escape from my imaginary pursuers, I had never been able to feel sorry for myself. Not in the sense most people I had met did.

Whenever I contemplated my life, which had actually been fairly rosy for a Midworlder, I ended up gnashing my teeth in rage, not fear or despair.

Usually, that was a sign of being a sheltered idiot, but I was too busy fuming over daily inconveniences, or being hunted for what I saw as a wholly justified deed, to be scared.

As such, when I rose from the deck, I looked more like I was about to hit something than cry. Obviously, tears were not out of the question, depending what I chose.

'Amends, friend?' Ib rumbled musically from behind me. 'With...?'

For a moment, I almost thought it had forgotten Aina's name, or that it was loath to use it, for whatever reason. Being disgusted at her, perhaps, or not wanting to set me off.

A small part of me scoffed at the idea - I wasn't  that volatile, especially around my crewmates -, but a larger part was offended on Aina's behalf. If Ib had blamed her for her madness, I'd have challenged it to a duel, and damn its power and our friendship.

Tch. Maybe I  was easy to set off, as long as my old friend was the one being brought up. It felt...strange, I decided, to still think of her as someone I loved. It wasn't that I was opposed to the idea, far from it, but...

I had crushed on her, yes, as children were wont to on close friends. At that age, it had been far too early to understand love, much less know if I actually loved her. A relationship? Out of the question.

But now...so many years had passed, and we'd both changed beyond recognition - me more than her, ironically. Yes, she might have become physically inhuman, but appearance was the shallowest of things. It wasn't even the fact I knew Ib that made me say that; it was the fact I had, hilariously, been told I look honest. More than once.

Mostly by people I had later ditched when they had become too inquisitive or confrontational about my secretiveness.

And if a snake like me could look honest, why couldn't she remain the same kind soul, no matter her mortal coil?

If it was still mortal...

I had to keep believing Aina was the same selfless girl (well, woman, now) I had known as a boy. If only because reuniting with her was one of the few things I was looking forward to, alongside finding Three, if I could, or at least some closure.

I, on the other hand, had changed considerably. I had always been a selfish rat, otherwise I wouldn't have left her, but my selfishness had blossomed on the sea, to the point I wasn't sure she would still see me the same way, or accept me if she did.

'Ryz,' Ib prompted gently. 'If you're going to drift off this badly, I might as well put you on a raft.'

I half-turned to glare at the wordplay, only to see one of the giant's hands become a blocky-looking boat. When it made a grabbing motion with another, I jumped backwards, grumbling.

'I asked you a question,' it pointed out reasonably, not that reason has ever been particularly effective on me. It got in the way of paranoia, you see.

I bit back a retort about just letting its power give me the answer, beginning to wonder whether Ib's power was fully passive, or rather, out of its control. Could it be directed not to remove certain restrictions? I imagined that would've been useful, if Ib wanted challenges in life. It had amused itself with feats of power for as long as I had known it. I imagined being able to do anything would've made such endeavours boring.

And, maybe, Ib had asked for my benefit. Altruism was no longer such a distant thing, mused upon in rare moments of rest or only witnessed from a distance. I had both acted upon and been affected by it, as strange as the first fact still felt.

Maybe Ib had asked to get me thinking, not because it hadn't already known the answer. Gods, spirits and other such beings often did that, in stories.

Not wanting to start comparing my friend to any god, I decided that maybe it just wanted some conversation. That also served to assuage my pride: look, mother! People want to talk to me!

Not that you'd know what that's like, you rotten bitch...

'Indeed.' I cleared my throat, eyes on the grey being in case it tried to put me on a raft again. 'And it's understandable that you are confused. I am not that sure myself, to be honest...' I scratched my beard, which had become a duller green from all the recent awful weather. I'd have to clean myself, and not just physically.

'Most of the people I've wronged over the years are dead.' I'd killed more indirectly than directly, It was easier to rack up the count that way, for me, with my admittedly weak magic at the time. 'Of the few who have survived, even fewer would be willing to meet with me, much less talk, let alone forgive me.'

'You don't seem overly-concerned with their forgiveness,' Ib remarked.

'Are you concerned with being forgiven by any innocent Free Fleet sailors?' I asked, looking up at it with a hard smirk.

Its face didn't morph, but its voice was sour when it spoke. 'Well, no,' it admitted. 'Though you'd be hard-pressed to prove any of them are innocent.' I could already hear its arguments: they knowingly support a nightmarish regime, instead of striking out of their own. Even if they might die, or worse, it is better to fall fighting than live in chains.

What Ib failed to see, I'd gathered during our discussions about the Fleet, was that the average human would've been far more frightened in that situation than it. Less confident, definitely.

And people were willing to give up many things for survival. Enlightened self-interested had never really been something Ib believed in.

I nodded. 'Make no mistake: the people I want to be forgiven by, the kind ones? I merely left them behind, leaving as harmlessly as I could.' Whether they had suffered from my absence or not...I could not claim it wasn't my fault. I'd known full well my departure would leave them less well-defended. All I could say was that I didn't know what had actually happened to them after I'd left. If they'd survived.

'I don't actually want to be forgiven by the bastards I cut off.' I chuckled. 'I don't care about them, if they're still alive. But,' I drew myself up, back straightnening. 'I need to prove, to myself, at least, if not the world, that I can be more than a selfish traitor.'

It was a matter of principle, I decided. I didn't necessarily want to redeem myself in the eyes of whatever gods and mortals might know me. But I had done wicked things out of fear, and needed to do good, to make Midworld better, even if I couldn't erase the past.

I knew I was not a good man. Were I to be pushed far enough, separated from (or, Vhaarn forbid, abandoned by) my crew, I would do almost anything to save my own skin. But I would no longer compromise or end alliances or friendships because I was scared of my past catching up to me.

I told Ib as much, and it formed a square jaw to rub. 'I see, friend,' it muttered. 'But have you considered that maybe, in doing so much to remain unknown and alone - safe -, you actually put yourself in the danger as you feared your own people would pose?'

'What, are you asking if I've never wondered if I was making enemies by being a turncoat?' I snorted. 'Be serious, Ib. I'm too paranoid not to. But I'm also practical enough to nip any potential threats in the bud.' I glanced at the horizon. 'Trust me. Anyone who would have come after me is feeding the fishes, or so lost they won't find their own head anytime soon.'

I licked my dry lips, only to realise they were actually covered in some sort of cracking film, from the fog, and frowned. The noxious mist was already vile enough a normal human would've been dissolved into sludge in a hundredth of a heartbeat. The fact I hadn't noticed anything, much less been sickened, was proof of how much stronger I was becoming thanks to my magic.

Ib must've noticed as much, because it pointed at my mouth as it spoke, while I was wiping it. 'See, I always meant to ask, Ryzhan: even before your magic evolved, you could enhance your body indefinitely. Why did you never stop running, to take a stand against the pursuers you feared?'

Ah, there was that fearless logic again... 'Because, Ib,' I began patiently. 'I was always gutless when it came to them. I believed there were many mages on my trail, all versatile and powerful, each able to end me with a thought before I even saw them.'

'But you were never scared of setting foot or stowing away on any convenient ship?' it asked, sounding confused. 'Even if there were mages, or worse, among the crew?'

I rolled my eyes, then began rubbing them as I turned around, starting towards Mharra's cabin. 'I'm not an idiot, Ib. I never stuck around anyone I couldn't kill or outrun.' For long, anyway. 'I only kept running because I believed I was outmatched. It had little to do with my undying love of vagrancy, trust me.'

Ib began following me, covering more with a step than I did with several. In their default state, its feet resembled bulky, armoured boots, but it didn't make a sound as it walked. Its power at work, I thought, or maybe sheer skill. Midworld's sailors sometimes had to learn the damnedest things.

'If you say so,' it replied diplomatically. I could tell it still disagreed with me. But Ib had never had nightmares, or childhood fears. The closest thing it had ever had to my imaginary pursuers had been the Free Fleet, and I was fairly sure they were more scared of Ib than the reverse.

So, maybe my fear of my people's vengeance had been...unreasoning. Perhaps I had exagerrated the danger in my mind. But I could hardly be blamed. After all, there had been too many unhappy coincidences for me to believe I wasn't being pursued at the time, wrong as I had been.

And not by recent enemies. Sometimes, at noon or midnight, I could spot ships lined with or covered in copper, just on the horizon. That alone wouldn't have interested me, as many cultures used copper to build their ships. But I had felt the hatred, the contempt whenever I sat up, thinking of ways to hide, by magical or mundane means, until I could make my escape.

I had lost them every time, but...how?! There had never been anyone after me, so why had I been seeing, feeling?

Had I really been so damned scared I'd hallycitaned to a degree that could fool my arcane sense?

'A thought struck me...' Ib said, trailing off as the door to the captain's cabin came into view.

'Did it hurt?' I deadpanned, unwilling to show how much the one that had struck  me irked. Luckily, I was always such a miserable soul, it was hard to spot anything different. Even for friends.

Or so I chose to tell myself. I highly doubted there was anything I could deny Ib now, in any way. It would find out, or not. The choice was not mine.

'Fret not. I would not ask for you to heal me, my callous friend.' A grey tear rolled from an empty eye socket, just as the orifice disappeared.

I clutched my chest with one hand. 'Thank Vhaarn...I can't stand people asking for help. It's  unnatural,' I hissed.

'Very pesky, those people. Aren't they?'

'Oh, don't get me started.' I flicked a hand, sneering. 'They're only good for raw materials and menial work, not that they stand still for that when I emerge from my lair.'

'The  gall!' Ib gasped.

'I know!' I shook my head. 'Oh, but I'll show them. I'll show them all!'

Mharra opened the door before either of us could knock, cutting off our banter, and my cackle.

It had been a good one, too, I thought, glaring at him.

Our captain was smiling tiredly, however, and, for once, it even reached his eyes. Relieved, I straightened up from my hunched warlock posture, thought I kept my hands together. Rubbing them helped remove the slime resulting from the fog, if nothing else.

'It's good to see you happy,' Mharra said softly, and, at a closer glance, I saw there was some sort of rounded, transparent shape over his face. The mask - helmet? - resembled the one Ib had fashioned for me in my mindscape, though it seemed thinner, and was clear as glass.

The layer extended over the rest of his body and clothes, too, and I snorted, smiling. Ib could've made him as many clothes as he wanted, even if he had chosen not to armour them, but, of course, the captain had his pride. He would rather not ask Ib to play tailor too often, even if the giant neither minded nor needed resources; he had himself.

I kind of wanted to needle Mharra about how he could balance his ego and his miserly tendencies, likely from when he'd been a poor sailor.

Maybe he'd tell me once he chose to open up more about his past.

' Someone must be,' Ib said jokingly, but I didn't miss the chiding behind its humour. I silently agreed. It did the crew no good when the captain was being gloomy, not that many could be happy with us on their ship.

'If only we could all do what we must, eh?' Mharra smiled up at it, dry voice cracking, before something strange entered it. 'You two...I've been a poor captain.' He leaned against the doorframe. 'I won't pretend I could've navigated us out of this...death trap. I'm not that arrogant. Even if we'd turned around, who knows if the sea would've been as we'd left it? Midworld's face can change in a blink.'

'Sir,' I said. 'It's good to see you're not blaming itself, but I'd rather talk inside.'

Mharra gave me a look that, to most outside observers, would've probably looked genuinely dirty. 'No stomach for dramatics, Yldii.' He sniffed. 'It's a wonder to me that you're part of my troupe.'

'It is a wonder to me too, sir,' I said with a small smile, which the captain soon returned.

I managed to duck into the cabin before a gushing Ib could sweep us up in its arms, to show how moved it was by our friendship.

The fraction of Ib that had been clinging to Mharra separated without leaving a trace or making any sound, before disappearing from my senses. Maybe it had simply returned to its progenitor faster than I could track, though it could've, just as easily, made itself imperceivable, to hide in some corner until it was necessary.

Mharra's cabin was dominated by paintings, most of seascapes, though there were a handful of islands represented, with maps framed under them. Mharra was at good at drawing as he was as painting, but lazy. Since most islands disappeared in a handful of years, maybe over a decade, drawing detailed maps of them was a waste of time, ink and paper, or whatever you used. Unless you were hoping to sell them to some collector of curios, there was really no point, the captain said, in immortalising soon-to-be-gone landscapes.

As such, most of the maps were what could generously be called abstract, but more honestly crude. I looked at one depicting Middle Mountain at the centre of the Inner Sea, and decided that the names had been the result of Mharra being in a hurry, rather than said island's people being as imaginative as I was optimistic.

Mharra sat down behind his desk, in the chair he had recently modified, allowing him to slide across the room on small, metallic wheels. Maybe he had just been looking for something to do while unable to help with our voyage or the weather, but if this was what the captain did while bored...well. Anyone creative enough to make this in order to walk less could not be called lazy, even if they tinkered so they could be.

Once again, I wondered how many skillsets, exactly, Mharra had picked up during the lonely travels of his youth.

And what he was. I'd seen him do things that would've required magic, or technology so advanced it might as well have been unnatural. Making substances float in midair with no visible means of suspension, throwing his voice in nonsensical ways, and...

Heh. Getting a grim cockroach like me to open up, and stop looking over his shoulder, for once. It warmed my heart to think one could do such things while remaining entirely human, which my senses assured me Mharra was. Curious...

Mharra put his boots up on his desk, which he almost never did while sober - he said it worsened our already abysmal manners, by force of example. He held up a finger, not for our attention, which he knew he had (respect aside, one could hardly focus on the artistic marvels on the walls, too pure to sully with our unappreciative gaze), but because it helped him focus.

'We need to escape this rut,' the captain began. 'Neither I nor the ship can see a way out of this, so suggestions are welcome.' He grinned into his beard. 'Barring suicide. I used to know several people I'd rather not meet too soon, if possible.'

'Don't we all?' I said, to small chuckles. Was Ib amused by the idea of every dying? If I understood even half of its nature, it and death were probably siblings. 'Well, since no one here wants Ib to emasculate us...' I lowered my shoulders, as if deigning to perform some distasteful chore. 'I suppose I could remember sunnier seas.'

As I spoke, I cast out my arcane sense, like a fisherman throwing a net. I perceived little, as the few inner lights of whatever sea creatures swam below us were almost smothered by the mindless malevolence of the fog.

It couldn't think, as such. Or, at least, not any more than the Fleet's trained lobotomites. It could only follow its nature, and that was to corrode, to break down anything different from itself that entered its grasp. Physical, mental, spiritual...conceptual. It was even trying to eat at the edges of Ib's essence, though, thankfully, unsuccessfully.

The mist noticed the buildup to my magic, and tried to smother it, only for me to remember a sunlit stretch of sea, salty air as clean as the crystalline waters beneath.

Unfortunately, the human mind, even broadened by magic, can only picture so much. My magic could do much, but I could not imagine infinity. Not truly. And, just like there were endless numbers between one and two, two and three, and so on, stretching into what most people thought of as infinity, so did Midworld's endlessness hold smaller, but still boundless things. Such as the fog, which, my arcane sense dimly, redundantly tried to warn me, had no beginning or end.

So, the instant I cleared out the ocean around us, the fog rushed back in, with a sound like a hammer falling.

I blinked, almost startled. Not by the sound, though it would've pulverised me, had my body not been enhanced by remembered fortitude, but by how rotten our luck was. Had the fog been endless before I had tried to remove it? Somehow, the possiblity of me making things literally infinitely-wrose by trying to help did not surprise me, although it certainly pleased the jaded part of my mind.

Some people are just happy to be proven right, even about things detrimental to them. I hoped that, if I ever became like that, it would be as an old man, but...no. Most likely, I would die before then, but not of old age or sickness. After all, if I could remember strength or speed, why not youth?

'It didn't work?' Mharra asked, drawing my eyes to him. His hands were laced over his stomach as he watched me patiently, with an expression that said not to be too hard on myself. Not that I had shown any dismay, rather the opposite: my blank expression and stiff posture must've told the captain something hadn't gone as planned, otherwise I'd have at least smiled.

'Only briefly,' I replied. 'I think the fog hates us, and not metaphorically.'

I turned to Ib as I spoke. The giant gave an impression of tenseness, and, for all that it had no muscles to swell, it reminded me of those people who tried to jump gaps after a running start, in the moment their feet reached the edge.

'Waiting for me to get rid of this,' it stated rather than asked.

'Don't tell me it's beyond your power?' I arched both eyebrows, but it waved me off irritably.

'I wasn't talking to you, Ryzhan.' Before I could ask, it continued. 'But, no, there are few things I would describe as beyond me, even at this very moment. Certainly not this fetid cloud.'

'Who were you talking to, Ib?' Mharra asked amiably, only for the giant's torso to spin around, so it could face the captain.

'I was being talked at, rather than with, boss. You caught me thinking out loud there at the end.' I highly doubted Ib's mind was slow or dull enough not to catch such mistakes. 'Yes...I can remove this, and I will. Just as you intended.' At this, it snorted contemptuously. 'So clever...don't mistake malice for bad luck, Ryzhan.'

I felt the fog's poisonous nature fade away like morning dew, releasing a breath I hadn't realised I'd been holding as the lingering miasma disappeared.

'Speak plainly, Ib,' I demanded, rubbing at my chest, which felt as if an anvil had been taken off it. Not the mist's aftereffects, for I had been immune to the phenomenon itself. It had been a different kind of pressure, which was now switching from crushing, but dull enough to ignore by focusing on other things, to light, but sharp, as if I'd swallowed a glass shard.

Have you ever been taken before an assembly while just knowing you are going to make a fool of yourself? With every llok and smile sent your way feeling like flensing knives?

I hadn't been, yet. I'd had nightmares that had started like that, and between them and the secondhand embarrassment from watching such gatherings, I recognised the feeling, though it was now stronger than it had ever been.

'Your magic would've been enough, Ryz,' Ib told me softly, as I felt a small piece of it detach and flow over me. 'Had the deck not been stacked. Clearly, my crew relying on me is too good a sight to pass up.'

And, just when I was thinking we could finally meet other people and put on a show before we went madder, the applause began.

[Strigoi Grey]

Book III, Chapter 8

* * *

It was so quiet, at first. More felt than heard. As if someone was clapping so lightly, only their fingers were touching, and barely even then. It felt like the breeze resulting from that, wafting over my skin and mind and spirit.

With every passing instant, however, it became louder, until my eardrums burst - quite a feat, considering sounds that would've reduced humans to mush were barely enough to make me notice. Even as my ears constantly tried to regenerate, though, I could still perceive the applause deep in my bones, the vibrations shaking me down to the marrow, like the passing of a great sea beast.

Dimly, I noticed the piece of itself Ib had given me - to act as armour, I'd presumed - wasn't doing much to protect me. If anything, I felt like I wasn't wearing armour at all, and I knew my friend could protect me from something as simple as sound, if it wanted.

Which suggested that the grey giant was either letting me be hurt to toughen me up - ahem, preserve my free will - or, far more unsettling, that it couldn't shield me from...whatever this was.

Never having liked fear, I settled for annoyance. It let me complain better.

Although, given the way it was shaking my thoughts and spirit as well as my flesh, and still growing harsher, maybe the applause was the prelude or build-up to an attack, which was what Ib was preparing for.

Who'd have been hurt if it had lent a hand from the beginning, though? Not me, certainly.

Gritting my teeth, I remembered bearing worse pain, and being hurt less. The aches began to fade as I felt my body become tougher.

I'd have remembered silence, but this resembled noise the way the sun resembled fire, so I gave up on the idea.

Glancing at Mharra showed me the captain was right as rain, smiling in curious expectation of our unseen visitors.

You care more about Mharra's body than my feelings, Ib? I'm sleeping with my back to you next time we share a cabin.

I could guess what Mharra was thinking, easily enough: no one who acted this theatrical before even introducing themselves could hold back from a dramatic reveal.

What Mharra didn't know, though, was who had stopped us like this, and why. Ib's words implied the unseen being, or beings, sought amusement, specifically through seeing it rescue us from this predicament.

I'd have laughed along with our unseen audience, if I'd thought it would make this end faster. Seeing Ib solve problems was always good for the soul, especially when those problems were annoying people.

'I wonder...' I began, thinking out loud to draw my crewmates' attention. To my mild surprise, it worked: they had clearly heard me, despite me not screaming myself hoarse. It seemed the applause was selective, allowing us to communicate, doubtlessly because that made us more...entertaining.

A sneer curled my lips at the thought. I had never had a taste for mockery, and performers couldn't stand being laughed at, rather than with.

Between my cheerful past and healthy mind, I was a perfect fit for such a life.

'Go on, Ryz,' Mharra urged, keeping an eye on me and one on the horizon. His armour formed pockets for him to stick his gauntleted hands into. A little proof of Ib's indulgence that would've normally made me smile.

At my sullen glare, Ib waved a careless hand, keeping most of its arms crossed. 'You're stronger than the boss in this regard, Ryzhan,' it said, giving no sign of focusing on me.

It would've been easy to mistake its explanation and body language as flippant, but I knew better. Ib knew I disliked being managed, having my life charted out by others. It was just trying to remind me of that.

Easy to mistake...tch. Maybe after the time spent drowning in mirages, and realising how stupid my fear had made me. How frayed did my nerves have to be that a friend had to help me remember - twice in a row?

'I wonder,' I repeated, licking my suddenly dry lips. There was something in the air that left them tingling, like mana, like a lightning strike too close for comfort. 'What are they applauding for?'

My first thought had been that the whole spectacle was intended to demoralise, through irony and the shattering of our bodies. But, while such pettiness was easily believable with power like this backing it up, I couldn't help but think that, maybe, the sentiment was genuine.

I told my crew as much, and they nodded their agreement. If there was one thing Midworld was never short of, it was arseholes with more power than sense. I mean, look at us. I actually felt bad for anyone whose life was so miserable meeting us in the open ocean could make them happy.

Finally, I got an answer to my question. Several follow-ups, too.

'Ah, see? See? He still has his wits about him. Enough to look for a method behind the madness, at least...' a voice, dripping with pitying approval, came out of nowhere, quickly filling the void left by the applause's disappearance. Unlike a normal sound, it hadn't faded over time, leaving echoes. Instead, it had been cut short, the way I intended to do with the life of whoever thought they could break my body just to announce their presence.

'With Freedom's help,' a second, snootier voice countered, sounding like it was coming from the other direction - or maybe that was just my bounded mind trying to make sense of these things, labelling them as opposites due to their differing opinions. 'Without the giant?' Though the voice didn't change, I got the feeling of someone adjusting in a chair, maybe crossing their legs, or a public speaker shuffling in place at the podium. A throat being cleared followed. 'Not to say we're humble, but he would still have been feeling sorry for himself and nursing his ego if he hadn't been distracted.'

'Well, quite,' a third, tired-sounding voice grouched. 'He is still a bit player, but you two are expecting the deeds of a hero.' Its tone became lighter, as if it had noticed something funny. Or maybe it was just trying to soothe its fellows before the argument could escalate. 'Besides - this is shaping up to become exactly what you hoping for, isn't it?' The third voice became inquiring, and my mind was filled with the image of an inhuman silhouette cupping something along its middle - its chin, or an equivalent?. 'Freedom, centre stage.'

The first two voices muttered darkly, before they deepened even further, drowning the third in what I could only assume was a series of angry exclamations and rhetorical question. They were speaking, if that was what they were doing, in a language I had never come across.

And, while I could sense the tension and irritated expectation around us, blanketing the sea from the steamer to the horizon, I was the one actually growing tired.

Why was it that so few could wield power with gravitas? These three, whatever they were, had shown up, mutilated me as a sort of stupid greeting, then descended into a childish argument about how they wanted us to act. The immaturity stung worse than the presumptuousness, somehow.

A new sound cut through the deep, bone-shaking chatter. It resembled the applause in intensity, although it didn't hurt at all.

'Enough, now.' It was the third voice again, gruff once more. 'I despise the "river" of time as much as the next connoisseur, but, if you so desire the Scholar, you can skip ahead.'

There were grumbles again, of disagreement rather than insult. It seemed they had settled down.

As I was about to step forward and demand an explanation, pain speared through me, parting my armour and the flesh under it with the ease it sundered my mind and split my soul.

The last thing I saw before the white spots dancing across my vision were swallowed by darkness as I fell to my knees was Ib, who had move to catch me, too fast to be seen by even by my mana-filled sight.

* * *

Ib knew that infinity, like kindness, or cruelty, was relative. Also like them, it could be deceitful, more often than not. Finite minds couldn't grasp the infinite, only abstractions of it. For, according to the laws of nature, the information needed to actually describe the endless was also endless.

Ib's mind, which, unlike in the case of most beings, was no different from the power that animated its physical form, was not so limited. In fact, it was so broad and deep, so intertwined with the workings of timeless, changeless eternity, that, without the power of freedom it represented, the grey being suspected it would've had a hard time focusing on the here and now of Midworld, where events were separated by time, even as they stood still in its gaze.

Much like these overgrown children who had hurt its crew, it suspected. Their attention turned easily enough to torment and arguments, but otherwise wandered. Ib's humour curdled.

When one's reflexes had no limits, time stopped being linear; instead, it more closely resembled a lake, moments arrayed around an observer in rows and rows, equidistant, all easy to access.

Ib would be damned if it ever thanked the Free Fleet for anything, but it could hardly pretend to regret the easy with which its mind grasped the boundless.

The creatures remained unseen to its Midworldly incarnation, but that just meant it had to step back, as it were, and focus its senses on the bigger picture.

An infinity of realities unfurled beneath Ib's gaze, some limited in size, unlike Midworld, others just as large, some even stranger than the world of unending tides. As the giant's vision pulled back into the whole of its true self's senses, they became faded and dull, nonexistent compared to those standing above them on the next layer of existence.

Just like dreams are nothing to the sleeper, and can be unmade by a stary thought, so, too, could have any inhabitant of that layer destroyed everything under it with but a pulse of will. So it went, upwards and upwards, layers after layers, an infinity of them. This sphere of realities was itself surrounded and dwarfed, several times over by the bluish-green aether, which was itself transcended by the land of dreams that one stepped into upon leaving mundane reality behind.

The land of dreams made what many thought of as substance and reality look like shadows cast on cave walls by dancing flames, yet it was swallowed and transcended in turn by the first of many, many vacua.

Some of Midworld's mathematicians, in rare moments of respite and fancy, had argued about the existence of an infinity of numbers between each pair of those that made up traditional infinity. One point one, one point two...ninety point seven. This infinity of infinities would've been a good way to count the chain of voids, linked like unseen particles that made up matter.

And, beyond these Voids of Twilight and Ebony, there loomed an Ultimate, Outer Void. Should a traveller reach it - and not be unmade by the merest glimpse of this unchanging realm - they could turn back, gazing over creation in its entirely.

Ib, the truest. deepest incarnation of itself, was always there.

The Idea of Freedom stood up and walked, noting its brethren in passing. Other Ideas, of elements, emotions and people, all the concepts that made up creation, for everything below them was a shadow of their flame, filled this World Of Forms.

Here, Ib could see the interlopers in their entirely. Here, it could stand up to them as an equal, without the risk of fragile space and time being shattered in a clash.

They were numberless, as many of the Ultimate Void's inhabitants were. The Archetypes, for one, The Voidmaws - beings of hungry nothingness that, if they were to be likened to anything in the world of length, width and height, would have resembled nothing more than one of those pale dweller of the deep ocean, who, having never need eyes in the darkness, hunted by other means.

Each Voidmaw could have erased the multiverse with its mere presence, and everything below the Outer Void with a fleeting instant of directed power. A swarm of them, as many as there were Voids, surrounded Ib, mindlessly gnawing on the edges of its being, as if they could affect it.

A glare unmade the Voidmaws as Ib made its way to the latest challenge to its crew. They must have known, for they clearly knew much else, how much it disliked making its friends feel useless, as if the joy they had filled its life with counted for naught.

The Idea of Freedom came to a halt in front of the Archetypal Amphitheatre, where an unending audience stood in circular rows. It was, it realised, at the centre of the stage.

Subtle. At least they kept their promises.

Though there was nothing to differentiate them from the others, in nature or power, Ib quickly picked out the three who had reached down into Midworld. They leaned on the edges of their seats, great black shapes like carrion crows with unfolded wings. Their faces - heads- centres - were dominated by swirling patches of colour, shrinking and growing like living, leering masks over nothing.

Ib saw straight through them, and its contempt grew. They were, when all was said and done, beings of hunger. Aspects of Hunger and other, greater Archetypes, they craved anything, everything that could fill their hollow cores.

Entertainment was their favourite meal.

Ib could understand, in a way. Boredom and listlessness, whether born out of a shattered existence or an unfulfilling one, could drive a person mad. What it could not was accept.

Amusing themselves with the pain of those too weak to do anything, like addults beating children. Like children pulling wings off flies.

'Mantlemakers,' it said tersely, not bothering with greetings. 'Your reach exceeds your grasp.'

One of them, its mask sporting a wide, toothless grin, cocked its head like a curious bird. 'Oh?' Its neck would've snapped in half, with how it was folded, had it existed in tridimensional space. 'Because we looked beyond the realm whose borders we set?'

'Because, fool,' the second countered, 'we are threatening what it sees as its own. It is...marking its territory.'

Ib shrugged. 'No one has ever accused me of being moral.' Its arms folded as it tensed. 'But know this: if you even think about taking my crew, I will - '

'There's no need to be possessive,' the last member of the trio purred. 'Or feel threatened. You know we are here to help, Libertas.'

Help yourselves get some cheap laughs, it thought. 'It is not Ryzhan's time yet, as his kind counts such things. You gain nothing from antagonising him, except my ire.'

The audience laughed thunderously at that, a din of caws, croaks and applause. 'So flamboyant! So righteous~'

'Maybe not,' the third Manmade God agreed. 'But this shall set him on the path to his destiny, more sooner and more firmly than your coddling would have. Rejoice!' It gave Ib an ironic smile through its blank-eyed mask. 'You are always fretting over whether you are doing too much for them , or too little. We have -'

'Freed me from the burden of choosing?' Ib scoffed. 'Had you done me a favour, I'd have ended you quickly. But you couldn't miss a chance to get a jab in, could you?'

'We have soothed your mind, by giving Yldii a chance to grow now,' the Listener said smoothly, its hooded eyes dark with reproach. 'Really, LIbertas. The way you look for offence in anything is just why you were made a cripple.'

'As quick to insult as you are to hurt? No wonder you love Ghyrria so,' Ib scoffed. They, all Archetypes, were, to an extent, caricatures, their personalities shaped by their portfolios, and vice versa. But the fact these blowhards thought they could treat Midworld, its crew, like their circus of a realm... 'I will not indulge you. You are here for me? I am happy to disappoint you. I will not steal the chance to grow from under my captain's nose, nor stunt Ryzhan's development.' It raised a clenched fist, hoping they would protest. The fact it hadn't destroyed them just for the intrusion would've been beyond merciful to most, but given how self-centred the Mantlemakers were, they likely thought it was ungrateful for the chance to act as a prop in the show they desired.'

'As you wish,' the trio replied. 'We shall take what we can. More stories can be spun from this dreary tale! Why, it feels like you never actually put ton a show! For travelling artists, you sure are quick to gloss over spectacle, and focus on the latest drudgery...'

Ib was done listening to them. Its attention turned back to creation, and its Midworldly incarnation. Ryzhan...and Mharra.

It would've been even more unfair to shield them from what was to come than to let them weather it. Ib, grudgingly, chose the lesser evil.

[Strigoi Grey]

Book III, Chapter 9

* * *
AN: This chapter, like multiple previous ones, contains references to my original urban fantasy series, Strigoi Soul, the link to which you can see in my signature. As can be guessed from the chapter sections detailing the structure of creation, the stories take place in the same cosmology.

It also contains the introduction of Mendax, a character who was referenced before, and who readers of SS will almost certainly recognise, despite the different name.

* * *

The last thing I remembered before being knocked out was staring up at Ib's flat visage, featureless yet concerned: I'd learned to read its body language, to discern its mood from the tilting of its head. Even without my arcane sense, I'd have been more than able to notice its worry.

Two of its arms had wrapped around me. Cool but not cold, harder and more flexible than any material I knew of, the appendages had stopped my fall. And yet...

And yet.

I was flat on my back, which ached almost half as much as my head did, even though I - as far as I could tell - was neither concussed nor bleeding.

Get up. Need to get up, I thought, my not-so-old survival instincts resurfacing.

Lying supine was akin to surrendering: there was no position more vulnerable except for, arguably, lying prone, which I'd never do while I was alive.

Placing my hands against the deck, which felt oddly uneven - must've been damaged by whatever had knocked me out. The steamer hadn't acted up in a while, at least not in a way that involved shapeshifting -, I managed to get to one knee.

Blinking sweat out of my eyes, I glared around dimly. I couldn't make out anything, so either something was wrong with me - as I'd been told since birth - or with my surroundings.

For one, I could see nothing on the horizon, even in the parts not covered by fog. This was not the hateful mist that had harried me, but a mundane, grey-white haze. The horizon was a shapeless, blank expanse, which registered as darkness to my eyes.

Part of me wondered why it wasn't white, then (maybe because the fog wouldn't have been visible then?). I would've wondered why I was making such leaps at all, but they were hardly the strangest thing in this place.

A glance downwards revealed I was on a raft, little more than a bunch of logs bound with crude ropes. I could see no sail or oars, nothing I could use to travel the water that stretched around me until it met the darkness. A dark blue that revealed nothing, it resembled ink more than anything, and was as still as a mirror - not that wind would've helped much, with the ramshackle raft I was on.

I decided I would have an easier time running on water, if that was what it was. Why had my first thought been about how to sail? Habit? But I had hardly ever taken the more difficult option.

Grunting, I tried to rise to my feet, and failed as miserably as the attempt left me feeling.

Breathing harshly, I supported myself on trembling knees and elbows, looking at the raft in incomprehension. I had never been this weak, even as a child. My parents would've dashed my head against a rock. And I was a sailor, in my prime, not some old goat who couldn't take a step without wheezing for breath.

My magic wasn't being weakened or suppressed, not that I needed it to stand. Sure enough, I could feel mana flowing through my sinews.

Supine again, I slowly looked upwards, or tried to. There was nothing above me. To avoid sounding arrongant, let me explain: above a certain point on the horizon, my gaze was stopped cold, leaving me dazed, as if I'd lost a headbutting contest Ib. It also made everything blurry, which didn't help, given I felt like I'd been looking at a painting made by a blind child (and one with more enthusiasm than talent) to begin with.

Feeling hair plastered to my forehead, I tried to move it aside. My fingers came away green.

I balked at the sight, holding my hand above me. I'd dyed my hair in the past, often enough, but only to replace my natural colour with a bland one, brown or...it...it had helped throw people off...

What in the Pit was wrong with me?!

And why was I sweating so much?

I ran a hand over my face, my throat. Both were burning, which made no sense. It was neither hot nor cold wherever I was, merely stuffy, for lack of a better term. Like a slight pressure upon my skin and senses. Nothing like the awful force that had forced my eyes downwards, thought it wouldn't have surprised me if they were linked, or even one and the same.

I'd have chalked it up to exhaustion, or shock, but the fact I could still use my magic made both impossible: I should've been able to remember being rested, not trembling and soaked in sweat. In fact, I did remember, but the feeling of being drained never left.

Alright. Something was messing with my magic. More importantly, with my mind. Forcing me to act in certain ways. Preventing me from using my Gift would've been infuriating enough, but letting me use it while somehow making it useless was worse.

Fine. So, no way to cast, or strengthen myself. Can't look up unless I want a headache. Can't get anywhere on this sorry excuse of a boat, because there's no way to direct it. Even if there was, I was felt too weak and tired to row, much less run on water, which would've been much faster.

And, had I been able to use my magic, I wouldn't have been able to see anything, much less sail anywhere, not that I had a destination - except, of course, the Rainbow Burst, but I had no idea how to return. Something told me this was not the kind of gloom human eyes could pierce, aided by mana or not.

I stopped pacing on the raft, only partly because I didn't trust the rickety pile of driftwood. My hunches had somehow become bleaker and less useful than usual. Lovely.

After concluding that trying to glare at myself was unlikely to yield results, I sat down, tapping my fingers on the log that looked the sturdiest.

So. Our uninvited guests had knocked me out, and probably kicked me while I'd been down, given the headache I'd woken up with, despite Ib catching me. Then, they had separated me from my crew and put me on this raft in the middle of nowhere.

I'd have said this didn't feel like a natural space, but how much did I know about Midworld? How much did anyone? The Clockwork King and his Weaver Queen and wife acted like they knew all, from what I'd heard. There were stories of a being who was many, called Mendax, who sometimes appeared to test and mould people to its unknowable purposes.

And Ib...my friend's mind had grown immensely. I had to believe it would do its best to find me, not because it was powerful, but because we were brothers in all but the blood it lacked. And if it failed, if I never saw it and Mharra again...

Well. I hadn't lived well, certainly. I wanted to live more. Find Aina, clear the air. Make it up to her, if possible. Maybe even...

Ah, I thought, laying back on the raft with an arm slung over my eyes. Love. Of course it'd take this insanity to make me reconsider...

I couldn't just stay curled down on the raft, though. I'd die, or whatever happened to people in this strange place. Sometimes, the will to live was what made the difference between near death and the real thing.

At least that had saved me from frostbite in my youth, when my magic had been cruder. This was nothing like the dry cold I'd faced on that trackless snowy island, though, rather the opposite. It felt almost like a jungle, hot and humid. With my magic scrambled, I needed to find a way to cool down, stop sweating, if only to concentrate better, maybe find a way out of here.

I grinned humourlessly to myself. That island had been borne above the wave by an eternal blizzard. Maybe I could've survived there, if I'd chosen, feeding on beasts, but I'd wanted more.

I needed something more than caves to sleep in and meat to roast in order to live properly, damn my spoiled tastes. Even if I had remained there, there would've been a real chance of me going madder than I was, and who knew what a mage with a shattered mind could've pulled from his nightmares?

I could've avoided my imaginary pursuers if I'd stayed on the frozen island, yes; if I remained sane. And I don't think I would've found a way to keep myself together. Now, looking back, I would've either died a hermit, or given Midworld a new monster to prowl its waves.

Wiping my forehead was doing nothing. My arms were trembling, tired, my coat sleeves stained, the sweat drenching them mixing with the perspiration on my skin. I was going to rub my brow raw at this rate, unless my arms fell off first.

Sitting up with a huff, I looked around again, supporting myself with one hand on the raft. Something was approaching. There were lights on the horizon, and they did not glow with the shine of burning wood or oil, or caged lightning.

Mana. I could see it, the power born from the equilibrium between body, thought and spirit, like human silhouettes made of warm light. My vision shifted, or focused, and now they looked more like living cave paintings, a bright core surrounded by dark outlines.

I mentally shrugged, unwilling to risk literally doing it and maybe falling down again. One's arcane sense was shaped as much by fact as it was by perspective. With the state I was in, it was hardly surprising for my perception to shift.

I tried to slow down my breathing, tensing and relaxing my numb legs in preparation of trying to stand up, in case I needed to fight, or run.

Or, being more realistic, attempt to.

As the shapes came closer, I could see their boats. Not that large, with broad bands of copper over wood at regular intervals, each bore a handful of sullen-looking people.

Mine.

A short time ago - so, so very short - I'd have descended into rage at the sight, or fear. Rage, because they had let my parents get away with everything, because they had pursued me for enacting justice, and fear, not because I wasn't sure whether I could defeat or escape them, but because I didn't know whether I had it in me to face my past.

Ha. Of course I didn't. Hadn't. Otherwise, why would I have run? I would've faced them, if presented with no other alternative, defended my attack on my parents' minds until the very end.

I would have done all this, and more, if the lie I had lost countless nights of sleep over had been true.

But I knew better now. My people had never set off to pursue anything, except the endless depths of the sea, in the case of their remains. If Aina had left any...

So, who were these wraiths? My old nightmares, made real by whatever this place was? Constructs of some sort, inspired by my memories and sent after me? I wouldn't have put it past the Free Fleet to do so. If anyone could read a mage's mind without them knowing, and craft such things, all with mundane science, it was them, or the Clockwork King.

And, unless I was forgetting something, I had never given the King a reason to torment me. Except being fiendishly handsome, of course, but I could hardly lift that curse.

The beautiful will always be hated, and envied. I could only hope I hadn't drawn the King's jealousy.

Since rambling in my head took far less than doing it out loud, I decided I'd likely manage to rise to my feet by the time the boats drew close enough for my people to embrace me as the dearest son of Copper's Cradle.

For once, my optimism wasn't misplaced: when the boats were a few dozen yards away, I stood up, without even swaying. Oh, my limbs still felt numb, and I was still soaking wet, like I'd swam a handful of leagues, but I could stand.

You never really appreciated the little things until you lost them. Or got them. Maybe I would be able to sleep easy from now on. Maybe, one day, I would even stop looking over my shoulder...

Hmm. Let's not get crazy, just now.

Instead of contemplating the future, I faced the fleet. Ships, sails fluttering in a wind I couldn't feel, joined the boats. This was not a gradual process: one moment, I glimpsed vague shapes in the distance, the next, the ships towered over me, masts rising into the darkness like weathered trees.

It was as if the horizon had moved closer, dragging them along with it, then assumed its previous position faster than I could notice.

Or...perhaps the distance was an optical illusion? Was it hot enough for me to see mirages, hallucinate? I didn't think so, but then, that was the point, wasn't it?

Not that I put much trust in my sight here. I didn't have any eye problems, but I could somehow see clearly, despite there being no sun in the sky, no stars.

The Copper's Cradlers stopped a few metres away from me, floating in neat rows, boats not even bumping into each other when they stopped. The ships were farther back, and I could see cradlers leaning on the railings, hanging off the rigging, or just standing on the decks, to get a good lock at me. I almost checked if there was someone in a crow's nest using a telescope to see me, but I didn't want to look at the sky and knock myself down again.

Danger aside, it would've been embarrasingly stupid, now that I knew how some things worked here, and I didn't want to die looking like a fool, if I could help it.

The Cradlers could've been any fleet in Midworld: their clothes, brown and bronze and, of course, copper, had seen better days. Shirt sleeves were frayed, and trousers were held up by ragged leather belts or rough ropes. The belts' state suggested food was a luxury rather than a given. That, or enough impromptu amputations were performed that people had no choice but to grab the closest thing to bite.

That seemed unlikely, though. I couldn't spot one missing limb; all of them were fine. That could've been chalked up to the fleet's mages, but, looking closer at these people, something was wrong.

Why were they so pale? Human sailors were tanned by sun and wind. Had the Cradlers only sailed through Midworld's dark, windless regions?

Even that didn't make much sense, on second thought. Seamanship wasn't a gentle trade, but I could see no calluses. Every Cradler with a sleeveless shirt had arms as smooth as their hands. Unless they'd somehow convinced their mages to do everything instead of focusing on scrying for danger, there was no way they could've avoided the usual work on a ship.

I smiled shakily, as if unsure why I was being surrounded. The feeling wasn't hard to fake, nor was the smile.

Someone was trying to trick me, I was sure of it. And they were going at it in a pretty clumsy way, at that. Maybe if I'd been a boy who'd never left his island or visited its port, I would've been fooled into thinking there was nothing suspicious here.

But there were no children here, on the raft or among the fleet. Funny, that. The people of Copper's Cradle had never shied away from exposing their children to life in Midworld, which suggested whoever had conjured this farce of a fleet didn't know much about my home.

I would've been almost sure of that just from how unfamiliar the sailors looked; we hadn't been a large fleet, so everyone had known everyone, by face if not by name. However, it had been the bronze bands on the boats and ships that had tipped me off, along with the colour of these people's clothes.

If that was what they were...

'Hello,' I broke the silence. 'I see you came from the other side? I would be grateful if you showed me the way. You see, I woke up here,' I gestured at the raft and our strange surroundings, 'and I can't quite remember how. I think I was caught in a storm and hit my head,' as I spoke, I scratched it, wincing like I was in pain, 'on my raft. Oh!' I closed my eyes, grinning sheepishly. 'My name's Ovhyn, by the way.'

The Cradlers looked at me for a few moments, then some began laughing. It wasn't the synchronised, grating laughter I'd have expected from these creatures. It sounded human enough, actually, soft, coming from a handful of sailors. The other looked at each other as if they were in on a joke at my expense.

'Not to worry, Ryzhan.' One Cradler, a barrel-chested, middle-aged man with sideburns, waved at me, smiling. Between his girth, paleness and small eyes, he looked like a deep ocean fish someone had stuffed in a burlap sack. He was the only sailor I could see who didn't look lean, so maybe he had decided that, being the biggest, he might as well eat the others. 'We know. No need to fib.'

I bristled, but managed to keep myself from frowning. Being called a liar aleays set me off. My not-inconsiderable pride in my dissembling skills took it poorly, as did the tattered remnant of my integrity, which ocassionally resurfaced when it forgot I lived in Midworld.

'I think you're confusing me,' I replied. 'I can't recall us ever meeting, sir, and I sail alone.' I raised an eyebrow. 'Unremarkably enough for people not to know me by name, much less a wrong one.'

Girthy put his meaty hands on his hips, shaking his fat head. It was fascinating to watch it moving with no neck visible beneath it. I was dismayed at how much effort it'd take to wrap my hands around his throat after I ripped hus grubby mitts off.

'Dammit, boy,' he saif softly, almost mouthing the words. 'Don't you recognise your father?'

I gave him a deadpan look, but the alleged Gharzov met my eyes without difficulty, or saying anything. I looked past him, to see if there wasn't someone eager to step forward and pretend she was Frelzha.

'Who do you believe you are talking to, exactly?' I asked, looking at him but addressing the fleet, in the same tone of voice he was using, hands clasped behind my back. That would've made me seem harmless to most people - how fast could I pull a weapon from behind myself? -, but, if they knew I was a mage, any halfway suspicious gesture would put them on edge.

Though making a calming gesture and speaking in a friendly manner on the surface, I was very much goading them. No one reacted to my movement, though they tripped over each other to answer my question.

Except not really.

'What do you mean, Ryzhan?'

'Forget you in a couple decades? What in the Pit?!' Brief but loud laughter followed this.

'We never stopped lookin' fer ya, lad!' Several grizzled heads nodded earnestly at each other. I wondered if they were trying to reassure me or themselves. Or remind themselves to stay in character.

I continued looking at "Gharzov", but he just crossed his fleshy arms at my questioning expression. Shaking my head, I looked at the fleet, taking in everyone.

'You can drop the façade,' I told them. They should, if they knew what was good for them. I wasn't amused by taunts made at the expense of my lost home. 'Whoever you are, I know you cannot be the people I knew growing up. They're all dead.'

Gharzov nodded. 'At the hands of that monster girl - I can see why you'd think that.'

'Aina,' I snapped, 'didn't do anything out of malice. She had become a lunatic.'

'And who made her look at the moon?' Gharzov retorted. 'Even the lowest lackwit knows to avoid its gaze.'

'The reason doesn't matter anymore. What happened, happened. Besides, she had no reason to believe she'd turn into some island-shattering monster. All our legends only spoke of lunacy causing people to act erratically - at worst, harm themselves and others.'

'And that's better?' The fat man harrumphed. 'That girl, stupid stripling that she was, knew one more pair of hands, with a healthy mind behind them, would always be helpful. By maddening herself, she stole from us all.' Well. If nothing else, this thing was just as annoying as my actual father, though only a fraction as ugly. I suppose even illusions had limits. 'And, one day, her womb could've enriched our fleet.'

Just as disgusting, too. It was exactly this obsession with petty fleets and communities that stopped people from banding together to create a balance to the Great Powers, maybe even form new ones.

But no. We needed this resource, or they could stab our backs when we turned them, or their beliefs clashed with ours, harmless as they were, or a thousand other empty justifications. The worst part was, I understood the reasoning.

As hypocritical as it felt to condemn others for selfishness and paranoia, I had spent enough time alone to understand how self-centred some people were, how prideful some cultures could become, if they endured enough.

'I'll be sure to tell her she has to become a broodmare after we meet,' I said brightly, smile sharp. 'Anything else? Should I slit my throat now, or are you still pretending to be friendly?'

'Pretending...? Son, what in Midworld are you even on about?' Gharzov sputtered. Then, his eyes narrowed. 'And what do you mean, after you meet? With that...?'

'Whoever I want to meet is my business,' I replied. 'And, please, let us end this charade, shall we? You might know who I am, but I only know who you aren't.'

Gharzov's face became more serious, his eyes sharper. 'Look, boy: I understand why you're suspicious. You think your...friend, killed us all when she destroyed our then-home. And she very well might have,' his chest puffed out a little, 'if it hadn't been for me.'

I held his gaze for what felt like forever, waiting for a sign that he knew how ridiculous that sounded. When none appeared, I couldn't help but burst out into laughter.

'Y-You...' I rubbed my forehead, but never closed my eyes, never took them off him. 'You...what did you do, you old fool? Convince her not to choke on someone as bitter as you?'

He briefly turned his head to spit. 'You think she eats people but still want to go to her?'

'Don't mistake my humour for joy,' I warned him, glaring. If he thought my attempt at staving off brooding meant I was feeling forgiving, he had another thing coming. 'And don't you ever speak that way about my friend again. She's mad, not monstrous.'

'Not mon-dammit, Ryzhan! She slaughtered almost everyone you knew!'

'You'll forgive me,' I sneered at him, eyes hooded, 'if I can't bring myself to care about people who held you up as a pillar of the community.' I looked around. 'Speaking of that...where's your cow of a wife? Still around?'

'Your mother,' he spat, 'is resting. Her knowledge of healing is always needed, so she takes every chance to rest she can.' Gharzov took a deep breath, maybe to calm down. A shame. I'd have liked an excuse to put a hole through his skull.
'Forget that. You wouldn't have cared if she'd killed us all, you say? Not even the children?'

I scoffed, to hide my hesitation. 'Since when have you ever called about children except as tools and future walking wombs? You're barking up the wrong tree, "father". I've watched entire islands sink, newborns and elders together, because that was their choice.'

And it would be a cold day in the Pit before I gave half a damn about the opinion of a man who beat his son like a mule. Unclasping my hands, I lowered them to my sides. Just in case. 'But never mind that. You were just about to lie to me about how you saved the legacy of Copper's Cradle from certain destruction.'

'No lies, Ryz.' It sounded bloody twisted coming from his mouth, even if my parents had called me that long before I had set off to sea, let alone met my crew. 'Although...' He cupped his jowly chin. 'In a way, I suppose you saved us.'

'Explain,' I demanded, just short of growling.

Gharzov raised his hands, but I could've told there was nothing up his sleeves from the fact he had none. 'Magic, Ryzhan. It can awaken when you least expect it. That scare you gave me and your mother? It saved our lives, in the end, when it could have very easily brought our deaths.'

I opened my mouth, but quickly closed it. Could that have happened? Could my father have awakened some sort of magic to protect himself and the Cradlers from Aina's rampage, or maybe escape her?

Yes, in theory. In practice...magic on a scale that large, a spell so precise, performed by someone whose mana had only been awake for minutes at most? Who had, before he had become a mage, been almost braindead?

Had my memories been wrong, altered by Ib, maybe? Had that been some convoluted attempt on the grey giant's part to make me think the way it wanted me to? To what purpose?

Ib, I thought. I know you can hear this. I want this - them - to be a lie. I...

I couldn't bear to be betrayed. Not by it. People had turned on me in the past, when it had seemed the most profitable or moral course of action - there were mage sellers and buyers all across Midworld, and hunters, too -, but none of them had been like a brother to me.

Refusing to show how shaken I was, I steeled myself, and thought, If you can, Ib, I need your help. Make an opening into this nightmare. Give me a sign. Anything.

* * *

Ib looked down at its friend. Just as its tridimensional incarnation cradled Ryzhan's - and Mharra's - twitching bodies, its true self observed them from the depths of the Last Sphere of creation that was the Realm of Forms.

Then, the Mantlemakers crowded around it, and its dismay turned to distaste.

'Yes?' it groused, stifling a sigh.

None of the Mandmade Gods looked at it. Instead, they gestured at the half-phantasmal realm Ryzhan believed he was stuck in.

But Ryz is a mage, Ib thought bleakly. There is little difference between reality and imagination to him.

The worst part was that Mharra was in a similar predicament, despite not being a mage. Wherever their thoughts took them, they could remain there.

Moving the Mantlemakers aside, Ib looked past them, and at the being it had always known - the one, in a way, it had only just met.

'I understand you think this is the only way,' it told the one Midworlders called Mendax when they stopped cursing it. 'But Ryz is not your pawn to move.'

The being, which would've appeared as a vaguely humanoid, colourless silhouette in reality, did not stop watching the proceedings as it answered. 'Who said he is? Whipping the boy into shape is necessary, yes, but that's no reason to be callous.'

Ib scowled. Was this what the Mendax considered being kind?

Walking closer, it put a hand on one of Mendax's appendages. The creature turned to it with an air of exasperation.

'Yes?'

'I know your purpose,' the Idea of Freedom stated. 'You keep the wheels of creation turning, so everything does not fall into nothing.' It leaned closer. 'You believe my crew's pain will sustain creation.'

It was a statement, not a question. Mendax appeared nonplussed. Chuckling, it slipped out of Ib's grasp. 'Absolutely not.' It didn't blink at the sight of Ib's raised, clenched fists. Blowing a raspberry, the creature wrapped two extremities around itself. 'Oh, don't act so outraged, Ib. We both know the value of free will, else one of us would've uplifted everyone there is, or tried to.' A shrewd glint entered its gaze. 'But we are not so free, exactly, are we?'

Ib grunted in agreement. 'Creation is the Dream of some unfathomable being, yes. What of it? If you say you can fight against that, isn't it only because you are dreamed to do so?'

Mendax sniggered. 'You'd be surprised. Well, you wouldn't be if you stopped underestimating yourself. I doubt there's anything unfathomable for you, if you view ignorance as an obstacle.'

'Explain,' Ib ground out.

Getting what it meant, Mendax nodded. 'This has nothing to do with my duty, but certain people are very interested in freeing themselves, and everyone else - and not just among us. I am...' It steepled its fingers. 'Facilitating that.'

'Because you're bored?'

Mendax rolled its eyes. 'Because it's the right thing to do, you lump. I do have a heart, you know. I just use my head most of the time.'

Ib lowered its fists, but did not unclench them. 'Thank you, then, Remaker.'

'You're welcome. We're all in this together...'

As Mendax trailed off, its gaze drifting to its dark opposite, and the antlered, decaying monster that fought for as much as against it, Ib walked to stand besides it.

'We'll take care of 'em,' Mendax said easily. 'Don't you worry. You have your part to play here.' Some reproach entered its voice. 'And you can get off my friggin' back, while you're at it. You wanted to put your mates through the wringer whether I stuck my nose in this or not.'

Mendax's silhouette changed, shifting like heat haze. For a moment, a bearded man, dark of skin and grey of hair, stood in the shapeless being's place. He was as scarred and grizzled as his dark green uniform - the patch that had once borne the flag of a nation replaced by those of the worldwide coalition it was part of - was ragged.

'True,' Ib agreed. 'But only because it is necessary for their growth.'

'Oh, don't I know all about that,' Mendax muttered, fingering a small, easy-to-miss ring on his right hand. Then, its formless appearance returned, images of a black-eyed, fanged corpse, with grey skin and hair, flashing within its body.

'The dead man will hate you for it,' Ib pointed out.

'So will the Scholar,' Mendax agreed. 'But if we survive enough for morality to become a matter of concern, that means my duty is done.'

* * *

I looked at Gharzov, searching for any tells of dishonesty. How much could I trust myself, though? This place was like poison to my senses.

'Your...magic,' I began haltingly. 'What did you do?'

Gharzov smiled modestly, like he was worried about being called a braggart, were he to describe his escape in detail. Nothing like the man who'd beaten me half to death so many times growing up, but if this was indeed my father, if he had indeed survived...how much had changed?

Enough that the Cradlers wouldn't try to take revenge on me? It seemed unlikely, but my magic kept slipping out of my grasp, so, if this was a ploy to make me lower my guard, I doubted I could either defend myself or escape.

'That agonised trance you left me and your mother in? I was awoken from it by fear,' Gharzov said. 'I felt the monster appear, heard it roar, and that scared all the pain away.' He stepped out of his boat and onto my raft, trying to put his hands on my shoulders, but I walked backwards, and he lowered them, quietly disappointed.

That was new. Usually, my father's disappointment in me was announced by screams and fists flying.

'I thought about how we - all of us - needed to get away, and the world warped around us, like fabric around pebbles,' he continued. 'We found ourselves on a stretch of sea, with no islands in sight, not even any rocks.'

At this, there were some huffs and mumbling about the bad old days.

'At first...I admit, I was angry at you, Ryzhan. I thought you were a selfish little bastard, who, instead of using his newly-awakened magic to help his people, used it to throw a tantrum.' Tears filled the corners of Gharzov's eyes, and we wipped them with a hand. 'But, while we continued our journey for new islands, and looked for you at the same time, wanting to take revenge...we remembered the thing your friend had become.'

Were those shudders among the Cradlers theatrical? Humourous?

'We were terrified. That it would find us, somehow, and finish what it had started. We didn't know how, but we'd never even heard about a moon-touched this monstrous, either. We weren't willing to take risks.'

At this, his eyes became a little distant, but warm, like his small smile. 'It was your mother who came up with the idea. She suggested that I should use my magic to make us escape the monster's notice. In addition to that, we stuck to Midworld's darkest areas. We sailed through storms and fog, any patch of gloom that could hide us from its mundane senses while my magic diverted its arcane perception.'

That would've explained why they looked so pale and harried - or, in Gharzov's case, as such an useful mage, he would've been guaranteed preferential treatment, hence the plumpness.

'Well,' I said dryly, just to avoid staying silent (a habit that had started more than a few tavern brawls), 'it seems you succeeded.' Then, more seriously, 'Don't worry. I believe Aina is still in there, somewhere. I doubt she will want to harm you once she comes to her senses.' And if she was a monster, if she couldn't, or wouldn't, be changed...I would give her peace.

But that would come later. For now...

'If you say so,' Gharzov replied, sounding as uncertain as I felt. Then, looking around, his shoulders shook with silent mirth. 'Look at us, talking to each other on boats, like strangers.' He turned around. 'I'll have to tell your mother all about this, Ryz. You should come, talk before we celebrate.'

'Celebrate?' I repeated, taking half a step in his direction as he stepped back into his boat. 'What?'

He looked over his shoulder, expression bemused. 'You, coming back to us...? You are coming back, right, son?'

Of course not, I thought immediately. I must find Aina, and Three...Mharra does not deserve losing his lover forever. And Ib...

I had to speak with the grey giant. But, since it wasn't answering me, that meant I had to get out of wherever I was first.

A part of me wanted this to be real. The stupid, childish part that also wished Aina had never become...whatever she was; it wanted to live in a world where my parents didn't hate me while everyone was indifferent to their cruelty. It wanted the life it never had, as was the wont of mankind. Living in the midst of a loving community, with Aina safe and sane by my side.

But another part of me, the one that had been born during the first beating I'd received for no reason, and grown during my lonely years, knew this was wishful thinking. Not just because this story was so farfetched; not even because Aina was not human anymore, no matter what I wanted.

Because they had made me doubt Ib. This bloated, dead-eyed bastard had made me think the gentle soul I'd prayed daily would remember its past and find peace was manipulating me.

I didn't care. I didn't give a damn whether Ib was pushing me towards some obscure goal. I'd joined its crew lying through my teeth, hiding behind their protection for the sake of survival alone.

And I knew my friend, who'd stood by me during my waking nightmares and saved me from that maddening fog, would never do anything to hurt me, its love of freedom be damned.

And, despite that ridiculous "explanation", I could still see these freaks' skin was as smooth as marble, or wax.

They weren't sailors. They weren't my people, or people at all. They were monsters, some misbegotten creation of this Vhaarn-forsaken place. Moving, talking props, maybe, in a play put together by those smug, cackling bastards who'd nearly shattered my body with their bickering.

And they weren't even the most unnatural thing about this place. The ramshackle raft that could go nowhere, the water that reflected nothing, the darkness too thick to pierce, the sky I couldn't look at...

Subtle. As subtle as a knife to the gut. What else was missing? Me, running in place, held down by my memories, struggling to really look at myself, to see beyond pessimism and find a purpose hugher than unhappy, fearful survival...

'You are not my father,' I told the creature, which froze, inhumanly stiff. 'You're a sad joke, played on the weakest part of my mind. And I am not laughing.'

And, would you look at that? The moment I'd stopped feeling sorry for myself and started thinking about things that mattered, the sweating, the weakness, had stopped. If it had been blunter, I'd have been concussed.

Well. If not being a snivelling cynic was what took to accomplish anything here, I knew exactly what to do.

I had more than enough rage to slaughter these worthless ghosts.

'Ryzhan...' the creature said reproachfully. 'You will come to us.'

Forget it, I thought, dashing at it and putting a mana-enhanced fist through its skull. It felt like I was parting hard but wet clay rather than punching through flesh...and there was no blood.

Then, it turned its head to stare at me, like an owl, with my fist still inside it. Too fast for me to perceive, it freed itself, snapping my arm like a twig before leaping at me, kneeing my crotch hard enough to split my flesh to my navel.

Before I could shriek in pain, it unhinged its jaw and bit down on mine, twisting its head on its neck to rip it off. A backhand knocked my remaining teeth out, before the rest of the ghoulish fleet joined in, tearing me to shreds.

This is it, I thought through the mind-splitting pain, my consciousness somehow holding itself together. This is...the revenge...I...

Aina...

But that wasn't the end. I came to, back crooked and knees bent. A look in a dirty puddle revealed I had been patched together from the parts of my body that hadn't been eaten. The hunchbacked grotesque that looked back at me with tearful eyes was chained to the wall behind him, a pickaxe in his hands.

I was in a copper mine. Back on my home island.

A slender, twisted figure, shrouded so I could only make out its long, dirty hair, was talking to the Gharzov-thing in sharp whispers. It pointed a needle-clawed finger at me, and Gharzov nodded.

'Go on, boy!' he barked. 'Thank your mother for treating you!'

I opened a wired-together, misshapen jaw to insult them, but only a whimper came out. The Frelzha creature moved closer to me, half crawling, half walking on her fingertips, reminding me of an ape dragging its knuckles.

I caught a glimpse of a circular mouth, filled with layers of thick, short fangs, before it latched its maw over my face, forcing my mouth open. My jaw hung by a thread.

Gharzov joined her, forcing me to the ground with a hand on my shoulder. 'You want to talk about rage? What do you know about that? You're just a child, who thought he could run away and escape responsibility. Rage? Oh, I'll show you rage...'

His throat bulged, and a river of thick blood, filled with chunks of gore, streamed out of it, seeping down my burning throat. Immediately, the pain and confused rage of everyone I'd ever abadoned, tricked and hurt lanced through my mind, and I fell to the ground, trembling until I felt my bones would shake apart.

'This is rage, son,' the creature leered. 'You'll have time to learn all about it. Once you forget all about your circus freaks and your monster bitch, you'll only have room in your heart for rage. Believe me...' it leaned down. 'Soon, you'll no longer remember them. You'll forget where all this betrayed anger is coming from. But you'll always remember you betrayed your family, and failed to run away from your people.'

The rest of the freakish fleet filled the mine, filling my sight with ugly, hateful faces. They tore my body apart just as the memories ripped my mind in half, leaving me trapped, too hurt too move, but never able to die, to go mad: the needle-clawed monster kept healing me.

'Welcome home, Ryzhan. You'll love us once you remember your place~'

* * *

Ib's face swirled with hatred as it peered into the future. A myriad myriad paths began and ended with Ryzhan giving in to his anger, and becoming an even more wretched monster than he believed he was.

In one, overcome by his memories, he broke, and remade himself. The resulting walking cadaver stalked Midworld, two half-formed monstrosities in the shape of his parents fused to his spine, directing him, while smaller ones, with the faces of his people, eternally gnawed on his insides.

This monstrous amalgam would seek out every Midworlder who dared to have lived a life less painful than his, and trap them in a hell forged of their worst memories, until all of Midworld was a single, eternal scream of tortured remembrance.

And, in the midst of it all, Ryzhan's remains would stand and laugh, and weep, face torn by a manic grin.

It would not allow this. Damn Ryz's chance to choose. Damn the Mantlemakers and their twisted games, and damn Mendax and its labyrinthine plots. Ib would not allow its friend to suffer anymore, and Ryzhan would never become that thing as long as it lived.

Ryzhan, it thought, sending its aetheric voice to him even as it spoke to his trembling body on the deck. Metres away, Mharra burst into tortured laughter, bloody tears streaming down his face as the corners of his mouth began to bleed. He had his own battle to fight, but Ib would not let him do it alone. This is Ib. I-

Ib! I-I-Ib! Ryzhan thought back. Please! Please! I can't die now! We've lost Three, the captain is alone...Ryzhan's mouth parted in a silent scream. Aina...I l-love her. She must know. I beg you...she must know...help me...

Ib smiled, its broken laugh filling the air, drowning out the disappointment of the Manmade Gods. Perhaps they had hoped for a sadder ending.

Foolish. Even now, in the middle of his worst nightmare, Ryzhan wanted nothing more than to help those he loved.

'Yes,' Ib said, 'brother.'

[Strigoi Grey]

Book III, Chapter 10

* * *

Mharra was laughing, and Ib loathed that.



Usually, there was nothing wrong with its captain's laughter. If anything, its absence heralded, or highlighted, a problem.



There was nothing usual about this. The breadth of its knowledge stretched beyond Midworld and into the Last Sphere of creation, but in its travels across the endless seas, it had never seen the like.



Poisons, venoms, drugs that maddened the mind and body, those it knew; but those were merely triggers for false insanity, brought about by chemicals.



There were other means to break the soul as well, but those were the tools of rape: physical, mental, spiritual. Utter violation, through the introduction of a foreign agent.



No one was controlling or attempting to override its captain's mind. Oh, the Observers had dredged up the worst phantasms they could find in Mharra's mind, to be sure, but they hadn't invented anything.



The memories were all Mharra's, as was the reaction.



Ib had seen humans, and beings who thought like them, react in all manner of ways to despair, from lashing out to suicide. And, thought it knew it was petty, Ib wondered if it would have preferred a rampage to this dismaying laugh.



Ib had heard sarcastic laughs before. It had seen sardonic grins. Dishonest joy felt alien to it, even oxymoronic, but it knew what it was dealing with.



One of the Audience descended to alight on its plane of existence, a mere shadow of its true self hovering besides Ib. After glancing at Mharra once, it sighed, sounding disappointed, but unsurprised. 'They break so pitifully, don't they? Such an ugly mess...'



Ib's rage simmered, but it had a handle on it now. Still, it couldn't help but be reminded of the first geyser it had seen, and the boulder some islanders had placed atop it, in the hopes it would stop the jet of water. The pressure had made a mockery of their efforts.



With a glance at the flat expression the black-robed creature's white mask had been carved into, Ib returned its attention to its captain. 'Be silent,' it demanded in a harsh whisper. 'They are suffering enough.'



The Mantlemaker made a tinkling sound, like silver bells in the wind. Ib supposed it could have passed for a laugh. 'They are suffering because of themselves. We did not push them to confront anything they wouldn't have had to face in time, Libertas.'



Ib grunted noncommittally. 'Perhaps. But the pleasure you take in these...confrontations, is unseemly.' Ib showed the Observer its fist. 'Stop laughing. Maddened as they are, they might still hear you.' And the Manmade God's poisonous voice was the last thing Ryz and its captain needed to hear now.



'What, are you afraid they'll wake up?' The Observer scoffed lightly. 'Worry not, my surly friend. We can always mend what there is to mend, then start over.'



And risk crippling their minds? Even if Ib had faith in its power to heal them, it would rather not have them suffer that in the first place. 'I think note. A bone, set poorly, must be broken again to heal. I will not let you meddle more than you have.'



The Mantlemaker sighed, a long, thin sound, almost like a hiss. 'Barking at me will neither hide your contempt, nor remove its cause.'



Ib could move fast enough no time actually passed, even for its selves that time flowed around. It took a certain amount of effort to slowly turn to hlare at the Manmade God, rather than whip its head around. 'You know nothing of what you speak.'



'I think I do,' the Spectator retorted in a small, reasonable voice wholly at odds with its pompousness, never mind its monstrousness. 'Come now, Libertas. You know we can see the grooves carved into creation by the patterns of its stories. The fact we make and appreciate our own does not blind us to...natural ones.'



Ib sat down, cradling its crewmates as if they were children as it rocked them. The motion ought to have been enough to anchor them, so they wouldn't get lost in memories, but it was subtle enough not to wake them. 'Cease your prattling, storyteller. There is no pattern around me to twist.'



'I beg to differ,' the Observer said in a tone that convinced Ib it had never begged, or needed to, in what passed for its life. Maybe it would change that, soon. Judging by the oily voice, it was enjoying this mickery even more than the pain of the grey giant's crewmates. 'The manmade weapon, endowed with thought to be the best beast it could be? Broken free through friendship? Seeking to uplift those whose weakness it cannot help but despise? Oh, there is a wealth of patterns around you, Libertas~'



At Ib's silence, the Mantlemaker cocked its head, as if curious. 'Surely you must've noticed? Or are you so dim you have never read such stories? Never heard of such ideas? But all of creation is laid bare before you. It cannot be that.'



'Taunting me is pointless,' Ib replied flatly. 'I have been through enough not to get rattled by your childishness.'



The Spectator chuckled. 'Good for you. Should I pat your head? You whine about your woes so proudly, it's almost like you're proud to have something you can complain about. In this, at least, you are just like them. Does that rattle?'



Ib's substance swirled and rippled as shapes like weapons threatened to break through the surface of its torso. 'You do not-'



'I think I have already proven I know exactly what I am speaking about,' the Manmade God cut it off. 'You can't stand how they go mad when overwhelmed. You cannot bear how they do things just because - why, oh why can't they just approach life rationally?' It shook its head, sniggering. 'And they say we are throttled by our obsessions...but you are so, so strick, Freedom. So demanding. Can't just let things be. Ironic...but we are not surprised. I mean, look at what Positivity gets up in that universe Mendax bumbles around in.'



Ib fought back a grimace as images of sunlight and the nameless colours of emotions were buried under a tide of callousness and cruel hedonism. But it would not become like King Sun. It wouldn't.



'Better a hypocrite than a monster,' Ib snapped. 'You took the dreams of a childlike people and made them into nightmares to ensnare slaves with.'



'Now who speaks without knowing nothing?' the Mantlemaker crowed. 'We did nothing more than they asked us to, and nothing less: we gave their lives meaning.'



Ib laughed bitterly. 'And left them trapped in a cycle of clashing chosen ones and overlords, with empty ages stretching between them. Some meaning...'



The Spectator's mask shifted. 'And that is so different from life outside our reach how?'



'You were never asked to keep that farce of a realm going forever.'



'Libertas...' the Manmade God hissed, closing the distance without moving to grab one of Ib's wrists. The shapeless sleeve that closed around its wrist felt like silken claws. 'Watch your mouth. We put your pets into the crucible they must pass through not just for their own good, but for the sake of all creation. Would you rather we step back so you can dirty your hands? It should look good on that conscience you claim to have.'



Before Ib could retort, the Observer pulled back, letting go. 'You speak of cycles and tyranny, yet forget we live in a dream? The dream of a being that could make it so that nothing has ever been, and not even realise it, because it is asleep? We have put into motion the events that could break that cycle, yet you sneer at us, for...what? Having the gall to take our amusements when we can?'



'You want to free us from the shackles of the Dream only to save your hide,' Ib said. 'Because you do not want to be erased like an afterthought.'



Darkness rolled behind the holes in the Observer's mask. 'What a revelation...how dare we want to save ourselves? Turning its back to Ib, the Mantlemaker's robe flared out like a carrion bird's wings. 'It would be much more moral to stand aside and allow everyone the freedom to ruin each other, no? Don't prattle to me, Freedom. You could turn Midworld, and more besides, into a paradise, if you weren't so concerned with giving them the chance to murder and rape each other, like all free people deserve.'



* * *



Most people's minds were like rivers. The flow, like the twists and turns, was gentle, and the obstacles usually easy to bypass or avoid.



Mharra's mind, despite his seemingly haphazard manner, was more like a lake. The movement of his thoughts was as directed and conscious as that of his limbs. He did not, as a rule, get distracted. He did notice new things, and analyse them; he appeared clownish enough to fool many observers, giving him ample time to think.



As a result, his mind wass also rigid, in a way, and what obstacles there were resembled bounds more than anything: borders he struggled to move beyond.



There were dark things, too, in the depths of that lake. Most of the time, Mharra did not remember them, could not think about them unless he chose to.



Sometimes, he was jealous of those people whose memory could be triggered by a familiar sight or sound or scent, allowing them to lose themselves in memories and fleeting fancies.



Remembering his past made quick work of that jealousy, which was why, mostly, Mharra chose to dusregard it. After all, desiring what others had or could do was as good a motivation to do and be better as many.



Mharra had never really bought into the idea that doing good things because one was envious, or greedy, or lustful, made one wicked. It seemed like such a ridiculous demand that everyone be good for good's sake...especially in Midworld.



Had it been up to Mharra, he would've left everything buried, just as he'd left it all behind before. This journey to the centre of his mind, however, had not been his choice. Memories he might've never faced had been forced down his throat.



Mharra wondered if he would have put coming to terms with the man he had been off forever, unless forced. He had to admit he might have.



He could mull that over later, he decided. After he was done fighting to hold his breath.



Mharra considered himself a good swimmer. He had to be, as a sailor. Before he'd found a crew, back when he was alone with the Rainbow Burst and its temper, he'd often found himself overboard in the most annoying moments, not that there was ever a good time for swimming while clothed.



As such, he had some experience swimming and treading water in everything from freezing rivers and boiling seas to pools of acid and poisoned wells. But in all of those cases, despite his numb limbs and his skin feeling like it was melting off, he'd been able to - ha - keep his head above the water.



Now, however, he was drowning, and all his endurance was useless, because he felt like someone had tied boulders to his legs. The more he struggled, the faster he sank, as if he were trapped in quicksand rather than underwater.



With an incredulous frown - he had glanced downwards and seen nothing attached to his legs -, Mharra struggled to hold his breath. It seemed to him that, whenever he felt well enough to try resurfacing, some kind of pressure made itself known on or inside his chest.



Mharra wondered if it was simply shortness of breath, or the same invisible force that kept pulling him down. It felt like the former, but maybe that was part of the trick.



Mharra didn't know why confusing him about the case of his death was necessary, unless his would-be murderer was scared of being haunted. But it wasn't like he'd seen anyone...hmph.



Had he been under less duress, or at least in the mood to look inward, Mharra might have realised the lake killing him was of his own making.



As things stood, however, Mharra could not help but wonder where the creatures who had attacked his ship had taken him, and - his crew.



They'd taken his crewmates, too. He couldn't see Ryzhan and Ib anywhere. Why had he only thought about them now?



If Mharra's face and throat hadn't been purpling, he might have flushed.



So. The unseen beings had separated them, and taken him to some lake...at least beyond the horizon. He couldn't see his ship, either, and its shadow should've been visible if the steamer had been floating above him.



Mharra didn't bother trying to elucidate his assailants' motives. Even if he had given a damn, he was on the brink of death, and couldn't afford distractions. He would kill them, and that would be that. They'd attacked with no reason, and would die painfully.



Maybe not before coughing something up, though...



As the thought sluggishly moved through his mind, Mharra let out a small cough of his own, and water, stale and foul, entered his mouth and nostrils.



As blackness began filling his vision, Mharra's struggles slowed.



* * *



Lightning flashes. Thunder booms. The sea rages as it has for the past fifteen years.



And the journey continues.



Mharra has never known anything but the journey, the unending voyage under the black, clouded sky. He has never seen the stars, or the sun. Were it not for the dark skin he inherited from his mother, he is sure he would be as pale as a fish's belly.



As he holds onto the railing, the prince muses that he has never seen the moon, either. Going by the tales of the old folk, he supposes he should be grateful for that.



Still, he cannot help but wonder: the light they receive at night (a division of time still used only because of tradition, and because some walking fossils claim they can feel the day passing in their water; the storm hasn't let up in nearly two decades) is that of the moon, yet it does not madden the mind or twist the body and spirit. Is it the moon itself, not its light, that causes these supposed dreadful changes?



Mharra shrugs. He's seen stranger things, and heard of worse. Enough that he'd rather not find out by himself.



They have enough light to travel, at least, even if it is easy, particularly on uneventful days, for one's eyes to be tricked that nothing is truly moving. Not in any meaningful way, at least.



Very easy, indeed, to believe that the wind and tides are battering their fleet to and fro in such a way that they are effectively standing still, and the stormy horizon does not help. But they have passed enough islands and ships to know better.



The storm started when Mharra was too young to remember, ending their way of life alongside the island they had inhabited for generations. As Mharra has heard it told, it had begun with lightning from a clear sky, cracking their island in half even before the storm proper had arrived.



Rattled, they had made it to the docks in a more or less orderly fashion. More had died getting onto the ships, flung about by gales or splattered by riptides, than when that thunderbolt had broken their capital open.



After that...well. Mharra no longer had to rely on his parents' stories to remember. He had some of his own to tell, if he ever felt inclined.



He knew he had met all his siblings, but only remembered a handful. Many of those who might have held him as a toddler were smoking ash on the sea.



As for those who had survived that...Mharra remembered his brother Nhayre, nearly old enough to be his father, who'd fallen ill despite spending almost all his time inside. When they'd found his corpse curled up on his bed, it'd been warm, with hot, flushed skin, for all that he'd been dead for hours.



Mharra would later learn cabin fever was a metaphor that had nothing to do with that sickness, and in any case, not something that could happen to only one person.



'Unless their mind is very, very full,' his father had deadpanned, before chuckling, only to be admonished by his mother for "dark jokes".



Vrynna and Wrynn, his oarents' only twins, had scarcely entered adolescence when they had snapped. They'd been driven mad by the endless tempst and unchanging black sky, perhaps. Mharra had been too young too understand at the time of their suicide. Years later, he was told they hadn't actually gone on a trip.



Not that the "explanation" had made much sense to his childish mind.



Then there had been Fharina, and that was something that, rather than not encouraging, his parents insisted he keep quiet about. His sister - captain of her own ship, as she'd boasted - had cracked one day, too. Not like the twins had, but just as self-destructively.



Mharra remembered watching her through a telescope. The first time he'd used such a tool, and it had been to see his sister's demise.



Fharina, who had become convinced their fleet needed more manpower, had decided that pressing passing ships into service was as good an idea as any. Not unheard of in Midworld, by any means. If she'd succeeded, if she hadn't been so forceful, and thus clumsy, Mharra suspected she'd have even been praised for her efforts.



'The difference between genius and madness, son,' his father, Ailhan, had told him not long after, 'is whether people benefit from the fruits of your mind.'



Fharina hadn't benefitted anyone, though. When her ship had broken off, to drift on the horizon, some paranoid sorts had grown alarmed, but the king and queen had shrugged. The winds were unforgiving. And, besides, as long as she didn't move out of sight...



But then they'd seen her and her crew forcefully board a merchant vessel, before, judging by their gestures (for they had been too far to make out any words), forcing them to abandon whatever their course was to join their fleet.



Flattered by this generous offer, the merchants had lost control of themselves in such a manner, a gunfight had broken out in moments. Cannons and explosives had followed, and, by the time the fleet was even halfway to them, both ships had sunk.



Ailhan and his wife, Bhyrna, had been (so it had seemed to Mharra, even young as he'd been, at the time) more embarrassed by their daughter's downfall and death than saddened. The youth had decided their reactions somewhat understandable, given the circumstances, but that had been before he'd truly seen how deep practicality ran in the blood of Midworlders.



* * *



'Are you winning, son?'



Bhyrna's voice is just as light as her step, but Mharra does not turn, despite the inviting tone.



That, too, is part of the game. A simulation of the distractions one might encounter when hunting.



This game was conceived a few years ago, after they had left the storm behind. As far as they can tell, it is still ongoing, stretching over who knows how many leagues, but that is the problem of those who pass behind them.



The fish grew scarce just as the waters and sky grew clear, like the world's worst joke. Mharra's parents always said Midworld's sense of irony was much more developed than its sense of humour, and he saw little reason to disagree.



Hence, the game.



It could be played with any animal, whether it walked, crawled, swam or flew. The rules were as simple as the punishments were painful: the player attempted to hit and kill their prey on the first try. For every missed or otherwise unsuccessful try, the player cut themselves in such a way that they'd suffer, but not bleed out or be crippled. Their people still needed them, after all.



These reminders of failure had given the Scarred their name.



'Who can say, mother?' Mharra replies, voice just as light, without turning. He knows his mother has her eyes closed, so why should he attempt to meet them. 'I'm still playing.'



Every goose-like bird that falls to the deck only has one pistol round in its head or neck. Mharra's aim is sure, his hand steady. He hopes Bhyrna is satisfied, because he certainly knows she is not proud.



The last in line, and the one to last in time. There is that wretched irony again, to his parents' dismay. Mharra is aware he is a good son, by any estimate; he is dutiful, and obedient, as skilled at preparing an animal as he is at killing one, an expert survivalist and tracker...but he does not stand out, not in the way his parents want, in the way some of his late siblings did.



For one, he is a follower more than a leader. Certainly he does not hesitate to defer to those more capable than him in certain domains, despite his lineage, and while that is only practical, his lack of pride or dislike is concerning.



For another, he has never displayed any of the traits expected of an heir to the Seeker's Crown his mother is currently wearing, and that is even more concerning to the elder royals.



The Crown is a marvel of tinkering, the masterpiece of their ancestors' engineering: once placed upon one's head, it directs them to wherever or whatever they desire, while also informing them of their target.



This is a double-edged sword, however: the information overload - for the Crown fills its wearer's mind with every detail about what they seek - has been known to leave more than one wearer brain dead well before they could pass along anything useful.



Mharra suspects that his family got their metaphorical crowns by breeding children with minds strong enough to withstand the knowledge of the literal Crown they probably plundered from a grave, or tore from some poor bastard's hands.



It is certainly more believable than the old story about how this or that deity gave them the Crown in recognition of their virtue and so that they could guide their people. Maybe it's his cynicism talking, but Mharra likes - chooses - to believe he's being realistic. The yarn his family spins is too damned swell for his tastes.



'That you are,' Bhyrna murmurs, drawing him back to the present. 'You're doing well, Mhar.'



As great a compliment as he can expect, from her. Oh, well. His feelings will just have to survive.



'Thank you,' he smiles, then aims at another bird. This one seems like an angry male, with how deeply it's hissing as it dives at the prince, hooked beak parted to reveal...



...Are those teeth? Mharra hopes it won't be like when they mistook those feathered wyvern hatchlings for eagles.



As the maybe-bird approaches, Mharra puts a round straight through its open mouth and into its skull. Holstering his pistol, he grabs the dying, flailing bird and wrings its neck.



'Did you need something, mother?' Mharra continues, placing the carcass in the bag on the deck, next to the others.



Bhyrna's expression is thoughtful as she nods, but begins to melt into a smile. 'Land...'



* * *



Mharra slams into the tree instead of leaning against it as he planned. Wounded and numb as he is, he hardly registers the bark tearing up his back as his chest heaves.



He has other things to worry about now, and maybe gloat over later. Turning his head, the prince glances at the last of his companions, who lies under the dead beast, legs broke. It is an ugly thing, six-legged like an insect, with tusks as long as its curved horns and long, black fur mottled with dark green, the better to hide amidst the trees.



Vhyrnak's blood is still up, so he tries to laugh off his wounds, but the pain turns his grin into a wince, and he is squinting as if the gentle sunlight the leaves allow through is a harsh glare. Mharra fears he might have damaged something in his head.



'Can...' Mharra gasps, trying to catch his breath. 'Can you hear me, Vhyrn? Are you awake?'



'A-Aye,' the warrior rasps in response, grasping at his shoulder-length blond hair like he's looking for something to bind it with. His usual leather tie has been torn in the fight. 'I hear you...my prince.'



'Good,' Mharra says, swallowing something he hopes is not blood. Just spit, he decides. Just spit. 'I'll...carry...'



But Mharra does not carry his friend to safety, in the end. By the time he comes to, head aching but otherwise clear, Vhyrnak is dead, insides pulped and every bone in his legs dust. His throat is too raw to scream. He fears that, if he does, he will choke on his own blood. Like Vhyrnak may have. Like he almost did before falling unconscious.



Stumbling and crawling, he manages to make it halfway through the forest before his strength leaves him. With a trembling hand, he draws his pistol, sardonically thinking that even like this, he can't miss the sky, and fires.



Mharra's last bullet was meant to end his life, in case the beast killed Vhyrnak and cornered him. He hopes the Scarred will see the shot for the cry for help it is, and send a search party. And if they don't, he wishes his spirit will be at peace enough not to return as a ghost.



The prince is grateful for how silent the island is. His shot has virtually no chance of going unheard. It's a damn lot more bearable now, after it's been cleared of the predators who could drop on you without any bloody warning. Silence was far more annoying during the hunt, when you never knew what to expect, between the camouflaged monsters and the shapeshifters.



As Mharra's vision blurs and trembles, cheek pressed against the cool ground, he cannot help but sneer at his earlier folly. Honoured...he had felt honoured!



The Scarred prince leading an expedition to clear out his people's new island is not unusual. He is, after all, one of the fleet's most skilled fighters. He was even left to pick the warriors he'd lead, with the only condition being to leave enough to defend the fleet, in case of anything.



They accomplished their mission, at least. The deaths will, hopefully, be forgiven, once he tells everyone about the island's native, now hopefully extinct, monsters.



* * *



Mharra plasters a smile onto his face to try and match his seventh wife's expression. She is holding their second child, his twenty-third one, and Mharra inwardly ceinges as he thinks that he does not really feel anything for this one, either. Not as a father should. Not as this son of his deserves.



The breeding program was more of a looming doom to him than a shock. Without any older siblings to sugarcoat the explanation, his parents had given it to him with their usual tact. Mharra, who hadn't even received his first kiss at the time, compared the whole business to being a breeding stud, even if it had been coached in the terms of a harem. He told his parents as much.



'...so we trust you will understand, son,' Bhyrna said, stroking the Crown there was absolutely no need to wear almost absentmindedly, eyes distant. Mharra wondered if she'd started referring to herself as "we".



'I understand,' he replied, voice as affable as his gaze was flat. 'I understand I will be passed around like a dog, or a horse.' Like his wives would doubtlessly be passed between whoever they chose to find comfort in when they grew tired of him. Not that he could truly blame them.



Bhyrna's voice was as sharp as the sting of her backhand. Her wedding ring split his lip as she knocked teeth loose. 'How dare you compare the mantle of princehood to beasts mating! You...' she trailed off, voice growing fainter even as the blows grew fiercer.



Close to an hour later, Ailhan piped up as his soon curled up, bruised and bloodied, on the floor of the royal bedchambers. 'Perhaps we should not discount the comparison, my dear,' he told his wife. 'After-'



'What?' Bhyrna hissed, looking ready to beat her husband half to death too. 'You dare entertain this nonsense? Every worthy heir we had is gone, and what are you doing?' she harrumphed. 'Not making more, certainly. Should I die, you will find yourselves at the mercy of the sea, like any Midworlders.'



'Perhaps,' Ailhan said with a sickly smile, pointedly looking down. 'But do beasts not play their own role in society, lowly as it is?'



Luckily, so to speak, the marriages had started later, and had only been consummated once he'd been deemed ready to sire children. That, as he was told, happened because he was less virile than other youths. Mharra was perversely amused, not sure he should be thankful for his alleged impotence.



He still doesn't know how the researchers had come to that conclusion, coarse jokes aside.



Mharra likes to think he treats his wives well. He is polite, generous, almost always present to please them. He does not love them, but they don't give a toss about him, either, so it evens out.



Most of them are after his wealth, some scared of reprisal if they go against their rulers' orders. Others still are doing this out of some sense of duty towards the fleet, which Mharra finds baffling. He's always been ready to die for his people, but he doubts he'd do this for them, if it was up to him.



A few of the women thought they loved him at the start of the whole farce, but having to share a husband quickly cooled that down. He'd wager some of them are sleeping with each other in secret. After three were caught and sent to have their bodies, minds and spirits cleansed, the rest became more subtle, if their inclinations lay that way. He could not tell, and frankly did not care.



Wasting one's energy with another woman instead of bearing children? Pointless. There was no place for such decadence within the fleet. The Scarred needed all the people they could get. Fharina was right, even if her method was folly.



That was why, whenever he and Xherkan met, Mharra did not treat his lover in a manner warmer than that one's liege might. And if their embraces lasted a little longer than those of most, or their hands lingered on each other, it was only expected. They had been brothers-in-arms before Xher had become his bodyguard.



Mharra shakes his head to banish any thoughts of Xherkan as he takes his son from his wife. The infant is beautiful, hair curly and dark like his, skin pale like his mother's, with rosy cheeks. He looks like a little marble statue.



'What a handsome lad,' Mharra murmurs, looking into the boy's lidded eyes, wondering if he sounds as stilted as he thinks. 'You wouldn't think he's mine!'



His wife titters politely, and Mharra flashes her a grin, giving her the boy and using the moment to read the name embroidered on the grown.



Mharra's wives likely feel flattered that all their clothes are "personalised" like this, but, in truth, it's just a way for him to remember who's who. Turning her back on him, Zharga passes the boy to a nursemaid and takes a seat on a couch, to fiddle with some trinket or other.



Mharra knows she is fully able to nurse him herself, but has as much interest in motherhood as he does in women. For both pf them, maybe all of them, this is just a chore, a role. Or perhaps that's just his inner imposter talking.



'I must leave, my dears,' Mharra says close to an hour later, bowing as he smiles apologetically. 'But I must keep myself sharp. You never know what enemies might stumble upon our fair fleet.'



The women smile and nod as he rattles off more platitudes; those who look at him, that is. Some look as if they haven't even noticed he's leaving, and Mharra wonders, amused, if they noticed when he entered.



As he descends the palace stairs, heading to the courtyard for his daily spars, Mharra vows to do two things.



First, thank Xheran, again, for being so lovely. Without thinking of him, Mharra would've never been able to accomplish his duties as a man. Who ever said "pillow-biting" kept you childless?



Then, find whatever pillock blurted how great it would be to have a harem, and beat them to death with every book on the subject he can get his hands on.



* * *



When they find out about him and Xheran, it's because of something so minute, Mharra finds it nonsensical. He knows for a fact his servants have overlooked far more obvious and glaring offences, despite the evidence. Perhaps he hasn't bribed them enough?



It happens after a storm. Not as bad as the one from his childhood, not that that's a high bar, but fierce enough to cause a flash flood. Houses torn from their foundations and shattered, people and beasts alike drowned to death or crushed against rocks or trees. There are still survivors as the royal relief parties search the islands, so, when Mharra comes across Xheran - only one of his bodyguards remained with him, as all able-bodied folk were called to help rescue others and bring peace to those who couldn't be saved - and begins breathing into his mouth, he draws some looks.



Well, a look. The bodyguard, Zharkyn, is the replacement of the man who tragically tripped and fell on his sword after reporting that three of Mharra's wives were paramours. So far, he has been more savvy than his predecessor.



'My prince,' Zharkyn's voice is confused, disapproving but hopeful. Maybe this is all a misunderstanding. 'What are you doing?'



Mharra freezes. After Xheran let out a hacking cough, eyes fluttering open, he recognised his prince and smiled, a flush on his face that had nothing to do with his brush with death.



Mharra rises to his feet, helping Xheran up as he does so. He tries to school his face into a reasonable expression. Judging by Zharkyn's scowl, he's not sure he succeeds. 'Helping one of your comrades, Zhar. One of my friends.'



Did his lips lay too long over Xher's? Did his eyes betray him? A cold shiver runs down Mharra's spine, and he stiffens, injecting some authority into his voice. 'What are you doing, gawking at us? Either get this man,' Mharra jerks his head towards Xheran, 'to a healer, or go find someone who-'



'Understood,' Zharkyn cuts him off. Usually, Mharra wouldn't mind the lack of protocol, but the finality in the bodyguard's voice has him on edge. Then, almost as if remembering an afterthought, Zharkyn adds , 'My prince.'



Mharra watches him go, and when they meet after nightfall, Zharkyn only mentions the handful of families he helped, not bringing up the incident.



The next day, when Mharra, his parents and their guards are discussing the aftermath of the flood, alongside preparations for future ones, the prince notices his chief bodyguard put a hand on Xherkan's shoulder.



Xher is going helmetless today, to avoid putting pressure on the head wound he received during the flood. The bandage, which still chafes, covers his brown hair, already shorn short, almost entirely.



'Come with me, lad,' the chief guard says, making Xherkan's fair skin turn white as chalk. Then, turning to the royals, 'Your Majesties. My prince.'



But his eyes are on his subordinate, and silently asking if he has any regrets. Any last words.



Xherkan manages to smile as he look at Mharra for the last time. 'I must thank you once again, sir. If you hadn't saved me yesterday, I would've died before helping anyone. Damned waters, eh?'



Everyone present nods in agreement as Xherkan is led away, mouthing "it has been an honour". His misty eyes say "I love you".



Mharra knows. Of course he does. He always did, well before he sired his first damn spawn-



The prince shakes his head, catching himself at the shameful thought. They are good children. They do not deserve a distant father like him, much less a resentful one.



He knows Xherkan loves him. But, starting the next day, he wishes he could forget.



The wretch that was once his lover has eyes as empty as its mind. No manhood, no stones, and no tongue. It does not need them anymore. Such shells are all that is left once people are cleansed of their improper thoughts. They are kept around as reminders, and warnings.



One night, at a feast, Bhyrna notices her son's wandering gaze, which turns sad as it meets Xherkan's walking, emasculated corpse. The prince knows it will soon die physically, too. You can only remove so many things from a man before his body shuts down.



The queen grabs her son's ear, for once glad he is seated next to her, and twists it, as if he were an unruly child. Of course, if she were concerned with shaming him in public, she would not speak her next words. 'You are the last of our line who can be groomed for the Crown, at the moment. Until your children grow up...' She shakes her head. 'A pity that thing will be dead and rotten by the time we have a proper heir.'



Ailhan leans forward, propping himself on his elbows as he smiles serenely, smild half-hidden behind his hands. 'Stop scaring the boy, darling. It's not like you're planning to break him too and sew their remains together. You can't have two shambling dead mean stuck in a kiss. It would be...unseemly.'



'Only because it would be difficult to sew a husk to a pile of dust,' Bhyrna replies.



* * *



When Mharra's parents die by his hands - the Crown no longer responds to the queen, so no one objects too much to her and her puppet of a husband being dicposed of -, there is a brief period of quietude. The calm before the storm. He has not named a heir teir, despite extensive tests with the Crown driving twelve of his children mad and killing seven, and he knows their mothers are preparing to either assassinate him or whip up a civil war.



Mharra leaves them to it, running away, he is fully prepared to admit, like a coward. But not before leaving his people a gift. He shatters the Crown, and gifts everyone a shard. They still act like compasses, but without the overflow of information. His people will have to take their chances with wherever they choose to travel, like all Midworlders.



The shard Mharra keeps does not seem any different from the rest, at first. Perhaps it behaves so peculiarly because he swallows half of it, and grinds the other half into dust to inject in his blood, but it allows him to make things he wants - small things, only useful for parlour tricks, really - real. The Crown's ability to give its wielder what they want branching off, maybe.



It helps Mharra leave people scratching their heads, at least, and that is all he needs as an entertainer. If he can bring some wonder and joy to others despite the bleakness behind him, that is enough for him.



Sometimes, he asks the Crown shard to bring him to people he can help. At first, he asked it to bring him to people who needed help, and it gave him a seemingly endless list of answers.



Of course. Who doesn't need aid, in Midworld? But still, even limiting himself to people he can help for certain, he finds himself busy. Many come and go to and from the ship he saved from a scrap island, but some remain.



A strange, shapeless grey creature he finds in the ocean, which becomes a giant. A ghost with three bodies, of one mind. A mage...



Who...



* * *



Ib shook its head as it looked down at Mharra. Leaning on its shoulder to both support myself - I was still shaking and sweating -, I say the captain's bloodshot eyes roll into the back of his head, somehow making his rictus of a grin even uglier.



'It's the third time this happened, Ryz,' my friend whispered. 'It hurts.'



I didn't know whether it mean it hurt to watch or if Mharra was suffering. Most likely both. Giving Ib's arm a squeeze, I dropped to a knee, clasping the grey giant's hand in one of mine, and Mharra's in the other.



The captain's fingers began spasming as he gasped, eyes unseeing under fluttering lids. He began dry-heaving, then coughing, choking.



'The lake, Ryzhan,' Ib said, making my brow furrow as I tried to calm the captain. I could feel my friend's power begin flowing into me, creating a link between the three of us. 'You cannot bring him back, but you can give him the choice to.'



* * *



...pt...! ...apt...!



...A-Apt? N-No, I think you are...mistaken. I wouldn't say I'm...good for much.



...tain! Captain!



...Ryzhan?



Damn it, Mharra, are you deaf as well as ugly? I always knew Three had low standards.



H-Ha...don't make me sm-smile, you bastard. It hu-hurts.



I know. But you know only you can make it stop hurting, right?



Y-You...and Ib...



We can make it stop hurting, captain, but only you can want it to.



...I'm so gods-damn tired, Ryzhan...



As anyone would be. I wouldn't want to be stuck in a loop of those memories, let alone live through that.



...



Captain...I won't say Three would want you to go on. I'm sure he'd understand your pain better than I ever will. I won't say Ib and I do, ether, though we do, because that is selfish. But I do not believe you want to, Mharra. Could you truly rest knowing you never met Three again? That everyone whose day - whose life - you could've brightened, never met you?



...Ryzhan...Ib...T-Three...I...I love you...and I-



* * *



You were right, Ib. Not lost at all. He never gave up, never gave in. I know how those nightmares can become reality. But why didn't you say anything?



Who told you I did not, my friend? Listen again...



...Ha. Fair enough. Fair enough, Ib. Why let me say that, then?



Who better to remind a dying man of the things worth living for?

[Strigoi Grey]

Book IV, Chapter 1

* * *
AN: Might start a sidestory at some point, with the crew acting as a troupe, which has been mentioned in the background so far, the Observers' meddling notwithstanding. Unsure if I'll start it after the main plotline is done or before.

* * *

I'd rarely felt so tired in my short and vexingly exhausting life. Working, lovemaking, fighting, nearly being killed - something that had happened after all three of the previous situations, with some of the attempts starting during them -, nothing had felt so draining.

In fact, I'd say that the closest I've ever come to this state was when I was trapped in that nightmare world and tormented by my past and everything that came with it.

I rose to all four, then to one knee, swaying even though I'd placed my hands flat on the steamer's deck. I shook my head like a dog with water in its ears, trying to clear the dizziness, but it still felt like it was swimming. My eyes couldn't quite focus on anything, and even the dullest colours felt blinding, filling me with a stabbing pain and making my eyes water, so I closed them. I wanted to squeeze them shut as hard as I could and place my hands over them, but I had the feeling I'd have faceplanted onto the deck as a result.

I wondered...people were often disoriented like this when they entered a bright place after leaving a dark one. Perhaps reality was still too harsh for my spirit after the phantasms that had ensnared me?

I smiled bitterly. That comparison with light and darkness felt childishly appropriate, all of a sudden, though the fact I was thinking of Midworld as a bright place made me want to laugh.

I didn't trust myself not to choke on my tongue or something, however. I often didn't, but my fears weren't usually this literal.

Whatever reserves of power from deep within me Ib had tapped into to wake up Mharra (I didn't question whether it had truly needed my help or whether it had indulged me or its fixation on free will and liberty; I was happy to help my friends, and if that was Ib's manipulation at work, I had to give it some credit: it was smart to pull such a move when I was tired enough even such transparent schemes felt clever), they had been nearly exhausted.

The grey giant hadn't tapped into my mana, or at least, I didn't think so. While I had access to an endless well of magical energy, like all mages, and as such couldn't be drained, I should have still been able to feel a foreign power tugging at mine. No, Ib had instead used my mind. Not any mental power, but my intellect and memories.

It had helped me help our captain, pulling him back from the brink by argument alone. Had I not been a miserable bastard who glossed over his accomplishments, simply feeling relieved I hadn't failed and instead brooded over what I hadn't done, I would have probably felt proud.

The captain...where was Mharra? What had happened to him?

For a moment, I felt as if the deck had disappeared from under me and almost fell, my mind whirling with the possibility that our shadowy assailants had ensnared me into another insane scheme of theirs.

They hadn't. It was - and didn't the phrasing say much about my life? - merely the result of my mind reeling as it tried to adapt to my body and Midworld. The dizziness was fading, though the nausea persisted. Still, it shouldn't be too long until I managed to stand, at least.

Mharra was a ways away, in a similar state. My captain was kneeling, trying to prop himself on his hands and get up. He wasn't managing much better than me.

Absurdly, I was reminded of how many ship captains claimed to be equals to their crew, just like them in every way, while living like spoiled blowhards. Against my will, a laugh bubbled past my lips, which felt dry and cracked. The weak vibration was enough to make my stomach clenched.

Moments later, I was scrabbling away from a puddle of vomit, my insides boiling. It had been a while since I'd been sick like that. Usually, it had to do with eating a hitherto unknown plant or animal. Midworld's reaches being endless, there was always a new way to poison yourself, no matter what sages, self-proclaimed or otherwise, said.

Ib made a few steps towards me, before stopping several paces away. The giant seemed to have no trouble standing and, if it was in the grip of whatever passed for sickness for it, it didn't give any sign. Instead, it simply looked down at me, cool and detached, before moving towards the captain.

Jealous anger bloomed inside me, before it was extinguished by guilt when I was the reason. Mharra's beard and the front of his open overcoat and shirt were covered by a black stain, so dark it almost shone with reflected light.

For a moment, I thought he'd puked too, though I'd never seen vomit of an appearance so vile. But as my sight adjusted and I blinked tears away, I noticed small red trails at the edges of the stain.

I inadvertently raised an eyebrow in confusion, which made me feel like my skull was splitting. As I hunched over, pressing a hand to my temple and groaning, I tried to take a better look at the captain.

His nose was clean, invalidating my impression of a nosebleed, if the size of the stain hadn't done so anyway. For all the jokes Mharra made about his so-called snout, it shouldn't have been able to hold so much blood...right?

Vhaarn, it hurt...everything hurt. Why could no one let their impulses win and knock me out?

No, the blood had come from the captain's mouth, his lips, sometimes hidden by his beard, were invisible under the layer of dark vitae. With how out of sorts I was, part of me was surprised I could tell the difference between the stain and Mharra's beard.

Belatedly, I decided it was because of its shiny appearance. Mharra's beard, so well-groomed most of the time, had been left almost uncared for lately. For some reason, the thought dismayed me. I fancied that I could hear the Rainbow Burst crooning, saddened by its captain's suffering.

For once, I hoped I was being sentimental instead of hallucinating.

Mharra shouldn't have looked like this. That was the one thing all my senses, including my sense of reason, agreed on. Where was his dignity, his gravitas? He might have been the leader of an entertainer troupe, but he was no fool outside of his roles, though he tried to give the impression.

He shouldn't have looked like a failed actor, plagued by some blood-churning disease caught after he'd been reduced to begging. Some captains, hoarding victuals, ended up as gluttonous sots, bleeding freely when the pressure inside their bodies became too much due to their appetites. Between Mharra's stoutness and the blood, he could've passed for such a captain, and that offended me.

I knew the kind of man I was sailing with. He had no such flaws. Plenty of other ones, and I was sure - hoped - that he thought the same of me. The last thing I wanted was my friends becoming optimistic about me. I'd rather have fewer people to disappoint, or none.

Above me, I glimpsed Ib shaking its head, before sighing in relief. The combination of the uncanny movement - for Ib seemed to have no neck sometimes - and the humanlike sound was bewildering, as were many things about my shapeshifting friend.

I chalked my disbelieving reaction up to my addled state. I liked to think I'd become close enough to Ib not to find it so strange anymore.

'It is over,' Ib said, and I seemed to hear the sound from two people at once. It was both reassurance that our torment had passed and a warning to those who had hurt us that their source of amusement was no more.

I hoped.

'Do not worry,' the giant continued. 'I'll take you and Mharra to your cabins, and split to watch over you as you heal.' Its head twisted bonelessly, literally so, until it was backwards. 'Boss?'

Mharra, who had managed to crawl across the deck, somehow, grumbled something biting. I got the sense his foul mood wasn't directed at Ib.

'Alright, then,' the giant said in a mild voice, before moving at blinding speed, gingerly picking us up, and blurring again.

* * *

'Understand, Ryzhan,' Ib began, looking away as it spoke. I felt my face scrunch up in annoyance, for some petty reason. People often did that when they were uncomfortable, or felt something in their eyes would give away their intentions. But Ib quite literally had nothing to had, featureless as it was.

'I did not enjoy this. I do not enjoy such things, most of the time. I,' it turned to me, my bed creaking under its weight, 'was this close,' it held up a thumb and forefinger, millimetres apart, 'to ending it myself, sooner and more forcefully than I did.'

My ruined throat came to my rescue this time, giving me an excuse for taking so long to gather my words. 'You do not enjoy such things,' I croaked, eyes narrowed, 'most of the time?'

How often did it do, or allow, "such things" that it had an opinion of them?

And when did it do them, for that manner? What did "such things" entail, truly? Allowing some poor bastards to writhe in the grip of their memories, just standing by?

I felt pressure build behind my eyes, as if Ib's eyeless gaze was boring into them, and was promptly reminded of how few things there were that the grey giant couldn't do. What challenge was it to be in two places at once, when you had the power to topple all obstacles?

'I see you are resentful,' it said in an oddly calm, almost flat voice. 'Is that it, my friend? How many Midworlders across history have complained about not having, for all intents and purposes, an all-powerful being solving their problems?'

'And what is stopping you from reaching backwards through time and making it so that suffering never existed?' I asked, perhaps goaded by my weak body, or simply overcome by my distaste at this lack of intervention.

'The part of me that mirrors my power,' Ib retorted softly. 'I love freedom more than my simulacrum of life, Ryzhan. I love it more than I love you, and the captain, and everyone I've ever been fond of. Combined.' Its face morphed, mimicking a lopsided, sad smile. 'I would kill you, if freedom itself was at risk. I would end this corpus you have known, too. But I would not enjoy it.'

'Freedom,' I breathed, struggling to sit up. 'You mean yourself?' I laughed nervously for a moment, feeling my reason briefly slip from my grasp. 'You would end me for your sake, Ib? Just as you would end this puppet of a body? Not the same thing, I would say.'

'You do not understand, Ryzhan. I envy you for that.' It hung its head. 'I am not just talking about the freedom I embody and champion. I am talking about potential, my friend.'

It suddenly rose, a strange fire in its voice, despite the calm tone. In a human's eyes, I might have seen the gleam of faith. With Ib, I had to rely on my experience with its body language and. It was being as fiery as I had ever seen it.

'Can you imagine, Ryzhan?' it continued. 'Can you imagine a boundless existence, where everyone is free to be whatever there is, unfettered by neither the laws of creation nor the worst impulses of people, either theirs or those of others?'

I tried to. Wanted to. But despite my earlier words, I struggled to envision people so powerful yet so...virtuous.

'You do not believe,' Ib said, sounding pleased, even happy. 'That is fine, Ryzhan. You are trammeled by your worst impulses as well, but who isn't? Had all there is been arranged as it should have, there would never have been any need for hope, for only good things would have ever happened.'

'But it isn't.' The grey giant cocked its head, as if listening to something I couldn't hear. It was encouraging me to continue. 'Arranged properly, I mean. Existence. That's what you meant, right?'

With trembling hands, I pushed my covers aside, deciding the shivers had nothing to do with the temperature and everything to do with me being on edge. It wasn't that cold, anyway.

'Indeed,' Ib answered. 'The truth, Ryzhan, is that nothing is quite as it should be. Does your faith not teach that?'

I frowned at the idea. Vhaarn and Fhaalqi had spent a timeless eternity clashing in a void, before making the pact that had allowed them to create Midworld and the realms beyond. The two gods had agreed that what one would create, the other would attempt to tear down, for just as Vhaarn believed nothing was better than building, so was Fhaalqi convinced razing things was the greatest possible endeavour. The balance kept existence going.

But it wasn't perfect. Some argued the two should have been able to work together and measure their tempers instead of warring through the proxies that were their creations.

'That is one way to put it,' I agreed reluctantly.

Ib beamed at that, before launching into an explanation of how, as it was creation, there could never be peace or comfort, not truly, as long as we were all trapped in the dream of a sleeping god, subject to its mindless whims.

Part of me bristled at that, despite myself. Midworlders who persecuted others because of blasphemy or different beliefs usually ended up rotting under the waves fairly quickly, but it was still hard to accept the idea of everyone being prisoners of some mad idiot god, figments of its sleeping imagination.

But, Ib said, there was a possible solution to that. If we slipped the shackles of the Dream, it said, we would be closer to the ultimate freedom it desired for all.

I almost said that, if it was right, weren't we just acting out the parts that dreaming god had unknowingly set for us?

'Perhaps the god wishes for a better world, too,' Ib said, sounding almost giddy, or as close to that as someone with its avalanche of a voice could come. 'Perhaps it wants to awaken, and is directing us to do so.'

I shrugged. By my own logic, Ib's dreaming god (which it had also referred to as the Unmoved Mover, in reference to how it affected everything but was affected by nothing) was making me protest like this, too.

I could see how easily such beliefs could turn poisonous, though. The most wretched bastards in Midworld doing whatever they wanted, claiming their god was making them do it? Vhaarn...

* * *

'Why are you keeping us separate?'

Ib did not answer its captain's question right away, instead continuing to, seemingly, stare straight ahead. The window in Mharra's cabin could be summoned or dismissed at will. Currently, the giant seemed to be facing an unbroken wall.

Mharra doubted that was any obstacle to Ib's sight, such as it was. The grey being, the captain believed, could see anything it wanted to see.

The phrasing drew a dark chuckle from Mharra's lips, which curved into a smile, dry in every sense of the word. For all that he'd been puking his own blood not too long ago, his mouth felt as dry as a desert, while his throat seemed covered in thin lines, as if cracked.

Mharra knew that was not from the bloodloss. Ib had taken care of his blood - all of it, it had said in a manner not at all reassuring; the dryness was, it insisted, a phantom sensation, like the aches one felt after the loss of a limb, as if they still possessed it. Mharra had been spiritually drained by a harrowing experience, and his body had mirrored his mind. It would pass in time, Ib had told him.

Mharra took part of his blanket between his hands, shaping it into a thrice-folded form, like a three-sided house that could be held in one's palm.

The material should not have been able to fold and keep a shape like paper. Unlike on many other occasions, however, Ib did not express any delight at the trick or praise of Mharra's skill. The captain kept his smile, but it did not reach his eyes anymore.

'Say,' Mharra went, 'do you want to keep Ryzhan in the dark in case you kill me? Or me, if you kill him?'

The turn of Ib's head was as lazy and indulgent as its voice when it replied. 'Sir,' it rumbled, 'don't believe for a moment that, if I wanted to hurt you, I'd have to hide myself from anyone. You are not that stupid.'

Mharra blew out an almost relieved breath. At least it wasn't doing something ridiculous, like claiming it was harmless. 'I suppose you could. You are fast enough we wouldn't notice. But what purpose would it serve?'

'None, captain,' Ib replied, almost cheerful. 'So you have nothing to fear.'

Nothing at all, Mharra agreed. After all, they could hardly stop Ib if it turned murderous, and dreading what you couldn't affect was pointless. As such, he kept his smile plastered on his face, just to be sure.

He'd always known taking the shapeshifting giant on his ship could prove disastrous one day. Given the circumstances, and the fact Ib wasn't tearing Midworld a new one (as far as he knew...) he decided it had gone fairly well.

'The truth, captain,' Ib said, still with that odd cheer in its tone, 'is that I am keeping you separate for your own good. Both you and Ryzhan have this...way...to exasperate people. That would not help you stay calm, much less heal.'

'Everything you do is for someone's own good, isn't it?' Mharra mumbled, eyes unfocused.

'I notice you are not denying the other part.'

'I can't disagree with facts, can I?' Mharra deadpanned.

'Also, your moods almost always worsen in moments of weakness, which makes you even more vexing.'

Mharra fixed the giant with a flat stare, trying to decide whether it was just venting now. It flashed him a meaningless smile in return.

'So,' he said, 'I assume that, for some unfathomable reason, you cannot speed our recovery up, and will let us heal at our own pace, thus proving the virtue of patience and the importance of struggle and perseverance. Or something in that vein.'

'You are almost as perceptive as you are kind, captain!' Ib beamed.

Mharra help up a finger. 'Nearly everyone who's told me that lied to me.' He lowered his digit. 'Will you at least tell me what all that was about?'

Ib did.

* * *

'It is done,' Ib said in a harsh, grim voice. 'Take your claws off them.'

The Manmade Gods shifted in their seats, seeming to both remain in place and move away, as if they had suddenly become harder to reach. Ib saw the truth, of course, for its perceptions were shaped by the power to slip all bonds and the changelessness of the Ultimate Void; it was not limited as those who saw time from one direction were.

'We already have, as far as they're concerned,' one replied waspishly. 'No need to belabour the point, Libertas.'

Ib smiled to hide its sneer. There was, though. With some people, and it used the word loosely, you had to be insistent.

'That was a warning,' it explained softly. 'You do not want to even think about attempting to hurt them. Trust me.'

A couple of the Observers hunched, hands and arms over faces, poses that would have suggested stifling laughter in humans. Ib was not fooled. Not by this, and certainly not by the way the third Mantlemaker threw back its head to cackle.

They wanted to bristle, just as it had. But everyone here knew better than to be that open. It was not about saving face. It was about not admitting weakness, the weakness that was being susceptible enough to jibes to lash out.

The Idea of Freedom and the Manmade Gods were not alike in many ways, certainly not enough to be called similar. What they shared, however, was a distaste towards letting an opponent see they were hurt. And vexation was the cousin of outrage, both often resulting from a bruised ego. None of the beings were about to admit they cared enough about their opponents to get angry at them.

That would have been, in their minds, a kind of defeat.

'No need to worry about us, oh liberator of the downtrodden,' the Observer affecting a mirthful voice said, bowing theatrically. 'There is no point in getting further involved with this...drudgery.'

Interesting, the venom with which it had said the least word. 'No?' Ib asked casually.

'No point at all,' the Observer answered, pulling its power around itself. 'The entertainment is over. All is left is the plodding down the path you and your ilk have envisioned for them.'

'I wonder,' Ib said, crossing its arms. 'What is it that so repulses you about the steps necessary to achieve happiness for all?'

The Mantlemakers had started rolling their ways halfway through the question, at first in disdain, then wildly, like madmen whose eyes had rolled into the backs of their heads. Agitated, weren't they?

'There is no joy in handing those grasping, demanding worms what they desire,' the Manmade Gods spoke in a threefold, clipped voice. 'The Ghyrrians' ancestors were not happy with their lot. Survival was not enough. They wanted purpose and mystique, glory. Greedy, shameless...it was only when we made their dreams true that they began considering learning something approaching gratitude.'

'And for their folly, you shattered them and left them broken,' Ib said, managing to keep its sorrow out of its voice. 'Trapped in the chains they forged for themselves. Defined by the roles in your tall tale of a land, struggling to even think about changing them. You took these living caricatures, these half-people, and you laughed at everything they had. You still do.'

All the Ghyrrians' lives and aspirations...but were they theirs, truly? Even those who rose against the Storytellers and tried to strike them down were throttled by the fable-chains the Observers had wrought, shackled by patterns and expectations.

In a way, they were not any freer than the lobotomites of the Free Fleet. At least those unfortunates didn't know how they were suffering, in most cases. They weren't aware they'd lost anything, and that was a kind of freedom.

Freedom from pain. Freedom from horror. In the bleakest of living nightmares, ignorance was bliss.

If only the Ghyrrians had...no. There was no point contemplating possibilities. All that mattered was making the best of them reality. And Ib would, if it was the last thing it did.

There would come a day when all people, of all realms and times, would be liberated. From the petty oppression of their fellows. From the urges that limited them and the forms that trapped their potential, as they had since the beginning of everything, when the Idea of Life had been nearly ruined. From the tumultuous confines of the Dream that was creation.

Everyone would be free, truly free. Unbound by anything, they would be limitless. There would be no necessity anymore, for resources or deeds. Only passion would reign, and all would be like unto Gods.

If Ib had its way. There was a duty to fulfill. Self-imposed, some would have said, but common decency dictated that it had to help, if it could.

There were other at work in the shadows, moving towards the same goal. Mendax, the one they called Remaker in other realms. It was focusing on one of its projects, a creation-spanning endeavour centred around the soul of a strigoi, but it was not shirking the rest of its obligations.

That was fine. Let Mendax prepare another lynchpin, lest oblivion swallow everything when the guardian of godless souls found itself without a guide. The Dream demanded certain things. Ib would take care of Midworld and the fates tied to that of the endless ocean, like strings of silk around a chain of steel.

Ib knew injustice was widespread. The structure of existence itself was proof enough. Still, it rankled - hurt - to know there were people who did not only do nothing to right wrongs, but actually tormented others for amusement, and had nothing but contempt for those who tried to be better.

Ib tried to put itself in an Observer's place. Where did all this pettiness come from? And where did it all fit? You'd have thought egos that enormous wouldn't leave room for anything else. The amusement found in the struggles of others, the hatred for their yearnings, that they had any at all...what was the root?

Were it bound by time, it would have taken Ib a long while to comprehend the source of the Mantlemakers' vicious, obsessive behaviour. But it was a thing if the Ultimate Void, and to it, everything had already happened, for change was an illusion, and all moments were one.

As such, Ib began chuckling when it realised the truth. It was so obvious, it felt almost ridiculous. But it fit. It would have been even more absurd if such curs had a solemn reason for their sadism.

'There is no greater purpose at work with you, is there?' Ib asked, almost cheerful. Its voice brimmed with the joyful clarity of the enlightened, and its visage was a smile of frost and glass shards. 'You mock the Ghyrrians for being ungrateful fools, unhappy with the domain they carved out in Midworld. But you?'

Its chickle became a laugh. 'Of course you would mirror your creators! You set them up to play those ridiculous fairytale roles, not because you're aiming to achieve anything - it just amuses you. When I was adrift in my own mind, bereft of my self's truth, I thought it was all a façade. A pantheon of children pulling wings off flies...it seemed too obvious. But I suppose I overestimated you.'

Turning its back on the shrieking Mantlemakers, Ib strode away, and...

* * *

It has been a couple days since my discussion with Ib and now, I felt well enough to walk by myself.

Even if I needed a cane and felt a dull ache no matter what I was doing. My body felt stiff and bruised, though I knew my body was unmarked by anything save my old scars. Still, I felt like I'd been smacked around by a Seaworm with a grudge and far too much time on its hands.

All attempts to remember when I hadn't hurt had failed. This, Ib had told me, was likely because I'd been put through the wringer by a trio of the Ghyrrians' gods. I hadn't asked the grey giant how it knew, guessing it was its power at work, just as I hadn't asked it to heal me, or why it hadn't done or offered to do so unprompted.

This was all meant to build character, I was sure.

Even if all it was managing was making my already foul temper worse. I'd never been an easygoing fellow, but now I felt like a crotchety old man in a body thrice as young as his mind. The cane didn't help.

I had, after much sighing and beating my pride half to death, decided to go for the sword cane cliche. Now, I had an even harder time taking myself seriously than before, but at least I could walk, not hobble.

I had forged it from my memories of such weapons, before setting it aflame and quenching it in my blood. As long as I had a drop of blood in my body, the cane was supposed to be unbreakable. There were ways around that, of course - places where mages had died in a particularly gruesome manner echoed eternally with their death screams, giving birth to invisible fields of antimagic that could undo any enchantment -, but if I ever found myself confronted by someone using them, I'd have greater worries than my cane getting broken.

It was a rough length of ebony wood, over half as long as I was tall; any who wanted to wield it against my wishes would find their hands flayed by the bark and pierced by previously nonexistent thorns. The sword's cross guard and hilt formed the the cane's handle, which was heavy enough to be used as a club once the blade was unsheathed, as well as magically resonant enough to serve as a focus at all time.

The cane's head gleamed, a layer of gold over cold iron. Gold was beloved by magic, empowering spells to blast through barriers they couldn't have scratched otherwise, while iron was useful against certain regenerating monsters. I had never met their ilk myself, for there were few of them in Midworld and scarcely encountered, but I had heard the stories. Whether dedicated to nature, razing civilisation or maintaining it, they were all cold and ruthless, thieves of children and lives. Ib had said these folk were fair only in aspect, not in fact.

As I made my way to the captain's quarters, a thought struck me, for I was unable to dodge as a greater fool might have. Between my scowl and cane, I probably looked far older than I was, though younger than I felt. I tapped the deck with my cane a couple times, silently coaxing the steamer into action.

The wall in front of me became reflective, and my face fell as I beheld myself. I had to swallow a groan, for, besides the usual disappointing sight, I saw that I had started to grey.

Not to any great extent, thankfully. Had I possessed duller eyes, or been more careless, I might have missed it, but there was no mistaking the grey strand in the middle of my green hair.

It was right where my hair began, like a taunting message scribbled above my forehead. Visions of my temples covered in sparse, silver hair flashed through my mind, and I nearly slumped, before furiously straightening myself up. I wasn't going to hunch over like an old man too.

The Rainbow Burst had started shapeshifting, on a scale it never had before. The one constant was the garish paint on its sides, spattered over them by Mharra in resemblance of the ship's namesake.

At the moment, it looked like a floating town square, with a towering four-sided spire rising above the deck, hundreds of times my height. The rest of the ship had become a smooth metallic expanse, floating despite having every reason to sink. But then, it had pulled mass out of nowhere to increase its size, so I wasn't going to question it.

I dismissed the mirror wall and stepped forward, the metal parting like water, like a curtain, before closing behind me. A spiral staircase rose up into the darkness, and I began ascending, surrounded by a bubble of sourceless light. It was always dark behind and before me. Compelled by my love for crude metaphors, I had decided the ship's mind, or what passed for it, was referencing my shadowed past and uncertain future, with the light representing the present, defined by my baseless optimism.

Or was it my self-worth? I really hadn't done much to feel good about myself.

The ship was the master of its form, and, as such, its interior could be much bigger than the outside, and often was. Were I an intruder or unwanted passenger (in the steamer's eyes, there was little difference when it came to people disliked by its crew. The ship was always eager to remove such people, not wanting hostility between its occupants. It was positive like that), I could have spent forever walking up a staircase to nowhere. As it were, I merely had to ascend what felt like a few storeys.

There was no door to Mharra's cabin. Instead, another wall split in a flowing motion, allowing me to enter. Mharra was sitting in a battered chair at a low, round table. The centre of the wooden table was dominated by a viewscreen or something like it, showing a tridimensional model of the ship and the stretch of sea we were sailing.

The closest islands to us were also represented on the moving map, but they were all unstable. The sort of blasted, uninhabited rocks that rose above the tides for moments, only to be sunk or shattered just as fast by the waves and winds.

The nearest island was hundreds of leagues away, but I had the feeling our strange steamer could have crossed that distance far faster than its usual appearance suggested. The captain had implied as much.

"I don't think it was those Ghyrrian monsters, Ryzhan," he'd told me when I'd raised the possibility. "I believe we would feel that. They'd have wounded the Burst like they've wounded us."

"I don't think they could have helped themselves," I'd admitted. But had they really left it unscathed? It had never changed itself to this degree, let alone this often.

Mharra had smiled lopsidedly, a strangely wistful look in his eyes. "I know what you're thinking, Ryz. Do not doubt the ship just because it's different. It might be growing, like we all are. I have worked my own changes upon it for as long as I've captained it, but I never intended this, or believed it could happen." He'd shrugged, a forced levity on his voice. "I don't mind, though. Who knows what it might become in time?"

Mharra looked up, smiling tiredly at me as he put a small, thin wooden thing down. Ib had told me the writing implement was called a pen, often used by the Free Fleet and far less messy than a quill. It was also easier to use than a pencil, though its writing was harder to erase.

Mharra had finished scribbling on another of the small, yellow slips of paper surrounding the raised map. I'd often seen him doing so recently, sometimes doodling, at other times drawing from memory. He preferred not to talk about his past, but I think depicting it helped him vent, if not relax.

Ib had its back to me, middle and upper arms crossed while leaning forward to look through a triangular window, lower hands pressed on the windowsill. I did not understand why it found watching the tides relaxing. Most of the time, the sight either reminded me of past bad days (most of them) or kicked my paranoia into action, making me wonder what new menace was chomping at the bit to pounce upon us.

"There is serenity there, my friend," Ib had said in a distracted tone when I'd asked what the appeal was. "The tides are ever-shifting, but the essence of the ocean is the same, just like the mechanics of the motions. This false change, with its simple beauty, cannot be altered through observation, but it can be understood."

After spending nearly a minute puzzling over what the Pit that was supposed to mean, I'd thrown a pillow at Ib. The grey giant, focused on the ocean once more, had ignored me.

'Hello, Ryz,' Mharra said, scratching his head as he looked down at the tabletop, seeing nothing. 'Need anything?'

A safe life and Aina in my lap, but that was probably not what he'd meant. 'I believe we need to talk about the future of our journey.'

Mharra nodded, knowing such words usually preceded ship-wide brawls, as well as mutinies, when addressed to people like him. If Mharra was itching to knock my block off and looking for an excuse, I forgave him. I had that effect on most people, and more than half the animals I met. 'Do we, now?'

I frowned in annoyance. I rarely was in the mood for these games of his, and I knew he wasn't forgetful. On the other hand, this was how people had often felt trying to untamgle my past by talking to me, so it was not undeserved.

After briefly glancing at Ib, I met Mharra's eyes as I walked up to the table, pulling a chair and sitting down before crossing my legs. The spherical room was covered splashes of colour, objects associated with a hue painted on the section of wall said colour covered: trees surrounded by green, flames on a red background, a variety of poison-filled vials on purple.

The melange of colours on the walls and ceiling was contrasted by an insultingly ugly thick, grey carpet. I didn't understand why Mharra was using the eyesore, and I didn't ask. I didn't want Ib to launch into another philosophical explanation.

Grabbing my cane by the end and the handle, I pulled it apart in a smooth motion, deciding I might as well act theatrical with how stupid the thing made me look. After all, I'd made it because of a hunch. Part of me thought it could be useful at some point, a thought that had niggled at me until I'd built the cane.

Of course, it hadn't been generous enough to share where that feeling had come from with the rest of my mind, the miser.

Placing the sword on the table, I took the staff in one hand, tapping the moving map with the end and stilling the construct. Were things different, I might have felt selfish, but it wasn't like we actually had anywhere to go.

We were safe, we had access to any victuals we could have wanted. Midworlders would have slaughtered cultures for a chance at what we had thanks to my and Ib's powers, and I tried to be grateful, thanking Vhaarn for my gift as often as I remembered. He had been kind enough to keep me alive and give me the chance to hone my magic. I lost nothing praising him.

'I would like to reunite with Aina, clear the air with her,' I began, glad - for once, when talking about my past - that I had shared the story with Mharra, if only because it saved time I would have wasted explaining. 'Ib believes she is in the Clockwork Court, or perhaps close by, in the House of Weaves.'

We started plotting the course, taking into account the Court and House's latest sightings and the patterns of their movements. When I noted Mharra's dismay at the mention of my childhood friend, I tried not to wince.

Instead, I said, 'Take heart, captain. Who knows what the Clockwork King's artifice can achieve? Perhaps he will undo what the Free Fleet's contraption wrought, or at least point us in Three's direction, if we convince him.' I sat up and awkwardly leaned over the table, placing a hand on Mharra's shoulder. 'We've spoken about this much, I know, and endless talk sours the deed and its worth. But I believe he is still out there, somewhere. My magic all but tells me, whenever I try to remember him.'

Mharra deserved to find his lover and grow old at his side. Barring that, the cold fact Three was gone would have been, if not better than the uncertainty of his fate, at least something he knew.

I did not ask Ib whether it couldn't find the ghost, or didn't want to. I didn't need to darken my day.

[Strigoi Grey]

Book IV, Chapter 2

* * *
Finding the Clockwork Court was like finding contentment in life: the closer you got, the more the goal seemed to move.

As I leaned on the steamer's rail, narrowed eyes trained on the horizon, my fingers beat a meaningless rhythm on the dull, bronze-coloured metal. My cane, slung across my back and kept in place by magic alone, quietly nagged me, urging me to take it in hand and rely on it instead.

My magic could not have found a less subtle way of trying to ingluence me if it had tried.

Still, the mental voice was an almost welcome distraction, compared to my own thoughts. I had heard stories about petitioners to the Clockwork King, who had performed this favour or offered this gift in exchange for getting whatever help they had needed. But they, like most Midworlder stories, glossed over the destination.

I could not entirely blame those travellers. With how capricious Midworld's weather and animals were, not to mention other sailors with less than wholesome intentions, it was understandable that one would not want to commit the drudgery, the horrors and the bloodbaths to record.

Not that many Midworlders recorded much, at least not in writing, and not even always in speech. Life was dangerous enough that people did not expect to have any descendants or a legacy, so why leave documentation about something that had happened to them when no one would ever read it? They already knew, and, one way or another, the world as they knew it was likely to end with them.

No, I did not begrudge their choice to focus on the destination over the journey, though I reserved the right to be annoyed by the stories' tendency not to mention what you had to do to successfully approach the Clockwork King. Surely the criteria weren't constantly changing, like the world's endless tides?

Grasping my cane with both hands, I balanced on my heels as the Rainbow Burst rose and fell over white-crested waves that dwarfed it. The ship was in one of its greater shapes, bulky but agile, and the tides dwarfed most mountains I had seen. What must've been billions of tons of water crashed against the steamer, the ship's intelligence and shapeshifting manoeuvres allowing us to ascend to the peak of every tide before speeding down it like a comet.

I pulled my cane apart into my sword and staff, feeling a faint pressure around me as the ship's limbs, moving too fast for me to see, made sure not a drop of saltwater landed on the deck.

Grateful for my magic, and imagining Mharra bouncing up and down like a ball from the ship's scaling of the mountainous tides, I smiled faintly. But, as I looked at my reflection within the blade, I saw, unsurprised, that the expression did not reach my eyes.

I knew that there were more laugh lines around my eyes than wrinkles, and that the bags under my eyes has more to do with stress than the sleep I no longer needed, but I did not like this look on me, not any more than the grey hair I had recently glimpsed in a mirror.

It might have been vanity speaking, but I didn't want the face of a man twice my age, not with how weathered I already looked. The most generous or tasteless of women might have called me ruggedly handsome, but I knew I looked more like a frequent victim of keelhauling.

So, remembering my face from before Three's disappearance, I changed my visage, then stopped.

A thought had struck me. A suggestion for a visual metaphor so blunt it would've been laughable to anyone who knew me: ever since I had set out on the sea, I had never been truly at rest. As a result, I had often been mistaken for being older than I was.

But I had turned a new leaf, thanks to Ib's... assistance...and the attentions of who I still struggled to believe had been three of the Ghyrrians' gods. The Observers had never ventured out of their realm, to my knowledge, for how could such childishly sadistic beings wreak havoc and not leave any trace? Their egos were too fragile for complete obliteration. They would've left something to recognise them by behind, I was sure.

There was, as always, the chance that they had simply acted too far away for any rumours or tales to reach me, but Ib had agreed with my hunch, although that was no longer as reassuring as it had once been. I wanted to believe the grey giant had no reason to lie about those monsters, but they had more or less worked together recently, hadn't they?

Ib had let the Mantlemakers put me and my captain through the wringer, saying only that the changes our suffering had brought would bring about some great change for all there was.

Conveniently, there had been no explanation or description, only insistence that such a thing would defeat the purpose.

I was too paranoid about Ib's intentions to focus on how grateful I was for the chance to reunite with Aina and, maybe, help Mharra reunite with Three. Oh, I knew exactly what it, at least, claimed it wanted: freedom for everyone, whatever that meant. What I was leery of were its methods.

Ib was too good at justifying sacrifices into necessary things after the fact. If it had been a better apologist, we would have been twins. The last thing I wanted on the crew was someone else like me. Desperate bastards like that were as dangerous when pushed as they were adept at convincing themselves they were cornered.

But I would cross that bridge when I came to it, if I ever gained the means to confront Ib about its deeds, and burn it, if it was needed.

The chance of our friendship ending in bitter separation made my shoulders tighten, something, I realised, thinking of Midworld's countless lost stories had also done earlier.

Maybe it was my magic, influencing me just like I changed it in turn, but some part of me was saddened by the gaps that knowledge had left in Midworld's collective memory when it had disappeared along with its only keepers.

Not that Midworld had much of a collective anything.

Maybe I could do something about it. Magic could change, mutate, in response to its wielder's thoughts and desires. Could I enhance my ability to tap into memories and become able to see the past, so I could commit it to memory?

Something to look into. I did not have much to do, these days, anyway, with the day-to-day running of a ship being taken care of by the steamer itself and all the resources we could need being covered by my magic and Ib's powers.

A chuckle escaped my lips. Even as a child, I had not dreamed I would ever live like this: a mage able to strengthen himself at will, sailing on a ship that took care of itself.

The chuckle became sad as I remembered the steamer had only become like this after we had lost Three. It was such a damn shame to be unable to share this bounty and safety with the ghost - it felt almost like a betrayal.

I turned my head slightly, then, on a whim, looked back forward and thought of the seascape I had just seen - and the sights behind me filled my mind as if they were parading before my eyes.

I saw the sea as it was now by remembering it as it had been. Triggered by the connection, the nameless spell showed me every bird and cloud moving lazily across the sky, every behemoth of a fish leaping between giant tides, every drop of water.

I drew myself up, pleasantly surprised. I was growing, too. The ship had competition, I thought with a grin.

I had looked behind me to see if anyone was there, for Mharra could, using the pieces of Ib given to him, hide himself from my arcane sense as easily as the giant itself could.

But I was alone. Doubtlessly, the captain was in his cabin, either trying to find a course to the Court or mourning his lost lover. I wasn't sure what Ib did, nowadays, but I was not in a hurry to meet it.

Midworlders who had only been sailing for a few years would have expected these league-tall waves to only occur during freakish storms, but the truth was that Midworld's sky and its sea collaborated as often as they ignored each other.

That was why, though the sun was bright and the sky a deep, sapphire blue, we were being buffeted by mountains of water. Admittedly, there was also a good chance Midworld was mocking our desire for good weather by giving us these tides alongside it.

It was a spiteful bitch like that. I wasn't sure Midworld was a thinking being, as such, but if it was, its sense of humour was as stupid as it was dangerous. Most ships, relying on wood and sails, without magic or unknowable contraptions to fall back on, would've been reduced to clouds of splinters by the base of the waves alone.

Though I missed Three nearly as much as Mharra, I could not help but be glad his disappearance had been the kick to the rump the steamer had needed. Back when the ghost had been our engineer, I was sure he'd have had to scream himself hoarse (metaphorically speaking) and run himself ragged trying to coax the Burst into the mood necessary to attempt the stunts it was now doing by itself.

How much had our efforts to whip the ship into shape helped? Had they truly done anything, or simply made it look at itself and decide it wanted to change?

In any case, the steamer had changed as much as its body of metal could.

With no one around and nothing better to do, I remembered a chair, then remembered it being still as, upon appearance, it began being tossed around by the force of our movemenents. As the conjured chair stuck to the deck like it had been nailed down, I made my way to it, all the while tapping the deck with the end of my cane, as well as dragging my sword's tip along it.

The cold indignation of the steamer crashed against my mind, filling my spirit with a cautionary, silent noise. Much like poking an elephant with a spear to make it follow your orders, the bursts of magic I had sent into it had annoyed the great ever-changing vessel.

Had I not been a friend, they would've been dangerous, and I would have been fighting for my life now.

I crossed my legs after I sat down, laying my sword across my knees while keeping the staff pressed against the deck. I could maintain the bond with the Rainbow Burst just by touching it, or even through a pure effort of will, but what was the point, when I had a focus to channel through?

I looked up, into Midworld's serene sky, and spoke with the ship.

* * *

Hello, Burst.

Fourth traveller. You are speaking through thought.

I am indeed. Recently, I have touched more minds than I ever thought I would.

You never spoke to me before.

I did not have any good reason to, in my defence. I knew better than to distract our conveyance with my inane ramblings.

Hmph. You are a glib, shameless coward.

Ye-

You talk at me, not with me. You ask me to shape my form into whatever you desire, but you cannot afford to ask how I am doing?

Burst, this is going to sound arrogant, but until recently, I thought you were an object.

I never was. There is only one person here who has been a tool and will likely always remain one, with how awful he is at apologising.

...How about this? I think I have a way to make it up to you. Listen...

* * *

Mharra's hands were in the pockets of his captain's coat as he strode across the deck, whistling.

Though the waves had calmed down, the sea was still in a foul mood. A whirlpool, dark as a vruise and stretching past the horizon, had caught their ship and was not letting go.

Most vessels would have been torn apart by the force, and few of those durable enough to survive would have been able to resist the pull of the vortex.

The Rainbow Burst, however, was as stubborn as it was proud, which was why it was making a point of the fact it wouldn't go anywhere it didn't want to. Adopting a circular shape, as if aping the whirlpool, the steamer remained in place as if on a still sea, construct-limbs batting away everything the whirlpool was throwing at it, from waves to the remains of ships and oceanic monsters that had never seen sunlight before.

At one point, a cluster of Seaworms had converged upon the ship. Each over three kilometres long and weighing thirty-two billion tons of flesh far tougher than still, they had opened their gaping mouths, circular maws with shining fangs, and dashed at the vessel so fast white flames had blazed into existence around their pale forms from friction.

Radiating contempt, the Burst had extended a grasping limb to squeeze a Seaworm in half. The second had been splattered by a bludgeoning fist rising from the ship, while the third had been sliced to ribbons too thin to see by a hail of metallick shards launched from every surface of the steamer, which had moved towards the creature to butcher it even if they'd happened to be flung into the opposite direction.

Ib, who had relayed the confrontation to Mharra, as it had occured in a thousandth of a thousandth of a second - too fast for the captain to perceive without altering his speed through the powers of his skintight, transparent protective suit - had also told him the projectiles had posessed a rudimentary, predatory mind, which had instinctively sought the Seaworm the steamer had marked for death.

The last Seaworm had inadvertently killed itself, crushing its eyeless head against the vessel's defences. The moment the fangs' tips had touched it, but before they had been able to damage anything, the steamer had changed form, covering itself in inviolable shields.

As a final insult, the Rainbow Burst had made the shields flex, launching the monster's corpse thousands of leagues away, a distance it covered in less time than it took Mharra to blink upon hearing the description.

Now, the captain was looking for his mage friend. Knowing Ryzhan was almost as reserved as he was paranoid, traits that had much to do with each other, Mharra did not expect to find him on deck, given the recent attacks. Certainly not in this...position.

Ryzhan was on his stomach, half-buried into the deck, which covered his torso and his limbs up to the knees and elbows. His face, which betrayed no sign of distress, regarded Mharra with the sort of distracted surprise common to those interrupted during meditation or work.

'Yes?' Ryzhan asked, as if he didn't look like the world's strangest prisoner.

'Ryz,' Mharra greeted, by now fully accustomed to the mage's nonsense. 'Did the ship capture you? What did you do?'

'I am being hugged, captain.'

Mharra gave him a deadpan look, but Ryzhan's expression was earnest, and there was a strange intensity in his eyes, as if he were completing some vital task.

'It's...embracing you?'

'Do not be so quick to dismiss it, captain.' Ryzhan raised a finger. 'Just because it did not come into the world with arms, it does not mean it cannot express our friendship this way.'

'I was actually just baffled there's one more person who can stand you, but that's good advice.' Mharra nodded to himself. 'It would make a good lesson if we ever make a play of a fable, or the like.'

Stroking his beard with one hand, Mharra sat down on the mage's back, which was covered by the steamer's substance. Tougher than any mundane material Mharra knew, but as flexible as water, it yielded to his touch, shaping itself to both become comfortable and keep him steady.

Ryzhan bit out a curse. 'What are you doing, sir?'

'Shh.' Mharra waved a dismissive hand. 'I'm thinking.'

'You fat little-'

'Listen, Ryz,' Mharra cut off the slander, a thoughtful look on his face. 'It is good that we met like this. Ib couldn't help but chime in, though I've already talked with it.'

The mage stopped struggling, expression growing more serious. 'About what?'

'Ib believes the Clockwork Court cannot simply be found. It knows where the place is, but we must be invited if we want to enter unscathed. The Clockwork King has the means to both evade pursuers and make any attempt at forcing our way in deeply unpleasant.'

Such things that regretful madman had built...creatures that could drag the grey giant into an eternal stalemate, according to Ib itself, and many other horrors and wonders besides.

'And?' Ryzhan grunted, likely already looking for a solution to this problem as he all but asked for it.

Mharra's storyteller smile would have been barely visible in his dark beard if not for the glint of his teeth. 'As soon as it stopped talking, I suggested we do something to impress the King. It's been a while since we put on a show, anyway. Might as well try to catch his eye.'

'Nonsense, sir. No way you waited until Ib stopped explaining to start talking.'

'Thank you for proving my earlier amazement wasn't unfounded,' Mharra replied. 'After I brought this up, Ib soon told me about three places where our skills would make the greatest impression.' Patting the mage's covered back, Mharra stood up. 'I'm sure it won't feel strange to travel alone again.'

'Why?' Ryzhan asked, quickly rising to his feet as he was freed from the ship's grasp. 'The troupe is too small for us to split up.'

Mharra smiled again, though his eyes indicated something in the distance.

* * *

'It's not that, my friend,' Mharra answered, simultaneously trying to point something out to me. Come to think of it, I had been surprised by Ib's absence. 'Three sailors going to three places, learning and teaching, before reuniting for their true journey. It has symbolic weight.'

Which would increase the chances of either success or failure, depending on fate's whims. Either way the results would be more spectacular than they would have been in the case of a less fateful endeavour.

'Ib has already left, hasn't it?' I asked gruffly, sheathing my sword. Mharra's silence was answer enough, not to mention resounding.

I did not like these secret meetings of theirs (how many had there been?), but he should at least admit it if he wanted to brush me off. I doubted three wanted a spineless paramour.

'Send it my regards,' I said, cane in hand as I turned on my heel, coattails swishing around me. Might as well be dramatic, if I was going to put on a show.

Minutes later, I was standing in a small boat spawned by the steamer, looking up at Mharra. He'd given me no instructions except to be impressive, which had hardly been needed. But having no script to follow can be both liberating and a trap of the mind.

A green entertainer would have worried about what to do, but I did not care enough. According to Mharra, who had been told by Ib, the island I was sailing to had not been visited by anyone in its - allegedly - millennia of existence.

Such a long lifespan for a landmass was even more bizarre than no one happening across it, ever, but isolated cultures like that often reacted in interesting ways. I was as likely to dazzle them with my foreign charm as I was to be attacked for being a filthy outsider.

The captain would sail to what he had called a pleasure fleet on the Rainbow Burst, while Ib had moved towards some strange place on paths only it knew and few could walk.

"It tried to describe it to me for a few minutes before I asked it to stop," Mharra had told me, "because it didn't make sense. From what it told me, even if it wasn't ssomecreature's lair, it would still be eerie. Not being able to see or hear the sea, nor smell it? Having it hidden from you?"

It did indeed sound unnatural. But then, neither my destination, nor Mharra's - a fleet prosperous enough to be dedicated solely to pleasure, which hadn't been snapped up by any of Midworld's covetous powers? - sounded normal.

[Strigoi Grey]

Book IV, Chapter 3

* * *
The fraction of the Rainbow Burst I had been given was a small, surly thing. Not just in terms of size: it was also petty.

Despite being able to shift size, it insisted on appearing as a small, cramped rowboat, though it lacked any oars. Despite being unable or unwilling to speak mind to mind like its parent (?), it had, in no uncertain terms, impressed upon me that it was going to steer itself.

I had decided to take the hint after every attempt to tilt the boat with my legs or arms ended with it righting itself with a low growl. It seemed harmless, at least: when I had grabbed its sides on an attempt to make it stop so we could talk, it had turned upside down and wrapped a tendril it had grown around my waist to drag me along.

Then, with no apparent means, it had blurred across the water upside down, turning a small stretch of sea into steam from the sheer speed. A normal human would've also been reduced to vapour by the friction many dozens of times over, but, enhanced as I was by my magic, I'd simply ended up pink-faced and annoyed.

Luckily, nothing but my dignity was harmed. As it had been dead for a while, I'd indulged the boat, letting it take me where it may. It knew the path, anyway. Midworlder maps were only useful when it came to small areas (and then only for a while, until the sea or sky surged to turn islands to dust and memory) and I'd never seen or heard about this island.

Serene Rest. In my experience, places with names like that were more sinister than ones with threatening names. Like that giant musclebound thug named Tiny, who'd worked me over as a youth. This island sounded like a cemetery.

I'd only heard of graveyards a handful of times, and had only seen a painting of one once. I wondered what Midworlder had come up with the idea of laying the dead to rest in ground that would become nothing most likely before a corpse could even rot to dust.

It seemed like such a waste...Vhaarn had taught us to give the dead to the sea, to feed its creatures so that we might always have plump, plentiful fishes. At least those would never disappear.

'Hmph,' I grunted, laying on my back in the boat. Maybe that was not always the case? Maybe there were islands stable enough to act as the cradles of civilisations that could last for...centuries? Millennia, even?

It felt surreal, but Ib had once told me of other realms it had glimpsed, but had always known, in truth, where seas were finite bodies of water scattered across the surface of celestial spheres called planets; the grey giant had also said such things existed far above Midworld's seas, something I'd heard of but hadn't really believed. Maybe it had been the fact that it didn't really concern me.

Allegedly, islands there were essentially the tips of pillars rising from a world's rocky skin. Maybe this Rest was something like that?

My hands were clasped under my head, which left my elbows dangling over the edge. The mana I'd infused into my body was the only thing stopping my legs and torso from cramping. The boat was so narrow it almost felt like a vise.

I understood it was to keep me from falling over or being thrown or pulled out by something, but honestly-

I glared at the sphere that had suddenly formed a sort of roof over the boat, rising from the sides faster than I could see. My arms had ended up awkwardly twisted above my head.

As I untangled myself, bending my knees for more space, I reached out to touch the addition to the boat. It was the colour of amber and felt like thick class to the touch. Maybe it was like one of those windows you could see through but not into?

Before I could wonder why the hell it had changed shape, the boat swayed in place, then rushed forward as if pushed. I noticed faint, colourless splashes on the surface of the sphere, and let out an "Ah," in understanding.

The clouds had arrived fast enough to outpace my perception, so mundane sailors would have only noticed the destructive rain once they started disintegrating, too fast to even scream. A single drop could turn a man in plate armour into smoking sludge.

The vile substance would, at worst, have made me blink if I'd let it get into my eyes, but I was still grateful for the shield. I didn't want to have to restore my clothes again. I'd lost them once when the boat had dragged me upside down, and I had this feeling the little bastard had gotten a laugh at my impromptu steam bath.

The melting rain was one of Midworld's nastier weather hazards: destructive enough to obliterate your crew and ship before you could do anything, but also persistent enough it could last for lifetimes over thousands of leagues.

As far as people could tell, the substance was unnatural, but not magical: according to my arcane sense, as well, there was no mana in it. This explained why antimagical tools, infused with the energy left in areas where mages had died in particularly horrible ways, could not stop it.

Its composition was interesting: my magic could not sense anything acidic in its makeup, but it wasn't hot enough to disintegrate things like small amounts of it did. Mayhap it held a supernatural power to unmake, like Ib's ability to break restrictions, but if so, it was too subtle for my senses.

I affectionately ran my hand along the inner rim of the boat for preventing the need to recreate my garb once more. It produced a sound like grinding gears, which I took to be approval, or encouragement for further stern-kissing.

I did not indulge it, however. Basic usefulness was not enough to be admired, and acting like my conveyance barely counted, with what a pain in the rear it was being. I could've ran on water.

But maybe I was being too quick to dismiss the grumpy scrapheap. If it posessed even a fraction of the steamer's abilities, it could shield me from attacks that might distract or wound me while I was fighting off a real threat.

We would see.

* * *

After seven days and seven nights, a number whose significance I later chastised for not noticing (why a week? For there surely was a reason. And how? I had counted the moments, down to the last thousandth of a second, and it was only after exactly a week that Serene Rest showed up on the horizon), I arrived at my destination.

The Rest was a forested island, with mountains rising at the edges, forming natural borders. Two things stood out, and - and this put me on edge instantly - the second? I noticed even without my arcane sense, which made me think it was being projected, rather than radiated as happenstance.

The first detail was the island's colour. Besides the grey mountains (which, now that I looked closer, were veined with blue lines whose nature I couldn't quite figure out, and which spread over the rock in a variety of shades), it was all a light violet, from the land itself to the trees.

Something in the colour reminded me of powder grains grinding between my fingers. There was this fragility, but I didn't let my guard now. The sea was easy to split with one's bare hands, as were most airborne poisons. Didn't mean they couldn't kill you.

The second, much more menacing detail was, ironically, the wave of peace I felt rising from the island as soon as I laid eyes on it.

Now, do not misunderstand me. There were places that could soothe my soul in moments, were I to merely glance at them: sunlit plains, crystal streams, wherever I got the chance to pile the corpses of my enemies. The island was nothing so natural or tranquil.

But before I explain why this land was more eerie than the sites of countless deaths, perhaps I should of my experience with dealing death.

Now, the last sight described was not something I often saw. It had been some years since enough people had hated one of my guises at once for me to not only lack any option but escape, but get to raise piles of their bodies.

Of course, I had to destroy such monuments to the foolishness of my opponents more often than not. Usually, they drew attention, either that of their brethren or of other, snoopy Midworlders. I had rarely ended up in situations where such corpse mounds would've served as warnings as opposed to taunts, so most if the time, there was little sense in leaving a trail of blood behind me. A visible one, that is.

At least I hadn't needed to resort to slaughter since I'd joined Mharra's crew. Thankfully, relief surpassed nostalgia.

The fact I felt any at all, however, dismayed me, somewhat. Had I grown so enamoured with bloodshed that I missed it, like a lover turning in their sleep and waking inly to see an empty bed?

I'd rarely killed with my hands. Usually, I'd skipped away from crews or fleets that had grown suspicious of me, after making sure they'd be destroyed by some natural disaster or boarded by pirates. I'd been relieved at every departure, of course, for I had lived again, but...

Did I miss that, too? The trickery?

The faith of Vhaarn was not complex, but then, it did not need to be. Its adherents wanted peace of mind in a treacherous world, not labyrinthine scriptures. Still, it was elaborate enough for me to know I hadn't been faithful in anything but name.

Fhaalqi reigned over every wicked thing in Midworld, from storms and quakes to invaders and sea monsters, and worse. Some said the moon was his eye, and the madness it bred the result of his mind encroaching upon mortal ones.

I didn't know. I wasn't sure what disturbed me more, the though of the Enemy of All having a permanent presence in Midworld, or the moon and the insanity it brought being an unrelated but no less pervasive evil. I preferred not to think about it, and recent events hadn't encouraged me to find out.

My mind was ragged enough on its own, no unnatural influence needed (or welcome).

But enough of that. I was thinking like this to stall, but also to focus, to gird my thoughts against the malign mind of the shore I was approaching.

I couldn't have told you if the island thought like I did, or at all, but something that felt almost like a stream of conscience gathered around mine. It reminded me of those cloying clouds of poison, released by monstrous plants or things that only looked like perfume bottles and other such trinkets, used by assassins and soldiers alike.

Thanks to my arcane sense, I could tell that, while this presence was heavy, it was likely not meant to be deadly. Maybe it had killed weak-minded Midworlders in the past, but my magic kept silently insisting I remain wary, lest I open myself up to something it couldn't or wouldn't name or describe.

Hm. Was it like some sort of mental venom, then? A thought attack meant to soften up victims? Of yes, it likely had worked in the past. Mundane humans would've been like blind sheep to the slaughter here. Pit, not too long ago, I would've been ensnared too.

It was only my magic that allowed me to notice and hold off the danger, but even then, it was a matter of constant effort. It was not like putting up a shield or cowering behind a barricade; more like wrestling with one of those giant snakes with no venom, which strangled their prey to death.

Thank Vhaarn I had grown strong enough to withstand this force. Years ago, this mental struggle would've been less like grappling with one of those great land snakes and more like trying to survive the attention of their oceanic cousins, with fangs a thousand leagues long and bodies a thousand times that.

According to my research, which Ib had agreed with, being able to cross their own body length in a second made those sea snakes over sixteen times as fast as light itself, which explained how something heavier than almost any star could pounce upon Midworlders without being noticed before or after.

Not that it would have helped. Most sailors did not have the means to damage those titanic bodies, which could withstand their own power.

As the island came closer, I tensed, ready for anything. If my boat felt the island assailing its mechanical mind, it gave no sign - but then, it wouldn't.

No use going back, though. This was my destination, and the boat had taken me towards it, as uneering as its sire ship, before I had felt the island's power. It agreed that I had to be here, though if it could communicate clearly enough to share its reasons, it did not.

So. A monstrous, likely alive island that wanted to rape my mind. A boat I didn't trust, except in the sense I knew it didn't give a toss about me, leaving aside its orders to keep me alive and bring me back in one piece. A crew and ship I somehow knew, in my heart of hearts, that I could not return to until whatever I was meant to do here was over.

It had been a while since I'd had no one and nothing reliable around me. Had I really lived like this, once? And had the stint on Mharra's steamer been enough to change my weaselly soul?

I had travelled more safely under other captains without my paranoia dulling. What had been different? What had missed, then?

Love?

* * *

After a week of walking, I realised that either Serene Rest was bigger than it looked, or I was moving slower than I thought. Either hinged on my senses being compromised, but the first was more likely.

With my remembered quickness, I'd crosses the island in one dash, only to find a far greater expanse than I'd travelled behind me. The way back had taken much longer, and trying other routes across the land had resulted in similar reason-defying reshaping of the land.

What was more annoying, there wasn't even anything to lash out against. There were no critters on Serene Rest, as far as I could tell, not even insects, much less any inhabitants: only silence and perfumed landscapes. True enough to the first part of its name, but I'd be damned if I tried the second.

At one point, I think during the middle of the third day, irritated with my fruitless exploration, I'd tried to see if the island acted as a body for the inhuman mind that had brushed against mine. However, it had proved impervious against any physical or metaphysical assault I'd attempted.

Interestingly, it had shrunk away from my sword, forming pits so it cut nothing but air or remaking itself into uncanny shapes to twist away from my blade.

I wondered why. My sword did not let me hit that much harder than my magic, nor was it enchanted to be deadly beyond its cutting power. Why the caution, then?

I had heard stories of magical artefacts that had grown beyond their makers' design, but I liked to think I'd have noticed my sword developing new abilities.

Or maybe not. Serene Rest's influence never disappeared, for the island, like the immortal evils of myth and legend, did not grow tired or bored. Its touch was an insustent, clammy thing, which made my skin crawl and my hair stand up in disgust.

I clicked my tongue, weary in mind if not body after seven days and nights of wandering. What was I missing.

I placed my sword against the ground, point-first, and this time, the island did not try to move away. It was, I had observed, seemingly able to sense my intent, and only retreated when I wanted to harm it.

I leaned on my blade as if it were a cane, staff resting on one shoulder. If I decided to channel mana through it and blast something, it would be easy to get into position.

Why was I here? To put on a show, yes, but in front of what audience? I was the only person around, unless one counted Serene Rest, which I wasn't inclined to. My misgivings aside, its behaviour reminded me more of those predatory bugs that harassed their prey and pounced upon it once it was weakened than anything humanlike.

Like the island, such killer insects seemed to possess deep thinking, what Ib called sapience, but, also like them, I believed it was only aping what I'd recognise as faculties - else why hadn't it tried to communicate over an entire sennight, instead of scrabbling at my mind like some stupid animal?

I gave my surroundings a dubious look. The entire island looked the same, without anything that could be called a landmark, as if it were a simpleton's idea of an island.

Even the mountains at the edges seemed identical, rising like grey, jagged spires through pink mist and into an equally pink, cloudy sky. All soft colours and contours, pleasing to the eye, but not to me. I could swear there had been no fog around the island when I'd first seen it, and the sky above it had seemed normal.

I couldn't remember when that had changed, and I didn't like that. Memories were the foundation of my magic; of my life, too, with how my past had defined me for so long. Forgetfulness, senility...appalling in on themselves. If induced, as loathsome as control of my mind.

The memory of scaling those stupid mountains - the boat had stopped at the rocky beach that led to the mountains' bases, feeling annoyingly smug, though I'd have been hard-pressed to tell you how I could spot that, besides feeling what passed for its emotions - would have probably been enough to prevent me from relaxing even without the constant attempts at mind control.

The ground was uneven but easy to walk, spongy, bending under my boots. Violet and soft, it was covered in something that resembled moss in most places, though equally-soft gravel and dirt replaced the growth in some places.

I needed to get away, or finish what I had come here for. Knowing symbolism as I did, the second was far more likely to happen. Between my memory and my magic, I was confident I could find my way back to the boat. What I was far less confident in was being able to get away.

A scenario I often imagined featured that rusty tub throwing me back on the island, while sniggering, but even if I did get back to the steamer, then what? I needed to teach and learn here, Vhaarn knew what.

I could easily imagine Ib dragging me back and preventing me from leaving until I saw something that would feel obvious afterwards, leaving me feeling like a moron. Maybe I was being unkind to the grey giant, but I couldn't be arsed to be more considerate, at the moment.

I knew, as surely as I knew the sea went on forever, that there had to be something more to this island. Serene Rest had some sort of lure that had doubtlessly undone minds weaker than mine. My magic agreed as much.

Where were they, then? Had they rotten to nothing after wasting away, too enthralled to eat and drink? But surely the island did not draw people to it just to watch them die. I could easily imagine it being a cruel fool, but what if it did...more? What if it ate them? Or dragged them underground?

Being trapped in this foul clump of dirt forever...just the thought made me grimace. I didn't know whether I'd end at Vhaarn's side after I died, but I'd rather die in a way I believed in. Vhaarn teached his worshippers to never harm without cause. Did I qualify?

Ach. Worries for another day. Whether I ended up in the Pit, to be tormented by Fhaalqi and his slaves for eternity, or in the realm between for him and his brother to judge until enough changed for my undying soul to reach a proper afterlife.

Or not. Some waited forever.

I could not afford to get distracted. My spirit would go where it would. I could only hope to live well.

I believed the islands' previous victims lingered here, in one form or another. Who else was I supposed to put a show on for? The boat?

If I wanted a silent fool to sneer at my every blunder, I'd just talk in front of a mirror.

I absentmindedly started to brush some of the violet dust from my overcoat's collar, then stopped, struck by a thought.

What if I was looking in the wrong place? The physical world, that is. The island was a hunter of thoughts and senses. What if its victims persisted in its mindscape?

Until now, I'd struck at it, but what if I needed to meet it mind to mind? Not in a clash, but...with open arms.

Not a thought I relished. It was better than being effectively trapped here, however, though I knew part of the reason I was trapped was my own mindset, something which certainly hadn't happened before. The realisation almost floored it, let me tell you.

Sitting down to steady myself, lest I be toppled by my own wit, I crossed my legs, then my sword and staff above them, gripping them loosely. I needed to be able to defend myself, but I couldn't afford to be distracted by the world of matter.

The dust, which had previously stuck to meblike grasping fingers, gathered again, pressing into my boots and clothes, but I kept it away from my face with a burst of mana.

The island must have understood, because the pressure lessened, until...

* * *

I did not know if I had fallen asleep, but when my attention returned to the world inside me, moving away from the one inside my mind, it felt like waking up.

I was groggy, blinking something not quite like sleep out of my eyes, and numb. My joints actually cracked as I rose to sit. Violet dust fell off me like flakes of dead skin, not one grain remaining on my clothes. This was not the only uncanny detail I noticed, but it made my heart beat faster nonetheless.

As I became alert, I tried to raise my weapons. They might have been new, but the instinct guiding my hands was old: I had fought with blade and cudgel before my magic was anything worth talking about.

They were not in my grasp. I turned around, only to see the spot where I'd fallen onto my back was free of dust. The grains stopped a hair from where my body had been, forming an outline. The spongy, bloated ground looked as inviting as the layer of fragrant dust, but all I wanted was to jump to my feet and find my sword and staff.

Nothing about this island appealed to my heart. There was only trickery, attempt after attempt to worm its way into the core of my being and leave me hollow.

The pressure of the mental assault had ceased, leaving me blessedly unburdened, but that only made the other dangers clearer.

I could practically see it: some tired wretch laying down to rest, only for the ground (Serene Rest's skin?) to seize them and drag them to their doom.

I was not a warrior. There were people who only felt alive with a weapon in hand and blood drenching their bodies, and I pitied them. But the thought of curling on the ground and being drained to death, or worse, by this monstrous place offended something within me.

There would be no dignity in such an end. Not a peaceful death in bed, in a lover's embrace, or surrounded by family or the fruits of one's work. Not even death in battle.

Pitiful...

Noting the landscape had changed again, going from plain to valley, I noticed a couple of glimmers in the distance, one bright and sharp, the other duller. My sword and staff, catching the feeble sunlight?

So far...

Oh, it might have looked like a distance I could cross in a single stride with mana singing in my veins, but I knew better. The island was as treacherous as it was persistent, traits that, thankfully, were not always found together.

No such luck now, though, so that did little to comfort me. I'd have to survive first if I wanted to enjoy being able to overcome weak-willed schemers and stubborn idiots.

I pressed a hand to my face, rubbing my eyes, before pinching my nose. My head was clearing, but I still didn't trust anything in its place, the certainty I was in danger aside.

Looking down at myself, I saw my black boots were shiny enough to serve as mirrors, if need be, as clean as my grey trousers and the brown long coat over my white shirt. None of that made any sense.

I was not unwashed, but few sailors gave a toss about cleaning themselves up until they looked like children's dolls. I was not one of them, though I could have afforded to. There was just no point in being so...spotless.

The fact I could tell this shirt was white was eerie in of itself. Usually, it was closer to a dull grey, broken up by stains of obscure origin. Nothing my magic or Ib's power couldn't fix, but there was no need to fuss over such details.

I looked like a princeling. Like some corsair hero dreamed up by a maiden with too much time and imagination.

The thought brought a wan smile to my lips. Had I not decided earlier to look for Serene Rest's victims, without even knowing if there were any?

I could not call that heroic, though, if only because the idea of me as a saviour made me want to laugh and cry at the same time.

If I was the hero, I didn't want to meet the villains.

I started towards the glimmers I'd spotted earlier, the dust parting around my boots without even raising clouds of it. A few strides after I'd set off, I felt hands grasp my shoulders, so gently I could hardly say I'd been grabbed.

I turned, surprised but expecting a new trick, only to face my childhood friend.

Aina was tall for a woman, just a hair shorter than me, and fair-skinned, with a heart-shaped face amidst waves of hair as blue as the clearest sky, as her eyes, as the garment that barely concealed her form.

To speak with the clarity of hindsight - of course she fit my preferences. I'd never liked thin girls except in the way I liked flowers, that is to say, they were pretty to look at. It came as no surprise that Aina was all curves: I'd known she'd grow up to be beautiful long before I'd known what the word really meant.

My weapons didn't return to my hands when I remembered them, nor did exact replicas of them appear. Thankfully, I hadn't been relying on things going that easy.

Unarmed, I raised fists crackling with mana as Aina, a shy smile on her face, moved closer to me, giving her a warning glare.

She stopped, her smile growing brighter, for some reason. She showed a few teeth as she pressed her fingertips together, twirling them in a gesture I thought too girlish for what looked like a grown woman.

Another insult to my sanity. Subtler than the previous, but that was not saying much. Did Serene Rest truly have no ideas beyond dredging up my memories to throw me off?

But this was not really a memory, was it? I couldn't say I knew the woman my friend from boyhood had grown into, but if this had truly been her, I would've felt the moon's influence on her, damn my beleaguered senses.

Furthermore, and far more importantly, Aina would not have approached me like some coy maid. I refused to believe she, or I, had changed so much she'd be speechless at the sight of me.

So, who was this, then? This apparition clad in nothing but a sheer blue ribbon wrapped around her body, that covered only her breasts and womanhood, in the loosest sense of the word?

'You are not her,' I said, voice coming out rougher than I'd expected, as if I'd been chewing that acrid-smelling weed some sailors went for instead of tobacco. Some people, who clearly hadn't considered my sense of smell, said the only problem it caused was a fairly harmless longing.

Defying my expectations, the Aina lookalike didn't deny my accusation. That was usually the first response in such situations, followed by a request for clarification. She knew what I meant.

Instead, she backed off, spreading her arms. 'I am no less real than your giant friend would be if it regrew from a discarded part of itself.'

'Poppycock,' I replied. 'You are not related to Aina in any way besides appearance.'

'Does that make me less of a person, Ryzhan?'

The part of me that still lived on the run felt vaguely irritated that Serene Rest and its slaves (or were they not separate from it at all?) already knew my true name, but then, I'd opened my mind to it, hadn't I?

Being honest allegedly helped, according to some. I still hadn't seen hide or hair of the island's past victims, however, and if this woman was truly Aina, and one of Serene Rest's prey, I'd eat my boots.

What she was, though, was something to interact with. Maybe I could get under the island's skin by telling its puppet off, or even better, destroying her.

'Are you?' I answered her question with one of my own. 'A person?' I raised a finger before she could reply. 'Know nothing you say will convince me of this place's good intentions, or that you're not under its sway.'

Aina shook her head, stifling a giggle. I felt a frown begin to creep over my features. Usually, when people laughed without me trying to make them, it was at my expense, and involved either failure or some ridiculous thing I hadn't noticed.

Noticing my expression, Aina's own features softened, and she sat down, before moving to her side and propping herself up on one elbow. 'Please, do not misunderstand,' she said, gesturing at the ground. 'Sit with me, and I will explain everything.'

'Everything? I doubt you know that much,' I said acidly, but complied with her request. The fact her clothes had changed to an opaque dress, so that she no longer looked like some desert warlord's concubine, helped make things less mortifying.

That hadn't been the Aina I wanted. It wasn't just about flaunting herself, though that would've only been fine if Serene Rest hadn't been observing us. It was how vulnerable showing that much skin made...her...

Godsddamnit. Had I forgotten "she" wasn't in any danger, puppet of the island that she was? The real Aina would've likely turned Serene Rest to scattered dust by now with the power that had come with her lunacy.

And on that note - "not the Aina I wanted"? How convenient that her garment shifted to something more respectable the moment I had enough of it. How had I missed that...?

Aina, who must've read my thoughts (perhaps literally, for all I knew), started to move closer, but I crossed my legs and gave her a flat look, silently telling her to put a leash on any impulses she might have.

Aina pouted so adorably I wanted nothing more than to kiss her until she smiled, a thought that nearly made me slap myself. Was this to be my undoing? A thought-eater stitching together my dreams and memories to make marionettes?

Having returned to her prior position, Aina extended a hand towards me. 'You misunderstand the island, Ryz. It is not a monster, but a saviour.'

'I'm sure it looks that way from there.' I knew all about "saviours". The Free Fleet saved people from the burden of choice, much like the moon saved one from having to think too much. There were as many things in Midworld that could make it so you'd never be hurt again as there were ways to die, if not more.

Aina's slim fingers beat an unsteady rhythm on the ground as I kept staring at her, but definitely not the way she'd hoped for. Lips parting just enough to let me see her running her tongue over her teeth (small and pink, no fangs. But that would have been too obvious), her mouth quirked into a derisive smile. 'The truth, then. If that is what you crave.'

Speaking as an inveterate liar, I doubted this thing would know truth if it smacked her between the eyes. But I might as well let her talk.

She did not do so right away, instead looking at me consideringly. Expecting me to look at her? Likely. But I steadfastly refused to look anywhere lower than her chin. Trying to figure out what was wrong with her eyes helped me concentrate.

Clearing her throat in a way that barely sounded disappointed, Aina adopted a position similar to mine. She did not try to move closer, thank Vhaarn. Mirroring my posture was bad enough. Clasping her hands in her lap, a gesture so prim it had no place on this floating nightmare, she began her explanation.

"As the name has doubtlessly helped you realise, Serene Rest is a place of leisure, where a Midworlder can stop, not having to worry about their destination, or supplies, or the tides and what dwells beneath them."

"I am sure having your mind hollowed out helps you not worry." I spun my arm in a circle, to encompass the island as a whole. "Who hated people enough to build this place?"

"There was no builder, Ryzhan. Serene Rest arose on its own."

"Did it?" I did not doubt it was possible, for many strange lands had risen from Midworld's sea over the ages. But the description...a place of leisure? Something didn't make sense. "If this is all natural, and there are no inhabitants who act as heralds - I have seen nothing to suggest there are - then how can this be meant as a place of leisure? How do people know to find it? I never heard of it until shortly before I was advised to sail here."

Aina expression was mischievous. "Now, now. Serene is not greedy. It needn't have people bringing others to it. That you used to be cursed with ignorance of it is truly saddening, Ryz, but merely coincidence. You happened not to sail close enough to notice it, until now."

I relaxed, hopefully imperceptibly. That meant the island's influence had a range limit. That seemed obvious, of course, else it would have raped all but the strongest minds in Midworld to thought-death millennia ago, but it was good to have implicit confirmation. And, in my defence, I hadn't been in the right mind for pondering such facts since my arrival.

"So, those unlucky souls who happen across Serene Rest are enough for its...appetites? That seems hard to believe, if you do not mind me saying."

Aina's brows arched slightly, her lips parting. "And why is that, my friend?'

She-had blue eyes, a blue so deep like ink. Was that intentional, I wondered? A visual reminder that the island had "drawn" this fake Aina?

It didn't matter, of course, but I was prepared to focus on whatever nonsense it took to distract me. On that note...my friend? The not quite formal wording reminded me of Ib, and my focus shifted as the nameless feeling I'd had to confront for a while resurfaced.

I knew Ib said it didn't always have a choice when it came to who it freed. I knew it had saved me - us, really. But it had also let us end up in that situation in the first place, and...it did seem awfully convenient that Ib was forced to do things that coincided with its aims. Part of my mind,, which resonated most with the miserable bastard I'd been most of my life, wanted to believe the worst.

'Because,' I answered, choosing to bury my suspicions towards the giant, for now, 'ever since I rebuffed its advances, it hasn't stopped trying to get into my head.'

I was thinking it had certainly managed to get under my skin (though, thankfully, not in a literal sense, though I was sure it could have) when Aina said, 'Liar. And here you were practically snarling about my dishonesty, Ryz...'

Though her tone was bland, I felt a certain archness. Was there something funny? 'You will have to be clearer.'

'How can you say your mind is still under assault - not that it was in the first place, but I will get to that - when it stopped as soon as you entered the headspace necessary to bring me to you?'

I forced myself to laugh. 'Oh, the overt attacks stopped, true enough. But the island has scarcely slowed down its attempts to subvert me. 'Tis as you said: as soon as I sought another path to my goal, you appeared.'

Aina leaned forward, which I was sure did extremely interesting things for her cleavage, but I refused to look. Instead, I focused on her neck, trying to see if she had veins like a human. 'I am not sure what you are trying to imply, Ryzhan.'

Discarding my curiosity about what colours her veins were, if she had any (was there even any blood for them to carry? Would this thing bleed, if I cut her?), I glared at her forehead. 'You are some mockup put together by this foul rock, in the mage of my first friend. What is your presence but an attempt to make me lower my guard by appealing to sentiment?' I closed my eyes, wishing my weapons hand't been so damned far. 'It will not work. I know you are not Aina. You can only make me angry.'

Not entirely true. She might very well end up making me feel guilty for not getting back to the true Aina faster. But there was no need to share that with anyone, let alone the lure of the anglerfish that was Serene Rest.

When I reopened my eyes, I saw Aina's were full of a pitying sort of compassion. My pride, usually a fickle companion at the best of times, flared, and it was a welcome sensation. How dare this creature presume to pity me?

'Serene Rest is shrouded in an aura of welcome, Ryzhan,' Aina said in a velvety voice that made me shudder. In disgust, I told myself. 'You see malice where there is only instinct, and not a cruel one, at that.'

'No? Please, do tell how something that tried to make a mindless slave of me is not cruel,' I snapped.

'You will not be surprised to learn that those who have found themselves sailing near this island over the years were harried, following long journeys. Years - decades, in some cases - of sailing tire the mind, even if they can happen to strengthen the body.'

She hardly needed to tell me that. However, she got the idea from my expression, so I didn't need to say anything or gesture for her to skip this bleating.

'They could not have resisted Serene Rest's call even if they had been willing to - and why would they have been? Why struggle when one could unburden themselves of every fear?'

'So, someone with a strong enough will, be they humans with no powers, wouldn't be affected by the island's call, as you name it?' Aina dipped her chin, but I only smirked derisively. 'Maybe. I believe I could have stood up to it even without my magic, though I am happy there was no need to test that.' I clenched my hands around my knees. 'I would have even been willing to believe that, if the island had stopped there. Maybe I am indeed seeing wickedness where there is none. But I know how to recognise purpose, and this place wasn't scrabbling at the door to my mind out of altruism; if there was no evil there, there certainly wasn't any good, either. Nor did it make you to sate my nostalgia.'

The woman plopped her delicate, narrow chin in one hand, releasing a light sigh. 'What ddo you actually think Serene Rest is, Ryzhan? You are on edge. What do you believe it wants from you?'

I all but growled. 'Are you deaf? I doubt you have a brain between your ears, but how stupid are you? I just told y-'

'You think Serene Rest is some slaving abomination of a living land,' she said in a level voice, not sounding offended. 'That it wants to turn you into an unthinking husk, and that I am its latest weapon in this...alleged endeavour. Yes?'

I spread my arms, laughing drily. 'What? Are you going to tell me it's worse?'

She tittered, and I looked up, masking it as an eyeroll. She had sobered up by the time I looked back at her. 'You are looking at this from the wrong perspective, Ryz...despite my efforts to enlighten you.' Uncrossing her legs, she quickly rose to her feet. 'Worry not: I forgive you.'

She forgave me! This twisted little quim? 'That is a relief,' I hissed, springing to my feet, unwilling to sit when she stood. I was sure it would've looked quite courteous, in a vacuum, but the truth was that I didn't want to let her be the first to strike, whatever form hat took. 'I don't think I could've ever slept, without your acceptance.'

Aina turned in a fluid movement, and I shifted my eyes, burning a hole into her-back. Between the shoulder blades. 'Walk with me, Ryzhan. I will take you to the people you seek, though I must beg you not to disturb them, once you are there.'

I'd have her begging for death soon enough. How dare she remind me of who I'd lost? 'Wait here,' I said stiffly. 'I will retrieve my weapons, then you will lead me where I must go.'

I felt her playful eyes slide over me as I made my way to my sword and staff, which I put back together. 'Do you not feel good around me without your cane in hand?'

'Subtle,' I deadpanned, returning to her. 'Get to it.'

This time, the island's layout did not seem to shift or grow, but that made sense. It was moving a part of itself, or something close to that. Why hinder itself?

Soon enough, though, we were walking under a canopy, streaks of sunlight making their way through clumps of purple leaves. I grit my teeth at the change of geography. There had been no forest in the distance. It had just appeared around us when we'd been halfway through a plain, and stretched behind us like we'd been walking for minutes, at least.

Though picturesque, I'd have sooner lit myself on fire than spent a moment in this eerily-silent forest. There were no beasts howling and hunting and fighting and rutting, no birds chirping, not even any insects buzzing. And, while I'd been on quiet, uninhabited islands, they had merely been strange. Knowing what I walked on, I could not have relaxed here if my life had depended on it.

Aina's patient mask cracked a little after a half hour of walking, betraying some irritation. 'Will you stop that?' she asked tiredly. 'We're never going to get anywhere at this rate.'

Instead of slapping her teeth out of her mouth, or just cutting her head off, as I truly wished, I pulled my cane apart, ready to finish a fight, but not starting one. I wasn't sure what this Aina lookalike could do, but I didn't want the island to come up with an Ib imitation next, even if it was only a thousandth as bad as the real thing. 'What's that supposed to mean? I am merely following you.'

'You are trudging along like a whipped mule,' she grumbled, looking away from me in a huff. 'You think ou will get anywhere on Serene Rest without letting go of what weighs you down?'

I almost told her that it would've been nice to know that before we'd started walking, but then, I couldn't have fulfilled that condition anyway. 'What do you mean? Are we strolling through the woods until we find my peace of mind? I am afraid we don't have forever.' I didn't, anyway. I neither knew nor cared if she did.

Aina spun to face me, and I expected a hit, but she just looked dismayed. My knees almost buckled when I saw the tears welling up in her sapphire eyes, but I grit my teeth and tried to hold my ground. She walked closer, stopping when I raised my blade, whose point almost brushed her slim neck, looking devastated. 'Please,' I drawled, 'I can tell you're about to say it's devastating to see me this tightly wound, and that it is a shame I can't let unwind and frolic through the forests with you. Save your breath.'

'You're never a bigger fool than when you think you're right, Ryzhan,' she ground out. 'Were you able to stop seeing monsters in every shadow, you would have found the audience the giant sent you after long ago, even without my help.'

'I wonder if they'd be able to perceive anything, much less react...'

Aina did not take kindly to my idle musing, judging by her wrinkled nose. That was what I deserved for thinking out loud, honestly. 'You think those who have been put to rest lose who they used to be, but their pasts are laid around them, like coats being taken off and hung up. They could take everything back, if they wished to, but they have no desire to do something that stupid.'

That sounded like they were being threatened, or addled. Both, mayhap. Though my blade didn't waver, I lowered my staff, dispelling the mana I'd gathered around it. 'Answer me, and speak true,' I commanded in a dark voice, 'if I unburden myself, as you say, will I be able to reach those the island has claimed? And will they be thinking people, staying here out of their own will?'

Aina nodded, which resulted in my sword's tip parting just enough skin for a drop of blood, looking just like a human's, to roll down the edge. 'What you mistook for an attack on the mind was an invitation, Ryzhan. Serene Rest may seem rough, to the broken, but it does nothing more than clean souls bowed under the weight of the world.'

I wanted to dismiss that, but where would it have gotten me? I was wasting time whenever I argued, I could tell. 'Do you expect me to believe that, if I'd...done nothing, this island would have simply let me be, after cleansing my spirit?'

Aina moved back, nodding again. Her throat remained red where it had split, not healing, but not bleeding, either. More proof of her inhumanity, if any had been needed. 'As it does for everyone,' she said, in an almost reverent voice. 'The moment you opened yourself up to it, Serene Rest understood you, and stopped trying to enter the palace of your mind, for it knew its halls.'

My skin crawled at the idea of this blasted place knowing that much about me, but there was nothing to do now. I noticed I was panting, that my limbs felt oddly heavy, though I wasn't sweating. My hair had fallen over my eyes, and I breathed harshly as I looked down at my sword. The blood was still there. I hadn't...I wasn't hallucinating, or being made to.

'Then why?' I asked roughly, eyes darting to the woman whose existence was a taunt aimed at my memories. 'Why did it make you?'

Aina bit her lip, but what I at first took as a cheap ploy to seduce me seemed more a way to prevent herself from crying. My shoulders almost slumped, before I reminded myself that she had no feelings to hurt. Not truly. 'Serene Rest wishes nothing more than for you to be at ease,' she promised fervently, though her voice barely rose above a whisper. 'It knows what you want, Ryzhan.' Her hands hovered over mine, but she dared not touch me. 'I can show you...bring you there. You needn't ever leave, love.'

...I did not, no. I understood now.

Were I to take Aina's offer, I would find myself, after a brief detour at my intended destination, in some idyllic wonderland. A nonsensical realm, where all was good despite what reason dictated. There, I would be a beloved mage, with no need to hide or fight again. I would have Aina as my wife, like Mharra would have Three as his husband. Ib would be there, too, boisterous and honest, with nothing to fray our bonds. I could even have my parents back. Our people, Aina's and mine, would...

...not be them.

I straightened as I steeled my resolve. It would be a beautiful lie, one I would grow to believe. I knew this, and more, for the island' intent painted a grand image in my mind's eye. There would be nothing false, if one was loose with the definition. I did not know whether Serene Rest had been crafted as the capstone of some mad plan to forcibly make Midworlders let go of their dark thoughts, but it didn't matter. I knew this was what it wanted to do for those who found themselves sailing near it.

But it wouldn't be true. There would be no dignity in this end of the spirit, only a living death, worse than oblivion. My captain...Mharra would never recover from my departure, and something deep in my bones and water told me Ib would never come to free me. Unable or unwilling, the giant would never shatter these chains if I put them on.

I tasted bile at that certainty, and with it, came worse: if those two made their way to Three, what would Mharra tell the ghost? That I had given up the quest to rescue him for a pretty illusion? Even if he - they - forgave me, I never would.

I took in the broken look on Aina's face, and the unending whispers at the edge of my hearing, and told her, 'Very well, then. Take me to those who have been put to rest.'

* * *

A host of emotions passed over Aina's face as she watched her doppelganger guide Ryzhan through the depths of that damnable island. The Clockwork King's devices could not show her what her old friend thought, not without some recalibrations,but she believed she could tell easily enough.

The Clockwork Court swayed around her as tentacles, ribbed and covered in suckers, grey as ash or white as the moon, flowed out from under the hem of her shirt, to prod aimlessly at the surrounding machinery. The moon madness she'd received all those years ago was a knot of alien emotions and appetites, but something within it called out to her jealousy and anger - that she wasn't there with Ryzhan, that the dreaming island would use her image to torment him like this.

The grinding of gears, followed by the clearing of a throat, drew her attention. Eyes formed on what had been Aina's back, before she resumed her humanlike form with some effort, turning to look. 'Yes?'

'Moon-touched one,' the emissary, an insectoid collection of jagged cables, droned. 'My King wishes to inform you that your friend's crewmates have yet to reach, ah...analogous points in their journeys.' It fidgeted, the wirelike tips of its two front limbs pressing together. 'While our findings suggest they are going to put on the same show, the King desires to know if you want to observe them in real time, or watch the recordings.'

'I thought you couldn't follow Libertas with any accuracy,' Aina said, returning her attention to the viewscreens. 'What has changed?'

The emissary's round, shell-like shoulders rolled. 'Perhaps it is cooperating. Enabling us.'

Aina did not know about that. Still, it only helped her.

'Pause the longview following Ryzhan, please,' she said. 'Record from all angles. Do the same for the captain and the giant. I will watch this spectacle in one go.' That was how it would go in real life, no?

'As you wish,' the emissary replied. Then, after a short silence, it added, 'my King and his Queen are pleased you have allowed them to study you. Do not hesitate to ask for anything else, dear guest.'

She would be indulged as long as she stayed interesting, yes. But becoming an observer, for now, had already felt like too much of a risk. She wouldn't overreach herself. 'No, thank you.'

After all, the Clockwork King had all but told her that, if Ryzhan did not manage to overcome this challenge, then she was waiting for a wastrel, and might as well find something else to do.

[Strigoi Grey]

Book IV, Chapter 4

* * *
Fun fact: I only started visualising Mharra and Three as a couple early into book two, shortly before the chapter where I first wrote them flirting. The steamer was named the Rainbow Burst because of Mharra's garish paintjob, rather than as a reference to Pride, but it's interesting how things click as you write. Sometimes, chapters do not go as planned, because I decide things should go differently while writing.

* * *

Mharra sat on a soft chair as he watched the rise and fall of the tides. Thinking of it as soft helped him not recoil away from the living metal of the object: the same substance that made up his ship, though the furniture itself did not think. All pieces of it were extensions of the steamer, nodes for it to channel its will through.

The hairs on the back of his hair rose whenever he felt himself being watched in rooms empty save for innocuous objects, but at least he knew the Burst's mind was the only one behind those unseen eyes. The limbs it made for itself were just that: limbs. No more free-willed than the branches of the echoing trees that lured fools on sweltering islands, to trap them in sap and turn their bodies into husks before breaking them down.

Mharra grunted, running a hand down side, under his coat. The bumpy scars left by those damned tendrils always felt strange to the touch, even through clothing, but at least he'd walked away alive, not to mention with a good story. He doubted most victims ended up in a talking tree's grasp because they thought they'd found a parent to kill again...but then, not everyone had families as wretched as his - and of those who did, not all succeded in striking back against them.

When Mharra had heard his mother's voice again, he'd thought that the hag had somehow faked her death, or returned from it, and he'd only been too happy to kill her again. But there had been no wrinkled old sow to kill apart: only a monstrous, bloated trunk, crowned with grasping branches and lashing vines.

'Would have been such a stupid death...' he muttered to himself. The ship tilted, as if nodding.

Mharra smiled as he felt his seat sway on its own, mirroring the sea's motions to create the illusion of a rocking chair. He was sure some would have appreciated the trick, even if he explained it. There were some people who grew bored when the mystique was torn away, and frankly, he'd rather deal with dismay than disinterest. Bizarrely, those same people didn't seem to mind magic as opposed to sleight of hand, even though everyone knew what magic did: it made what the mage wanted happen.

Maybe, if he found a stable enough island, he could ask the steamer to convert itself into a fair, and have people come and tour it. Or, depths, why not coax the ship into becoming an island? It would have been far from complicated for its shapeshifting.

'Say, Burst,' Mharra began, tapping the banister of the balcony the ship had recently created for him. He preferred to spend time outside when he could. His skin was dark rather than tanned, as his stoutness, but he still preferred to work on both. Sometimes, he wondered how Ryzhan could be as pale as a fish's belly when he'd spent as much time in the wind and under the sun as any sailor. His friend hadn't said his people had been inherently fair-skinned.

'Have you ever thought about settling down?' he continued, returning to his previous thoughts.

When the steamer spoke - which it only did to him, as far as he was aware, though he wouldn't have been surprised to learn Ib had goaded the steamer into cussing it out, that gadfly -, it did not always have the same voice. Sometimes, it kept one for a couple exchanges. On ither occasions, the ship's voice changed in the middle of a conversation, or even a sentence or word. It had resembled whistling steam, booming horns, grinding gears...but it could have never been mistaken for human, even allowing for Midworld's loose definition of the word.

Now, its voice was mellifluous and even, measured, as if the ship were carefully picking out its words. 'Raising a family has as much appeal to me as raising a household.'

'None at all, eh?' Mharra's laugh rose from deep in his chest. 'Fair enough!' He stood up, lacing his fingers behind his back and beginning to pace, the balcony lengthening and broadening to make room for him. 'Fair enough...I can't say I'm terribly enamoured with the idea myself, to be honest.' The image of him remaining in one place as some doddering old codger almost made him laugh again. 'Getting hitched is no reason or excuse to stop sailing, though those who can afford sedentarism often use it as both.'

Mharra made his way to the railing, leaning on it with both hands as he watched the clouds slowly pass above. 'But I was not talking about...family.' He'd be damned if his voice cracked or caught. That was decades behind him. 'More about no longer sailing. You know. Finding something else to do. We could afford it.'

The steamer sniffed importantly. 'I could say making yourself a sitting duck is just inviting disaster, but then you'd point out sailing into the unknown is the same with more movement.'

Mharra ran a hand along the edge of the banister, and there was little sarcasm in his voice when he replied. 'You know me so well...'

'I was made to sail, so I sail,' the Burst responded, pointedly not commenting on its captain's statement. 'Give the order, and I will leave a piece of me behind to look after you and tend to your needs. But I will not become a glorified shipwreck.'

'It would be unfair to ask that of you,' Mharra acknowledged, with a small twinge of guilt at his earlier thoughts. 'I suppose, with Ryzhan getting a chance to reunite with his childhood sweetheart, I am thinking about the future.'

'Not looking towards it?' the steamer prodded.

Mharra harrumphed, smirk almost invisible in his beard. 'Any Midworlder dumb enough to do that deserves whatever happens to them.' He was only mostly joking.

'Feeling your age?'

'You're likely older than me!'

The ship made a noise of dismissal. 'Pish posh. And even if it were true - not that I have the ability to remember anything from before you found me - it would not matter. I am ageless, unbending. You are flesh.'

'Suddenly, I don't regret the fact you speak so rarely,' Mharra groused jokingly. Then, curious, he asked, 'Is it true? That you don't remember anything from before I found you? I thought, with your powers...'

The steamer hissed, a cloud of burning smoke filling the sky. 'I have no interest in remembering, either. You are defined by your past. So is the mage. So was the ghost.' Mharra almost protested at the Burst talking about Three in the past tense, but he stopped when he noticed its tone. Likely, it was missing its engineer. Then, it sarcastically said, 'Don't you have another bloodless shapeshifter brooding over old slights? I don't believe you forgot it just because it left, unless you're more senile than I thought.'

'You'd better stop with the jabs at my page, unless you want to be jabbed,' Mharra threatened playfully, turning away and beginning to walk towards the door. 'Do tell me if anything happens to throw us off-course.'

This pleasure fleet they were heading towards likely made more stops than most would have, even if they'd been able to afford them, but that didn't mean they didn't sail. Ib's description of them, if it could even be called that, had been vague enough that Mharra didn't know if he was going to put on a show for withered old folk who whiled away their days in sunlit gardens, or crazed hedonists who turned themselves inside out and grafted new appendages unto themselves for the sensation and the thrill of the risk.

He'd dealt with both kinds of pleasure-seekers in the past, and several peoples in-between; in any case, it was likely this fleet could abruptly change course on a whim. Midworlders often had to do such things, with their knowledge of the sea often being bracketed by what they could spot on the horizon, but someone looking to simply amuse themselves could have turned away from an island because the waters or fishes in the other direction were pretty, for example.

There was also the possibility of running afoul of some nasty weather: ship-shattering waves, brought about by seaquakes or formed of their own, or their air-rending counterparts, which were no less deadly, for all skyqUakes began where their name implied; or maybe the fragments of destroyed islands, flung across the sea by earthquakes or eruptions.

But such things were decidedly less dangerous to the steamer than to the average vessel, for the Burst had none of the reasons a wooden hull and sails of cloth entailed. It was impossible to becalm, difficult to damage, and could not be shut down by antimagic the way an enchanted vessel of similar calibre could.

As such, confident that, short of an unusually powerful group of pirates or oceanic beasts, anything they might encounter on the way to the pleasure fleet would be, at worst, a setback, Mharra began to make his way back to his cabin. There was little to do but think, and that was best done in his quarters.

'I do not expect any surprises,' the ship replied to his warning.

'Well, yes, that is why they are called that,' Mharra said, lightly tapping his thighs as he walked through the door and down the shifting corridor, which changed from a straight line to a flight of stairs. 'Better do, though,' he cautioned as he began to ascend,' he cautioned, confident enough of his sea legs to take the steps two at a time.

'Captain?' the ship asked sharply, voice seeming to come from all around him, including from above and beneath. 'I realise I have not verbally thanked you for giving me a new life and purpose. That is less because I dislike babbling as much as you and the crew seems to love it, and more because, I believe, my service is thanks enough.' It paused - likely looking for a way not to sound apologetic, in Mharra's amused opinion. 'But I know some people need to have such things confirmed, blindly obvious as they are. So, thank you.'

'You're welcome,' Mharra said with a warm smile he hoped could be seen. He wasn't sure how the ship's senses worked, but it did not appear to miss much. At least in terms of sheer information, if not nuance. 'I would enjoy it if you stopped referring to the crew as if you are not part of it, though, Burst.' He chuckled. 'We, quite literally, could not have gotten here without you.'

'Aye, aye, captain,' the steamer said, and he could not, for the life of him, find any irony in the usually mocking answer. 'But to get to my point. I am grateful, though we are even. I would go as far as to consider you a friend.'

'That far? Can even you make such a journey?'

The ship's snigger was too deep to be called such, by human standards, but Mharra did not think it was quite a laugh, either. 'A great challenge for any vessel, indeed. But listen: I know many friends have the bad habit of not mentioning certain things, for fear of upsetting each other. That is not something I plan to begin doing.'

'Good to know,' Mharra said coolly, no longer jumping up the stairs, but instead adopting a languid walk. 'And?'

'And I feel the need to remind you that you are failing.'

Mharra glared at one of the walls, unimpressed, deciding it was as close to a face as any other part of the ship. 'If you are going to bring up how I'm the least powerful member of the crew, and that I can't even choose destinations any more because you do it, do not worry. I am fully aware.'

'There is no need to be bitter in the face of facts.'

Mharra scoffed.

'Regardless, that is not what I wanted to talk to you about, for I suspected you have realised it. What you might not have noticed is that you are going against your lover's wishes.'

Mharra silently stared at the wall, stopping and leaning against the railing, hands on his hips. 'Truly?' he asked, making a show of sounding incredulous. 'Fascinating. Did Three leave a will in the engineering room, which you've neglected to mention to me?'

'Do not accuse me of withholding information, sir.'

Mharra laughed. 'You cannot call me a failure for no reason and still make such demands.'

'I knew my engineer,' the Rainbow Burst said. 'Not the way you did, but it does not matter. I would say we were as close, for he understood me as much as anyone can. And I know he was an exuberant soul.'

Mharra's mood was too dark for him to enjoy the (unintentional?) wordplay, so he merely nodded.

'I also know he loved nothing in the world more than you. Do you think he would enjoy seeing you mop around, brooding? You haven't even thought about finding a new lover, once circumstances permit. Nor have you looked for other ways to entertain yourself.'

'I must have been too busy searching for Three,' Mharra said acidly. 'An ongoing problem, if you can recall. Has been keeping all of us busy for a while, and will likely continue to do so in the near future.'

The wall extended, forming a humanlike shape, as if a man had been buried inside it and was now trying to break free. It pointed at Mharra as it spoke. 'Three would not wish for you to remain sad. What if he is truly gone? Beyond salvation? He was as aware of the sea's dangers as any sailor, and he did not flinch from them. How do you think he would feel, watching you turn maudlin?'

Mharra looked at the ship's avatar for a long moment, then turned away, buttoning up his coat before undoing it. The fidgeting served no real purpose, but helped him calm down, to an extent. 'I will be in my chambers, ship. Notify me once we reach our destination, or if any emergency arises in the meantime. Otherwise, I am not to be disturbed.'

Behind him, the construct retreated into the wall, the metal as seamless and reflective as ever. '...You do not enjoy my company.'

'I despise unjust accusations, regardless of whose mouth they come from,' Mharra said coldly.

After ascending what felt like tens of times his height, he reached the door to his rooms, separated from him only by a short corridor. As he crossed it, he mused that he could've asked the steamer to shorten the route, but he did not much care for its help, at the moment.

Turning the wheel that served as a door handle, at the moment, Mharra once more wished it had been him who had participated in that experiment, not Three. He would've almost certainly died, aye, but would that knowledge not have been better for his lover than uncertainty? He felt like half his waking moments were spent imagining the worst things possible happening to his ghost. He saw little but Three in torment whenever he closed his eyes.

It was not a healthy way to think, and likely madder than not, but such things did not come to him by choice. Maybe, if they'd made any progress besides deciding on the Clockwork King possibly being able to help them...no. What had he contributed to that? As much as to the search itself, which was to say, nothing.

Mharra shrugged off his captain's coat, carelessly stuffing his hat into one of its many inner pockets. On most days, he would have been too dussy to even consider doing such a thing - his urge to fix Ryzhan's shabby clothes did not compare to the need to keep himself clean, show the tides and wind had not ground him down, leaving him an uncaring husk like so many other captains - but he found he could not give a damn.

Mharra tossed the coat behind him with one hand, then turned his head, smiling slightly when it landed exactly on the open spot in the clothes rack. A little bit of personal theatre, to get in the mood for the actual, upcoming show.

He still hadn't decided what he would actually do. His heart was pushing him towards tragedy, but what Midworlder wanted more of that? The few who did were unlikely to be the sort of folks Mharra would play for. But then, he doubted he could be convincingly funny, unless he manged to fake cheer with even more success than usual.

Rubbing his right eye with the heel of his hand, Mharra made his way to his desk and -ponderously, feeling weary as a man twice his age - sat down in the wheeled chair. An interesting trinket, more useful for spinning in place than making one's way across a room without getting up. Debating on whether to spin until he got dizzy enough to forget some of his worries, Mharra decided he'd rather have a clear head, inasmuch as he could, these days.

The captain sat with his elbows propped on a semicircular desk, chin resting on his steepled fingers. After what must have been a few minutes, he lowered one hand to tap a code on the desktop. The steamer quickly obeyed his wordless command, making the desk's surface ripple and rise, until a moving map of the ship's surroundings stretched across it.

While distances could not always be depicted accurately, lest the details become invisible to the naked eye, Mharra gathered that there would be a while until he reached his next audience. On the map, the pleasure fleet was depicted as a collection of pretty white vessels, with flurishes in different shades of purple appearing here and there. Strangely, the ships did not appear to possess any oars, sails, paddlewheels or other means of propulsion - but when he asked the Burst whether they were magical, or possessed of the almost sorcerous technology of the Free Fleet, it said they weren't.

'I know hardly more than you,' it added, in a voice as quiet as the mutterings under Mharra's breath. 'But what my sensory arrays can spot indicate the grey giant's description was not inaccurate.'

Mharra ran a hand through his beard. 'I thought Ib was being metaphorical.'

'Maybe. But, until we can see them ourselves, we cannot discount the chance that they do go where their fancy takes them.'

That would be a sight. Sailing according to one's whims, to that extent? Practically unheard of...though, now that he thought about it, his crew had grown so strong that was practically how they travelled. It still felt uncanny to acknowledge.

Grunting in agreement with the ship, Mharra leaned back until his seat was balancing on its rear wheels. It would've been something of a balancing act even with a chair that merely had legs, but he figured he might very well throw in some acrobatics for the show. The possibility of falling onto his rear on a carpeted floor was too harmless to even be called a risk.

Although, his pride might be hurt if he failed to handle even balancing on a wheeled chair.

Taking his hands off the armrests and closing his eyes, Mharra began waiting the seconds as he waited for any news from the steamer.

The ship was not in a rush. Mharra had, decades ago, learned how to differentiate moments when, for whatever reason, his senses were so overwhelmed he could neither observe his surroundings for signs of time's passage, nor track his breaths or heartbeats. After thirteen thousand seconds, he opened his eyes, righted the chair, and stood up.

Nearly four hours...he couldn't recall how long it had been since he'd sat in place, indoors, for that long, sleep and conditions preventing him from being on deck aside. A luxury, by many standards, and his beloved wasn't even there for them to share it.

...Bah. The average sailor would have been dreaming up disastrous scenarios if cooped up inside for that long. They likely wouldn't have enjoyed it, either, though for different reasons.

'Might as well wander the halls,' Mharra mumbled, mostly to himself. He doubted he could so much as twitch without the ship noticing, but telling it wouldn't hurt anyone.

Outside, the wheel-lock was spun by the steamer's will, so that the door was ajar by the time Mharra made his way across his office, coated, hat on his head. Maybe, when he returned, he would go to his bedroom instead. Sleep didn't come easy to him when he knew there was nothing he could do to help with anything, but everything else was equally useless and more tiring, so, as long as he didn't become slovenly, there would be no problem.

The Burst even indulged him, changing its insides so there were always new hallways to travel, new nooks and crannies to discover. At one point, Mharra found himself facing a tall wall, sheer but for the handholds dotting it at irregular intervals. Smirking to himself, he grabbed two, placed a booted foot on a third, and began climbing.

A better way to spend his time than lazing around in bed. A captain had to be fit, unless they wanted a mutiny on their hands. Mharra knew his friends better than to think they would go against him that way (it wasn't like he could actually stop them from doing something they wanted, really), but if he became fat and slothful, those two would do their best to get him back in shape, so he might as well not get to that point.

His shoulders began to tremble after a while. The handholds were arranged - for there was indeed a method amidst the apparent madness; organised chaos - so that one of his arms was always extended a bit too much, but it was a good burn. Being hurt meant being alive. The times he'd been left numb or unable to move, usually after being poisoned, had made him feel more dead than any wound received in battle or during exploration.

Eventually, when he felt he could climb no more, the wall ended. Grabbing the top, Mharra heaved himself up, panting, and swayed for a moment as he took in the sight that lay before him.

Or the lack thereof. The steamer might have been providing him with strolling paths and obstacle routes, but it wasn't even close to artistic at the best of times. A hallways stretched beyond him, so long he couldn't see the end. The walls, painted (but were they, really, when the ship simply made them that way?) something between dark brown and black, were covered by small but bright orange lights. Round and closely-packed, they reminded Mharra of the unblinking eye clusters sported by certain insects, some large enough to swallow a Sea Worm like an ox would a blade of grass.

'This is quite unnecessary.' He gestured at the lights with one arm, rolling his other shoulder. And it was. Mharra hadn't grown up in a mine like Ryzhan had, but he had spent enough time in gloom to judge how strong lights were. He believed he could have found his way without the orange spheres as easily as his mage friend would have.

'If you want to add some decorations,' he said - thought out loud, really, he doubted the ship would take anyone's advice but its own when it came to aesthetics -, adjusting his three-cornered hat so that it sat at a rakish angle, 'you could start by making people feel welcome, rather than watched.'

This might have actually been one of the few situations in which he would have benefitted from being a narcissist, but being the centre of - practically - a thousand insectile eyes' attention wasn't something he much enjoyed.

At least the ship wasn't making them blink.

Mharra walked for half an hour, lost in thought. The corridors were shaped as he strolled, giving the illusion of undulation, but a small part of his mind noted his movements, along with whether he was going left or right, up or down. Failing to see a pattern, and knowing the steamer wouldn't strand or kill him (it could have done so earlier, had it wanted to, but what would be the point? Ib would turn it into so much scrap if the giant caught wind of that), Mharra instead began counting the shining orbs in the walls.

They reminded him of the lightning lamps of the Free Fleet, devices powered by shackled thunderbolts their makers called electricity. Did his ship have such sciences at its disposal? An image of the steamer catching lightning strikes, treating a storm like a farmer would a field, rose in Mharra's mind, and he laughed, uncaring if he was heard. Maybe the Burst would ask what was so funny, and they'd have something other than his alleged failures to talk about.

He was disappointing enough without imagined faults. Not for the first time, Mharra wished he'd have kept the crown from back home for himself. What could he have done with it intertwined with his flesh, when the dust of one shard let him do things some mistook for magic?

The captain shook his head. That was how thirsting for power began, and how ungratefulness was born. He'd escaped when his first true lover hadn't; he'd ended the monster who'd spawned him; he'd even surrounded himself with powerful people, who were nevertheless too virtuous to make a slave or plaything of him, as other mighty folk might have.

He had enough. If only Three had been there, he would have been happy, not just grateful.

But Mharra knew better than to wish for such things. Unless you struggled to achieve what you wanted, Midworld tended to reward hope with new reasons to despair.

It was one of the reasons Mharra appreciated naturalism. Ib had once mention, offhandedly, a spherical world, bounded in size, unlike theirs, where a philosophy with the same name declared that all things and events were natural. The captain had shrugged, thanking his friend for the shared lore, but it did not concern him, really.

There were wonders uncounted scattered across Midworld, and as many horrors - likely more. A man like Mharra could not sail for so long and not accept that fact. And if praising the former, or cursing the latter, while observing some rites here and there constituted a faith, well, he was more than happy to call himself faithful. The spirits of the islands and the seas, the beings some called elemental, enjoyed. being praised as much as anyone.

As he thought of them, Mharra fancied that he could hear the waves slapping against the hull of his ship. His imagination, of course: the ship had, in Ib's words, soundproofed itself (and wasn't that a strange notion? A quiet ship, even when nothing on or inside it was making any noise? Mharra would have once thought such a vessel would need a hull thicker than most fortresses' walls for such silence to reign). And even if it hadn't, the whirring and grinding of its many engines, hidden and not, would have covered all but the fiercest storm's roar.

Mharra's strides slowed down, by now a reflex when his body noticed danger, even before his mind thought of it. His smile, serene and contemplative, grew thinner, colder.

No, no fancy, here. He could hear the waves. And his hearing wasn't inhuman like Ib's, or sharpened by magic like Ryzhan. It had merely been honed by years and years on the sea.

The ship was quiet. Silent as a grave, and no one would have wished to be on such a vessel. Usually, it heralded threats that would soon smother the other senses, too. Like the shadows that ate every light not watched by someone, as well as every sailor without a torch or candle. Inside them, you boiled as if you had swallowed molten rock, but also shivered as if freezing to death. Yet, at the same time, touch and taste and smell were deadened, leaving one feeling buried. To say nothing of sight, which could be thwarted even by mundane darkness, much less its ravenous cousin.

Luckily, Mharra knew how to avoid such shades, as well as keep them from taking root. Sailors who feared running out of fat and tallow and oil often found themselves watching every darkened corner, and the darkness seemed to grow from their fears, until their nightmares became real. Him, he'd always figured that, if he were on a ship with nothing to light, he'd likely be in more danger for what lurked in the darkness, not the absence of light itself.

But there was no darkness here.

Oh, there was no source of light, to be sure, at least no visible one, but every handspan of the ship's insides was illuminated. The closest comparison Mharra could come up with was the sky on a mildly cloudy day, when the sun lit up the world, but couldn't quite be seen itself. He was sure that, if he had been able to dig into the steamer's skeleton, he'd have found some lighting torches, or something like them...but, if any were working at the moment, they were as subtle as the ship's noisier components.

Silence inside. Enough to hear the tides slapping against the hull through how much of the miraculous substance that made up the Burst? The ship's skin (he could not think of it as anything else) varied in thickness according to its owner's wishes, but why would it have thinned it so much?

'You know, Burst,' he started conversationally, for once wishing his ship would create a puppet so he could have something to look in the eye, 'if you're trying to scare me because you're annoyed that I told you off earlier, this isn't how you should go about it.'

No response. But who would have been optimistic enough, gullible enough, to expect one?

It was times like this that made him grind his teeth. Ib could have cracked the steamer like a whip until it behaved. Ryzhan likely could have as well, given enough time, though who knew how his magic would compare to the ship's ability to remake itself?

But Mharra? He had nothing except - and he had wanted to smack so many people over the years for using the term - parlour tricks. Nothing that could harm the vessel.

Still, it was being ridiculously dismissive of him. What, did it think he was like one of those children who only felt at home amidst flashing lights and endless chatter? Quiet, gloomy chambers were more likely to make him sleepy than frighten him.

He would not ask it to restructure itself and open a path, not right now. It would be like admitting its little game had rattled him. Even if it had, Mharra wasn't feeling very honest. The steamer would bring him back to the deck once they reached the pleasure fleet, or, if it had gone mad, it would face retribution from the rest of the crew.

This was more than a faulty vessel, for the Burst had displayed the faculties of a person, if a petty one. This was mutiny.

'And here I always thought Ryzhan would start one,' Mharra said, before laughing at his own words. Ah, but his young friend was far away, likely caught up in a battle of his own.

Gods knew the man could feel embattled in a rose garden. It was just the way he thought, not that Mharra could claim he was much better. Not without laughing at himself again, at least.

The captain kept walking, pulling his hat low on his eyes as if facing the sun. To fill in the silence, he brought his hands together in loud, infrequent claps. On many islands, he had seen revellers do this while sauntering about town, all but radiating insouciance. Helpful, if unintentional teachers, who had imparted upon him the nonchalance an actor often needed.

Eventually, his arms grew tired, so he began to roll his shoulders instead. A tuneless mining song rose from deep in his barrel chest. The ditty had been created to help men fill the hours spent in darkness with some liveliness, so it was short on sense, but charming in its own way. Ryz would have likely said something about how appropriate it was for the captain, his captain, to hum such a song.

'An' one an' two an' three an' freeeeee...' Mharra rumbled the lyric once again, stretching out the last letter. He almost regretted not asking around that port he'd first heard the song in. Three what? Miners rarely got away from work fast, so he doubted it referred to something easy to obtain.

Clearing his throat, he stretched his arms overhead, the resulting crack feeling as pleasant as it was to his ears. When he lifted his eyes, the sight made him huff good-naturedly.

'Come now, Burst, not even you can be this tasteless,' Mharra said, hands on his hips as he took in the apparition. It resembled his three, though on the missing ghost's worst days, the bluish-purple of its form turning colourless at the edges of its already faint corpus.

The figure smiled wanly at him, but said nothing. Mharra's temper, usually something he had well in hand, threatened to rise. Had the ship really conjured an image of his lover to...what? Take revenge for being snubbed? It couldn't be that petty. To remind him of his alleged failures? It couldn't be that stupid.

Mharra stepped backwards, shaking his head, and was grateful to feel his back hit a wall. Leaning against it for support, he found his breathing had rapidly sped up. Surely his temper wasn't that wild that he'd start panting like some thwarted beast if annoyed? Maybe the steamer had a point.

Placing his hands against the wall (hadn't the nearest one been several paces behind him last he'd checked? Why change that now?), Mharra locked eyes with the facsimile. Its expression was unchanged, tranquil. For a moment, Mharra wanted to ask if it hadn't felt compelled by his rhyming, but that sounded ridiculous, even in his head, no matter in how sarcastic a tone he imagined it.

'Hello there,' he began instead. 'Is something the matter?'

The Three lookalike - only one corpus, he noticed, as if more proof was needed that it was an imitation - nodded, the movements strong but smooth, like that of a mute communicating with those who didn't know their gestures. There were as many sign languages as there were fleetson Midworld's seas, likely more, but nodding tended to be understood by one and all.

The being then lifted a hand, pointing at its face, which quickly went through several expressions, though its colouration made the false Three look apoplectic, or perhaps sickly. Like a man losing air, in any case. Looking closely, Mharra saw anger flash in those deep, dark eyes, then hatred, grief, regret, doubt...

Mharra did not much enjoy mirrors. They were useful when he needed to check for wounds that, while dangerous, could be neither seen without aid, nor felt. The rest of the time, using one made him feel vain. And, like his earlier confrontation with the steamer - he didn't feel polite enough to call it a discussion; far too much slander had been involved -, they made him look inward.

Mharra was rarely pleased with what he saw there.

'What?' he snapped, tearing his gaze free from the fake ghost's. If it was offended, it did not show it. Instead, it gestured at its face, then shook its head. Mharra stared at it, bemused, then connected the dots. 'You're saying I shouldn't be feeling like...that I shouldn't be focusing on the things you showed me?' he said, asking more than stating.

The thing nodded again, this time with some enthusiasm. The showman side of Mharra distractedly thought pantomime might be enjoyed by the pleasure fleet folks.

'Ah!' he exclaimed, with more understanding than he felt. Speaking with children and idiot-savants, people who were won over by enthusiasm more often than not, helped one mimic exuberance as needed. 'I see! What should I do, then?'

The steamer was probably watching and laughing its keel of, but Mharra was half-surprised he hadn't started talking to the walls earlier...well, talking without addressing the will behind them.

"Three" moved closer, not floating, like the person it as based on, Mharra noticed, but walking half on, half through the floor. A mark of clumsy ghosts, most often seen among newly-risen ones. Leaning its head back, it silently mimicked laughter, even rubbing its belly the way Mharra used to do when he wanted to make his ghost laugh along.

The captain's affected cheer faded. Looking straight through the creature, he glared at a wall as smooth and blank as any of those around him. 'Enough, Burst. Cease this farce at once.'

Three would never treat him like this. He wanted to believe this was his lover, reaching towards him from wherever he'd ended up, but he couldn't. Three would not treat him with silence, would not be as graceless as he was aloof.

Unless he had, has no choice, a treacherous voice whispered in his head. Have you thought of that? Perhaps he's trapped, or beleaguered, and this is the only way he can act.

Perhaps. But it was moot, for there was nothing to question or test, with the apparition gone. By the time his surroundings had shifted to take him above the deck, Mharra having closed his eyes to diminish the dizziness, the thing was gone.

Coat snapping in the wind, Mharra walked briskly across the deck, stopping at the railing and placing a firm hand on it. 'Burst, I do not know who you think you are dealing with, but I-'

'Sir,' it cut him off, voice surprisingly pleasant. 'Considerate of you to make your way here. I was just about to call for you.'

Despite himself, Mharra glanced up, seeing a smattering of shapes on the horizon. As his eyes adjusted, which took little time, he saw it was too dark to be morning yet, though dawn was quickly approaching.

How...how late had it been, when he'd gone inside? Noon, evening?

He rubbed his brow. 'What do you mean,' he asked tersely. 'You yourself made way for me, when I told you to stop toying with me.'

'...I know not of what you speak, captain, but that was mere coincidence. You were on your way up when I began shifting form.'

'Nonsense,' Mharra replied dismissively, though he could not help but feel some doubt niggling at him. 'Coincidence? You began changing exactly when I asked-'

'You did not ask anything, sir,' the steamer said, voice patient but firm. 'You haven't spoken to me since you left your chambers.' Sheepishly, it added, 'I understand I might have been prickly earlier.'

Mharra blinked, checking his breath for drink or lingering powders, but he was sober. In fact, he felt more clearheaded than he had in weeks. 'Since I left my chambers...?'

'Quite. You wanted to go for a walk, and I indulged you.' It chuckled. 'Had I knew you enjoyed climbing this much, I would have raised towers for you to scale, many-faceted spires...'

'Are you saying you haven't heard anything from me for, what, hours?' Mharra asked slowly.

'I have not. We haven't talked since...yesterday, I suppose.' In a chiding tone, it continued, 'As such, it would be best if you retired for now. I will wake you if needed, and talk to the fleet in the meantime.'

Come to think of it, he did feel tired, not to mention hungry. Had time truly flown by so quick, without points of reference? But the ghost-thing...was the ship simply lying through its teeth?

'Alright,' Mharra said lightly. 'So we haven't talked in a while, that is, I haven't asked anything of you since last evening or so.'

'Correct.'

Mharra scratched his cheek. 'But surely you heard...everything else?' he asked, some agitation creeping into his voice. 'The translucent thing, shaped like...' he trailed off, gulping. 'It just disappeared.'

'You haven't said a word for almost half a day, captain,' the steamer said calmly, like a witch doctor addressing the village madman. 'You seemed deep in contemplation every step of your journey.' In an admiring voice, it said. 'Come to think of it, I could almost envy such unity of purpose, for you were not made to sail wherever, every day of your existence. And yet...'

'Forget that,' Mharra said tersely. 'So you followed me as I walked, you say?'

'For own safety, yes.'

'You watched me?' Mharra stressed.

'As usual, captain. For your own good.'

'...And I was alone?' he whispered, not willing to believe it.

'Of course not,' the Rainbow Burst answered, and for an instant, Mharra thought it was going to come clean and admit to its mischief. But then it said, 'You are never alone, captain. I am always with you.' In a less chirpy tone, it said, 'But no, there were not, are not any people on my body besides you, if that is what you meant.'

Mharra placed a hand against his forehead, beginning to stagger. Luckily, a chair formed behind him, and he let himself sit down, taking quick, shallow breaths.

'But I must say, captain,' the steamer said, 'if you believe you are hallucinating, I could offer my services.'

Letting the ship root through his brain was the last thing he needed right now. 'I'll sleep it off,' he said roughly, trying to stand up. 'Should the pleasure fleet send any envoys, inform them that I am resting, but will be with them as soon as possible.'

'And if they mean us harm?' the steamer asked, not even bothering to hide an eagerness Mharra shared.

He smiled wolfishly. 'Well, then sink them, and chain up any survivors.' He laughed. 'Inform them that I'll be with them soon, as well.'

'Noted,' the ship positively purred. Mharra wasn't sure how much he trusted it at the moment, but it seemed they both wished a bastard would. It would be just like his luck to come up against people he might have an excuse to kill, but have to sleep while his ship handled matters.

* * *

'Hail, fellow!' boomed the approaching stranger, waving a hand high. Though the flat-bottomed ship he approached in was painted bright yellow and covered in garlands, he was a plain man, though tall and broad, skin tanned by sun and wind. He did not sport a beard or whiskers, or indeed, any hair on his head.

Rested if not at peace, Mharra sat atop the recently-created figurehead of his vessel: a brass-coloured jester, whose split face half cried, half laughed. He returned the wave, chuckling. 'Hail? Sky looks clear to me.'

The burly man laughed as Mharra gestured at the sky, and the captain smiled. Truly, it seemed he still had a while to go until he was to find Midworlders whose tnongue he could not understand. He was not complaining, though.

A couple hours later, Mharra stood in the middle of the Rainbow Burst, which had shaped itself into a circular stage. Around him floated thousands upon thousands of ships, of all shapes and sizes. The pleasure fleet, however, tended to cover their vessels in things that delighted the senses, from flowers to gemstones, and some odd shapes Mharra could not place. Devices? Artefacts?

It mattered not. Taking his hat off, Mharra silently vowed to give them a show they would never forget. They had accepted him easily, always looking for new ways to entertain themselves.

If other sailors knew what bounty they had spread across their fleet...but who was he to teach them to share it, really? Between Ryzhan and Ib and, aye, the Burst, could they not feed any and all sailors they could reach?

As Mharra gathered his thoughts, and reached into his sleeves, a woman who had never asked to become a monster watched him, from far, far away, at the same time she watched the friend they shared.

[Strigoi Grey]

Libertas - the name it chooses not to use for itself - knows it might come across as cruel to most. It knows it does, to some.



That is fair. It brings it no joy to know that, any more than it does to leave people languish, despite the freedom it stands for, across existence.



Or beyond.



Ib knows no more of the creations beyond its own than a sailor does of a storm-wreathed island on the horizon. It believes it could learn, but the circumstances are not such that it can do that. It should feel strange, for a being so far beyond time not to find enough to indulge itself, but then, a sliver of such a being losing its memories was not common either.



Remembering itself had felt not like coming home, but like realising it had always been there, despite thinking itself lost. Ib fancied that, hadit somehow gained a fraction of its true power before it had returned to the Free Fleet, it could've remade its mind.



Alas, such things did not simply happen. Sometimes, there were stories to be told. The Dream that is existence does not always make sense - dreams are dreams, even those of Makers - but when it develops structure...



Ib has its role to play, and is free to act, within that role. Perhaps, once that is done, it will be able to spread the Idea it is across existence, but, until then, it has its duties to perform in its corner of the dream.



The Creator of all Ib knows talks in its sleep, sometimes - for lack of a better term. Mortals, and some immortals, perceive those ur-words as events of cosmic scale and significance, but Ib sees more clearly. It can hear them, not their echoes, and glimpse them, not their shadows. From these, it tries to decipher the insights the sleeping Maker unknowingly offers.



It -Ib th thinks - is going to play a role, at the end (whether the end of all, or the end of finitude, remains to be seen), but it will be merely one of an endless gathering. It will only stand out because of its deeds prior to that. This is both fate and ambition, for Ib knows what it must do, and it will be damned if it falters.



Learning this - "this" being the story of creation - is not about it was sobering at first (something even worse than what it might or might not do?), but after closer reflection, it became amusing, in a reassuring way. Looking back, after it regained its memories but before it truly grasped them for the first (?) time, it, maybe possessed by vanity, had thought its tale that of a hero, the hero.



A powerful, innocent, even naive being, unable to remember its past or know itself, guided by an older friend and bonding with a newfound, aloof one...for a time, it almost missed the fact it was Ryzhan who mattered, in this regard.



It is all about Ryzhan. That much is a fact, even if the details are harder for it to reach than the stars are for the things that crawled and burrowed in the ground.



At the end, Ryzhan would do something - or not - and everything would change. If Ib is to guess, it was going to be about memories, his or someone else's. Whether his magic was going to be involved or not (though, even if not, Ib was happy its mage friend was more at peace with himself nowadays...to a degree. Even if his power would not be needed, he enjoyed having it, and anything that made its friends happy made it happy), and Ib did not know, something was going to have to be remembered.



In a fit of pessimism, Ib thinks that, perhaps, the mage will get the chance to jot down everything that had been, before the end comes for everyone. Ib briefly entertains the thought, and its great shoulders rise in a shrug as it runs over water.



Better for all there was to be known, for once, for an instant, than to fade unfathomed.



It is, Ib reasons, not unlike how it is better to struggle and love and hate and die than to wither after a life of apathy. That a deathless being like it thinks of such mortal notions is, it believes, a good sign.



Were it more distant, perhaps it would act even less than it does, or not at all, letting everyone fend for themselves in the name of (a slovenly fool's idea of) freedom.



Ib laughs at itself. Self-deprecation helps ward off the arrogance that so often comes with power. Aye, aye, not resting on its laurels is all well and good (how much has it accomplished since its memories returned, truly...?), but bugger that.



Trying to forget about its friends by contemplating the end of all things was about as useful as fretting over them like a mother hen.



Ryzhan, the who is to be the centrepiece of what is coming, is facing off with his own past - again. Not that Ib is one to talk about dredging up old hurts; it does not seek to disparage the mage, but it regrets that he still, still has not made peace with what lays behind him.



Ib has not, itself, it if is being honest. Sure enough, it spared - no other word does it justice - its creator and their fellows, but it was not out of forgiveness. Ib does not think it, though it is vast and contain multitudes, has it in itself to forgive them.



But it is sure they will not die without its forgiveness - except, perhaps, literally.



Ib's face morphs into a smile, as it often does when contemplating bright futures, then returns to its normal, featureless state, before becoming a frown.



The immediate future is not so bright, in any sense.



Ib only feels the air change at this distance thanks to its inhuman senses; the dark cloud on the horizon is still far away, for Ib's sight also extends far farther than most Midworlders'.



The air already tastes bitter to the giant, heavy and sulphurous. In the distance, within the smoke, it glimpses something broad and towering, Between the stench, the heat - the water is boiling for leagues around the island - and the rumbling that shakes the land and the water, Ib imagines a human might be tempted to believe the silhouette in the smoke a volcano.



Ib knows better.



Its journey, like travels such as it do, ends not when it crosses some well-defined distance, but when it is proper for it to stop; once the giant ceases focusing on its - tch - surface-level impressions of the island, the distance to it begins shortening.



The island almost seems to move closer, as if to meet Ib. Somehow, the grey being does not feel grateful.



It'd rather the place stay away, even if the reason it is here, quite unlike the reason it wishes it was here, requires setting foot on that sooty land.



Ib can practically feel the slavery, like chains tightening around its broad shoulders. Not a daymare (and the namesake of the first among Fear's daughters brings a smile to its face, despite everything), not a reminiscence of its time in the Free Fleet, but a reflex to what its senses tell it.



Ib can see the ties that bind, spun from power, crisscrossing the soil, the sea, the sky, linking all who dwell inside, below and above its destination together - and to the creature at the centre, surveying her domain in sated supremacy, like the queen of a hive.



It can hear the voices raised in spineless adoration, thanks to its animus, for they are still out of earshot. It can feel fawning excuse for love, burning as brightly as when it was born, brushing against the edges of its spirt.



"Just remember, Freedom," Mendax said, going for a moniker only scarcely less annoying than Libertas (it was not the word, Ib told itself; that was pleasing to the ear. It was the fact that it reminded the giant of its origin, and the purpose chosen for it). The schemer, who had rarely seen a path for creation's survival it hadn't taken, leaned closer, a smile, small and fond, unlike its usual wide, mocking grin, flickered in the shadows of its grey hood. "Some chains are worn willingly, and gladly. Not all devotion is forced."



Ib decided not to quibble with its brother by nature, for it knew Mendax was as stubborn, in its own way, as it was.



But that didn't make it less wrong.



* * *



Perhaps, Ib muses for itself, the Free Fleet's fears are unfounded.



That statement would seem obvious to anyone who knows of them. Of course, people choosing for themselves, in the spirit of true freedom, is not a threat to anything but the Fleet's tyranny.



But their fears about Ib, the grey being thinks, do not make much sense, either.



Mistreating someone you created, shackling them for fear of them overthrowing you, cannot lead to anything but a self-fulfilling prophecy. The Fleet's destruction, such as it will be, is long in the coming, however, Ib is sure, and its instincts agree. Whether they will be obliterated or changed, willingly or for their own good, are just details.



But its creator's worries, about Ib crowning itself as a god-king of...anything, sound so ridiculous now, even more so than they did when shared with the giant.



'I,' Ib says to itself, 'was not made to be worshipped.'



Truth. That was not the purpose its maker had in mind, and the grey being's nature is even less inclined towards such now.



Around it, Midworld shifts subtly, while in the deepest layer of creation, the shape that is the Idea of Freedom turns, displaying a new, old facet.



No crowns for Ib, no hands raised in prayer. It is content with this (it tells itself).



The giant's gaze, eyeless until it reminds itself to mind its companion - not all are familiar with its blank visage as its crew - drops to its self-styled, self-appointed guide.



Ib does not believe there is any realm, in creation or beyond, where it could get lost, for that would be akin to being trapped, and itis freedom itself. However, it is only proper, it supposes, that it indulges the...native.



This is not politeness, it tells itself once more. It's just about avoiding fuss. Worshippers of anything, in its experience, tend to be fussy, especially when it comes to the object of their obsession.



Ib cannot pretend to understand it in anything but the most abstract sense, and it does not want to learn more. Maybe, at some point, it will open up one of these faithful, to see what makes them give themselves up, placing their destiny in their mistress' claws, but until then? It has no desire to foul its mind with this kind of insanity.



'You seem upset, stranger,' its guide says in a high, trilling voice. It's strange, Ib thinks: you'd expect a matronly woman like her to have a deeper voice, warbling or mannish, but she sounds like a girl.



She - Qarkha; she gave her name and insisted it be used. What harm is there in humouring her? - is taller than most women Ib knows, as well as most men, as far as humans go. She was strong once, the muscles can still be glimpsed under the fat, but even with her round, aging body, she's far from weak.



Ib feels a twinge of annoyance. Qarkha's mistress insists she be immortalised - as if she isn't already deathless and eternal; so tacky - in song and painting and sculpture, but she does not even increase her worshippers' lifespan or vitality. Selfishness, probably, and cruelty is not unlikely either: you'd need either or both to ask to be treated like a good, not to mention a hefty amount of insanity to refuse to be called a deity, let alone say you are different from one.



But, Ib supposes, it is not that surprising for gods to be creatures of whimsy...even when they deny their divinity.



'Appearances can be deceiving,' Ib rumbles in reply, sounding gruffer than it intended. It'll do, it decides, even as it see the woman flinch subtly. Likely, she hasn't noticed it herself.



Would she have, even if her head wasn't filled with nonsensical dogma? Ib discovers it does not really care.



'A-Ah...yes, your shapeshifting' Qarkha says, trying to stand up straighter, pulling her cloak around herself like her dignity will follow - but there'd need to be some in the first place, wouldn't it?



Clearing her voice, the woman continues, 'Many come to our Mistress uncertain, unsure of their bodies, minds and spirits.' And remain broken in all but the first. Even that is not always true. 'But most of them remained here, and found all of themselves permeated by serenity.' At this, she clasps her hands together so that the sleeves of her robes slide over them, a trick the giant has observed people dress like this for, even if they hate the clothes themselves. A warm, happy smile brightens her doughy, dusky features. 'Why, my wife and I have found ourselves growing closer ever since we washed up on the shores of Mistress' domains.'



Ib lets the frankly appalling appellation slide, unable to think that it would've been kinder if the women had drowned like the rest of their fleet had, like Qarkha had told it earlier. 'What happens to those who don't find themselves...' Can it say the words without scoffing? '...permeated by serenity?'



'Hmm? Qarkha looks up at Ib, her movements as birdlike as her voice.



'You said those who remain become serene. What about the ones who don't? Why'd they leave?'



'Oh! Them.' Qarkha makes a dismissive sound, blowing a raspberry. It looks ridiculous, coming from a grandmotherly woman like her, and makes her look childish, not younger. 'Don't worry about them. Those too foolish to accept Mistress' grace,' Ib can practically see her turning her nose up, 'are turned away.'



'Peacefully, I'm sure,' Ib drawls.



'Well, of course! If they cannot behave and believe, they have no place here.'



Ib scratches its square jaw, for her benefit. Most humans can't tell when it's thinking. 'But what if, though they don't have it in themselves to believe, they are hungry? Thirsty? Sick, wounded, desperate? Does your...' is that damned temple going to get any closer? Ib swears, this is like its walk over the sea. 'Does your mistress turn them away, even then?'



Qarkha rolls her eyes with an impish smirk, as if the grey being shared a joke. 'Do you know who else was with Vreena and I when we arrived?'



What not? 'But you said you two washed ashore...?'



Qarkha stops, raising a hand and pointing two fingers at Ib. 'No other people were with us. But, so you might understand, I will speak of those who were as if they were people.'



Somehow, Ib doesn't think this is going to be something as harmless as pets that had to be put down. 'Do tell,' it says in a low voice, lower arms on its hips.



'Vree's parents - that is, those who brought her into the world, not our Mother - were not against our union. Like many of our fleet, they saw such marriages as beneficial when there were enough people to work and fight, since there was no chance of accidentally having children. My father was of a duller bent, but went along because he did not wish to be ostracised or abandoned.'



Ib can already feel an ugly scowl coming. 'Her parents had to leave because they wouldn't worship?'



'They would not leave, either,' Qarkha says briskly. 'They saw this bounty,' she gestures at the lush orchards and fields stretching into the distance, implausibly fertile even for such an island, whose soil is rich with volcanic ash. Drawing vitality from the metaphysical significance of that substance, most likely. 'And they said it would be insanity to send them back to the sea, when there was enough for everyone.' She huffs. 'Fools.'



'And why is that?' Ib challenges, trying to keep its voice down and its hands still.



Qarkha bites her lip, fingering the base of her hood. 'Do you know what it means to be faithful?'



Ib swallows its first three responses. 'Enlighten me.'



She nods, closing her eyes and inclining her head like a generous sage, or some nonsense. 'It means to put Mistress above everything, as is only proper. Mistress gives everything we need, and takes everything we don't.' Her eyes snap open. 'Enemies included. To believe means to accept her truth, and become capable of letting go of lesser attachments.'



'But you are still married?'



Qarkha shakes her head, fishing out a necklace from the depths of her cowl. On it, above a handful of baubles and beneath a dragon in flight, wrought in black gold, is a silk knot. It might have once been a pretty pink colour, and bigger, but now, it's almost white, and frayed. 'Do not misunderstand,' Qarkha says in a placid, patient voice. 'If Mistress demanded I cut my wife's arms off and beat her to death with it, I would.'



Ib manages not to punch her head off. 'Oh? And why is that?'



'I sense you disapprove.' She wags a finger at the grey giant as if it were a child. 'Do not. Only the most foolish do so, at the beginning, and only by shedding such ignorance can they hope to stay.'



Ib almost laughs out loud. She thinks it's here to convert?! 'I'll keep that in mind,' it chuckles, and Qarkha bristles, but holds her tongue, and so keeps it.



'Anyhow.' She puts the necklace back, and her hands return to her sleeves. 'Mistress would have a reason. It would not be my place to ask, though I would be honoured to be enlightened.'



Such blind trust, Ib can only draw a comparison with its earliest days. 'And would you not hesitate? Grieve?' Ib does not think it has ever known love like the one spouses share, but it cares for its friends enough that...



No. It would not kill one of them and not tell the others why. Not forever.



Qarkha giggles. 'Oh, Vree and I love each other, make no mistake, but what is the love of mortals compared to love for Mistress? Just like our hate, our amusements...our hopes and dreams and nightmares, it's so...petty, in comparison to her.'



Ib makes an unhappy sound. 'And you said you've been acolytes for months?' The passage of this island's seasons is artificial and carefully controlled, by obviously, this mistress.



'Mhm!' She rubs her forearms in a girlish, nervous gesture. 'We are hoping to be accepted within the year, lest we be banished for faithlessness.'



And there's the rub. 'And what would faithlessness entail?' Ib does not bother with a honeyed voice or friendly posture. If nothing else, she's probably aware, by now, that it doesn't like her.



'I've already told you,' she says calmly. ' 'Tis holding on to childish attachments instead of recognising Her greatness.'



This sounds so much like the archetypal fanatic's drivel, Ib is almost tempted to dismiss it out of hand - almost. But, if it hasn't destroyed the Fleet where it was born yet, it can withstand this conversation, rather than abandon its guide in order to find someone with more brains and less conviction.



Besides, ditching its guide wouldn't be taken well. It's, it can tell, one of those islands.



As such, it nods instead, squatting to be closer to Qarkha's height. 'So even if you said that she is the greatest being alive, and dwelt here in devotion to her, singing her praises and enjoying the bounty and protection she provides...you would be faithless?'



Qarkha claima that you would, indeed, be. 'For speaking is not the same as believing, and lying about faith is vile.'



Ib removes its hands from its knees and stood up straight. The temple - the Temple of Initiation, according to Qarkha - seems closer than ever, now that he understood more of this faith. As visual metaphors go, it could be subtler, but it serves well enough.



'Qarkha,' the giant says, 'you say you are taking me there so I may speak with your mistress, and I am sure that is true enough; but you're hoping I will join your ranks, aren't you?'



The acolyte smiles sheepishly, spreading her hands. 'A harmless deceit, you will agree, and easily seen through.'



And yet attempted all the same. 'Am I to believe this desire innocent, with you knowing what I am?'



At this, her gaze becomes bemused. 'You are a member of an actor troupe...yes? Large and able to change form...'



The first part, it revealed during its introduction, and the second even a one-eyed man could see. Did it underestimate her arcane sense? Ib knows she can see minds and spirits and what moves in them...is her subtle sight duller than it thought? 'And what if I told you I have great power?' it asks. 'Power to, were there no one to pit their will against mine, unmake this island? Would you not want me amongst your ranks then'



Ib senses a jolt of fear as it reveals a sliver of its abilities, but it is quickly replaced by something like eagerness. 'Even such a being like you might find purpose under Her...' Qarkha whispers, an almost rapturous look on her face.



Despite itself, Ib chuckles. 'I have a home to return to, one I am not looking to abandon any soon. This is a stop on my journey; I am here to put my skills to work, not remain.' Really, introducing itself as an actor should've tipped her off.



Qarkha's lips become a thin line, and she looks thoughtful. 'I suppose even Mistress might appreciate theatre, short as it falls of the celebrations meant to honour Her...'



It is good, Ib thinks, that it lacks the stereotypical actor's ego, or that might have offended it. Yet, even the most flamboyant of entertainers would tread lightly qround here, rather than denounce the grandness of those ceremonies.



This is not the sort of place Ib would have chosen to perform in. But it has its purpose, and Ryz and the captain have theirs. It would not do to fall short of them, when it was the one who sent them on errands.



* * *



By the time Ib makes its way through the temple's doors, it is alone; and in this place, as alien to its nature as it can be while allowing a fragment of free will to persist, it feels as lonely as before Mharra found it, in the rare moments of lucidity it enjoyed in those days.



According to Qarkha, people mostly come here when they are introduced to the faith (she capitalises it, and offers no alternative name. Not an uncommon occurence, in Midworld, though most "Faiths" do not maintain such a stranglehold on the worshippers' lives) and when they are accepted into the fold. For most travellers, meeting the island's Mistress quickly results into converting.



Usually, it has been told, people do not enter alone to talk, and usually, there are people who have long worshipped in the background, to subtly pressure the newcomers, Ib is sure.



This, then, is a double exception, for Ib is alone, and there are no watchers between or behind the great spiralling pillars holding up the roof, which resembles a pair of batlike wings folded over each other.



On the pillars, there are spots where it can be seen stone once flowed. Now, they hang off the main mass like wax on a cold candle.



The roof, also shaped by fire and claws, sports no such flaws, but then, it makes sense, doesn't it? Of course this self-effacing goddes wouldn't have a graven image of her wings tainted by imperfections.



Ib wonders if there might be more than ego at work, here. Another visual metaphor? The Mistress, held up by flawed beings? She...no, she wouldn't say she needs any kind of support, even if it were true, and she plainly does not need the help of humans.



The Mistress, exalted by those below her, then.



There is no trace of magic in the air or stone, no lingering enchantment. No spellcraft was employed here, but a dragon's flame and claws and tongue, to melt the bones of the earth and mould them.



Ib has observed enough dragons from afar to know young ones would not have the patience for this, and most of their elders would not have the desire. Of those dragons who were humanlike in thought (in truth, it was the other way around, given the ages of the species, at least in Midworld), most would have been unable to tolerate the questions and praises of weak mortals unable to understand them.



As good a reason to refuse worship as any, Ib supposes.



The Mistress is one of what dragons call the thinking kin, and an old one at that, given her prowess with dragonfire - as old as she is strange. If she is willing to demand adoration, why stick to one island? Surely her ego is not so easily sated?



The doors close behind Ib with a thunderous boom that would make mush of humans. As the thunderclap passes harmlessly over it, the grey being thinks this must be the result of a flair for the dramatic, for none of the people it has met on this island could have survived it.



They have no visible hinges either, or any other mechanisms, simply sliding from the sides of the temple's opening. Ib, despite its distaste for the dragon and everything she stands for, cannot fault the concept. It can easily imagine starved, half-mad sailors being awed by all of this, as if they'd need much convincing.



The Mistress awaits at the heart of the temple, lounging in something more nest than altar. To Ib's relief, there is no clutch of eggs surrounded by her wings or tail, waiting to hatch into a new generation of dragons she'd doubtlessly pass her nonsense on to.



Just a matter of taste, then. That is no problem. If her tastelessness had been dangerous, Ib would've fallen on the shore, when faced with that gaudy monument that resembles a volcano from a distance. It is meant to, it has been told, represent the Mistress' triumph over all enemies of her people, past and possible, hence the mound of indistinct shapes under her statue's claws.



Ib thinks it just looks like garbage atop garbage.



As Ib approaches, it sees that the temple is far larger on the inside than the outside, and for good reason: beings able to cross most cosmoses in the smallest amount of time there is would spend lifetimes just to cross half of the dragoness' pupil, and her eyes would be nearly impossible to see in comparison to her body, even if they weren't both dark as obsidian.



Indeed, Ib doubts Mharra, for example, would spot the difference between eye and scale, let alone the shades of black that comprises pupil and iris and sclera.



Dragons grow with age, in both piwer and stature. After their first millennium passes, they are tens of metres long, larger than most of Midworld's whales and able to swallow an elephant whole. How many eons, then, this being must have spent growing...



'Libertas,' she rumbles, 'come at last.'



'You've a name for me,' Ib replies, 'yet I've no name for you.'



'I suppose it is too much to ask that you adress me as my people do?'



Ib's face ripples into a frown. 'You already have me a nane I despise, and that is mine. You would give me two?'



She laughs, good-naturedly, and this is already unlike the confrontation Ib expected - aye, craved. Indeed, it hardly feels like a confrontation at all. 'Then, you can give me a name as well, and should I despise it, I will bear it in silence.'



'How two-faced,' Ib harrumphs, not willing to be undone by her disarming façade. 'Were I human, you would be demanding I bow and scrape and swear devotion, or depart.' It would spit, but there is no flyid in its form as might be found within a man's body.



'How hypocritical,' she retorts, still calm. 'Would you claim you are honest in your dealings with all, when you deceive even your crewmates?'



'Withholding the truth is nothing like lying,' Ib answers. 'And what I do for their good, and out of love for them, cannot be compared to what you oversee here.'



'Why?' she asks, amused. 'Do you think I hate my worshippers?'



'You certainly do not cherish them,' the giant replies. 'For they are merely playthings to you. Pets, maybe. But a gilded cage is still a cage.' It shakes its head, gesturing at the exit and what lays beyond it. 'If you needed this, any of this, you would be a mere parasite, if a vile one. But this is tyranny. What do you need their faith, when you can grow your own might at will?'



'Who does not desire love?' the dragoness asks.



'Love-?!'



'Freedom, wait.' She holds up a clawed paw, sniggering. 'I know you are incensed at being opposed, but that is no excuse for this misunderstanding. Aye, it seems almost...deliberate.'



Ib scoffs. 'You are not a trickster fit to deceive me,' it warns her.



'And I've no need to be, for I shall defeat you with the truth.' She stands up, spreading her wings, and her eyes gleam as she meets Ib's gaze. 'Tere are things not meant to be knkwn yet, even by us timeless ones, in this dream you inhabit. But that you miss the nature of the land you stand upon is merely willful ignorance.'



Oh, this ought to be good...



She goes on, despite its dismissive stance. 'First, you might name me after the Ashen Isle I rule, but that is your choice. As for you ignorance...' she sighs, giving it a fondly exasperated look.



Ib tries not to look baffled. Instead, holding on to its outrage, it says, 'What of it? Tell me how I am wrong, and I might even enter your service.'



She giggles at its offhand remark. 'Careful, my dear: once I have you in chains, I might never let go...' Her smile dims as she trails off, though it's still warm and wide. 'You seem to believe I'm some sort of unchallengeable despot, holding sway over a terrified mob.'



When it makes no remarks, she goes on. 'I am goddess-queen of the isle, yes; I make the laws. But that makes me no more a tyrant of this land than your captain is a tyrant of his ship.'



A ridiculous notion, and they haven't even reached the inevitable contradictions yet. 'Sole rule is not the issue,' Ib says. 'Cruelty is. The thirst for power is.'



' 'Tis good, then, that I am burdened by neither,' she says, but before Ib can form eyes to roll, she continues. 'If I lie, it is for the same reasons you omit the truth.'



She opens a paw, then raises it. 'Think about it. Nearly every culture in Midworld - every extant one - is suspicious towards outsiders, those who would waste resources or subvert the social order.'



Ib is about to protest that this is not the case here, that everyone has plenty and that she onviously keeps order, but she holds up a finger, shushing it. 'Ah ah ah! Let me finish...'



It does. To its mild surprise, the patronising interruption does not offend it as much as it should.



Apathy. It must have burned through its anger at this place.



She clasps her front paws, resting her muzzle on it. 'If you saw me ask a mother to put me before her newborn, you would decry it as odious, even if practically every captain on the seas makes such requests when they don't just give orders.' She regards him with lidded eyes. 'What is the problem, then? That I am a person, rather than a creed?'



Ib almost says that she has the means to make every Midworlder forget about scarcity, but then, so do the Great Powers, and it's not knocking on their doors to reprimand them.



This dragoness and her servants, they are not a Great Power only because they keep to themselves, Ib realises.



She smiles gently. 'You will forgive me for catching your surface thoughts - some of us call it seeing blindly - but you also have the means to make everyone's life plentiful, and yet do not. Nor do you stop those who wish for death from rushing to their fates.' She spreads her forelegs. 'And yet, no one is rushing after your crew to call you monsters...'



It expected this. 'Neither I nor my crew would demand worship in exchange for aid,' Ib counters. 'Nor would the Great Powers.'



She looks aside, smirking, flames lighting up her nostrils and maw, behind her fangs. Looking back at Ib, she says, 'Let us leave aside the similiarities between what I ask for and what, for example, the philosophy of the Free Fleet demands. You don't need idols or preachers or scriptures to have a religion. Let us speak of this island, instead.'



She becomes a cloud of smoke, drifting closer to Ib and shrinking as she does so, until she matches its stature. 'Hear me: all my people have here, they made themselves.'



Seeing its blank countenance, she begins slowly spinning around him as she speaks. 'You know very well the potential everyone has. You needn't be a mage to shape existence, even as it shapes you.'



Ib clears its throat, a habit it has picked up from Mharra. 'Are you saying your isle is fertile because they think it is? They clearly believe the bounty comes from you.'



'I am not so weak as to bend to their beliefs,' she says softly. 'They believe there is plenty, gifted by me, aye, and when their thoughts clash against my will, and rebound, they become reality.'



Ib grunts. 'If that is so, why the deception? The cult? Narcissism?'



She giggles again. 'You would like to think so, hmm? The first of them began praying to me after I repelled the first great invasion of the Ashen Isle. Directing them towards the endeavours whose results you have seen is a way to channel their energies, and you know what mankind can get up to when restless.'



She shakes what passes for her head. 'I will not deny that I appreciate it - but, in the end, the rituals' purpose is to bind them together, give them something to share so they might share strength as well. The exiles you have heard of are banished lest they tear asunder the fabric of society, not out of malice, even if it might appear as such to you.'



Of course she would say that. 'And what of those who remain, yet distupt the workings of your realm after years or decades?'



She lowers her head, such as it is, and her mirth is gone when she responds. 'They are dealt with in accordance to their crime. I believe you are familiar with the concept.'



Ib grumbles noncommitally. 'In the end, you remain as hidebound as you are proud. You do not even give your people power or knowledge, choosing to leave them chasing their tails. And, no matter how well-intentioned they seem to you, your lies are still lies.'



She makes an exasperated gesture with a smoky limb. 'Let us cut to the meat of the matter, Ib: all you've listed are merely secondary annoyances. The comings and goings of a land you're visiting only briefly. What truly irks you is my nature, as opposed to yours as our manners are.'



Not a lie. She is not the Idea of Devotion, but she is as intertwined with it as Ib's corpus.



Ib turns away from her. 'It is not natural for people to slaughter their loved ones at the word of a leader, without even an explanation.'



'And you, who would slaughter your crew if it meant all of creation would become freer, safer? Is that natural?'



'...It is necessary.'



She runs a hand over its clenched fist, and it allows her to open it, which she does while smiling up at her. 'I understand. Between what you are and the nature of your body within this world, how could you do aught but distrust those like me? Worry not,' she whispers, leaning closer, 'I forgive you.'



Ridiculous. 'I need your forgiveness like I need a hole in my head,' it snaps lightly, tearing its hand free of her grasp.



'Nevertheless, it is given.'



Hmph. Crossing its arms, Ib says, 'My like or dislike of you does not matter. You might be a spectator, or not. The show will take place.'



Much the same could be said of creation's situation, but Ib is not going to elaborate, not with her.



The dragoness hums, mildly disapproving. 'Stubborn, stubborn. That you could talk about necessity and rebuke me in the same breath was amusing, so I will bear no grudge.' Her form sways as she makes her way to Ib, placing a hand on its chest. 'Are you scared of devotion to a higher being, my dear rival? Is that it? You never railed against you captain when you were bereft of memories, but then, you were never truly lesser than him, were you?'



She bumps its hip with hers as she moves away, then stops, looking at it over her shoulder. 'Let us be frank with each other: you get on my nerves nearly as much as I get on yours, if not more so. Something must be done.'



'And what do you suggest?' Ib mutters, unfolding its arms.



The dragoness' smile returns, more mischievous than before. 'Some of my faithful sometimes find themselves called here, to partake in a communion with their Mistress.'



That does not sound at all imbalanced - and why does Ib have this feeling families participate sometimes?



...Not that it is its business. None of this place's traditions are. 'No, thank you.'



'Are you sure?' she asks, and the next instant, her form has become that of a woman, ash-grey of flesh, with the parts that would be hidden by clothes, were she human, being as dark as her scales. She makes to take a step closer, but Ib holds up a hand, turning its head and shutting off its sight at the same time.



'You are very generous,' it says tersely, 'but I do not even know if I have such urges, honestly.'



She plants her hands on her hips. 'You did not avert your gaze when I was unclothed yet scaled. What is the difference?'



'There are several differences,' Ib says tightly, choosing not to mention them. 'And no need to bare yourself, in any case.' Just because it dislikes her doesn't mean she doesn't deserve dignity.



'Tch...' she tosses her long raven hair. 'You could at least call me Ashe, after my isle. You keep thinking of me as "she" and it is getting tiring.'



'Very well,' it agrees. 'Now, if you do not mind, I would take my leave...' The sound of claws scraping together fills the cavernous room.



'Hmm?' "Ashe" smiles, gradually returning to her initial form. "Let us be honest, if we don't tear each other to shreds, you'll start pouting as soon as I heckle you.'



'Any advantage this shape could give you is meaningless in the face of your power,' Ib points out.



'It does not give you the disadvantage of being something you choose not to look at,' Ashe teases.



'What about clothes?'



'What about them?'



Of course she'd say that...not that Ib is one to complain.



* * *



Aina is hiding her smile behind one hand as she watches Ryzhan's most powerful crewmate take its place at the centre of a molten stone stage. She hopes the Idea of Freedom will return to this island; it would be a shame if it doesn't.



Now, the show's about to begin. She wonders if each actor will begin by introducing themselves...

[Strigoi Grey]

Book IV, Chapter 6

* * *
AN: This chapter contains references to Strigoi Soul, my original urban fantasy story, as well as to other elements of the "Strigoiverse" I haven't focused on yet. You might recall Ryzhan mentioning the Nexus early on.

* * *

Ryzhan

I was not so acquainted with hospitals that I could say I always disliked all of them - I'd only been in a few -, but the chamber I entered resembled the ones I knew, and did little to ender itself to me.

Until the first time, I'd never been in a place of healing bigger than my first home. Most islands had a village doctor's hut, most ships the doctor's cabin and maybe some nearby rooms taken over and filled with medicines out of necessity. But hospitals were houses of healing where recovery was industrialised as much as smithing was in those cultures that sought to emulate the Free Fleet.

In my experience, hospitals were barren places, whose walls were bleached, off-white or bare more often than not; which smelled of harsh, faintly acrid substances meant to cleanse the body once imbibed or injected. Thankfully, my magic had allowed me to, by remembering my healthy days, avoid having to go to a healer too often. When I'd needed to, because of some poison or injury beyond means both mundane and those of my magic to overcome, the healer had been either a mage themselves, or someone similarly endowed with otherworldly powers.

I was glad I'd never needed to go a hospital. My brief visits, out of curiosity, had taught me why some people said "clinical" when they meant cold or aloof. People wasting away in rows of beds, or chained to them because of an illness of the mind...it made me grimace to think of it.

Part of it must have been my inherent dislike towards weakness, letting people have power over me and rummage through my body, but I honestly thought I simply disliked being poked, prodded or fed concoctions.

The room Aina's doppelganger and I arrived in did not smell as badly as the hospitals I remembered, and its walls were a white clean enough to be cheerful rather than unsettling, but I did not like them any more than I liked them. The difference was that I'd have to endure it for longer, because I was here to put on a show, not look around like a mouse out of its lair, then scurry away.

Aina lingered at the edge of my vision like a wraith, only seeming solid when I turned my head slightly, to truly look at her. I tried to pay no mind to what that implied. Thinking I was going mad or hallucinating was only going to make me paranoid and ill-tempered, the two states I've never needed help to achieve.

I glanced around, musing that Serene Rest's power must've warped this room. There were far more beds and people inside than the room I'd glimpsed while walking down the corridor should've been able to hold: the doors had been wide enough I'd seen what had looked like the whole chamber. But this? This was bigger than the bloody building as a whole, maybe even the island as I'd seen it.

It made sense, I suppose. If the building had been as large on the outside as it was on the inside, it would've made a much bigger target for potential invaders than the inconspicuous structure I'd walked into. Not to mention the Rest would've had to be bigger too, which would've caused the same issue.

It was just my luck that no invader had ever stumbled upon this place with enough power to sink it under the waves. If anyone had come here seeking the place's destruction, they'd likely been rendered docile and unthinking. Maybe some of the poor bastards around me had come here as would-be righteous destroyers. The thought of such an undignified end made my blood boil.

While I was weighing the chances of getting heckled and using it as an excuse to put the ensnared wretches out of their miser, the false Aina moved forward as if floating, delicately elbowing me. I gave her a glare I'd have never dared send my childhood friend, but she just looked back with mild reproach.

'Introduce yourself, Ryz,' she whispered, indicating my soon-to-be audience with a jerk of her narrow chin. 'They're curious.'

If I'd had more time, I'd have told her to bugger off and remember I wasn't her Ryz, but I wanted to get out of here as fast as possible, not dawdle. Leaning on my cane like an idle lordling, I nodded as if I liked was I was seeing, lips drawn together as I hummed thoughtfully.

I did not, in fact, like what I was seeing. But, not to repeat myself...

Once, I'd gotten a grimoire at a bargain, the spell book being far cheaper than it should've been because something had removed its magic. As such, the rituals and incantations described in it swam in your mind when you tried to use them, though not when you tried to recall them. That had been no issue, however, because I'd bought the book just to read it, not to increase my arcane prowess.

It had costed an arm and a leg, which had once belonged to a man who'd tried to kill me (for it had been a lich's book of death, and such things mattered) after I'd "stolen" the innkeeper he'd allegedly set his sights on. That barely worked when it came to objects you could pay for, much less hotheaded, clearly not interested women.

In any case, despite the tongue lashing he received from her for his petulance, and the thrashing he got from me when he tried to take a swing at the lady, he was undeterred. The rat bastard came for me in the night, when I lay, half-asleep, under the pleasantly plump woman. The dagger coming for my neck had woken me up as quickly as a bucket of ice water, and I'd pushed Tylha off me, before clumsily fighting that snake Pfharek off for a few heartbeats, finally managing to push him out of the window. I'd never been happier to rent a room on a building's third storey, but that made it up for all the walks up and down the stair (the privy had been on the ground floor).

Sadly, during our struggle, Pfharek's knife had found and opened Tylha's throat. She barely managed to gurgle that it wasn't my fault and that she didn't blame me before the light left her eyes. I must admit that, between that and the questioning I got minutes later, resulting in me trying to prove I wasn't a murderous, sadistic deviant (Pfharek, who'd been lying in the bushes, had been helpful as evidence. The jealous dog had managed not to groan in pain after his fall, though the kicks I gave him, after the inn's staff and I made our way down, did the trick. I could almost admire the tenacity), I avoided women for a while.

That diversion aside; the lich's grimoire, while empty of power, still contained detailed, lifelike (ahem) sketches of the creatures born from the undead mage's imagination. The undead warlock, Victorious Honest (Frank, depending on translation) Stone had been a skilled if not humble necromancer, with a specialisation in stitching together the remains of people he dug up.

The creatures portrayed in the spell book were what Serene Rest's inhabitants reminded me of, though there were no stiches or sutures visible on their bodies. However, their ashen complexions could've fooled me into thinking them lifeless. Between their grey skin and the splash of pink on their cheeks, they looked like some monster's attempt at recreating humans out of memory, which, come to think of it, was not that far from the truth.

My skin started crawling as soon as the people (?) began walking towards me. It wasn't that they were grotesque, or even menacing, except in the vaguest sense. But there was just enough of humanity in them for the differences to be more jarring than, say, a Seaworm bursting out of nowhere. I've heard it called the strange gorge effect, apparently because a traveller had once met an unsettlingly humanlike, terrifying creature while passing through a dale.

A man, if man he was, approached me, and I saw his pale skin was not unbroken, but rather, seemingly wrapped over his flesh, like a collection of bandages or leather straps. Strangely, his eyes, set where some of the "wrappings" met, did not appear out of place. Indeed, the sockets did not appear deeper than mine, despite looking like they should've reached deep into the "seams": dark lines I might have missed with my magic sharpening my sight, and even then, I could not tell what was under the being's hide, if there was anything.

And here I was used to getting under people's skin during first meetings. Perhaps I would use this in the show, during the breaks. A little comedy between the stretches of drama does not hurt.

'If only my life understood!', I imagined myself crying with passion after a monologue, voice slowly rising as I spoke. They didn't need to know me, in any meaningful sense. Some things, you just understood, even from men you'd never met, even from other species.

The creature that looked like a bandaged man, wearing a pair of grey trousers, a dark blue shirt, soft-looking and loose, that ended between his shoulders and elbows, stopped just of of arm's reach, right when I began hesitantly raising my hand to shake his. I managed to disguise the aborted movement by pulling up my belt as if it were loose.

Aina spoke into my mind, tone slightly chiding. Go on, my friend. They don't know if you like being touched - not everyone does.

Hmph, I thought back, not liking how she'd invaded my mind without permission or warning. But he must've seen me reaching for his hand, surely.

Not everyone shakes hands.

I supposed not. Clearing my throat, I tried to smile as affably as I could. I was pleasantly surprised to discover I'd regained my ability to fake moods, which was reassuring, after all the outbursts recently forced out of me.

'Greetings!' I tossed my cane up, with it twirling a little in the air, and caught it by the haft when it feel, before leaning it over my shoulder. I'd always appreciated the actors who made an effort to be flamboyant and enthusiastic outside of shows. It made the performances feel more genuine, I felt There was something saddening about going to talk to the town jester in the back of the sage and meeting a dour, irate man. 'I would've come sooner, but ah, your land simply could not get enough of me.'

He smiled toothlessly - I caught a few white glimmers in the shadows of his mouth, though they could've been anything, if his insides were as strange as his outside -, just a little upwards quirk of his lips' corners, like I'd seen from those performers who covered their faces in flour and acted like mutes, and took a small, quick breath, the sort you might in the morning, when you're not quite awake, and which left you choking on air.

Not that a man as poised as me had ever suffered such, Vhaarn forbid.

'You are the actor,' he said in a pleasant but hushed voice. Not quite a whisper, but like the voice of those old folk, weary of life, who sound tired, almost pleading, even when enthusiastic. 'The mage.'

Pointedly not asking how he knew (from the island?), I instead forced a cocksure grin, teeth gleaming. 'I see my reputation precedes me! Much like this lovely lady proceeds me!' Somehow not choking on that claptrap, I flicked my wrist at Aina's doppelganger, who accepted the empty words with a demure giggle, all but putting a hand over her mouth.

I gave her a sharp glance. I could not stand her, true, but perhaps she would make a good assistant? In at least a third of the theatres I'd frequented, it had been practically tradition for otherwise lone performers to have younger (-looking), prettier assistants of the opposite gender.

'You are the one who remembers,' the man said knowingly, his lipless mouth barely wavering. I did not like the sly, cunning note that had entered his tone. People who talked like they knew more than you, often encountered during card games, were rarely a pleasant sort, and often mischievous. 'Does it not hurt, to remember? Is that why you put on the smile?'

I laughed, voice high-pitched, like that of the typical contemptuous, amused aristocrat, and leaned forward, slipping an arm around the being's shoulders like we were old friends. Bowing forward slightly, I said softly, 'It often does. But if you think I need to bury what has been under a smirk, you know me not at all.'

Straightening, I held up a hand centimetres from his face. 'Got your nose,! I said brightly, as I would have to a child still young enough to like the game. A look around showed the rest of the room's occupants, while paying attention to me, given their postures and unblinking gazes, were not really reacting in any way. So, with an air of haughtiness, I said, 'You can laugh, you know. I'm not shy.'

A collection of reedy voices rose in polite amusement as the grey folks circled me. I smiled at each in turn, briefly - there seemed to be hundreds here, and I only had so much patience -, then, completing the slow pirouette, confirmed my initial impression hadn't been wrong.

There were only humans here.

Or, at least, only humanlike beings. I did not see scales, feathers, beaks, tendrils or the any of the other uncanny features that might be found in Midworld's other species. After sending this thought to Aina, I asked, Why is that? Are only humans welcome here?

A bigoted island wouldn't even be the strangest place I'd been to...or maybe we just tasted better. For all I knew, Serene Rest's other "guests" could've been in a different chamber, not that I'd seen or sensed entrances to any on the way to this one.

Everyone is welcome here, the construct replied, sounding surprised at the question, then added, everyone weary, who wants nothing more from Midworld after their journeys.

That would explain why the locals acted so lifeless, if not their appearance. I would have to ask about that, and more besides, later.

For example: the grey people's chuckles hadn't sounded like they were indulging an unamusing person. While that was not bad by any means (fake laughter can be more annoying than heckling and booing), it made me wonder why they sounded like they were afraid or unable to raise their voices. It wasn't as if their throats hurt, but more like they were in the presence of something sleeping and dangerous, which they were afraid to disturb.

The dark thought that came in response to that would have to be voiced later, alongside my other questions. Not because I was afraid of the grey folk (I could've probably floored them by spitting, and they did not radiate power or indeed, anything else), or of the island I'd already defied, but because there was something innocent in their tranquility, which I did not want to disturb.

Checking my senses suggested my mind was not being addled. Until I learned just how much theirs were, I would try to keep quiet.

Raising my cane to chest-level, I began twirling it in slow circles. Green and yellow sparks soon followed, called into existence by a memory of fireworks above an island on the horizon; I began spinning it faster and adding more sparks, until I looked like I was holding a sceptre topped with a wheel of flame.

Despite knowing how lazy it made me, I smiled and thanked Vhaarn, as I did whenever I had a reason to appreciate how convenient it was to be able to make your own props and effects, instead of having to beg, borrow and steal. Actors less fortunate than me were always up for some scrounging, and often down for whatever it took to get them what they needed, however insulting the conditions of the bargain.

'I say, it seems I am spoiled for choice!' I declared in a rich voice indicating the grey people with my free hand. 'For in such a gathering of minds, there is bound to be a mingling of tastes. What would you like to say?' After letting them whisper amidst themselves for a few moments, I asked, 'Shall you put it to a vote?' Please, say yes and let me nag that woman. 'I can bring the past to life, mine and those of others. I can take the skills I've seen and apply them as a lesser entertainer would face powders!'

Boasting was not something I often did - it drew attention, and for a long time, I had suffered from an awful allergy to attention -, but it seemed to embolden them, their confidence growing as if feeding on mine, like vines on a tree. 'I wonder, what would move you today? I have known tragedy and horror, battle and intrigue, and so might you...'

I went off for a while, as if I were a server at one of those inns with so many options you feel faintly annoyed once offered the full menu. Like the predictably unenthusiastic patrons in those cases, my audience's response was subdued and boiled down to "A comedy! Make us laugh!"

Thankfully, for beings who looked so listless, they were quick to decide. Maybe they put all the energy idiots used to chatter into rapidly making decisions. Now that was a droll thought...

* * *

While the Rested, as Aina insisted I call them, assembled the stage - the island did not ban work, though it did its best to discourage any activity, since it could disturb the local harmony -, I found myself sitting on a low couch in a side room that I swore had appeared out of nowhere, cane in my hands. I did not like clutching a weapon all the time like some frightened savage, but Aina liked it even less, so I had no choice, really.

The humanlike creature, apparently still doggedly trying to seduce me, wore what I wasn't sure I would've called a dress. The diaphanous thing stopped mid-thigh and would've tightly hugged the chest of even a less endowed woman. Not that the fabric itself left much to the imagination. I'd seen more opaque glass and more modest working women.

In any other context, I might not have minded, but wearing my friend's face, and everything else, did not endear her to me. When she noticed me noticing her, she crossed her legs with a smirk, and I looked away, cheeks reddening as I scowled. Aina was probably the only woman I wouldn't have minded making a fool out of me, but this was not her, any more than a drawing would've been.

'You know,' I said casually, looking past her and through the small, round window showing a vista of pretty purple woods, likely leading to a beach, 'hen we were little, Aina had her hair done in this way I found quite endearing.' I shrugged. 'Since you are willing to resemble her for the sake of my nostalgia...'

A few moments later, I was able to look at her again, and trying not to smirk at the short bob cut. Not even my childhood friend could look anything but severe with that haircut.

I, of course, kept my eyes off the rest of her, to avoid blunders. I could not say I hadn't wondered what Aina looked like now, all grown up, but I'd find some time alone later and take care of that.

Going through my memories of my short-lived stint as a sewer cleaner - you would be surprised how many people dump corpses down there in cities with graveyards - helped me keep a cool head. Few men could muster much enthusiasm while drenched and reeking.

'Ask your questions, Yldii,' Aina's doppelganger said, perched on a couch opposite mine. She'd wanted to sit next to me at the start, but after a crass joke about that being the only way to get close to me, she'd changed her mind with a huff. I'd turned enough women away without trying to know what it took when I actually wanted them to leave me alone.

Once again, I had succeeded. I thought this was the first time she'd used my family name, which suggested that either my continued company was getting on her nerves, or she'd caught on that there was some joke going on with the bob cut. Either worked.

Deciding to rile her up a bit - nothing on the mind games she'd played on me earlier, really - I rested my chin atop a fist, the elbow of said arm on a knee. 'How did you live before meeting a charmer as handsome as me?'

Her smile was achingly beautiful, even as she rolled her eyes at my exaggeratedly arrogant tone. At the moment, they were like chips of ice, rather than the sky-blue orbs Aina should've had. I supposed she only cared so much about accuracy. 'I did not "live" before you came to Serene Rest. It created me to speak to you.'

'You're not the first woman to recognise me as her life's purpose.' I wiggled my eyebrows with a smug sneer, and she almost sneered back, before catching herself. Her smile looked forced now, though. Deciding I'd needled her enough, I said, 'That aside, I must say, I was quite surprised to find those stolen by the island leaving like this.'

'Peacefully?' Aina asked placidly. 'I told you. You convinced yourself I was lying, because the truth did not appeal to you.'

'Actually, I meant in a building. I imagined them buried alive, with this place's tendrils digging them into them.'

'The island provides,' she said with quiet certainty. 'Whatever one needs to find peace, it will give.'

'About that.' I tapped my cane with a couple fingers, unable to find a rhythm. Place must've been meddling with my focus. 'What did, does, your master do to keep them so subdued? They are practically cadavers, and I don't just mean in terms of looks.'

The false Aina brought her hands together, just the fingertips touching. 'Are you familiar with the concept of lobotomy?'

The Free Fleet's mindless slaves marched through my mind's eye, only scarcely more lively than the wretches in the other part of the building. Had she missed that while digging around in my head? 'I've some experience.'

'Then you are aware it is often used by healers, for the good of the ill?'

I was not, to any serious degree. I mean...I understood that it could be beneficial, in the loosest sense: the Fleet's lobotomites knew no pain or fear, no doubt or hesitation. In battle, they could not panic or rout, any more than they could rise up in times of peace. They were the perfect servants, for they would have to be remade, by means of great power, in order to be free of their chains.

Maybe one day, once I learned what people they had been...

But I did not see how that related to what Aina was talking about. Rummaging in a human's brain to remove fear, pain, anger or sadness would surely leave them as lackwits, unless one was working with the power to warp reality, rather than merely tools to cut and mangle.

'Are you saying the patients have brain damage?'

'Patients?' Aina echoed, nonplussed.

I waved a hand. 'Old story. The walls, the rows of beds - they just reminded me of a hospital.'

'Ah!' Her smile returned. 'Yes, you could say Serene Rest is a house of - unending - healing. A place where one becomes better and better the more they stay, as their woes are wiped away.'

The atrocious, hopefully unintentional rhyme aside, that sounded like a nightmare to me. Having to spend forever in a house of healing would've been bad enough without it being on an island that made a point of raping minds.

But, even if I thought so, there was little point in voicing it. Most likely, Aina would pick it up from my surface thoughts if she hadn't already, and it wasn't like I was going to change her mind by arguing. Pit, I probably couldn't, literally, if she even had something like a mind to change.

'About them,' I began, tapping my knee. 'They all seem so...'

'Content?' she offered when I trailed off, unsure how to put it politely.

'I was going to say placid, but let's say I agree. This contentment,' I continued, heedless of her frown. Already rendered inhuman by her empty, unblinking eyes, the grimace almost made her outright ugly, for all her similarities to my friend. I knew telling women to smile more was dangerous in the best circumstances, however, so I kept my mouth shut. 'Is it...natural?' I held up a hand to make her pause when she opened her mouth, predicting she'd try to sell me some snake oil about how of course it was natural to be like that, how could anyone else react on Serene Rest? 'By which I mean, do they feel that way themselves? Truly? Or is it induced?'

'The island takes away their woes,' Aina said bitingly. 'Once that is gone, people come to love peace on their own.' Much the way cripples came to appreciate leisure, maybe.

'Indeed? Do they never think of their pasts, get homesick?' For some childish reason, I pointed my cane at her as I asked the next question, as if it were an accusing finger. I'd seen this move in a painting once, I thought, "Judge Reveals The Unjust" or something of the sort. 'Do they even remember them? Can they feel anything but "peace" anymore?'

Once again thinking of hospitals, I reflected that I wouldn't have enjoyed being forced to be peaceful. I wouldn't have enjoyed being forced to be anything, obviously, but having lamb-like thoughts forced into my head like becalming herbs down my throat felt oddly insulting, more so than being forced to be angry, for example.

That was the lout in me speaking, most likely. Of course he found more solace in the thought of being a knuckle-dragger than a vegetable.

'Why does it matter if they cannot?'

'That is not what I as-'

'Ryzhan,' she cut me off, voice oddly intense, though she hadn't raised it. Though her eyes did not change appearance, being mirror-like, pale blue orbs, I felt them focusing on me, somehow. 'Do you honestly think it is worse to be made "placid", as you said, than to face Midworld and all the chaos of the spirit it causes in folks' hearts?'

Dear Vhaarn, the pomposity! Was the lump of rock we were sitting on really bored enough to make its puppet talk like this?

'Of bloody course it's worse,' I grunted, looking down, not deigning to meet her eyes after such a ridiculous question. Next, she was going to ask me if my god was real, or some other nonsense. 'Those worn down by the world can at least end themselves, should they wish so. This island's people likely cannot even think about anything unless prompted.'

'From where I am standing, the only true difference seems that, while both situations are inescapable, one is actually beneficial.'

Not an untrue notion, but nor was it one anyone sane would entertain.

'This island is a predator,' I said bluntly. 'It might not literally eat its prey, but it hollows them out as surely as any spider, and far more cruelly, too. At least when those kill you, your corpse doesn't remain to shamble along - speaking of that,' I said before she could interject, doubtlessly to contradict me. 'They, or so it seemed to me, appeared oddly hesitant. As if walking around a sleeping danger, afraid to rouse it. Could they have a reason for that, do you think?'

Aina huffed at my overly-innocent tone and wide eyes, but answered. 'Raised voices, strong, sudden movements, might be alarming. They do not wish to disturb each other.' Seeing my disbelieving expression, she went on, in a tone as sweet as mine had been sardonic, 'Is it so difficult to beliebe that, once taught to live well by Serene Rest, they would be considerate?'

Trained like dogs, more like. Or livestock. 'Consideration, is it?'

For some reason, she smirked like she had me at cards. 'Would it surprise you to learn they keep quiet for the same reason they do not talk about their false selves?'

'Their...excuse me? What selves?' That had come out of nowhere. If there was anything to be called false here...

The construct nodded animatedly. 'Once worries and hardships are removed, one is free to become who they want to be. Before these folks came here, they were like stones in a river, still being carved by the tides of fate.'

I'd need to remember these lines if I ever decided to play a grandiloquent villain. Probably not this show, though: even those brain-cored dullards could spot something so on the nose.

Although...it was, would have been in other circumstances, somewhat wholesome to see things this way. All too often, I've heard people being described as showing their true colours after getting angry, as if who we were while happy or calm was false. It was oddly reassuring to hear the opposite, even if it came from a creature that saw peace the way the Free Fleet saw liberty.

I dipped my chin at her, as far as I'd go to compliment anyone with a hand in this nightmarish arrangement, before I decided to ask about another curious detail I'd noticed. Or, rather, a curious lack of details. It was a benign query, in that the answer or a lack of it wouldn't affect anything. Unless the explanation made me queasier than I already was.

Though I was thankfully unlikely to break down in tears, or wretch, as people of a gentler manner might, I could only keep my outrage behind a calm mask, and making a scene during a scene (que laughter) would not help my image. My image of myself, that was, I doubted anyone here would care, and I certainly would give no thought to their opinions, save incredulity that they could form any.

'You say everyone in the other room is human.' I'd have argued they hadn't been for some time, but my phrasing might just make her more pliable. Stroking my beard, I asked, 'But they all look like they are...that is, they are built like men.' Given her questioning gaze, she hadn't grasped what I was fumbling to get at. 'What I am meaning to ask is, well, what happened to the women? Are they separated?'

Surely the ships that had made it to the island hadn't been crewed solely by men? Every vessel or group of vessels needed women too, otherwise how could the crew keep its numbers up? It wasn't like you could leave your wife to wait for you on land for years while you went sailing with the lads.

'Oh, you mean you didn't notice?'

'What should I have noticed?' I asked, thinking that surely I wasn't so dense as to fall for the shaved woman with bound breasts scheme, like every stupid recruiter in japes about armies.

'There are no men or women out there.'

'Ah.' Well, that explained some things. Those who felt unwell in the bodies they'd been born with often sought mages to change them, though many fleets looked unkindly at those who would not or could not bear children. Even being a parent didn't mean safety if one was of a certain persuasion. You only needed to look at what my captain's parents had put him through because he loved men.

Still, I found it hard to swallow that Serene Rest would adjust its victims' bodies to match their minds just because it could. It would've been too much like actual helpfulness, when the place clearly only sought to ensnare the unwary and weak-willed. 'Would I be right to suspect this was done for the sake of inner peace?'

'It would not hurt you to sound so scornful while speaking of it,' Aina replied, though she didn't contradict me. 'It was judged that this neutral form of flesh would be the best for maintaining a calm state of mind.'

'Judged?' I almost laughed. 'By one being, you mean. The isle. Did they want this? Did they even have the chance to "agree" out of fear?' I had this feeling their spirits had already been broken by the time decisions had started being made for them.

Aina's copy held up a hand. 'Ryzhan, I will be honest.' No! Indeed? 'While I do not mind teaching you about this land...why do you care so much about those saved from strife? You will forgive me for saying you've never been much of an altruist when it comes to those outside of your inner circle. Or have you forgotten the island you left to sink while its people drowned?'

I set my jaw. 'That was their choice. A true one, with no one forcing their hand. And anyone would be appalled by the husks you have shuffling around here.'

'If you don't think they're truly people, why do you intend to perform for them?'

I found myself staring into humanlike eyes of a dark blue, wide beneath arched eyebrows. Why was I intending to perform? Because this was the best role for me to play in Ib's schemes, whatever they were? I didn't think so. Being manipulated would've been even more distasteful than usual if it resulted with me ending up here.

What then? I'd been so beleaguered, between everything that had happened, the journey across the sea, then across Serene Serene...I'd stopped debating with myself about that to live in the moment, rather, to survive the moment. But I had time to think now, and no excuse for not doing so.

That was one of the dangers of Midworld, just as great as the storms and tides. Being so caught up in surviving, doing anything for just one more day in which one could hold their kin and fellows, or, were they of a baser ilk, satisfy their simple pleasures. The harshness made you stop wondering, stop questioning, and that was something I could not allow.

Becoming so ignorant you stopped doubting, or so confident in what you thought you knew...it was the death of the spirit, for a thinker. For a scholar.

I had firsthand experience of how perilous it was. Had I not been so damned certain I was being chased, I wouldn't have gone around Midworld like a spooked horses, cutting alliances short with no explanation or a dishonest one. How many of the ships I'd left behind had sunk during a storm when my magic might have saved lives?

That was when I realised it. It all came back to my magic, in a way. And when it was all done, I might just have to thank Ib, the closemouthed lug, I thought with a fond, exasperated smile.

The old adage about suffering building character had always left a sour taste in my mouth, mostly because of the beatings handed to me by my father like sweetmeats other children might receive from a kinder sire. But, in this case, it might actually help. Magic, like diamonds, grew under pressure. By manoeuvring me into this situation, had Ib not ensured I would become more powerful, in addition to calmer? Everything that had happened on the path from the steamer, everything that would happen here...

And that magic might just help me, one day, look into the past as though through a window, allowing me to learn what had happened to those I'd abandoned, driven by the pursuit I'd imagined. It might even let me peer into the distant past, unearthing secrets that had been buried for hoever long Midworld had existed.

I could not deny the pleasure of being the first to uncover those was not appealing, but the knowledge itself, and what might come from it, would be priceless.

* * *

Mharra

Mharra's head bobbed as he slowly spun, taking in the spectators. Many of the vessels had seats built unto their decks - pleasure barges? Such luxury! How many could afford to sail for pleasure, and nothing more? -, while a few less "specialised" ones had made do with chairs likely brought from some cabin or the other.

A few people even clung the hulls of ships like barnacles, hanging onto nooks and crannies whose purpose Mharra could only wonder at. Had they been carved solely for the purpose of letting sailors perch on them like monkeys? The indents looked too smooth to have been caused by water. If he squinted, they even seemed evenly-spaced.

These people, with their garlands, their rivers of drink and mountains of food, their silk-roofed, flat-bottomed ships that dotted this uncannily calm stretch of sea like lazy frogs around a pond...had they ever known worry? In living memory, at least? The captain was not hypocritical enough to critique them for not sharing their bounty, but he was curious. Had they become so content, so complacent, that they truly didn't worry about anything - literally - beyond their horizon?

'If so,' Mharra muttered to himself, confident the people of the pleasure fleet wouldn't hear, but not really caring if they did, 'I'd better tamp down on this foolish jealousy, and wish them well. Bless their hearts, eh, Burst?'

His ship growled under him like a giant hunting cat, and, expansive as its current form was, Mharra felt a pressure building within the steamer, almost too great for it to contain, akin to that inside a coiled spring.

Or a snake, maybe. The sort that looked half-asleep until one darted up at you and crushed your torso with a bite of those fangless jaws.

Mharra felt a brief jolt of jealousy. Something with a mouth like an old man's shouldn't have so much damn strength in its maw. He still had to gnaw on some food, despite having teeth.

Mentally shelving the ophidian objects of his envy, Mharra turned his mind to the task at hand once more. His Three might have sent him a sign to live in the moment, but, even if that had been a hallucination, the idea wasn't wrong. Granted, most people whose arguments came to them in their dreams couldn't talk their way out of a sack, but he had a good feeling about this.

Tapping the deck-stage with a boot, he whispered, 'Nothing to share?'

'Who makes ships to keep them in one spot?' the steamer replied in a hissing voice that could've been interpreted as the hiss of a hidden inner furnace, from a distance. 'It's like birthing a child just to cut off its legs.'

Ah, so that was it. His ship found the pleasure fleet unnatural. But, as long as it didn't try to sabotage the show. Mharra would leave it believe whatever it wanted. He was actually proud his mechanical friend had become able to form opinions, but discussing what a thinking ship meant would come later.

His audience had requested tragedy or horror, or anything else they didn't feel in their daily lives. Mharra had wracked his brain for a while, debating what historical event or story to stage, before deciding he might as well look to the near past and use acting to vent what gnawed as him, as performers had done for generations unnumbered.

But for that...

'I need a volunteer!' he announced bombastically, voice as loud as he could make it; even so, he needed the help of his ship's amplifiers to be heard clearly by everyone. 'Would anyone like to help me?' He held up a finger. 'Worry not, 'tis not a complicated role! A moment's instruction, and you'll understand.' His eyes glimmered as he smirked playfully at the fleet, teeth a slice of brightness in his dark beard. 'Of course, if you are too shy, I'm sure my faithful ship could provide an alternative...'

The denials of shyness and boasts of courage filled the air to the point Mharra wagered he could've heard them from leagues them. Laughing, he held up both hands, waving for them to settle down. 'Very well, very well! But it's just one role! I say, speak among yourselves, and let whoever you think the best-suite come forward.'

Mharra listed some desirable traits for his assistant: tall and slight, preferably male, capable of quickly from exuberance to anger. He had thought about asking for three people, but, based on all the past shows when Three had pretended to disappear so he could ask for replacements, the "deputies", as his lover had jokingly called them, had often messed up the order of their lines. It was not easy for three unprepared people to play one person.

* * *

Ib

Ib was sure the mountain hadn't existed when it had arrived on the Ashen Isle, but the obsidian amphitheatre built into its side looks ancient, and - when it extends its arcane sense's temporal facet towards it - even feels so.

Indeed, the Ashen Islanders have many stories about the generations that have come here to observe some rite or another, and they answer the grey giant's questions with what feels like enthusiastic honesty, rather than the frightened, forced calm one might expect from cultists.

The grey being trusts its senses, in this case as in many others. It would likely require more power poured into its perception to spot the truth, but it's likely Ashe has changed history so that the mountain, and the open building crowned with many of her likenesses, has always been here.

Perhaps Ib is being optimistic, driven to want to think the best of her by the same part of itself that has it using the dragoness' name, but if Freedom only expects the worst of people, what's the point of anything.

As they gather round - his friend Ryz would like the wordplay, Ib thinks, as would Three, were he still here; though only the latter would likely admit it -, Ib stands with two hands on its hips, its other arms folded as its gaze moves across the crowd. There numbers explain why there are so many artificial spatial pockets "around" the island: Ib has seen the natives' lavish dwellings, and a population this large would not have the room for their lifestyle on the Isle alone.

It is good, Ib reflects, that it has no eyes to betray what it is focusing on. Indeed, the dragon's worshippers likely can't tell its head is moving, and even that is a habit from days of duller senses and a cruder form.

When Ib does spot her, Ashe is not, as it expected, trying overly hard to be inconspicuous - something that can dra attention as much as being raucous. Instead, the human form she has chosen, smaller and less curvy than the one she bore in her temple, during their confrontation, is plain as far as the Ashen go, and further hidden by a hooded brown cloak.

A corner of Ib's mind drily notes that it was a good idea to choose this body, because the shape from the temple, would've been impossible to miss, even in that potato sack she's wearing.

She's sitting fairly close to the first row, too, not in the middle or the back, another mistake someone trying to go unnoticed might make. The giant finds it funny that a peacock like Ashe is even familiar with the concept of stealth, much less able and willing to use it.

'It is to gauge their reactions,' she told it, mind to mind, not long before Ib arrived in the arena. 'You are a novelty. Many of them have never seen an outsider in their lives, and fewer still anyone like you. They are as likely to be awed by your antics as they are to be terrified.'

'Antics?' Ib echoed unhappily. 'I'm not a monkey.'

Ashe waved it off impatiently. 'I'd say something about studs, and you might get it, if you get it.' The smirking dragoness huffed smoke at the grey being's lack of reaction, 'You are lucky I find thick sorts like you endearing.'

'I'm feeling positively blessed,' Ib said, responding with sarcasm as what must've been intended as some sort of taunt, it's sure. If the self-styled goddess takes offence at the jab to her persona, she doesn't show it. 'Gauge their reactions, you say? Can't you just root through their heads?'

'You should've learned by now that I'm not that kind of deity,' Ashe replied with bored irritated. 'As to the good question you asked, I can tell you none of them will recognise me, for my form will not be that of one of their neighbours, and they will be mystified as a result. Guilty, maybe, about not recalling who I am, in some cases.'

'And if they treat a lowly stranger poorly, you will punish them?' Ib asked, darkly curious.

Ashe flashed it a dirty look. 'It would not be your business, even if I was planning to.' She leered. 'Of course, I might be convinced to let them all go if you take their place in my service. I am sure you could be quite worshipful, once taught your place.'

'Why don't you wi-' Ib stopped. Telling her to wipe the grin off her face might have resulted in her replying she'd rather wipe something else off. Ib had overheard enough talks of the sort to recognise this kind of lecher.

Thanks, Three.

'Why don't you forget that and simply let them go anyway?' Ib asked, lamely. 'It would be a sign of the virtuousness gods ought to be one with.'

But Ashe simply laughed, and said no more on the subject. Sighing, Ib moved on. 'Will your worshippers not be alarmed if their goddess does not attend the show? I understand you are expected to be present at such occasions.'

Ashe gestured dismissively. 'I will be watching through my statues, while attending to other duties - so they will be told.'

Ib grunted, crossing its arms. 'I feel the exercise is pointless, but do as you wish.'

Ashe cocked her head like a bird, before another reptilian smile passed over her face. 'Were you hoping to see me dark in fang and claw? I daresay you can perform under me even if I am smaller.'

Not even beginning to respond to that, Ib simply shook its head and walked off to prepare.'

The Idea of Freedom's thoughts turn back to what Midworlders perceived as the present, noting the glowing orange eyes of Ashe's statues. Obvious proof she is watching, if one is gullible enough and bereft of an arcane sense, not that it believes such faithful needed any evidence to believe. That is, Ib understood, rather the point.

'I am here to amuse, not muse,' Ib reminds itself in a whisper far too quiet to be picked up by human ears. Above, in the stands, the disguised dragoness sniggers, receiving looks from several of the people around her, some perplexed, other annoyed.

Oh, yes. This is definitely going to improve her opinion of her worshippers.

Lifting its upper arms, while letting the middle ones fall at its sides, Ib holds out its hands. 'Before we begin! Before anything else, I must tell you this: we may not look the same, and we might not believe in the same things. But I was once just as lost as the lowliest wretch who might have made it to this island, and I knew even less of my mind than most lackwits. It was only thanks to the help of the family I've found that I was able to remember myself, to become who I am today. It is never too late to hope.'

Not if Ib had anything to say about it. Deep, deep beneath, beyond and above its form of substance, the Idea of Freedom lifts its gaze to a stormy horizon, and to the gaping hollowness behind it. It is growing larger, as it does when there is no one to keep the cycle of life and death.

But everything will not end this time, just like it did not the last four. Ib has seen the plans of the Remaker Midworlders call Mendax, the being they misunderstand more than most. Flourish and her successors did not toil so that perhaps the most promising heir to their station will fail.

And it will play a role in this, the greatest show there has ever been. So will its mage friend. It is Ib's duty to bear him, and the others, to where their prowess and character will be put to use.

* * *

Aina

Aina is kicking her feet when the change comes over her. Unlike the ones from her youth, this one is fast and smooth and painless, without eldritch not-matter reverting to human flesh mid-shift. It just feels like her limbs stretching, almost.

Chromed tentacles speckled with slime writhe under her white dress, filling it and giving it the appearance of a bell. Aina rolls her eyes, seeing she is still far from being at peace with herself. It would not do to change like this with Ryzhan.

Would it?

The young woman turns her attention to the screens, a finger to her temples. That funny captain is coaching a child and his pet (?) slime through what acting the deuteragonist of his play entails, while Ib has clearly set the stage for a biographic show.

But her friend...

'Why didn't you ask?' Aina murmurs sullenly, knowing she's being unfair, and not caring. Ryzhan clearly cares, as can be seen from how he inquired about Serene Rest's prey, so why'd he stop? Is he so tired of the naked atrocity on display that the obvious question has slipped his mind?

'Guest?' one of the Weaver Queen's creations asks, a colossus wrought from the invisible threads of life. 'Is something the matter?'

Aina shakes her head. 'Just talking to myself...' But she cannot help it. Why didn't Ryzhan ask about the children? They can hardly be left behind when sailing. Did that thrice-damned island hollow them out and leave the shells running around? Did it force them to grow into those grey, empty, unchanging forms, stealing their futures from them before they could even dream of who they wanted to be?

She only notices she is shaking when the trembling is stopped by a heavy, callused but warm hand lands on her shoulder. 'Ach, lass, don't judge him too harshly. He's been through plenty, not long ago. And his heart is in the right place - that living nightmare might well die by his hand.'

Aina turns to the speaker before the first syllable is uttered, but despite training her senses on him, she cannot discern anything. The only reason she thinks of him as a man is the voice, for his form does not possess anything manlike - or humanlike.

The stranger is shaped like a heat haze, but denser, a colourless silhouette that somehow has depth. The face under its cowl is featureless, as are the hands that protrude from its long, wide sleeves. The bottom of his robe is wide, hiding whatever he may be from sight. She thinks he would seem to drift across a floor, in motion.

And yet, faceless, colourless as he is, he feels more human to her than almost anyone she has met.

Aina releases a breath she didn't realise she was holding, and the impression of a wide, bright smile set in a dark face fills her mind. It is coming from the stranger, she realises.

The stranger who might as well be an old piece of furniture, with how the King and Queen's constructs are reacting to his arrival.

The stranger lets go, and Aina feels more than sees kindly old eyes narrowing at her. 'Good to see I didn't scare you. That only funny with people I don't like.'

'I accept your apology,' Aina replies flippantly, drawing a belly laugh from the stranger. The sound, which touches her spirit and monstrous half alike, is infectious, and she finds herself fighting not to smile. Rubbing at her eyes, she glances around, but nothing has changed. 'Who are you, and why are you here? How are you here, for that matter?'

'I arrived because I had to, and entered because I could,' he answers. 'As for your first question....who do you think I am, Aina of Copper's Cradle.'

She hopes she does not look as surprised as she feels at this casual display of knowledge, all the while going over every legend and rumour she has heard over the years. Several beings might be able to come and go as they please, but few make the effort to be charming. 'Mendax,' she breathes. 'The Meddler.'

The stranger blows a raspberry, of all things. 'The fact this ain't the first time that's been capitalised is almost as sad as your love life.'

Aina blinks, all bemusement swept away be vexation, and finds her face reddening, in anger rather than embarrassment. 'How dare y-'

'Shh!' Mendax shushes her, suddenly facing the screens from a chair she knows she hasn't seen before. 'It's starting. I can matchmake later, if you're as hopeless as your boy.'

It is only the knowledge that the attempt would be futile that stops Aina from throttling Mendax. Taking her seat with a scoff, she gives it a sidelong glance. 'And why "must" you be here?'

Mendax gestures at the shows as the actors begin to warm up. 'Everything will be riding on this too. Don't worry, everyone will help before you even know you've started.'

'What are you talking about? Help with what?'

Mendax gives her a look she can't decipher. 'Why, everything, lass. Didn't you listen?' Before she can reply, it clasps its hands in its lap. 'Ah, I suppose it doesn't matter, in the end. The big one will explain everything, or your mage will, if he's been caught up by then.'

As they watch, Mendax speaks of things that leave her understanding less, not more. A cosmic lynchpin to be chosen after he has been prepared for his office, lest everything end. A dream to end a Dream and see everyone free of a sleeping god's whims; a scheme that has been long in the making, but which the being has never been able to put together, much less pull off.

'Lately,' he says, 'I've noticed I can see the outline of eternal salvation - or perhaps not.' He shrugs. 'Not my job. I'm here to keep creation chugging along, even if it means patching it up a trillion, trillion, trillion times. No one gives a toss if the fix is permanent.'

'I don't understand,' Aina confesses. 'You...that is, the legends...you were never said to be this helpful. Or care. You are beyond creation and were never of it-'

'Me?!' He cackles. 'I suppose that's true, if you think creation's only this pond and what's above it, but void, lass, that's such a provincial view...'

'Are you calling me ignorant?' she asks sharply.

'I'd say innocent, but no woman's ever appreciated that from me. Fifi certainly hasn't.' Despite her curiosity at the brief wistfulness that comes to hang around Mendax, she does not ask.

'I'm sure they haven't,' she says instead. Then, 'But tell me this, at least: you say you can glimpse salvation, but speak as though it will not come from you. As though you don't understand it.'

He nods. 'Aye?'

'Then who will...defend all there is from whatever's coming?' It sounds so fanciful, said out loud...

'Oh, you might know him.' Mendax is clearly amused. 'I know you daydream, of events past and things to come. There's this sardonic beanpole with daddy issues...'

Aina might not understand half of his jargon, but she can guess. 'Ryzhan?' she asks, unable to help but smile. 'Ryzhan will-'

'Well,' Mendax coughs into his hand. 'That was on me. I coulda been talking about Edith Kharz or Flint from the Nexus or any of them other stars of their own stories, but Davey boy still wouldn't appreciate being made to sound so common...eh. Nothing to do now. Not like he hasn't had worse.' He moves his hands as if brushing something off. 'That being said, I'm sure your crush will help when the time comes. Anyone halfway decent or sane would. Most of those who're neither, too.'

'Do you truly know that?' Aina asks, unsure whether to believe the legendary trickster. She's never heard the names he's mentioned, a few mentions of the Nexus in legends as ancient as Mendax's aside, but he has spoken of her friend, too.

Mendax taps his fingers against one thigh, then half-turns to her, so that she's seeing one half of his smile. 'I know I've prepared evryone I should as much as I could. Don't worry: if fail, you won't be around to blame me.'

There is a note of finality in his voice, before he looks up at the ceiling, now talking to himself rather than her in a bitterly amused tone. 'Perks of the job...'

* * *

AN: Unless I change my plans, next will be an interlude with featuring Aina and her newest friend reacting to the shows.

[Strigoi Grey]

Interlude: Midworld, A Stage (One)

* * *
Aina

'How many things can you focus on at once?'

Aina gives Mendax a curious look. 'I suppose it depends on what you refer to.'

'That it does.' The faceless man nods, with an air that makes her think he appreciates the careful response. Had she simply said she was good, he could've taken it as her being boastful, and mocked or sought a way to humble her, as the Meddler of legend did to the prideful. Granted, those targetted were later revealed to have slighted him in some manner, but that didn't mean she should push her luck.

Even if Mendax was acting less and less like the whimsical monster she'd grown up hearing about with every exchange.

'How about this, then: humans can only concentrate on so many separate events at once, before their senses and minds are overtasked and their focus on certain things begins slipping. Thoughts are like weights on the mind, after all.'

'Oh? The Brothers of the Twin Burden were right, then...' the Vhaarnist sect claims (claimed? She hasn't asked about them in a while; they might've been wiped out) that, much like one can only carry so many loads, so they can only think so many thoughts. The Brothers say that this was because the body and mind are linked, mirrors of each other, and that fouling one means ruining one's whole being as a result. Which isn't wrong, but doesn't make the peddling of their awful-tasting "spiritual cleansers" more bearable, or their merchants less annoying.

Mendax inclines his head. 'They weren't wrong,' he allows, 'which is more than can be said for most, from where I'm standing.'

'You're sitting.'

'And very comfortable, not that you asked.' He sniffs. 'I will not call my host lousy, but she wouldn't perish if she offered some tea, anything.'

Aina laughs. 'I'm as much of a guest as you are.' More, because she didn't break in an make herself at home. 'I wouldn't know the first thing about finding refreshments. The layout is always shifting, and-'

He holds up a limb that was once a hand, but is now covered in fanged suckers and tapered to a point. 'I get it. I can tell you haven't learned to make something from nothing. It's understandable why you'd avoid experimenting.'

His tone is sympathetic, but Aina still does not like being talked down to, especially regarding something that is hardly her fault. Her monstrous half changes like the weather, helping one moment and hindering the next. It is not out of malice, she doesn't think: it is more like a child testing out what they are, or someone with an addled mind trying to centre themselves.

The King and Queen tell her that allowing them to research her other form - taking the shed skin, scales and hair to their hidden laboratories, observing her when she's out of her healthy mind - is useful for helping people stand up to such creatures, ones without a human aspect to rein them in. Aina does not know the full capabilities of her hosts (and even if she did, Mendax's manner has left her less keen on simply believing things she has heard but not seen) but she doesn't think they're talking about their own safety, or that of their creations or subjects, when they bring up such things.

It might be that their powers are too great to judge for her arcane sense, but the diarchs have always seemed more impressive to her than her monster. But then, all mountains whose peaks are hidden in the clouds seem endless from the ground...

Regardless of the truth, Mendax is right. She has not tried to draw out the power of her other self more than necessary, and she is unlikely to start. But...speaking of her lunacy, she thinks she has caught on to what he was trying to say earlier.

'You mentioned humans,' she points out. 'Not people. I can...when my reason doesn't leave me, that is, I believe I can think..."more"." She scrunches her face up slightly. 'No, that is not quite it. It is more like my thoughts beget themselves...'

Much like how someone can run for longer if they pick up speed instead of starting with a sprint - focus on one idea being a walking pace, in this case -, the more she contemplates, the more her mind broadens. Trying to jump straight to that stage of inhuman awareness results in headaches at best, and can cause trances that leave her a passenger in her moon-twisted body.

Mendax listens, and seems satisfied with the explanation. Shortly after she stops, he huffs, before grinning apologetically. 'Truth is, hen, it's just me having high standards. Most humans wouldn't even know themselves after you went through, much less be capable of switching back and forth, or using the gained power for their own benefits...' He lays a hand on her arm. 'Don't mind the joke, will you, hen? I can make what I need.' He hesitates for a moment, seemingly considering making a self-deprecating jape, then changes his mind, becoming more serious. 'That being said - you probably want to focus on coming to terms with what you are, for when your friend catches up with you.'

Having got used to Mendax's sense of humour by now, she opens her mouth to say that whatever she chooses to do with Ryzhan is their business, but he cuts her off, at the same time pulling his hand back. 'I mean, imagine how he would feel if he saw you losing your mind, unable to remember yourself? You know he detests it when people forget such things, even if they aren't close to him.'

"And you are", he all but says. Aina thinks he is being generous. Aye, she has kept Ryzhan in her heart, all this time, but how close to him can she really call herself? They haven't even truly seen each other since they were children.

Hanging her head, she looks down at her hand, directing her will at the appendage as she twists her fingers like she is cupping something. In the span of heartbeats, her skin becomes grey and covers itself in scales, while under it, flesh and blood are replaced by ichor and matter spun from her lunacy.

Despite the fishlike hide being several times thicker than her skin, it does not deaden her sense of touch: she can feel her fingertips on her palm as she curls her hand, despite not pressing down with her claws. It feels like she is wearing thin gloves. 'I understand,' she says softly, willing her other hand to change in a mirror of this transformation. 'But I do not need Ryzhan's dismay as motivation. My own is enough.' Her eyes flash as she lifts them, meeting Mendax's hidden ones. 'I do not desire to lose myself, either. Do not think I am waiting here because I am bereft of purpose without him.'

She could make a life for herself, will, should Ryzhan spurn her. She is waiting until she can master herself, which would be no easy task for any woman her age, moon madness aside. Normalcy was snatched away before she could learn to appreciate it; if she wants to return to it, it cannot be done before she understands enough not to rip Midworld apart in her insanity.

Aina lets go, and the monstrous flesh recedes with a peeling sensation, as if she were taking off tight garments. With it comes the sensation of peace that follows a transformation, especially a willing, successful one. Like a breath one does not realise they're holding, or a burden they don't notice until they put it down, the strain on her body, mind and soul falls away.

Her thoughts are clearer as they realign, bringing with them memories. Eyes wide in sudden understanding, she turns to Mendax, only barely stopping herself from pointing. 'I know you!' she says, then realises it makes her sound mad, mayhap senile, without an explanation. 'From before, before here. I thought you a stranger, but...we've met.'

'Aye,' he agrees, sounding pleased. 'I recall you saying people like me can help even you feel normal.'

She flushes, but does not let him distract her. 'I was younger, foolish. You didn't catch me at the age where folk think before they speak.' She gives him a questioning look. 'Is that why you said nothing? I was quite alarmed by you appearing in here out of thin air, I'll have you know. I was close to calling for help.' Or cutting loose and trying to settle matters herself.

'Oh, Clock and Weave have no issue with me, I assure you.' Mendax does not sound anywhere as boastful as most acquainted with a Great Powers' rulers would be. But then, she supposes he wouldn't. 'You think they could miss me unless I was hiding? They're obsessive, not blind.'

Mendax does not sound nearly as pleased with himself as most acquaintances of the Great Powers' rulers, but then, she supposes he wouldn't.

Aina does not bother to ask if they know each other; obviously, the diarchs at least know of the Meddler. She has another question, one that still hasn't been answered. 'Why, then? Why not remind me?'

Mendax says nothing, but smiles, placing a finger above his scarred lips - there is a face under the cowl, now, though it lasts for only a thousandth of a thousandth of a heartbeat before it is gone, replaced by shadows and mist. He gestures at the screens, turns to them and, at the same time, words enter her mind. 'Take some time and think. It's bad luck to talk during shows, you know. For the actors, I mean.'

Her lunacy, more alert now, bristles at being ordered around by a being similar in nature, if not in power. Not that Mendax was addressing it, Aina thinks, as she turns to watch the screens as well, pushing her monster down. As they begin playing, she follows the Meddler's advice, and thinks about what happened.

The monstrous arms responding to her command...that is not new. Not as such. She has called upon them before, and summoned other limbs, too: not just legs and wings and tentacles, but things for which man has no name. She has even managed to do it around other people, at the request of the King and Queen.

But...she's never held onto her sanity for long after doing it, whether alone or with others. Her other half seemed to see being called upon as an invitation to take charge, and often swept her under for the duration of the resulting rampage.

Mendax surely knew the consequences, with how well-informed he seemed to be about her moon madness. But, Aina thinks, it wasn't confidence in his power or wit that made him do it.

It was confidence in her. She finds herself smiling, musing that she should be flattered at a living legend believing in her so, but in truth, she is more pleased with herself.

She thinks she has caught onto the being's scheme. Something she is sure each of his victims thought at some point, but...

'By taunting me about my incompetence,' she says in a neutral tone, not glancing at Mendax, 'you goaded me into testing my control. You knew I could have better results this time, if I was determined enough.' Her smile returns. 'Which will help. Both with Ryzhan, and with the crisis you said everyone will contribute to stopping.' Now, she turns to look at the hooded man. 'I wager things went as you wanted?'

He doesn't respond right away, instead appearing intent on watching Ryzhan as he makes his way to the stage. Then, whistling softly, he says, 'They certainly didn't go as I didn't want, sugar.' Whistling louder now, jauntily, he adds, almost as an afterthought, 'Ain't you sharp as a tack...'

Aina rolls her eyes, not dignifying that with a reply. 'In any case,' she says, rubbing her eyes with two fingers, 'I must thank you. For stopping my shaking,' she adds hurriedly, unsure how glad she is at being tricked into becoming better. 'You didn't have to.'

Mendax nods, leaning forward with a hand on one knee, like her people used to, before Copper's Cradle sank and there was such joy in watching ships come and go. 'I do what needs doing. No point in being a bellend about it.'

* * *

Ryzhan

I confess: for a time, I entertained the thought of putting on a silly scene. Talking animals, practical jokes, hidden actors wryly responding to overly-serious monologues. That sort of thing. Doing the work of a whole troupe was possible, thanks to my magic.

But I was not in the sort of wholesome state of mind necessary for such a spectacle. That was the sort of thing you put on for children, or grown folk who survived Midworld without losing the best parts of their youthful selves. I was in too grim a mood to make these puppets laugh with pranks.

Speaking of children...the thought had come to me late, after the Aina copy departed and I was left alone to prepare, but I noticed I hadn't seen any being smaller or younger-looking than a grown man. It was hard to say if any members of my audience were youths, with their wretched appearances and demure manner: they reminded me of those children raised by overly harsh parents, who thought they were instilling discipline but were actually raising liars who knew how to make excuses, look busy and avoid trouble.

I had some experience with such folks.

When I had noticed the lack of brats, who got underfoot as surely as rats on the average ship, I was troubled, and the uneasiness soon gave way to anger. The construct hadn't said anything about this, but it made sense. Why would it discriminate for the young when it didn't do so for women, or the elderly, or the sick? Pit, it probably saw it as vile not to twist the bodies of all its victims into these identical shells.

Face after face - all imagined, for I'd never met them, but no less heart-wrenching to look at - passed through my mind. How many, I wondered? How many boys who'd never grown a whisker and girls who'd never had their first bleeding? How many young souls had Serene Rest robbed of their future?

Part of me noted that this outrage was ridiculous; I've likely caused the deaths of thousands of youths by abandoning their ships right before a crisis. But the human spirit was not a thing of reason, not solely. And those I left behind, I left in the clutches of chance, knowing they might well make it through grit and luck. Those who washed up on this island's shores had no such possibilities in their future...or at least, I hadn't met anyone else who could resist its cloying influence like I could.

I wondered about that. Midworld was so great, so old, that surely, at some point, some powerful sailor must've found themselves here? Had they left at the first occasion, maybe warning others of the living, mind-stealing island? Had they been killed and thrown into the sea by Serene Rest, after it fashioned weapons powerful enough to overcome their body, if not their mind? I knew its control over its substance was refined enough to create such things. It could, after all, make creatures that resembled people almost completely.

I think it was that revelation, that there were no children to be seen (much less heard, I thought, remembering the saying) that pushed me to choose another kind of comedy. One might've argued that these circumstances were kinder, that it was better for whole families to be remade like this rather than leave the sprogs clutching the legs of things that could no longer remember having them, loving them.

I disagreed. The only philosophical considerations worth entertaining here were whether Serene Rest should be razed and shattered, or made to suffer for as long as it could survive, in whatever manner such things as it could be made to suffer. Taking away the toys it had made for itself would've been a start, I mused.

But that would come later, if it ever did.

Black humour went best with dark colours, unless one was feeling particularly ridiculous - for absurdity often went well with dark jests. In that regard, my black trousers and dark green vest might've fitted, no pun intended, but I thought that they looked too serious for what I had in mind. So, reaching within with my magic, I remembered garments I had worn on many occasions, for the sake of anonymity.

The cloak spun from my memories was as dark as octopus ink, and appeared to twist in the air like that substance would in water, of its own accord. In reality, I was remembering a similar cloak fluttering, wagering the small movements would make things more dramatic or comical, as needed.

As I formed the cloak, I also remembered noise and light and smoke: a grey cloud bloomed from the light that flashed in front of me with the sound of a thunderclap. From the audience, I heard muttering and humming, alongside a series of soft gasps. I didn't let that make me cocksure; from any other spectators, it could've been interpreted as awe preempting louder reactions, but the Rested likely couldn't be lively at all.

I swept out an arm, and wind howled through the room, born from the power of the magically strong movement. When the smoke was dispersed, I stood cloaked, cane in hand. Thanks to the wide, loose sleeves, my hands weren't visible - and, with the remembered gloom I brought into being after moments, dimming the lights, the magical instrument seemed an extension of some ebony creature's limb.

This solemn, ominous atmosphere would be shattered soon, the contrast between it and what followed helping the actual jokes land better. Speaking of landings...

I brought the cane down, and it was like I had struck a gong, rather than the stage of living stone that had been assembled for me. Doubtlessly, Serene Rest saw giving part of itself up (likely temporarily. I did not think the island had it in itself to let go of anything it couldn't take back) as a small price for pleasing me in any way. If it could get into my good graces, I might just stay, it likely told itself.

Gods...the thought of becoming a mindless ox like these other poor bastards was disgusting enough, but who knew if my memories and thoughts were the only thing that might be taken from me, should my guard slip?

I imagined the island unmooring itself from its hunting ground, prowling Midworld with a twisted version of my magic at its disposal. Who knew what remembered horrors it could bring back into being?

That nightmarish future would never come to pass, if I had anything to say. And I all but knew that my journey here was meant to temper both my magic and my character; Vhaarn willing, I would return stronger and wiser than I had left.

My only worry should be making sure the island didn't somehow follow, or construct hunters to send after me. I hadn't heard stories of escapees from Serene Rest being pursued, but then, I hadn't raised the subject. "Aina's" silence on the matter suggested that, if anyone had left, they had escaped successfully. I didn't think she could've kept herself from gloating about saving the foolish from their doom and bringing them back to their deserved paradise, et cetera.

'My, but 'tis dark in here,' I said, testing my voice and finding it good. Nodding to myself, I paced to the edge of the stage like a hobbled old man, leaning on my cane with both hands. The rapid, forceful movements suggested great hurry, but I was dragging my feet, in every sense, so that I was moving slower than an ordinary man could.

When I stopped so that a fold of cloth found itself under my booth, I made as if to trip, which took a great deal of effort for me: with the speeds mana could push me to, I was used to turns far more violent than such a movement. Nevertheless, I let out a panicked "Woah!" as I staggered in place, arms spinning, one clutching my cane. Finally, I let myself topple forward.

In a motion too fast for a human, but still slow enough to be seen, I stabbed the floor (there were, thankfully, a few metres between the stage and the first row of seats, or I would've tried a different trick) with my cane, pushing on it the moment my feet left the ground. I wasn't actually sure how plausible these acrobatics would've been without mana, but then, I wasn't relying on muscle alone.

A boyish grin split my face as I balanced on the cane. The handstand lasted for several moments, quiet "oohs" from the Rested filling my ears, and, with childlike boldness, I decided why not do it onehanded?

This next trick took some sleight of hand: while my cane was tough enough to handle my weight and strength, it was still a fairly thin stick, and not enchanted to balance itself or perform other such wonders. Whenever it wavered, which was often, I had to readjust it, though thankfully, between my speed and voluminous robe, I doubt the watchers caught on to what was happening. Indeed, as the question that came suggested...

'How are you doing that?' a Rested asked, their face almost humanlike in curiosity.

My own visage, covered by unnatural shadows, only consisted of patches of pale skin (though I'd noticed I was getting tanner lately, relatively speaking, as I did at sea or in other windy places) and eyes that blazed like green fires. The inhuman appearance was, honestly, not necessary for the show - but who's ever entered theatre to be practical?

'With ease, dear fellow!' My smug thunderclap of a voice, crafted through remembered loudness, was not necessary either, but I enjoyed using it. What the Pit...I'd spent enough time thinking about what was necessary. I needed to begin living again, or I'd die glum and paranoid, like a thousand thousand times a thousand thousand sailors past had.

'You might be wondering why I am upside down?' Not waiting for a response - or tacking on some joke about how I was upside down because I wasn't on my feet, something I was sure would've tempted my captain -, I added, 'It is for the ambience, gentlefolk, the ambience! You see, in only a fraction of my worldly span, my life was turned upside down. So it is only proper...'

They didn't really need my explanation, I think. If the Rested were truly lobotomised (though I was wary of using that adjective. How much did I know about lobotomies, after all?), then their minds, brains, whichever the procedure concerned, had been altered selectively. That is, they did not seem to be stupider overall; instead, certain facets of their thinking process appeared lessened. Whatever part of the brain concerned expressivity had clearly been affected, in my opinion.

There was some dismay shortly after the true start of the performance, at the parts concerning my boyhood. As I would learn after I finished, the sadness was unrelated to my parents' ineptness in of itself, but rather, to the choices I had made after leaving my past behind.

'Imagine!' I crowed, pressing a hand against my face as I flipped to land on my feet. 'Imagine, being the poor fool who made prey of himself, because of childhood fears! All of that, for nothing!'

My laugh, to some surprise on my own part, was not forced. The lengths I had gone to, for the sake of my safety, were, in fact, absurd. Oh, yes, it'd all seemed reasonable at the time, but what insanity doesn't? And now, looking back...the paranoia, the things it had made me do...it was actually hilarious, in a bleak sort of way.

Now, not everyone found such things funny. My current audience seemed as torn as their insides doubtlessly were on how to react, which a spiteful part of me found a welcome contrast to their usually empty faces. I had been chased out of more than one considerably boorish inn or tavern for "bringing down the mood". Utter lies, as you can imagine. I am far too charming to upset anyone, much less people as seasoned as those who have sailed Midworld for decades.

I neglected sharing details about my crew, lest the island get the idea to lure them here or send its puppets after them, if it could. Ib could defend itself, I was sure, but I got the feeling the grey giant would not have appreciated my journey here resulting in it getting an unannounced visit. The more I imagined the scenario, the louder my instincts screamed "Failure!".

I agreed. Making Serene Rest take a more active interest in the wider world would've made me an accomplice to the murder of countless minds and souls, if not bodies - and the resulting, unending desecration of the corpses would be worse than mere death.

As for the others...Mharra was a resourceful man. I had no doubt that, now that he had been pushed to confront his past, he would find a way out of the island's mind games, or perhaps avoid them altogether.

And then there was Three, gone beyond my reach but not from my heart. Beyond Serene Rest's reach? I was not sure, but I did not want to wager anything. If the island learned about him, became curious and somehow found and twisted him, I'd never forgive myself, even if Mharra did.

So, when I did speak of my recent journeys, I made sure to keep references to my crewmates vague, so that they could be assumed to be almost any species. This took some spice out of the storytelling...the telling itself, that is. With some mana turned into light and bend, and the voices of my crew remembered, I was able to bring my modified tale to life in a way that required no costumes or props.

I only had so much to work with while keeping the identities of those involved secret, but I like to think, at least for people who saw excitement about as often as I saw land that didn't sink, it was interesting enough.

'And that damned boat, so temperamental!' I pressed a hand to my face, turning and tilting my head slightly so that, of my features, the audience could only catch a single eye. I was getting closer to the present in my retelling, and, as I did so, I wondered whatever had happened to the steamer's spawn, or whatever that thing was to our ship. Was it still waiting for my return, floating next to the shore and ready to go at any moment? Or had it perceived the peril of this place and begun ramming against the shore, seeking to split and sink this island? And maybe hit me if it was lucky...

I mean, even if it hadn't senses me being attacked, if Serene Rest had reached out towards what passed for its mind, the contraption would've struck back on principle.

In any case, there was not much of the story left. I almost began speaking about my encounter with Serene Rest, whilst debating whether to couch its assault on my mind in polite terms or be blunt, when one of the Rested held up a hand, signalling me to halt. 'And then I...yes? Is something the matter?' I asked after a moment's hesitation. Understanding came quickly: they must've been told of how I'd come here, either as humans spoke to each other or mind to mind, the island's knowledge filling their heads.

Whether these folk were people in their own right or toys in Serene Rest's dollhouse, they knew what had happened, so there was no need to go over it. Although...I wondered. Had the island not glimpsed enough of my past to create a simulacrum of Aina? Why not share that, too, with its prey?

Hope kindled in my heart. What if the Rested were not as helpless as they looked? What if, with enough of a push, they could free themselves? Keeping the masses ignorant, unaware of even the possibility of a better life, had been a beloved tool of tyrants since time immemorial. If...

The Rested who had held up their hand now rose from their seat, walking closer to the stage. My actor's pride prickled - what, was I not entertaining enough? -, but I let the nonsensical vexation go. This was the equivalent of a screaming outburst, from a more lively person. There had to be a reason.

When they stopped to look up at me, their face was crinkled by a hopeful smile. 'Are you going to stay, then?' they murmured.

'Aye...the show is not over,' I replied, playing the fool. It looked like another attempt to change my mind, by hook or crook, was coming.

I know not whether the Rested bought my act, but they shook their head, before rephrasing the question. 'No. Are you going to remain?'

'No,' I answered, unable to keep some acid out of my voice. 'Ask the woman who speaks for you, or the one behind her. She'll tell you why, I am sure.'

The Rested held an arm out to the side, hand open and facing upwards as if presenting some wares for my inspection. 'What purpose is there in returning? You have never known aught but woe, from cradle to manhood.'

'One could see it that way,' I acquiesced. 'But I have found joy too, and learned to cherish it.'

'Have you?' They sounded more pitying than doubtful. It did not rankle less. 'Joy in what? The friends you speak so obliquely of?'

Fhaalqi's talons...had the lack of detail made me look insincere? I could've wept at the though of getting into trouble for my dishonesty, again.

'My crewmates are who they are,' I snapped, 'and that is not for you to know. Now, I would like you to return to your seat and let me resume the show. If you have got bored, do everyone else a favour and leave.'

It lowered its arm and, with both by its sides, stepped back, stopping right when the other Rested, standing up, matched its posture. They crossed their arms in uncanny synchronisation, reminding me more of a mantis wasp swarm than a human crowd. I recognised the posture, from dozens of inn and city guards: I was not getting away.

Or so they thought, at least. I've always enjoyed proving fools wrong, and not just for the sake of my pride, though it often benefitted anyway.

'You must remain,' they intoned, sounding for all like a giant than a group, so little difference was there between their voices. 'Will you return to the wider world to stew in misery and spread it to others? Even if you truly wished to refuse healing, your place would still bee here.'

'Aye, I'm sure you'd leave my mind untouched,' I sneered, cane at the ready. 'Enough. I no longer wish to perform. Make way.'

At first, I had been quite happy to see the hall filled with Rested, but now, with them blocking the path to the door, I was once again reminded of how what we saw as gifts at first often turned out poisoned, much like the anger and hatred Fhaalqi had given to man.

Predictably, they did not budge. I was preparing to jump over them, or straight through the building, with remembered strength, when fog filled the chamber, quickly swallowing all features and leaving only the Rested and myself as visible. This, much like what followed, happened far faster than I could've perceived without my mana. The fog was preceded by what my arcane sense, intertwined with my hearing, registered as a hiss and pop, though it was far faster than sound could travel.

The Rested crossed the gap between us faster than even that, and it was only thanks to my rememebered speed that I was able to fend them off. Pulling my cane apart, I pointed my sword at the throat of the Rested closest to me, while holding my staff, crackling and topped with a sphere of mana, towards the others.

'Do not be foolish,' I urged. 'What does it matter whether I leave or not? I am one man.'

'Everyone deserves salvation,' they droned, eyes alight with the passion of fanatics. When they leapt at me, I no longer resulted to threats. My sword flashed out, carving through handfuls of bodies that made steel look like rotten string. As the rested fell apart, cleaved in half at the waist or down the middle of their heads, I mused that the island must've empowered them. They had not felt like this earlier, had not felt like much at all, in fact. If so, Serene Rest was a subtler thaumaturge than I'd judged it as. Even now, I could not feel any more energy from the Rested than from a common stick.

I sidestepped and slipped under punches so fast fists were wreathed in flame from friction, lopping off limbs and torsos. Burst of mana flew from my staff, each burning Rested to smoke and less than smoke by the dozen. When I saw the pile of dismembered bodies clambering back up, limbs and appendages flying back to them like iron filings to the metal that called, I turned my staff their way, blasting them to less than steam before they could find their footing once again.

In less than a thousandth of a heartbeat, it was over, with me standing amidst fog that felt strangely empty. According to the magic that overlaid my mundane senses, the fixtures weren't actually gone, I just could not touch them. Scoffing at my Gift's inclination towards sophistry, I moved to either find an exit or make one, weapons in hand. No new enemy reared their head, but I knew better than to think that an admission of defeat. Pit, I was surprised the floor - which I could feel but not see - didn't break open under my feet to allow in some new monster created by Serene Rest, or the island itself.

There was no light to tell time by, and I had no timepiece on my. I could only count my breaths and heartbeats, which I did for hours as I sought a means of escape. All the while, I remembered strength, speed, raw mana for greater blasts, but neither my limbs, my sword nor my magic could touch anything. I might as well have been playacting at war.

It was at the thirteenth hour that she appeared.

'What a moving reunion,' I cooed, turning to face her with a blast charged and my sword glowing white with remembered heat. I was glad for deciding to strengthen my body during my search, else I would have been turned to ash in just by stepping near the blazing blade, much less holding it. 'Wherever were you while I retraced my path? One would think you'd enjoy seeing me scampering about, with how you tried to put me on strings. Or didn't you want to go over what you already know from rummaging through my head?'

Aina's doppelganger was dressed more modestly now, not like when she'd recently tried to seduce me. It mattered not. I was still going to turn the lying creature to a pile of offal, or whatever Serene Rest had spun her from. I could hear no footsteps as she seemingly glided over the hidden floor, nor any of the little sounds that showed a human was alive. Her hands, hidden by her sleeves like mine had been at the start of the spectacle, were clasped in front of her.

I narrowed my eyes, ready for her to pull a hidden weapon or prepared spell on me. I did not expect her to smile, though, not l like this. This was no gloating grin oozing arrogance, no smirk twisting her lips as she chastised my stubborn refusal to yield in exasperated disappointment. She looked sad, for me. 'Still not submitting, Ryz...when are you going to stop hurting yourself?'

'Better me than you lot. At least I know what I'm doing.' A bolt of lightning, born from the combined memories of ten thousand thunderstorms, ran down the length of my blade, before turning back to wrap around it again, crackling. 'Let me go, or I will bring this damned place down on your head, give it to the sea. You will never trap another soul again.'

Her hands moved to her sides as she took a step closer, hips swaying. I inwardly sighed. Still attempting to seduce me...? Some women had an inherent grace when it came to striding, and then there were those you could tell were exaggerating their movements. Much like garish makeup or uselessly large weapons and codpieces, it reeked of insecurity. Or tastelessness, depending on the person.

'You have bitten off more than you can chew. You are simply yet to realise it,' she declared. 'Serene Rest made this inescapable space as a cage, just for you, and you think you can resist its advances?'

I huffed. 'If it is so powerful, how come I'm still on my feet, not on my knees? I-' But there was no more time to speak, for the fog under my boots morphed into a thick, squamous substance, which I began falling through far faster than my weight should have warranted...no, not falling. I was being pulled!

I grit my teeth behind a closed mouth, which I soon covered with magic; the last thing I wanted was to swallow whatever this thing was. Coverings of transparent mana appeared over my nose, ears and eyes, allowing me to keep track of my surroundings while hopefully protecting me.

'You must know you cannot escape, Ryzhan.' Aina's voice was as clear as a bell, for all I was buried under yards of flesh denser than any metal or stone. As I tried to "swim" upwards, ripping through the obstacle with my legs and weapons alike, I saw that what I had mistaken for scales were actually bones, pushed close to the surface of the hide that covered whatever this creature was. But the bones weren't long and stout, like I would have expected from such a gargantuan being. Indeed they felt more like gravel, as if someone had beaten the thing to death, though it was as healthy as anything...

My eyes narrowed behind the mana visor I'd crafted. At the same time I focused mana into my staff, blasting downwards so I would go flying, I extended my arcane sense towards the critter, wondering why this ordeal felt strangely familiar. It was not the time I'd met Ib this reminded me of, for all the superficial similarities. The grey being had done little that warranted being compared to this loathsome blob.

No wonder I'd senses so little from the cause of this ordeal! The island must've reused the remnants of the Rested, if they could be called that, in order to craft this thing. The damnable spit of rock could turn the unseen particles that made up gases into solid matter once again. Not unbelievable, with how it could create mock-people and unending prisons, but my lack of surprise at this revelation did little to help me escape.

I should've ripped through the mutilated thing like a missile, propelled by the power of my magic, but it reacted to my every move, turning bonelessly to keep me trapped. Worse, every time I attempted to escape, it grew both harder and more flexible; Serene Rest was not done powering its newest toy.

Blades and spears of bone thrust out from within its mass, digging into my torso, while smaller weapons (or were they talons and teeth?) bit at my joints and throat, causing my to drop my weapons, the bloated mass quickly pulling them out of my perception's range. None of the wounds was deep enough to be mortal, but they were spilled blood and weaken me. I remembered health and more power, trying to free myself, and that was when the island's assault on my mind, not felt since the uneasy truce between me and its emissary, was renewed.

Beleaguered, I could no longer grow my power, and lay bleeding in the grasp of the corpse pile, its fangs a hair away from skewering me to death. With a squelching, inhuman sound that nevertheless managed to sound triumphant, the thing opened, disgorging me so that I landed on my knees, though not without toothed tendrils wrapped around every weak spot on my body. Serene Rest kept striking at my mind, like a sledgehammer hitting a wall, and I think it was only the bladed tentacles that kept me from falling onto my face.

The false Aina knelt before me, chuckling when she saw the hateful glare I levelled at her, and took my head in her hands, pressing her brow against mine. I recoiled at the touch, as if one of those storm-blooded eels had slithered over my skin, but she pulled back to fast for me to bite or headbutt her.

I doubted it would've accomplished anything other than giving Serene Rest a reason to create a new avatar, but small victories were better than none.

The wrought woman grasped my chin, clawed fingers drawing blood. 'Do you have any idea what you've done, fool?' she asked, grabbing my throat with her other hand and squeezing. 'The Rested you broke will have to be brought back, formed into their old bodies. Their minds and spirits will have to be restored, after you so callously spurned them.'

It must've been the first break from an ages-long routine. I had nothing to give her but a proud smirk. The slap it earned turned my head and ripped my cheek open to the bone, making me laugh weakly. 'I've been hit worse by better women. For better reasons, too.'

Aina sniffed. 'If you knew of what Serene Rest is sacrificing to keep you like this, you would not be so flippant.' Each word was punctuated by another hammer blow to my mind. I reeled from them, my body twitching as if they were physical strikes, and something warm and thick began dripping from one eye. Was it bleeding? My vision wasn't darkening, but...

'What is it giving up?' I asked derisively. 'The chance to kill me in one hit?' Sadism fit the place like a glove.

'Ever since your childish attempt to refuse serenity, the Rested have been neglected.'

The Rested...? Ah. She must've mean the ones I hadn't seen. What did neglect even entail for them? Were they remembering their past selves and despairing? That felt too optimistic. Were they instead sitting around aimlessly, like marionettes with their strings cut?

I couldn't help but grin wolfishly. Was the old monster sad it wasn't getting to play anymore? This might've been the first time it had truly been denied.

I hoped it hurt.

'While you rebel against your fate,' she continued, 'they are bereft of Serene Rest's guiding hand. Only its mark keeps them from relapsing into the madness of their former lives.'

'My fate?' I repeated, wheezing under the mental pressure, not to mention that of her hand on my neck. 'I think not.'

'It is the fate of all who come here,' she retorted, eyes turning cold. 'Lower your defences. Let yourself be taken, and this can end. You will never know pain or doubt again. Why do you deny yourself peace?'

Had I been free, I would've wagged a finger at her, but in my predicament, I could only manage a taunting look. 'I will err on the side of spite, I think. But, since we are asking questions, I have one of my own: why don't you relent?' My eyes held her empty, pitiless orbs. 'You must know I will never open my mind to this desecration. I would rather die - what would it take for you to understand that? Your master can kill me,' I dipped my chin to indicate the wicked barbs piercing my flesh, 'and in doing so, admit it couldn't undo a mage who knows his craft.'

I might have been projecting too many human traits unto the island, but considering it enslaved people with no benefit to itself I could see, it must've had something like an ego, a sense of pleasure...something to manipulate. My defiance, like its memory, would irk it. Maybe enough to never try ensnaring another person again, lest they prove unexpectedly powerful? Dying for that would be worth remembering...

'You are not the only soul here.' For someone who looked like she was about to bristle, she sounded remarkably calm. 'Little would be lost if you were struck down here.'

'Indeed,' I acknowledged, 'but how long would that loss linger? Has this marvellous island of yours ever failed to ensnare someone? Could it cope with the failure? How long until its hurt pride undoes it focus, tainting the serenity it wishes to bestow on others? What will happen then?' I smirked. 'I'm sure you will have many chances to find out. After all, I am not the only soul here.'

In my experience, throwing someone's words back in their face during a tense moment is likely to earn you a slap at best in half the cases. Aina squeezed my neck like one of those rubber balls I've seen beleaguered folks use to calm themselves, but she wasn't aiming to kill.

Heh. Knowledge earned through pain was often bittersweet, but this - more confirmation that the island was possessed of humours, like a being of flesh, for the construct had no anger of her own - was worth it. If the construct had gone through with strangling me to death or snapping my neck, only to show her frustration after...I was sure my soul would've been quite cross, whatever god's side it ended at.

Aina let go, stood up and stepped back, at the same time the island ceased hammering at my mind. Its flesh pile of a slave did not let go, but I did not need movement to work my magic. Remembering myself healthy, I looked up at the mock-woman, looking for a sign of her thoughts, but her expression was indecipherable, just as her hidden self was veiled from my arcane sense.

My heart finished beating once by the time she finished deliberating, during which I let myself peer inwards to contemplate Vhaarn. I hardly had a choice: with my magic sharpening my perception of time, this heartbeat felt like a year and a half.

'Let us make a deal, then,' Aina said - and this time, there was nothing womanly, or indeed human, in her voice. It sounded like a grand avalanche, the though of sound one of the larger Seaworms might produce. 'You will be allowed to go...as our herald.' Serene Rest, for the thing speaking to me could be nothing else, flashed me a smile with all the warmth of a stone carving. 'You will tell those who have grown weary of Midowrld about this refuge, and they will come to us.'

I groaned, partly to test my voice now that my flesh had healed. 'If I am to drag every new face I meet here like a hunting dog, you might as well kill me now.'

'That will not be necessary,' the island replied. 'The promise shall be enough, you will see. Besides,' its chuckle was like boulders down a mountain, 'it is not like you could find your way back if you wanted to, no? You did not even arrive by yourself. Your vessel did all the work.'

The tendrils let go, and the thing they belonged to slithered through the floor as if it were the surface of a pool, likely going wherever its master had bid it to wait until it could be broken apart into its component Rested. I placed a hand against the floor and pushed myself up. In the same motion, I remembered my cane, which appeared in my grip, either the original stolen away by the shapeless monster or an exact copy.

It did not matter. I had once heard that the unseen things that made up human bodies decayed and were replace every day, but that did not make someone a different person after the whole body was renewed. All I cared about was that I had my weapons.

'That seems a small price to pay for my freedom,' I said cautiously. 'Did you perhaps want to add something?'

Serene Rest made the construct place a hand on its chest. 'We think you misunderstand our desires, Ryzhan. Bringing peace to the harrowed is not a need of ours, not like feeding or drinking is to lesser forms of life. It is something we enjoy, something we excel at - one leads to the other -, but it is something we have to do. Should no one take up your offer...' it shrugged. 'We will not lose anything, truly.'

'And how do you know I will speak to anyone of you? Don't tell me you're counting on my honour...' I stopped rubbing the wrist of my cane-hand to narrow my eyes at the puppet. 'You'd better not have placed something in me to track my progress, or I will-'

'Be quiet,' it said calmly, not that it had the kind of voice you needed to raise. 'We can keep track of matters pertaining to us. You have been here; we will know when you spread the word of our oasis.'

'And if I disagree?' I asked. 'Will you kill me where I stand, then raise my corpse as another of your pet freaks?'

A corner of its mouth curved upwards. 'We do not think you are curious enough to risk that, Ryzhan. Now...'

* * *

Aina

'You might wanna check your breathing, hon.'

'What's wrong with it?' Aina asked bitingly, irritated by Mendax's matter-of-fact voice. How could it be so calm? Her lips had pulled back from needle teeth as soon as Ryzhan was attacked, and her face hadn't brightened since.

'It ain't happening.'

Aina blinked at the words - tried to, then noticed her eyes, rounder and more numerous than before, had no lids. With that came the realisation that she hadn't been breathing for a while, except to speak moments ago. The woman glanced down at herself, at the collection of misshapen limbs that had shredded her dress, and sighed.

'Look away, will you?' she asked, turning from Mendax as she began the slow process of forcing her body back into a human shape. By the end, she'd be naked save for the tatters of her dress, but the change until that point wasn't the sort of thing she wanted a stranger to see.

'Can do,' the Meddler said easily. 'You can relax now, I'd say. Your Ryzhan kept a cool head, didn't he? And he got away, in the end.' Mendax was nodding approvingly, to her annoyance.

'He could've died, you heartless bastard,' she spat. 'And that might've been only the beginning of suffering. You could've saved him with all the ffort of lifting a finger, I know it.'

'Should I have "saved" him when his father was beating him bloody, too? Hmm? When his mother did bugger all but stand by and offer snide commentary?' Mendax shook a finger at her. 'You focus too much on such small moments of time...as if it even exists. Had I intervened now, or then, I'd have stunted his growth as surely as death itself.'

Aina formed an eye on what had been her shoulder, giving the trickster a skeptical look. He stuck his hands into the pockets of his robe (had he always had them?) and leaned back in his chair. 'Magic grows when the trinity of self is challenged,' he continued. 'Body, mind and soul. Do you think his parents were just trying to slake their bloodlust while avoiding murder when they raised him? That was a reason too, yes - but they knew that adversity was one of the best ways to shape him into a strong mage.' A slit of light regarded her from the gloom of Mendax's cowl, the look so piercing she didn't even snap at him for . 'Where do you think he'd be, without that pain?'

Dead. His corpse left in some ditch or alley, or rotting under the waves. Stabbed, throttled, shot, poisoned, crushed - or worse. Aina felt her lungs shrink and straighten, no longer the twisted, elongated things they had become. 'You are saying it was good for him?'

Mendax tossed a small, round thing from one hand to another, almost too fast for her to perceive. She was reminded of those little balls children back home used to slap over a table with wooden paddles. 'It was certainly not bad...' He let the toy drop into his lap, where it disappeared between the folds of his robe as surely as within a whirlpool. 'Now, then. Shall we take a gander at the others?'

[Strigoi Grey]

Interlude: Midworld, A Stage (Two)

* * *
Mharra

The captain of the Rainbow Burst had never been a towering man, but he'd shared enough happy moments with tall, lanky sorts that, when he had to ask for something from the top shelf because he couldn't find a stepstool or jump high enough, he no longer simmered with envy.

As much.

Three used to joke that all his height had gone into bulk, among other features he liked, which explained why he was almost as wide as he was tall, not to mention robust.

That still didn't take the sting out of a boychild almost meeting his eyes without even needing to stand on his tiptoes.

Still, Mharra mused, almost stroking his beard out of habit, it was interesting to see such a strapping lad, especially for his age (the captain doubted a wisp of a beard had ever touched his face), when surely the boy mostly sat around and played.

Could it be that so much of Midworld was wrong when it came to childrearing? That growing up in the harshest of places and struggling did not actually make one stronger? Some of the scrappiest fighters Mharra had met had grown up deprived of much - Ryzhan was a prime example, even if he'd had it better than most, parents aside -, but grit and guile were not the same as health and strength. Tide Elders knew he'd had that lesson smacked into his head in enough bar brawls.

Mharra shook his head rapidly, as if to clear his ears of water, and would've slapped his cheeks, had his audience asked for a lighter performance - but such things could come across as a lack of interest, when preparing for a sad show.

The lad, Tekhar, had the fair skin and rosy cheeks of folks who spent most of their time in their ships' cabins. Mharra, so used to those tanned by sun and wind, almost thought he might've been one of those paler people, but his complexion was not like milk or marble: merely like Ryzhan's had been before he'd spent some more time at sea.

Mharra found himself studying the boy. He couldn't have been too far from the beginnings of manhood, smooth as his features were...surely his parents had taken him out to walk the deck once or twice, or to play on some vessel's rigging? He was more than old enough, not to mention muscled. All from playing inside? More oddness.

Tekhar is bearing some sort of strange purse, with the handles going over his shoulders, like those of the bags some peddlers use, but its make is too fine as that of any satchel. Soft, black material and a line of silver teeth Tekhar calls a zipper, which can be closed or opened more easily than knots.

The zipper is half-open at the moment, with the boy's beloved critter peeking out. Mharra had never heard of keeping slimes as pets, with most of them being far too busy eating and dissolving whatever they can engulf to be tamed, if they can even understand people. Verdant, as he calls it, is, however, attentive and curious: Mharra can feel its eyes boring into him, even if they are only thin black lines, seeming closed. The captain is unsure it even has eyeballs.

As Mharra explained the role of Three, the slime's body changed from the emerald green he guessed was its default look, given the name. More than a few times, it became as white as freshly-fallen snow, or as dark as tar, round form shifting slightly to track the pacing Mharra. Between that and the gurgling, almost inaudible sound it emitted, he was reminded of a cat.

One of those fat ones folks of means used to carry around on their shoulders and pull into their laps when they sat down, he thought, remembering his people. If the slime sprouted ears, too, he'd be tempted to throw it a fish, just to see the results.

Curiosity. Was that it? Mharra has never seen a coloured slime turn black or white, orange for gluttony and red for agitation being the most usual shifts, and he wondered what it meant. Cats often had coats of white or black, or combinations, especially spotted ones, and they were curious.

White was also what many learned folks said light was before it was split, and Mharra's tricks with prisms backed up the idea, at least when magic and other uncanny powers were not to close by to warp the laws of nature. Black and white, when counted as colours, were often considered the basis of the others, not just of grey. They were beginnings.

Could slimes, and their changing bodies, reflect that? Was it intentional - did Verdant understand what it was doing, if it was aware of it? What thoughts such creatures he'd dismissed as simple could inspire...

'All right, my boy,' Mharra said, 'you don't have to put on the makeup, but, if you want to look like your character?' The captain gestured for him to come closer, then turn his head. 'Just the cheeks, maybe. Not much flour or powder needed. You're already close to Three's looks.'

'I understand, sailor,' Tekhar replied, before a nervous look entered his eyes. Black as night, they were darker than most Mharra had seen, but almost seemed to shine when the light caught them just so, somehow. 'Ah...I understand he meant much to you, but will we have to reenact...everything?'

Storm and tide, what? 'Of course not!' Mharra said, waving his hands briskly. 'I wouldn't ask this of an assistant, never have.' Partly because Three would've been jealous, even if Mharra had got over his mortification at the idea. A stranger, and a child at that? Elders... 'You don't even have to hold my hand if you don't want to, Tekh. I was taunting you folks earlier,' he winked, 'but my ship can make props, even a costume for you. Or switch you with a mannequin so fast no one watching would notice.'

Not that he was planning on reenacting any intimate moments - whatever the perception of actors as showboating deviants, Mharra was ambivalent at best about mentioning lovemaking, much less anything more overt -, but...no.

It wasn't just having to go over what he'd shared with Three while his ghost was still missing. It was that, out of Elders knew however many thousands were watching, they'd sent a child to be his partner.

Mharra was no stranger to cultures in which people preferred to pick their lovers nice and young. Why, his own parents had entertained the idea of finding him a girl as soon as the physicians had determined his seed could take root in one's womb and give them a grandchild. Had he been a woman, they'd surely have sought a boy as soon as the bleeding heralded by the moon's cycles started. But none of that made it him feel any less like a snake next to a mouse.

Tekhar himself was apprehensive, which just made him feel more guilty. He shouldn't have accepted this. But there might just have been a solution.

'Say, lad,' Mharra spoke quietly, unsure whether everyone around them had humanlike hearing. 'Verdant, your slimy friend there in your satchel. How well can it shift shape?'

Tekhar's eyes moved to the slime, which turned black again, the lines that were its eyes becoming white. It reminded Mharra of some pirates who kept parrots on their shoulders and were surprised by the birds' ramblings from time to time. He confessed he didn't quite see the appeal.

The fact most parrots he knew had such plumage as might distract people from his outfits and tricks was not a factor at all. Not that an entertainer of his calibre could be outshone by a bird.

As if it reassure himself, Mharra adjusted his lapels and pulled his collar higher.

'It can,' Tekhar said of the slime, reaching up to pat what passed for its forehead. In response, the critter released a sound like a cat purring, as if heard through water. Smiling absently at it for a heartbeat, he faced Mharra once more. 'Why do you ask? I thought you only needed a person for the role of this Three ghost? Is your ship no longer willing to bend light into props to stand in for the other characters?'

He was just curious, like any child his age (not that Mharra was sure what that was, besides too young for anything he and Three had done), but the captain still did not want to admit anything about his vessel. True, the pleasure fleet had welcomed him and regaled him with stories of their happy dwelling in this doldrum, but they were an open, honest culture of the sort that died or otherwise faded quickly in the wider Midworld. Not to mention, their ships seemed inanimate wood and stone, not living, cantankerous beings like his Burst.

'Do not worry about the props,' he told Tekhar, eyes darting to see if their observers were getting bored or annoyed. Those who still stood on decks or leaned against masts or over railings were distracting themselves with a variety of diversions, from cards and dice and knucklebones to pantomime. Some were preparing instruments (for their own pleasure?) and Mharra entertained the thought of asking them to provide some of their own music for the show, help them feel like they were contributing.

Aye, that might've driven them to ask him to perform longer in exchange, but that was why he lived. And Ib had not said anything about a limit on the time spent on this journey, so surely there was no harm in dawdling a bit.

'What is the matter, then?'

At the slight agitation in the boy's voice, Mharra put on his reassuring smile, hoping it didn't make him look like he'd just finished scamming someone, as Ryzhan said it did. 'Don't worry, Tek. Just lost in my own thoughts. So, can Verdant shift?'

Tekhar nodded. 'It can, yes, but if you were hoping to make it turn into Three's two other selves while I play one...' he trailed off, rubbing the back of his head. 'There is this string of protoplasm joining its selves when it splits itself into two or more bodies.'

'An eyesore, is it?'

'Visible if you squint.'

'No matter, then. Who would pay attention to wirework when I'm on the scene?' Mharra asked with playful arrogance, wiggling his eyebrows. Tekhar gave a small, nervous chuckle, but that was fine. Stage fright, which hobbled even people who made their living like this. He wasn't forcing himself to laugh at Mharra's antics, which the captain found even more frustrating than silence.

When the boy stopped, he turned his head, looking for something across the ships' decks. His parents?

'No,' Tekhar said when Mharra asked as much. 'I don't have-I've never wanted to find out.' He shrugged quickly, in that way that made it plain he was not actually disinterested, and launched into an explanation.

Communal childrearing was not uncommon in Midworld, especially in cases where the parents had important functions to perform on their ship or in their fleet; it also doubled as a way to have the sprogs quickly brush up on their future duties, by having them tag along crewmembers. Of course, in other cases, even those who had time to raise others' children didn't have the mood for the little ones getting underfoot.

The pleasure fleet's creches were a fairly unusual adaptation of such an idea, however. Children being raised in the lap of luxury, not knowing if they shared blood with their caretakers unless they liked them enough to ask who they were? Most cultures did not have the patience for such things, even when they had the time and resources.

Mharra just saw it as a pointless game - why shouldn't a child know where they came from? -, but then, dealing with his parents had soured him when it came to rituals. It didn't matter, anyway.

His assistant did. 'Say, Tekh.' He clapped the lad on the shoulder. 'How come that, out of all these lovers of art and beauty, you were the one that came to my stage.' He pulled his hand back, smiling to take any bite out of the question. 'I don't doubt you enjoy those things as well, but how come everyone agreed on you assisting me so quickly?'

Tekhar's eyes shifted from side to side, but this time, Mharra could tell he wasn't looking to see whoever he'd been looking for was there. More to make sure no one was too close. 'Can your ship make...shelter? Barriers? A tent, maybe?'

Mharra cocked a brow, but gestured subtly, in case the steamer was feeling too surly too take suggestions from strangers. Its moods were mercurial enough he wouldn't have been surprised to discover quicksilver at its heart. With a grunt that could be interpreted as everything except enthusiastic, the ship acceded to Tekhar's request, and a sphere of its metal rose to surround its captain and his assistant.

Wondering what hidden mechanisms let air in, for there were no windows or other openings, Mharra said, 'I think this takes care of eavesdroppers, no?'

Another grunt from beneath, followed by a series of sounds Mharra felt more than heard. Each felt subtly different, and...yes, together, they spelled out (was that the right term?) words, each letter ringing against a different bone.

'You think these garlanded milksops can get through my defences? Just because I'm being made to bob in place like a bath toy, it doesn't mean I'm useless.'

Mharra had not intended to imply anything of the sort, as he subvocalised to the irate steamer.

'I am offended you needed to ask.' For something that surrounded them, the ship definitely gave the impression of someone who'd left in a huff.

Well, if I never find Three and speak those vows we've dreamed of, at least I'll have this grump around to make me feel married, Mharra thought wryly. But he had other things to keep in mind besides a hypothetical wedding with his ship.

Like why Tekhar was getting cold feet. Unlike several of Mharra's former temporary assistants, the boy's nervousness didn't take the form of shaking, sweating, cold palms or the like. Merely hesitation.

'Speak, then,' Mharra prompted, leaning against one of the construct's walls with his arms crossed. This drew a pleased sigh from the steamer, like the sound an immense, contented dog might make.

Perhaps because it made him feel more at ease, Tekhar mirrored Mharra's pose. The sigh the Burst released at this had nothing to do with contentedness.

Placing a calming hand on his vessel's skin, Mharra held Tekhar's eyes. 'Don't worry about that. Old ship, old sounds. You know how it is.'

Tekhar nodded, unsure. 'As you say, captain.' His voice cracked at the last word, making him roll his eyes before he cleared his throat. That age, Mharra thought, remembering how annoyed he'd got during the midst of his life's second decade. 'Ahem...you could say, captain Mharra, that I am here to prove my people wrong.'

Mharra (to his credit, he thought) did not run away at this suggestion of fleet politics, unlike his younger self might have. His life had been as peaceful as one could expect in Midworld because he stayed away from other people's problems. 'Unless they're convinced you're an awful actor or public speaker, I can't help much with that, laddie.'

Tekhar smirked thinly, nervously. 'Something like that.' He licked his lips, which Mharra not noticed he must've bit often, and looked aisde, at Verdant. The slime made a sound that must've been encouragement or reassurance, because Tekhar nodded briskly, before his gaze moved to his boots. 'You have not been with us long, sir, but I'd wager you might've noticed some of the, ah, open air revelries?'

What people did on their own decks was their business, even if one could've wished they were subtler. To be honest, Mharra had listened little, not wanting to be reminded of what he'd lost, and had eventually asked the Rainbow Burst to soundproof itself. Not completely - he still wanted to be able to hear in case someone of the pleasure fleet called on him, for whatever reason - but enough not to be disturbed.

On his walks. Three, or whatever that apparition, or hallucination, had been hadn't returned. Hunting for daydreams was the business of people who usually got locked up in attics, but a captain with no crew had little else to do, especially when Mharra was not looking to recruit. It'd taken pressganging here, and to be honest, he wanted new crewmembers even less than his living vessel needed them. There was no point in growing attached to someone just to lose them, and he didn't want to become the sort of man who saw sailors as numbers in a ledger.

'I've heard enough,' Mharra hedged.

'I gather you rather did!' Tekhar gave a short laugh, which did little for his confidence. 'We don't see them often or for long, but we receive guests from the World of Woe sometimes.' The pleasure fleet's name for the greater part of Midworld was not inappropriate, Mharra thought. 'They are, ah, often put off by how we take our pleasures.'

Loudly and constantly? 'I can see why people more concerned with survival would be offended.' On top of feeling jealous.

Tekhar pointed a finger at him, letting his other finger fall by his side. 'You are not wrong. Our thinkers say life without joy is just living death. I happen to agree, though not as, uh, enthusiastically as most folk of our fleet would.'

Mharra treaded a few fingers through the bottom of his beard. 'So you jumped into something new, to prove you're not a coward.'

'Not a coward, and not a prude, either.' Tekhar's dark look and tone pointed to old arguments. 'Truly, just because I don't sow my seed in every girl who can bleed...' he shook his head. 'Forget it. Not something you'd care about, sir.'

'I might,' Mharra countered. 'I've known cultures to bar some folks from their joys, unless they contribute in some way.' Mharra felt awkward needling a youth who might share his inclination about this, but, if he could help... 'None of what we say will leave these walls,' he promised. 'My ship keeps secrets well, and I am no gossipmonger like some sailors.' At Tekhar's lost expression, he elaborated. 'Are your people forcing these girls on you? Would you rather be with a boy, or-'

'No, no!' Tekhar cut him off, waving his hands with a blush. 'That is not the issue, sir. I love women' He coughed. 'It's the pushiness. I'd rather choose for myself, when my fancy strikes. I don't need bloody suitors.'

'I see.' Mharra went for a warm smile, to get rid of any lingering mortification. 'Your fleet does not push people to love a certain way, then? I am glad. The more enlightened folks I've come across share this trait.'

Tekhar, absently patting his slime as it crawled into his pack, looked aside. 'Well. It's just rumours, you understand, but I've heard of this plot to make sure those who don't love all manners of people to be bred out of the population by those who do. I've certainly heard table talk that those who only prefer men or womenfolk are relics of the past and should be done away with, but that was just rambling from the debauched.'

'Indeed?' That sounded...sinister. Aye, Mharra might've wished his parents hadn't been such vicious fools, but removing people because their passions were "limited" struck him as ridiculous.

'Nothing will come of it.' Tekhar waved dismissively. 'We don't bestir ourself in great numbers for...anything. Survival aside, of course.'

'About that - surely your prosperity has drawn pirates, or conquerors, or simply beasts of the tides? This is a rich stretch of sea, in people and fish both.' Surely Tekhar's folk were not as soft as they seemed? Simply finding this place must've been the result of outrageous luck; if it had never been attacked, he'd call their bluff.

Just to be sure. He'd seen stranger things than an utterly peaceful place. Perhaps he'd only managed to make his way here thanks to Ib picking it as his destination? And the Burst, too; it could find its way on the sea better than most folk of flesh and blood. He supposed it came with being a ship.

'Oh, yes,' Tekhar replied. 'Outsiders might come, once a generation and less often in some ages. Pirates, traders who think themselves sly, seeking to swindle us.'

Mharra stared intently, silently urging him to go on. Tekhar slouched slightly looking uncomfortable. 'They are turned away, as quickly as we can dissuade them.'

'Are they, now? What of the more stubborn ones?'

Mharra did not like the silence that followed. Eventually, he cleared his throat. 'That is all very well, but you can't talk a Seaworm or a Bloodtrail into going away.' The vitae-dripping snails had teeth larger than most mountains, though they appeared as needles by comparison to their slimy maws. Their tempers were one of the few things fouler than their odor: Mharra had never heard of people scaring one away rather than killing it, and if they could be tamed or trained, he didn't know it.

Worse, while such creatures were drawn to rich feeding places, like any animal, they did not seem to strictly need sustenance, though they desired it almost as badly as violence.

Tekhar's shrug was a match for his expression, which said he'd seen things he'd rather forget, if he could. 'You'd be surprised what things people wwill make pets of when they're bored enough, sir.'

Mharra almost boggled at that. Did they have mages that could bend space? Because he was fairly sure none of their vessels was bigger than a Bloodtrail, much less large enough to fit one. And if one of those snails had been hiding underwater, he'd have picked up on its stench, or the steamer would've said something.

Talking about space... 'I have been wondering,' he admitted, shoving his hands into his pockets (Tekhar, he noticed, was still - unconsciously? - trying to mimic him, though with no pockets, his hands went to his hips), 'with how freely you lot take your pleasures, are there never, ah, too many of you? For your fleet, I mean, and this place?' Were those who crowded the place exiled? Mharra would've liked to say that seemed unlikely, but the pleasure fleet was sounding increasingly dubious.

'We look after our own, captain,' Tekhar answered. 'I can assure, our home is large enough to accommodate all our kin, no matter how many share that kinship. We have our arts.'

Not magic? There were abilities that could accomplish what it did without needing mana; or maybe what Mharra knew as magic was not known as such, here. He'd seen weirder, like those people who called doorknobs frogs, even though none Mharra had been able to see resembled one.

'Tekhar,' Mharra started, half-serious, 'would you lambast me for my lack of faith in my fellow man if I implied that, perhaps, the things you folks do to those who attack you are not something you talk about in front of strangers?'

'Cynicism is not unhealthy, captain.'

That sounded about as far as he'd get with this line of discussion. Oh, well. Not like he was losing anything but the chance to satisfy his curiosity. 'Indeed. Now, since you've indulged me, I'm even more willing to listen to your plight than I was at the beginning.'

There was some rustling from the boy's pack at that, which somewhat reminded Mharra of those people whose stomachs rumbled when they were nervous. Refusing to snigger, he waited for Tekhar to finish adjusting it. Perhaps the slime was responding to its friend's mood.

'Among my people,' the lad began, zipping the pack closed after a quick peek inside, likely to see how Verdant was doing. 'I am considered somewhat prudish.'

Mharra could imagine the irritation. Some youths had a certain unaware cruelty at that age between childhood and adulthood, which could stay in a boy's mind as easily as any adult's lectures. Perhaps more easily, if Tekhar was the rebellious sort more likely to listen to his friends than his caretakers, whoever those were.

Hmm. Did growing up parentless make one more easily to be mulish?

'I once walked in on a group of, um, close friends, several of whom I I knew.' Tekhar frowned, then went on. 'I reacted quite unexpectedly - didn't join in - and have been the recipient of several tasteless jokes since, not to mention a few pranks. Even got a poem once,' he muttered. 'Some people think they're way smarter than they are...'

'That, in my experience, holds true for the majority of living beings,' Mharra said with a sympathetic smile. 'So you're being, what, shamed? Shunned?'

Tekhar wiggled a hand. 'It's nothing ritualic, sir. Just childish idiots with too much time on their hands.'

'A species as persistent as it is widespread.'

Tekhar chuckled. 'Aye. But I try to brush them off.' He looked Mharra in the eye, and said earnestly, 'Now you know why I'm chomping at the bit. So can we get on with it, sir?'

Shelving away that saying (they had horses here? Ryzhan might be interested to learn, and if Mharra could help his studious friend, he might as well), the captain replied, 'You know what? I think I've found something for both you and your shapeshifting friend to do.' Turning, he took a step, and the steamer removed the silent room, drawing it back into its greater mass. 'About time,' he said, to both the ship and Tekhar. 'A minute longer, your folk might've started making up fantasies about whatever nefarious thing you and I were getting up to.'

Tekhar scoffed. 'Might just help me save face, captain. Mind if I make a story of it?'

'Storms - you can do it during the show. Let me suggest a few moments...'

* * *

Mharra couldn't recall if Ib had left anything of itself, a piece of its body or some marvellous creation, behind, not with this hangover. He stumbled down the hall to his cabin, with the Burst adjusting itself so its captain wouldn't end up eating floor, before finally coming to a stop against the door. His head pounded as if it was being struck with hammers from the inside, and his legs felt like both lead and water.

Grumbling something he didn't understand himself, he placed one hand on the wheel that served as a doorhandle; one of Three's affectations, which had first appeared on the engine room's door before he and his ghost replicated it across the ship. The ship took the hint, not that Mharra was sure what hint he'd given, and opened the door, before bearing him to his bed.

Once bolted so it wouldn't sway with the tides or the steamer's moods, back when it hadn't really been in control of its wits, it was now fused with the floor at the legs. Mharra thought that had something with how the bed could warm up or cool down depending on how he was feeling, a mechanism he hoped was automatic. He didn't much care for being watched in his sleep by anyone other than Three.

Mharra lay on his back, gingerly pressing his hands to his temples - despite the temptation to throw an arm over his eyes and get rid of the little light in the room, he knew, from experience, that doing so would only worsen his headache.

'Burst,' he began, holding back a yawn. Those tended to be tricky after drinks; far too likely to result in retching, and the steamer would kvetch if it had to clean up after him. It already grumbled about having to take care of waste, and had (jokingly?) suggested that maybe Mharra could do with some mechanical modifications so that he'd no longer have to worry about that.

Which sounded an awful lot like dismembering yourself so so your limbs wouldn't ache anymore, and Mharra wasn't hungover enough to go for that kind of back alley doctor offer. He needed something to cleanse his body, not get rid of it. Or parts of it.

Mharra suspected that, like many regenerators he'd met, his ship didn't truly grasp the consequences of losing parts of oneself. Permanently, that was.

'Burst,' Mharra said again, surprised he wasn't slurring. 'What the...what in the tides did those people give me?' He ran a hand through his long, dark hair, pressing fingertips against his throbbing skull. 'How am I talking like this? I feel drunk. Almost so.'

The steamer sniffed. 'Do you wish to speak to me as I am, or should I make a puppet you can stare at while I talk?'

Mharra stared at the ceiling, confused at the hostility in his ship's tone. Was it so offended by him refusing mechanisation? 'Do as you wish...did I do something I shouldn't have?' He only remembered snatches of the show, then a revelry that had lasted all night and and the next day, before he'd somehow made it back onto his ship.

The Burst responded by moulding a roughly humanoid shape out of the floor. Tall, broad and featureless, it reminded Mharra of a smaller, dark brown Ib, though it only had two arms and legs. The creature perched on the edge of the bed, sitting as it ready to stand up and run at any time. Suddenly, Mharra wished he wasn't so dizzy, and not just because it made him feel stupid.

'You refused,' it began, holding up a fingerless hand when Mharra tried to say he just wasn't interested in trading flesh for clockwork, 'all of my offers to ram their pleasure boats and sink them.'

Mharra sighed, closing his eyes. Perversely, his hearing sharpened as if to compensate: the tides lapping against the sides of the steamer sounded like someone was ringing a giant bell with a sledgehammer. 'Why would you want to do that?'

Mharra didn't know if he'd briefly lost consciousness or if the ship's avatar was just that fast, but it was suddenly standing at his bedside, its gaze burning into him as it loomed, for all it was eyeless. 'Why do you think, sir?' it asked in a voice softer than any Mharra had ever heard from it. For a moment, he thought it was doing so for his comfort, and almost burst out laughing.

The construct crouched down, enough that it would've been face to face with Mharra if he'd been standing. 'Why wouldn't it? I'm not a cargo ship, nor a warship. I'm not meant to haul things or sink other vessels, though I'll take to both with aplomb, if need be.' It took a knee, arms crossed over it. 'I'm a passenger vessel. I take people wherever we agree to go. And then they go and addle my captain? The only companion I've left, until whenever the others return?'

Though it had nothing to hide, the ship's avatar looked aside, broad shoulders slumping. 'You think it was entertaining hearing you babble and stumble all the way here? Unable to think straight or speak to me?' It shook its great head, somehow, though it neck didn't seem to move. 'I've never felt so empty with someone aboard me.'

Mharra winced, not entirely due to his headache. 'I...I am sorry, Burst. As soon as I clear my head, we'll talk about ev-'

'Never mind that.' It straightened up. 'Sir. You've pulled me out of the scrapheap I was sure was going to become my grave.' Its laugh, though self-deprecating, was nasty, menacing. 'Not that I was sure of much back then, object that I was. You lot dragged me into personhood, for better or worse.'

'The island-'

'Hush, captain,' it hissed, then started. Still mindful of his hearing? 'Hush. Grown folk ought not not brood over their cradles, even if they were almost smothered in them, hm?'

'As you say,' Mharra gravelled. He was too close to remembering his family, and that would certainly turn his stomach. 'So. You say you almost killed on my behalf?' He flashed his best smirk. 'I didn't know you care so much.'

The steamer snorted. 'Don't be stupid. You fleshlings will drink anything that's not poisoned, and even then...I'd have never put addling coals in me, back when I ran on coal, but what do I know? I'm just a means to travel.' It looked at the wall as if it could see through it - which it very well might've been able to, Mharra thought. It was part of it, and the Burst could turn anything of its substance into shield or weapon or sensory device, or whatever else it fancied.

When it spoke again, Mharra felt its eyes on him, though it had none and was facing away from him besides. The part of him that loved absurdity imagined metallic eyes literally on him, following his movements, and he giggled (nervously?). The steamer did not comment.

'I have begun to realise, captain, that I'm like one of those story boats, sailing ceaselessly, taking its crew to their destination regardless of the state of its fuel or components - or a lack thereof.' A certain wryness entered its tone then, alongside - were his ears deceiving him? - trepidation. 'Good thing I've discovered how to move myself, or you'd have been out of luck quite a while ago, sir. Though I cannot help but wonder where I'm going to end up taking you.'

Mharra did not deign respond to the last part; his gut, though currently churning, told him that would cheer up neither of them. Instead, he said, 'You mean I'd have been unable to sail, were you a mundane vessel.'

The steamer's puppet nodded. 'Were I a lifeless boat, you'd never have got anywhere with a crew this small.' It grinned then, a jagged thing, like someone had taken a heavy, blunt blade to its head. 'Well. Not without the mage enchanting me to go on, or the giant pushing me, or the ghost possessing me...were he still around.'

Mharra gestured rudely, to go with his mumbling, which made the ship roar with laughter. At least his hearing had recovered enough he only wanted it to shut up out of annoyance. 'Lucky us that you are not, then.'

'Lucky you,' the ship agreed, mockingly, though it was not long until it became sober once more. 'Mharra. I know your body calls for you to sleep - a fitting punishment for spurning my gifts of fortitude -, but, if you can endure a few moments more, I would tell you of what you've forgotten.'

'Been made to forget?' Mharra suggested instead, expecting the growl that answered him.

'I could still turn around and sink them while you rest.'

'Would they made a battle of it?'

'Almost certainly.'

Mharra turned on his side. 'Then no. There are good ways to die in your sleep, but I'm too lonely for any.'

He belatedly realised how he sounded, but if the ship was offended he'd spoken of it as if it wasn't there, it said nothing. If anything, it seemed just as sad as him, seated as it was on the edge of the bed: chin resting on a fist, like the statue of a man in mournful repose.

'I miss him too, sir,' the Rainbow Burst said, knowing it needed not elaborate. 'But wailing and the gnashing of teeth will bring nothing. Cutting a path across the seas just might...' For an instant, Mharra glimpsed things inside the construct, caged fires and shackled lightning, as if it were made of clear glass. The powers the ship fed on in microcosm? 'And that is my purpose.'

Mharra wished he did not sound resentful when he replied. He'd rarely had his wishes fulfilled. 'It's good to have a purpose you can achieve, my friend.'

A large, rough hand landed on his knee, cold through his trousers, though Mharra would've sworn he truly had seen fires inside this thing. 'Are you jealous of me, captain?' It was, Mharra thought, trying to sound amused as it continued, 'I'd make a jape about wanting people inside you, but I doubt you're in the mood.'

Air hissed through Mharra's clenched teeth as he tried to sat up; one hand had brushed a leg, leaving him feeling like the limb had been bludgeoned. What was with this sensitivity? The pleasure fleet must've had strange tastes in liquors: most were supposed to numb your senses, not sharpen them.

Liquor. Or poison? But what, besides his ravishing good looks, could trigger a murder attempt? 'Get on with it, then,' he told the ship. 'Before I bump against the headboard and faint.'

'I think not, captain.'

'Oh? You have great faith in my endurance...'

'None at all, meatbag.' The construct's voice was just as falsely cheerful as Mharra's. 'That isn't what I was speaking of. You don't get to sidestep this?'

'This?'

'The lack of purpose,' the ship clarified. 'You're all abut whining about it.'

'What would that achieve?' Mharra shrugged, uncomfortable, and only in part due to his aching body. 'I give orders...well, they're more like suggestions, nowadays. Not like I could force anyone in this crew to do something. I don't steer you, for you need no helmsman. I'm becoming a figurehead, Burst, and fast.' He cracked a lopsided smirk. 'You might as well put me on your-'

'Pah,' the steamer spat, before proceeding to literally do so. Something dark and steaming began eating into the floor by the bed. Mharra wanted to know how the (once again) mouthless thing had done that even less than he wanted to learn what the tarlike stuff was. 'Do you know how many captains wish they could live like you? Hm? Many of them, with crews larger than some islands' populations, can still only delegate so much, for there are things that cannot be done while resting on one's laurels.'

Mharra's smile was more genuine now. 'So, in other words...'

'In other words, I'm telling you to stop whining.'

'Good thing I haven't started.'

'Pah!' No spitting accompanied the exclamation this time, and the result of the first expectoration seemed to have vanished. Certainly there was no more smoke, nor was the air oily any more. Mharra's idle curiosity faded, however, when the embodiment of the ship returned his grin, features shifting once more. 'But let us not trouble ourselves with that. Sir, you cut the show short - I'd judge - halfway through, when the jeering got on your nerves enough you started talking back. Not for long, though; you had to stop Tekhar from taking a swim and getting to the people booing him, and then cooler heads decided to invite you to a banquet to let tempers cool. Or so it seemed.'

Mharra licked his lips, but, if any of the poison (?) the pleasure fleet had slipped into his drink remained, it was as tasteless as the attempt it had been involved in. Really, were they so touchy they'd erase the memory of him talking back to them? 'I had to stop it in the middle, eh?'

'Of course you didn't have to,' the ship snapped. 'You could've kept going, and I'd have sunk the hecklers, if they tried to get rowdy.' It held up a bladed finger, which felt more like having a knife waved in front of his face than a finger wagged at him, to Mharra. 'But you kept indulging the milksops. Damn it, man, you know I can make anything you could want to gorge yourself on.'

'It was a matter of decorum, I'm sure.' Mharra rolled a shoulder that felt almost loose, but oddly slow to move even so. 'Besides, you hate anything not do to with travelling.'

'I hate them more!'

Mharra held up his hands. 'As you say. But you don't like playing cook - why would you, when you could just persuade me to shed this flesh? Storms, you barely like playing warship, for all this bloodthirsty bluster.'

The avatar stood up straighter, posture defensive. 'Bloodbaths make for gentle tides, but I can float and fight at the same time. And if it were up to me, I'd pick the first. Unless violence was the only way to preserve my passengers, of course.'

'Obviously. Was that first part a quote?'

'Remember I coined it, if you use it.' The thing rested its elbows (or the spots where they would've been on a human, for it had no joints Mharra could see) on its knees, one hand raised, palm upwards. 'Can you blame me, sir? For the outrage you call bloodthirst. If you were lost, I'm sure that giant of yours would say something awfully profound and mournful about the unity of the crew, then leave, and I doubt the mage would stick around, either. It would take me long to find a new proper crew, and I've even grown fond of you lot.'

At least it was honest. 'My heart is pattering, Burst. But you still haven't told me what happened.'

It did, then. Mharra did his best to filter out the curses - once the ship started repeating itself in that regard - and the dubious mechanical noises that emanated from the creature. It said something about how dog-tired he was, he thought, that even this almost felt like a lullaby.

Hours after the construct finished its story and left, though, Mharra was still awake, staring at a ceiling he could only dimly glimpse. When sleep did come to him, it was dreamless - as it had been on most of his worst nights.

'Are you sure, captain? We could go back,' the steamer said at the end, after several variations of this request scattered amidst the story, 'and wipe them off Midworld's face.' Its shoulders bulged, not with tension, but actually seeming to grow in size. 'They poisoned you, sir! Or as good as! You're willing to let them get away with this? If I hadn't turned my attention solely to making sure you were well, I would have-'

'If I can't see a trap this obvious,' Mharra cut it off, 'and I can't act well enough to win hearts, and I can barely do something resembling a real captain's duty...' Something between a sob and a hiccup escaped his lips, 'what good am I? What good am I, Burst?'

Mharra heard the steamer's retorts, but as if from a great distance, and barely listened. Minutes after the ship's mouthpiece had fallen silent, Mharra managed to sit up, using his shaky elbows, and said, 'Damn this all. I'm not going to send you after all of them, to send the children and the unknowing to a watery grave alongside the snakes who orchestrated this. However,' he added, sharply, when the construct looked ready to protest, 'I want you to keep an eye out for trackers, if they've sent any. Should any vessel of the pleasure fleet approach us without responding to our hails, you have permission to make Seaworm food of them.'

The avatar all but leap with joy, with how quickly it got back to its feet, rushing to shake Mharra's hand and assure him it would look into more thorough cures if he didn't manage to sleep the remaining effects off. 'Enough, now,' Mharra said tiredly, pulling his hand back. 'I must be doing something right if you and the other to are willing to listen to me...or indulge me, whichever.'

'You're just that endearing, sir,' the steamer replied coyly.

Mharra almost laughed, then, and told it goodnight, and waved it away, before he remained alone with his thoughts.

But that was then, after the ship's story. The story that Mharra held in his mind until he fell asleep, too exhausted to sulk anymore, the story that came to the forefront of his thoughts when he awoke.

When it did, more clearly than when he'd first heard it, the captain could not help but smile. He had done one good thing, if nothing else.

* * *

Verdant's shapeshifting had produced a fascinating effect as it imitated Three. Upon reaching the reenactment of Mharra's first meeting with his ghost - back when Three had been willing to possess people so they could have an excuse for their debauchery -, things had become a little tricky to stage. Obviously, the way he'd trapped the ghost in his body, through an application of his talents he still wasn't sure he could replicate, was not something that could be translated to a show.

So, Mharra had improvised, bending the truth as the best artists did. Verdant-as-Three had been trapped in a circle of salt, its "selves" moving back together to create something that looked like a man trapped inside a glass mannequin, itself trapped in a larger one. The three-layered thing, pale and appearing to float on colourless, nigh-invisible "stilts" of the protoplasm that made up the slime, glared heatedly at Mharra, one hand clutching its abdomen, the other clawing at air at the circle's edge.

There was some merit to the legend, Mharra knew: the cleansing properties of salt lent it a certain metaphysical weight that made it useful in thaumaturgy. However, unless enforced by someone with unnatural powers, a salt circle could only hold the weakest ghosts and similar species. Mharra hadn't deigned to use his powers for this, though, for there was nothing dangerous to trap, and thus no reason. Besides, for all he knew, slimes might be susceptible to salt if they counted as "unclean" enough, and he didn't want to accidentally seal Tekhar's pet.

The boy, who had taken to his role as narrator and commentator with only a little hesitation - less shyness, Mharra thought, and more the unpleasant state of mind being watched by those he disliked - paused as the public began commenting in his stead, arm frozen halfway to his chest in a sweeping gesture. Lamely, he let it fall, blushing slightly.

Mharra knew from experience that, at this age, crying and reddened faces could mean anger as easily as anything else. Not for the first time, he was glad for the water between the audience and the stage his ship had become.

Not that a need to swim deterred truly determined people - but Mharra felt better with this gap.

'Once again, virtue triumphs over vice!' a voice came from the crowd, one of the self-appointed commentators, and the ice broke.

'Therein can be seen the hidebound nature of outsiders.' There was more pity in the voice than sneering arrogance, but the it made scarce difference. 'If they offered more, people would not be desperate enough to go for such...alternatives-'

'Ah, but you forget!' a third person interjected, with all the confidence of a town square intellectual. 'Many outsiders lack the resources to indulge their desires, time being one such resource...'

'And will, too?' the second retorted. 'Maybe if they spent less time squabbling with each other over scraps, they could bend their forces to bringing prosperity.'

Mharra absently placed a hand on Tekhar's chest, to prevent an outburst, and decided that while he wouldn't take the time to single out these philosophical spectators, he wasn't going to have his show turned into some public discussion. That was for afterwards, and he was not inclined to stay much. Clearing his throat, he signalled for the ship to amplify his voice. 'That is all well and good, my friends, but perhaps we might-'

'You should've ended the ghost there! That enabler of monsters!' A new voice, that, and the tone put Mharra in mind of wagging fingers. 'Or perhaps you were already taken with lust for him?'

'Woe!' another cried out. 'For the passions of the flesh to overcome the clarity of the mind, and push one's hand to-'

He was beginning to understand why Tekhar mostly stayed away from these people. Tuning them out, he told himself that these people were too spoiled, too isolated - to the point of ignorance, and willing naivety - to understand that Midworld was not a kind place. Mharra had let cultures die when he had seen they were too stubborn to save themselves, or unwilling to, and he judged this a similar case.

Even if he got into an argument, he doubted he would change the pleasure fleet's mindset overnight, not that he was sure he even wanted to. Ib had wanted him here so he would learn something, he knew, but what? The giant was, Mharra suspected, incapable of not being secretive, and probably though the best way to teach swimming was to chain people to a lake's bottom so they'd be driven to succeed.

His friend's cryptic nonsense aside, Mharra was disappointed. He knew he should've outgrown such things, but meeting a culture that did not instantly react with suspicion, and truly did not appear to want to cheat or exploit him, had almost driven him to hope that...

It did not matter, anymore. He'd seen the face of the pleasure fleet, beneath their smiling mask. A part of him argued that many Midworlders, more jaded than these folk, would've thought the same of Three, and that he was being irrational because his ghost was involved. He could not deny it, but he could not let these fops judge as they wished. Everything the boy had implied...

There were some chuckles, some approving murmurs, when he got to the meeting with Ryzhan, and the bonds that grew between the mage and the rest of the crew. But soon enough, he reached the retelling of their encounter with the Free Fleet, and that damned experiment, and...

"Good riddance", and things close to it, had been uttered by some. Others had said, shrilly, that Three being "spread over" everything meant there was no one and nothing Mharra couldn't take without being close to his lover. If not for their hungry expressions, he'd have thought it a crass joke. Others still hung their heads or placed them in their hands, fat tears running down their cheeks, their wails filling the air as if Three had been as close to them as he was to Mharra. In other circumstances, the captain might've thought the ragged moans theatrical, but these people often wore their heart on their sleeve.

'You be quiet!' Tekhar, who'd got free of Mharra's hold at some point, shouted. His face was flushed, and not with embarrassment, for once, in the face of all his people, or as good as. 'You all be quiet! What do you know of love!'

At the edge of the stage, where Verdant had moved after mimicking Three's disappearance - Mharra hadn't known slimes could control where their fragments flew when they blew apart, but he supposed it shouldn't have surprised him: they could burst at will, and their bodies did not get ripped apart as much as spread out, while effectively remaining whole -, the Slime, still in the shape of Mharra's ghost, crouched in the shadows, warily watching its friend. It had the sort of look dogs sported when their owners were sad beyond their ability to fix, which was uncanny on its currently humanlike face.

'I've heard half you lot say romance is a distraction from joy - what, because growing close to one person might leave you less inclined to sleep around? And yet you're talking like you knew anythi-'

That was when the show degenerated into one big shouting match. The part of Mharra that always looked for silver linings argued this was a blessing in disguise: he'd been unsure whether he wanted to speak about what had happened after Three's disappearance, even if it would've compounded the charm they'd sought in the story.

Many of the pleasure fleet's folk denied Tekhar's words, loudly, while among the rest, responses varied from "And why are you lumping in us with the rest of them!?" to coarse laughter, unheeding of the others' opinions. When those from the second category began picking up things to throw, Mharra stepped in front of Tekhar, gently but firmly pushing the boy behind him. A twitch of a finger, in the direction of the crowd's rowdy part, was all it took for the steamer to understand. The back of the stage shifted, curtains becoming the rear of a wall, thick but perfectly transparent, that rose to surround Mharra and his assistants.

'Mayhap we ought to take a break and let tempers cool, everyone,' Mharra suggested with forced cheer, voice enhanced once more

* * *

The feast where he'd been addled was still a blur of jumbled images and sensations, wich he could only remember in order thanks to the steamer's help. But he did recall being invited to sit at the head of a table, and walking there on a ramp spun from his steamer's metal. Initially, the pleasure fleet had wanted him to make his way over on the bodies of many of the shows' spectators. Following a wagger whose details Mharra was frankly uninterested in, if this was the result, he'd refused to set foot on the floating pile of people, even as they entreated with him and promised him there was no issue in using them as stepping stones.

If this was the games the pleasure fleet played with its own people, he did not want to know what they did to their enemies. Tekhar's claims, which hadn't sounded too farfetched, now seemed downright likely.

Which was why Mharra felt no small amount of joy, then relief, when, shortly after the end of the feast, Tekhar approached him, Verdant enclosing his body protectively, like a living, clear cloak, and told him he was leaving.

'You inspired me, sir,' the lad confessed. 'Emboldened me. Until you came, I will admit I did not know how much there was beyond our realm. I'd seen a few outsiders, from a distance, when I was little, but all too many of them were easily driven off, if hostile, or browbeaten into joining our fleet.' There was distaste in Tekhar's eyes, but also a certain wariness, as if anyone might be listening in on them. Mharra, despite being fairly unsteady on his feet, was convinced that was impossible: he'd used his gifts to create a small zone of silence, a skill he usually tapped into before miming something in a show. The ability only needed to be turned on, and so required no concentration, which the captain had little of to spare.

'But you did neither,' Tekhar continued, before leaning closer and whispering, 'Though they got to you, captain.'

Mharra, irritated by the implication, but truly as uncomprehending of the boy's words as he was of his ship's growls, ground out, 'Captain? Ye'd best not be hopin' to 'itch...hitch a ride on my-' he hiccupped, then slapped his chest several times, as if to scare it out.

'Don't worry about that, Mharra,' Tekhar replied smoothly. Then, in that low voice again, 'I am afraid do not have a cure for your, um, affliction, sir, not that I could give it to you without someone seeing...so take care from now on, will you? Not every friendly face smiles out of kindness.'

Mharra rolled his eyes at that, which set his head spinning. By the time he made it to his hands and knees, still dizzy, Tekhar had departed, almost out of sight, his slime having assumed the shape and function of a boat.

It was a long journey back to his steamer, in duration if not distance. The nagging didn't help.

'I've never seen you this sloppy, captain! I was giving you hints for the whole damned meal, where was your head?'

'If you sayin' there's a problem, why didn't ya take care of it right then, eh? Eh?' he challenged.

The steamer huffed. 'Do you even know how many weapons those flowery bastards have got hidden in their toy boats? And how many baffles, to prevent one from checking on them? By the time I ascertained I could beat them without my form or surroundings being destroyed, you were already drunk! Or...no. Worse, aren't you?' Its voice became pensive, though anger did not leave it. 'I've never seen such a drug, but I should be able to create a cure, after enough observation. I-'

'Can do it while I get some shuteye, can't ya? I think if I go to sleep now, I'm not wakin' up.' The end of the sentence was almost sobbed, and Mharra stumbled, not dazed, but surprised at himself.

'Sir...' the steamer sounded unpleasantly surprised. 'Don't tell me you've let your guard down because...Mharra, you can't listen to such impulses just because you feel bad for yourself! You might've died!'

Mharra sniggered darkly. 'I can't? Can't even listen to impulses now? That useless, am I? H-Ha...'

After that, the Rainbow Burst told him, he'd become partly catatonic, in the sense that he still moved, but barely reacted to outside stimuli, be they his surroundings or his ship's words. It took a while before his awareness returned, and he began responding to the steamer once more.

* * *

Mharra leaned his elbows on the railing, hair in the wind, as he watched a dot on the horizon that might've been Tekhar. The lad likely knew little of Midworld, and his slime, for all its endurance and instincts, hadn't faced the sorts of dangers that lurked in and above the endless sea. Aye, he had a strong will, and a skepticism that would keep him from getting too close to dangerous sorts, literally or figuratively, but he was green.

The captain had never fancied himself a hero, and of the people he'd met, he'd have said only a handful were. But, while he didn;t have it in him to mother the boy, and hold him back, and tell him the risks and dangers were too great - for Tekhar had said he didn't want to sail with Mharra, and the captain himself had sailed out, alone, into a world no less dangerous, -, that didn't mean he couldn't, or wouldn't, do anything to help.

So it was that Mharra compiled a list of the threats most likely to surface, literally in some cases, in this area of Midworld. Once folded and placed in an envelope, Mharra placed it inside a sort of covered boat, a creation and part of the steamer, which, the ship assured him, could track down the boy and deliver the letter.

The response arrived when it was still dark, but well after Mharra had awoken, though no serious duty called him. Captains who slept in rarely lived long, and those who did were often unpopular with their crews. In Mharra's case, his fleshly failings were likely to get him an earful from his living vessel.

The boat returned tugging a pale sphere about the height of a man. Covered in bruises and rents that leaked nothing, for it had been dried inside and out at the same time it had been crushed into this shape, one broken fang, long but only a fraction of the Seaworm's tooth it had been part of shone in the light of dawn. Hanging from it was Mharra's letter, the back showing rough but readable words. Whether the pleasure fleet was not so isolated that its script was unlike that Mharra used, or Tekhar had picked this one up so fast, it gave him some peace of mind. The boy would manage. Indeed, in reference to the threats Mharra had listed, his reply read:

'Thank you, Mharra.
But they should beware of us.'

Next to Tekhar's signature was a slimy stain that matched the looks of the creature that had left it, down to Verdant's eyes; next to it, a circle made from the extracted fluids of the butchered Seaworm. Looking down at the letter, remembering the reckless bravery of his own boyhood, Mharra met the sun with a smile.

* * *

'Do you understand it, now?' The moral of this captain's tale?'

Aina gave Mendax an ugly look, though her disgust was not directed at him. 'That the nicer they seem, the more likely it is that people are bastards?'

'Now, why would I try to hint something so obvious?' The eldritch being laughed, light bending around him as he did so. He became somber once more in short order, however. 'Aina...you're the last person I need to tell that you can do everything right, and act kindly towards everyone, and still fail. That's just life, for most of us.' He held out a hand. 'But for those who try to reach above their fellows, to reverse what looks like the course of fate...well.' He shook his head. 'You can pour your heart and soul into such an endeavour, and still not achieve your goal. Or you might, and find it less worthy than you wished, stained by your actions. Trust me - as certain and implacable something might look, it can come to naught in a heartbeat.'

Aina ran fingers down her neck to her chest, where slime and chest had begun to manifest. Her monster appeared like rashes did on people, sometimes. 'And should he fail in his quest? Will he find a purpose for himself, then? Find joy again?'

'If there is any to be found, by anyone,' Mendax replied, 'it is all too often hard to find, and tinged with pain besides. More bitter than sweet.' Unexpectedly, a smile twisted the Meddler's features. 'But the sweetness is there, Aina. Flaws do not hide beauty, save from those who blind themselves - and to those who know where to look, they only brighten it.'