It is said that the Priestess came alone out of the icy fastness of the Southern Emptiness, wearing only rags, her feet bare, leaving behind a path of blood. Yet all whom she met, priest and lay alike, bowed to the fire of her gaze. It has also been said that with the wave of a hand she flattened a Jourilan keep outside Pon-Ruo where the local priest of Our Lady the Saviour denounced her. This last rumour is not true. For she demands nothing, not even recognition; asks not a thing of anyone. All who would follow her must do so of their own volition. And do not be deluded. They do so. In their scores.
On a rocky shore just east of the city of Ebon the campfires of the city’s outcasts and destitute flicker like the myriad lights of that great fortress and urban sprawl itself. At one such driftwood fire sit two old men and three old women, the women layered in threadbare shawls and skirts, the men in old finery, much patched and frayed.
One of the women rocked and sang tunelessly under her breath as she knitted. She cast a sly glance aside from beneath her ropy grey hair. ‘I see you there, Carfin,’ she crooned. ‘No sneaking up on ol’ Nebras!’
A shadow detached itself from the surrounding gloom, straightened long and tall. ‘I was not sneaking,’ a voice answered, as deep and slow as the surf licking almost to the fire’s edge. ‘I merely walk quietly.’ This fellow emerged from the night as a tall narrow-limbed man in dark shirt and trousers, both a patchwork of mending. He sat far back from the fire.
‘We are six,’ the second woman announced, and she jerked back a quick drink from a silver flask that then disappeared into her shawl.
‘We are indeed, Sister Gosh…’ one of the men answered, standing. He raised his gaze to the night sky, a hand going to his patchy goatee. Nebras rolled her eyes; the other man hung his head. ‘The stars are in alignment to allow our convening. The Goddess Below waits yet, breath held. Master of Chains searches without success. We, the High and Mighty Synod of Stygg Theurgists, Witches and Warlocks-’
‘Such as we are…’ muttered Nebras, not pausing in her knitting.
‘-are hereby come to order. Totsin Jurth the Third presiding as senior member. Now, first item of business. Sister Gosh, will you bless our assemblage?’
The silver flask disappeared once again into the shawl. Sister Gosh sat straighter, rearranged the folds of her layered wraps. She raised one crooked finger and squinted an eye. ‘Let’s see. Yes. May the Lady not track us down or sniff us out. May she not catch us in her grasping hands to stuff us down her greedy throat. May she not suck the marrow from our bones, nor boil our blood in the heat of her eternal hunger until our eyeballs pop and our tongues burst aflame.’ She eyed Totsin. ‘How was that?’
Totsin’s grey brows had risen quite high. ‘Well… yes. Thank you, Sister Gosh. Quite adequate, if rather visceral.’ He cleared his throat. ‘Now, second order of business. Absent members. What news of Sister Prentall?’
‘Caught by the witch-hunters and delivered to the Lady,’ announced the third woman.
‘Ah.’ Totsin glared at Sister Gosh, who mouthed I didn’t know! ‘Thank you, Sister Esa. Any other news? What of Brother Blackleg?’
‘Dead,’ said the other man, now staring deep into the fire, his chin in his hands.
‘Ah. Not… the Lady…?’
‘No. His liver.’
‘Ah. I’d thought him indestructible.’
‘As did he, obviously,’ the man observed laconically.
Totsin nodded, wiped his hands on his greasy trousers. ‘Very well.
Sad news. We are diminished greatly. Yet night turns inexorably, and winter comes. We needs must consider the future and what is to be our course of action given the proliferation of signs and portents confronting us…’ Nebras had drawn up her shawls tightly and raised a hand. Totsin blinked at her. ‘Ah, yes… Sister Nebras?’
‘As you say, Totsin. The wanderings of the Holds wait for no one — like the tide. And it is strangely high this night. Let us be on our way then.’
‘But… we have yet to decide…’
‘Very good, Totsin,’ cut in Sister Gosh. ‘I vote we decide. Carfin?’
The lanky man far from the fire pushed back his hanging black hair, clasped his frayed jerkin. ‘I abstain.’
‘Abstain?’ Sister Gosh snapped. ‘You came all this way just to abstain? Why didn’t you just stay in your mouldy cave?’
‘It is not a cave — it is a subterranean domicile.’
‘Perhaps we could-’ began Totsin.
‘And you’re an obtuse ingrate.’
‘Hag.’
‘Eunuch.’
‘If we could just-’
‘Actually, eunuch isn’t the technically correct word-’
‘I see something!’ the fellow staring into the fire announced.
Sister Gosh sat up, as did Totsin. Even Carfin drew closer. ‘What is it, Jool?’ Sister Esa whispered.
The man thrust out a clawed hand. ‘The tiles!’
Sister Nebras drew a pouch from her quilts, upended it into the man’s hand. He slashed his other hand through the fire, casting burning embers aside to reveal the steaming sands beneath. ‘Fire, Night, Earth, Light, Seas, Life, Death. All are gathered now for this coming season at the Stormwall.’ Jool cast the tiles across the steaming sands. ‘I see conflagration.’
‘Well… it is a fire,’ Totsin whispered to Carfin.
A glare from Sister Nebras silenced him.
Jool studied the spread of the small wood and ivory tablets. ‘All paths lead to destruction now. There is no escape for anyone. This season will see the grasp of the Lady tightened beyond all release. Or shattered beyond repair.’
‘Who opposes?’ Sister Esa hissed.
The man reached down to gingerly pluck one tile from the sprawl. He held it up to the light of the remnant embers and examined it, puzzled. ‘Where is this one from?’ he asked Sister Nebras.
She set it in her palm. Everyone crowded close. ‘It’s the oldest of all my dearies,’ Sister Nebras said, breathless. Her brows rose in wonder. ‘And yet my most recently gained.’
‘Bloodwood,’ Carfin observed.
‘Inscribed with a House,’ said Totsin.
‘The House of Death,’ Sister Nebras said, hushed.
‘It’s from Jakatakan,’ said Jool, certain.
Sister Esa let out a small yelp. ‘Jakatakan! Then… it’s them.’
Sister Gosh straightened, nodding. She took a fortifying nip from her flask and sucked her teeth. All waited, tense, while she gathered herself. ‘Jakatakan. Ancient isle. The mythical island beyond the Riders.’ She addressed the others. ‘But not so mythical, yes?’
‘Until they came,’ breathed Sister Esa.
‘And what name did they come bearing?’ Sister Gosh demanded.
‘The name of the Island of the House of Death,’ said Totsin.
‘Malaz,’ said Carfin, facing outward to the night.
‘They are coming,’ affirmed Sister Gosh. ‘All contend now. The Lady. The Stormriders. The Invaders. And whosoever shall prevail this season, this land shall see their grip so tightened, their power so increased, that never shall we escape.’
Totsin pulled at his beard. ‘Yet what of their domination? Foreigners…’
‘We are all foreigners here,’ Sister Nebras sneered.
Jool drew a surprised breath. ‘Bloodwood…’
‘Of course!’ Sister Esa answered. ‘The Elders. The First. They never capitulated.’
‘Blood,’ Carfin droned into the night, morose. ‘I like it not.’
