Chapter 208 – The Pain of Falijmali

The next day, Mirian returned to Najwa’s Artificing Shop. It was early morning, so there were no customers. Najwa was carefully disassembling a scrapped spell engine. From the dozens of glass vials spread out on the table, Mirian guessed she was extracting magichemicals from glyphs, a laborious process that she’d never bothered with because she never had to deal with a scarcity of resources or money.

“You again,” Najwa said, not setting down her tools.

“Too often, I’m blind,” Mirian said. “You can’t really earn trust without giving trust. And when you get hurt by something, it’s hard to expose the wound. Better to keep the tender parts hidden.”

The artificer looked at her. “Most people start with, ‘hello, I’d like to buy something.’”

“Everyone has their own motivations, bubbling beneath the surface. Me, I just want to save Enteria,” she said, spreading her arms wide and smiling. Then her gaze grew stern. “But people like you have seen that everyone pretends to be a kind soul, especially the sinister ones. The most abhorrent ones grip their masks the tightest.” She thought of Westerun, pretending to be only interested in the health of his patients. “The problem is, when you’ve been betrayed by enough people wearing masks of kindness, you stop trusting kindness. And then the world is a little less bright.”

Najwa’s suspicious gaze hadn’t lessened. “You should leave,” she said.

“The brass smugglers’ cases are behind a false wall in the closet. It’s the best hiding spot of all the artificer shops, I think, because a diviner might think it’s just the plumbing. At least fifty doubloons worth of material goes south each month. An incredible amount, given the poverty of the town. What I can’t figure out is what you all get in return.”

The other woman had grown stiff. She had her hand by her belt, next to her wand.

“I’m looking for Atroxcidi, of course. But I need him not to know this yet, because the Prophet Ibrahim has already manipulated him.” Najwa was about to talk, but Mirian raised a finger. She summoned her soulbound spellbook and opened to one of the pages in the middle. “In three days, you plan to add two grams of silvophus, eight grams of sparkleberry extract, and three grams of wintersap to the brass case. But the myrvite migrations spotted south of here will delay the caravan. It never gets sent.” She closed the book and dismissed it.

Najwa had taken a step back. “What are you?” she whispered.

“A Prophet. Chosen. Whatever you call them. I don’t know how to fix the world yet, but this I do know: it is only by understanding truth that we have a chance.” She spread her arms wide again. “So I’ll ask again. What truths do you hold? Why is Falijmali like this? What history do you and the necromancer share? Was he your ally in the Unification War? Or does he threaten the town with ruin if you don’t obey? What do you know of him?”

The artificer was still silent.

“I’m still not being honest, am I?” Mirian took in a deep breath and closed her eyes. Her voice became a whisper. “I was taken from my birth parents. I don’t know who they were, only that I would have lived my life here, in Persama, had Baracuel not stolen me away. They didn’t just steal the children, though. They cursed them so they’d forget having ever lived here. That curse still lingers.”

She opened her eyes in time to see Najwa’s face shift through a dozen different emotions. There was still that fear, still disbelief, but there was horror, too—and sorrow. Najwa stepped back as if hit by force blast, and tears started running down her face. “One of the lost,” she whispered. “We wondered why they never returned… wondered where… Gods above.”

Mirian found that her own eyes were moist too. These others will never remember the time together we had, but somewhere in the world, there is always someone who understands.

***

This time, when Najwa went to talk to the people she knew, it was a new story about Mirian. She hadn’t had to explain Ibrahim all that much, but that the man had seemingly stolen away their necromancer was a point of friction. It was after all, their tribute that let him build his undead army.

That was good. Mirian hadn’t wanted to hunt down and kill anyone trying to contact Ibrahim like she had with the prince’s riders.

“So you don’t need us anymore?” Numo asked.

“No.” She slid a pouch packed with gold and silver across the table. “That’s enough coin for you to live in luxury. I wouldn’t recommend leaving town for some time, though. There’s myrvites swarming to the south, and more leviathans and other sea beasts surfacing in the East Sound.”

“Hmm.” Numo shrugged. “If it was just information you needed, why didn’t you just torture them?”

Mirian recoiled. The thought of what Specter had done to her flashed through her mind. “No,” she said.

“Well, whatever. Might be faster next time to do that, though.”

He and Ravatha left, heading down the block towards their favorite restaurant, Mirian assumed. She had tracking glyphs hidden on their things. Numo knew this; Ravatha didn’t. Either way, she’d know if they suddenly tried running west.

Arenthia sighed. “I’m glad you draw that line,” she said. “The Deeps… tortured a lot of people.” The way she said it, Mirian knew she’d seen it done. Maybe even done it herself. “It did sometimes work. Rarely. Most of the time, they just told us whatever they thought we wanted to hear. The other times, we never intended to get information. Just to send them back to their people, broken, as a warning. Nothing good will ever be built on a foundation so full of pain. And no mortar will ever patch the fissures. Zolomator watch over you.”

“They are. I’m sure of it,” Mirian said.

Mirian then went to her meeting. She and Arenthia split up. What she’d said to Numo and Ravatha in public was a lie; they would still be on the lookout for spies and informants. As Arenthia had noted, though, anyone listening thinking they were no longer associated would make their job easier. Arenthia would be on the lookout for anything too obvious, and had a small device Mirian had made that let her use remote whisper at some distance. The priestess had some experience in using mana for devices, and that was all that was required. Like a wand, the spell just needed mana shoved at it, nothing that required any control.

Najwa met her in one of the plazas, then they took a circuitous route to an unremarkable building. In the basement was what she recognized as an old bathhouse, but one of the chambers had been repurposed for meetings. “How old is this?” she asked, looking around.

“At least two thousand years. It was built sometime during the Persaman Triarchy. We resisted them too,” Najwa said proudly.

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The meeting was kept small to avoid attracting attention. The other woman in the room was Thaseem. Mirian knew her as one of the guards of the city, but apparently she was much more. Najwa had been sparse on the details until they were in a secure location.

Mirian summoned her spellbook, going down her list of common divination spells to check. “I detect nothing, and my companions haven’t contacted me either.”

Thaseem nodded. She would have done her own checks. Mirian had caught at least one of the other guards casting a quick divination spell as they’d approached the building. “Najwa tells me time is not the same for you. And Prophets don’t work quite like the histories report.”

“It isn’t,” Mirian said, and briefly described the situation. For Ravatha and Numo, she’d left out just how proximate the end of the world was. For these people, she’d told them the truth. “So. Tell me about the Junudasun,” she said. That was what Najwa had called the organization.

“It’s quite simple,” Thaseem said. “At the end of Unification, Baracuel promised to let us live in peace. It then broke that promise, not once, not twice, but eight times. Twice, it sent the navy to our port and bombarded our town. Another time, it had our Council assassinated and replaced by those more friendly to it. Oh, they lie and say it was the separatists who did the deed, or had some fig leaf of justification for their attacks, but we know the truth of things. Always, it acts as a redmire serpent coiled around our necks, fangs sunk in deep, and no amount of blood will satiate it. Our ancestors, when they made peace, forgot a lesson they should have known: that empires don’t accept limits.”