Chapter 62: The Season of the Minotaur (11)

The full moon was up, and Simon had finished drawing his circle.

He had spent hours from sunset to midnight tracing a many miles wide circle around the Darkwood with his phantom steed while wearing his Old Man in the Woods disguise, only periodically stopping to etch runes of power into trees to mark his ritual’s boundaries. The Lost Wilds could cover an area around forty square miles at the maximum, so long as it counted as wilderness, like a forest or valley. That should be plenty to obfuscate the Halls of the Minotaur.

Once he had finished completing the circle at the toll of midnight, he rejoined with Duchar, Cassandra, and a group of cultists at the forest’s southern edge, all of them wearing makeshift hoods covering their faces. Three other groups, one for each cardinal direction, waited for his signal all across the Darkwood.

“My lord,” Cassandra said with a bow as she presented him with a hand-carved turnip lantern whose flame glowed with a bluish ghostlight. “The believers are ready.”

“You have done well, priestess, but their faith remains to be tested,” Simon declared as he seized the lantern and glanced at the group of four cultists. Each of them held their breaths, drinking each of Simon’s words. “This lantern, fed with your blood, brightens with the embers of belief. If your faith is true, it shall show the way forward on this holy pilgrimage towards our Lady’s avowed halls. If you follow me with true hearts and do not waver in your psalms, your destination you shall reach and you shall be initiated into the higher mysteries; but if your faith is found wanting, then you shall haunt these woods for all eternity.”

It was a load of nonsense, but the style and presentation of tonight’s ceremony more than convinced them. Who would doubt the words of an ancient spirit riding a phantom horse and carrying a glowing lantern under the full moon? They ate it all up.

“We shall not disappoint you, oh great and wise spirit of the forest!” one of the cultists replied with enthusiasm. “Our faith shall be our shield!”

“Can somebody help me with my hood?” another asked, his hands fumbling around in the dark. “The holes aren’t big enough, I can’t see nuthin’!”

“I’ve got a sacrificial dagger,” the third said, a blade flashing in the moonlight. “Just hold still, Edward, like that lamb I gutted last week.”

“I swear if you stab me in the eye, Dorian, I’ll drown you in the pig pen’s mud–”

“Are you all done?!” the fourth snapped at them. “You’re ridiculing us in front of the great one!”

I’m starting to realize why most dryad cults end up being discovered, Simon thought as he waited in silence, like the nature spirit he was pretending to be. I hope Lorimor wasn’t the most competent of them.

“I shall pray for your success, my gentle seeds,” Cassandra said with her hands joined as the cultists respectfully bowed to her. She had grown into her role of dryad cult priestess quite well.

Afterwards, Simon guided the four cultists into the woods, riding ahead with his lantern while his followers muttered psalms praising the Stone Muse. Those were entirely superfluous—the act of treading the wilderness with the lantern towards a destination was the ritual’s actual linchpin—but it helped these people buy into the masquerade. Each of them had received the Brand of Gluttony, granting them some resistance to the ambient miasma’s poisonous nature, though a few still coughed from the fumes.

Once the Lost Wilds ritual reached its conclusion, only people following the trail used by the four cultist groups would be unaffected by the curse, hence Simon had to carefully plan their itinerary. The group passed by Carrock and his fairy ring, the treant pretending to be a normal tree as they walked by him, then through a few chokepoints before reaching the swamps at the Darkwood’s heart. Simon noticed the terrain twisting around them the more they progressed, with the shadows beneath the trees lengthening, paths twisting like coiling snakes, and bushes covering the trail behind them. He could feel the magic in the air.

Their group reunited with three others at the Halls of the Minotaur’s threshold, each of them guided by a lantern-wielding gargoyle. The ghostlights flickered once they gathered, then shone bright with a greenish glow that filled Simon’s soul with experience.

Complete success.

“Are we done, oh great spirit?” Edward the cultist asked, his eyes peeking through two big holes newly cut into his hood. “Are we becoming immortal now?”

“That’s the third step of initiation,” another cultist replied. “Or so I’ve heard.”

“Are we sacrificing something?” the one called Dorian asked with enthusiasm, his sacrificial dagger sharp and wanting. “Or someone?”

“Oh blessed souls, your pilgrimage is complete, and the Lady accepts you into her sanctuary,” Simon told the fatigued cultists, his hand opening to reveal the Brand of Sloth. Dorian actually looked disappointed by the lack of human sacrifice, but didn’t say a word. “You shall now be blessed with the Mark of the Root, the second of the four, and that shall connect you to the forest itself. Behave well, and greater gifts you shall receive.”

Each of them he branded one after the other, then welcomed them into the Halls of the Minotaur’s lower levels, where a celebratory feast awaited them for their troubles. They would revel until sunrise, and then return to their daily lives with renewed faith until the next full moon. Those who proved themselves with other tasks would receive the Brand of Lust and serve directly in the Halls of the Minotaur to compensate for their losses in the bombardment.

After leaving his cultists to his gargoyle minions, Simon dismissed his phantom steed and rejoined Duchar in his workshop, which had thankfully been repaired since the bombardments. He found the sorcerer layering spells on a magnetic compass as part of an item crafting process.

“Your Majesty has returned,” Duchar noted once he finished his incantation. “I assume the ritual was a success? I could feel the magic from here.”

“It worked out well.” Simon put the turnip lantern on a nearby shelf. Its smokeless fire continued to burn without the need for fuel, and would continue to do so until someone managed to disrupt the forest-wide enchantment. “This lantern will light up one of the secret itineraries we used to reach the Halls of the Minotaur. You should keep it with you if you or Hector ever decide to go out. I will entrust the three others to a select few.”

“Your Majesty’s gift honors me. I will enjoy studying such primal ancient magic.” Duchar stroked his beard. “If I may ask, did our host teach you other such rituals?”

“Yes, but none of them are especially useful for our purpose yet,” Simon replied. “One of them, Vernal Fury, has the strength to destroy an entire settlement with ivy and briar, but it can only be cast on the first day of the year.”

“Quite the heavy restriction.”

Simon nodded. Perhaps he would have the option to cast this ritual in a future reign, but it was useless to him for now. “She’s currently teaching me another called Chimeric Bloom, which cultivates a plant whose seeds can transform those who ingest them into monsters. Unfortunately, those creatures aren’t under anyone’s control.”

“Doesn’t Your Majesty possess a Perk allowing them to bind weaker monsters to their will?” Duchar asked with great curiosity. “Surely it would apply to these creatures.”

“Perhaps, but the risk of these creatures running amok or an epidemic of monsters drawing attention to us is too great for now,” Simon replied. “I would rather keep a low profile and avoid a second bombardment.”

“Yes, yes, I understand, that would be most inconvenient,” Duchar replied. “I would prefer to keep this unique biome intact, even beyond the Seasonal Key’s conclusion. Now that our host has confirmed that souls who die in the Darkwood wander it for all eternity, I believe we have a unique chance to further necromantic research. Truthfully, I have begun to wonder if creating such a place was Overlord Mardok’s plan from the start rather than a mere act of passing cruelty.”

“I wouldn’t put it past it being mere sadism,” Simon replied. Everything he had heard about Mardok from either Belzemine’s accounts or history books painted Mardok the Bloodthirsty as a monster worthy of his archfiend title. “He might have also been trying to bind the Minotaur in place and spite the elves while at it. Killing two birds with one stone.”

“Mayhaps. I have the intuition that many of our questions will be answered once our host is free of her bindings and reveals her true power.” Duchar presented Simon with his newly crafted magic compass. “Speaking of bindings, I have completed my current task.”

Simon seized the compass and studied it. It looked rather ordinary, except that it failed to point north as it should have. “This will let us locate the next sacrifice?”

“Yes. His Late Majesty Balzam commissioned me for the creation of a bloodline detection spell, and while it would certainly be more accurate with blood samples of the mages that wove the seal, the mana signature woven into their spellwork should be enough. The compass will need to be in close proximity to our target to function, however.”

“How close?” Simon inquired.

“A few hundred feet,” Duchar replied, much to Simon’s disappointment. “As I said, I could have created a more accurate device with a blood sample, but I had to make do with what I could with the means at hand.”

“You have done well, Duchar. This will have to suffice.” They still had almost two and a half months until the Autumnal Equinox reared its ugly head. That should be plenty of time to find someone that could fulfill the sacrifice requirements. “What of my other commission?”

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“That one was a bit more difficult, but I think I have found a workaround.” Duchar searched his workshop and brought him a sun-shaped pendant, which Simon recognized as a holy symbol of the Light that priests usually wore. “If Your Majesty would kindly put this on.”

Simon did so, and immediately sensed a pressure coming from the amulet: the same stark feeling of unease that had seized when he touched the Templar and Merchant Crestones, laced with hostility. The pendant hated him, as much as an animated object could hate its wearer.

“What beings have been able to sense the Dark radiating from Your Majesty so far?” Duchar asked as he began to cast analysis spells on Simon.

“Dryads, the Paladin, and fiends,” Simon replied. Duchar raised an eyebrow at the mention of the Paladin. “It’s a long story, but I think Paladin Vassal Classes can detect me too, unless I am shrouded in a place strong with the Dark.”

“This wouldn’t surprise me. The Overlord is a living wellspring of the Dark, and Your Majesty’s protective Perks only cover divination magic. Anyone attuned to the Dark or the Light would detect your true nature, especially with a Fiendmask on.” Duchar nodded to himself. Whatever his analysis spells told him pleased him. “Nonetheless, this pendant should… well, not entirely cover Your Majesty’s aura—nothing short of the Paladin Crestone would suffice, and even then I’m not sure—but at least diffuse it.”

“How did you achieve this feat?” Simon asked as he opened up the pendant and found himself staring at a pitch black miasma crystal inside, a chill traveling down his spine the moment he recognized it. “This is Father Rodrigue’s soul.”

“Ingenious, is it not?” Duchar chuckled to himself. “His priestly soul’s harnessed faith acts as a screen, a moon that obscures the darkness.”

In short, Simon would have to carry the soul of the priest he had sacrificed on a demon’s altar to better hide among his fellow believers. The Overlord in him approved the prospect as much as his human side found it disturbing.

Bear with it, Simon, he told himself. It will be alright in the end.

Nonetheless, this would take a thorn out of Simon’s foot. Alphonse’s ability to detect the Dark meant he could have accidentally spotted and recognized Simon the same way he did in Valne… especially since Silk informed him that he might show up at Odette’s ball under a false identity.

Simon had the sneaking suspicion the White Unicorn might try something should his sister Lauriane indeed attend the ball. He didn’t think they would be so brazen as to assassinate her ahead of the Valne-Lore landing, but they hadn’t been above ambushing him, Eole, and Belzemine when they least expected it.

Moreover, Odette had provided him with a guest registry, and some interesting names appeared on it. Some he suspected would cause him troubles in the near future.

He would take no risks.

The glow of dancing lights and the music coming from the Midnight Market could be noticed from streets away.

The area was a lot more fortified than usual. Armed retinues assisted Odette’s guards in managing a long line of guests with rigorous precision at the entrance, checking every visitor’s invitation alongside searching them for hidden weapons. Simon’s turn arrived, though they failed to pick up on the Fiendmask hiding his features. A gross oversight when holding a ball hosting so many important local figures…

“Mister Titivillus, a pleasure to welcome you to Whispermire’s yearly Founding Ball,” the guard said as he provided Simon with a sheet of paper. “Here is a formal schedule of the dances, songs, and events. Our servants will be happy to answer any query you might have, or provide any assistance you may require.”