The Fickle Winds of Autumn

Gimel paced the small, plain quarters he had been assigned.

The sombre tolling of the Great Cathedral Bell barely disturbed his troubled thoughts.

For too long now, there had been no news from his trusted colleagues concerning Ilgar’s revolt - no news at all.

Perhaps they had been discovered and killed - for surely they would never betray him - no torture or gold could buy their loyalty or friendship.

But he must continue to gather information and attempt to discover the true source of power behind his brother’s murder.

And his duties as a priest still called to him - he could not remain here indefinitely - who would guide the wandering souls of the departed ones and protect them on their journey to Jahluu?

Would they roam forever?

Or wait amongst the shifting dunes for his return?

His nose still held on to the scent of the incense which smoked within his temple - but for how much longer?

And could he even still wield the symbols of Qhul, and use his powers?

He had been warned that the protective Vallum which shielded the Cathedral complex would prevent the use of magik - but he had not thought it would be such a powerful enchantment - to rob him entirely of their familiar, comforting hum and glow during his stay there.

The hard floor of the room was unresponsive and cold; the shallow pulsing echo of his footsteps rang in his head.

The tight, stone space they kept him in was unnatural and strange - from inside its walls, it was not possible to feel the questions the wind was asking below its breath.

And without the compliant goodness of the swirling sands yielding beneath his feet, how was it possible to predict the coming of Sorrow, or the jealous movements of the djinn?

His host had warned him not to venture outside the room and mix with others - he could happily live isolated from the company of men, perhaps even, given the need for his own secrecy, it was better that way - but in accepting the offer of refuge, he had not considered his separation from the living world - to be sealed into a tiny existence of his own.

Sealed in - save for the narrow, uncertain joy of the slit window - but the few times he had been brave enough to open it, the bitter winds of this land had not favoured him with a welcome, but instead blew harshly and cold into his ears and face.

And, at the time of his arrival, the stately trees outside had worn red leaves - golden and glowing soft; now they had given this great mantle to the wet ground. He had read of such things, but the strangeness of their patterns, and the weather, and their choices and adaptations, were confused and bewildering.This content belongs to Nô/velDra/ma.Org .

At least inside there was a fire to warm him - and the food was palatable enough - if a little bland for his tastes. Why did the cooks here not use the spices of Khijl province to add life to their dishes?

But their customs were not his - there was still much to learn of their land; he must adapt and grow into his new surroundings - but he must never allow the cold damp winds of this place to extinguish the desire which burned within him - the desire to avenge his brother and return to the duties he owed to his homeland.

A sharp knock at the door interrupted his pensive footsteps.

He recognised the rhythm as brother Caldor’s and turned the latch to let him in.

“I trust that everything has been to your satisfaction these last few weeks?” his host asked. “I regret that I have been unable to spend more time with you - but that is one of the burdens of officialdom.”

His host always began their meetings with these empty, meaningless questions and excuses - but he had also learnt that his host only ever visited him if he had a specific reason to do so. He was aware of this custom and began the dance.

“I am also familiar with this burden,” he replied.

“I’m sorry about the need for keeping you here in secrecy - but not all of the members of our glorious Church share my enthusiasm for broadening our cultures, and some may object to your presence here, as you are not of our faith.”

“Please do not let this trouble you - you have been a most generous and accommodating host.”

His host picked up a scroll from the table and glanced at it.

“I’m sorry for the rather small chamber we have given you - but I see at least you have been managing to divert yourself with these documents.”

“The papers you have brought from your renowned Library have been most educational and informative - I am grateful to have read them - there is no comfort more blessed than the knowledge found within a learned manuscript.”

“Yes. Quite.”

His host paused; a silence settled on the room.

The dance was done; the one-who-dressed-in-black was about to reveal the real reason for his visit.

“Just out of interest,” his host said, “I wondered if you’ve ever heard tell of the Quillon of Hekubate?”

Here it was at last - the true purpose.

But there was something new this time - he had not spent long in the presence of his host, but he knew enough of the man to discern when he was trying to keep the open truth from leaving his mouth.

He would need to be cautious.

“Its fame and power have spread even to my land,” he replied.

“Excuse my curiosity,” his host continued, “but what do the tales in your land say about it?”

“The priests say that it is a key - a key which can open up a portal to the realm of demons. Its power is dangerous and destructive - it is even rumoured to have a will of its own - born from the Demon Lord who first used it and embedded part of his immortal soul in its blade.”

“Most interesting.” His host took a few silent paces around the room. “But one of our advisors seems to feel it could be used in helping to cast a protective spell to repel witches - as you know we have been sorely troubled by these creatures of late - do you think it could be used in this way - to amplify an apotropaic incantation?”

“I have no specialist knowledge of this artefact - only the ancient rumours of my own people - perhaps a deeper study would bring about a different answer - but nothing I have ever learnt of the Quillon would suggest it could be used in the way you suggest.”

The eyes of the one-who-dressed-in-black narrowed and lost their focus. He smoothed his palm across his chin.

“Then what dark and dangerous necromancy is the old fool scheming now?” his host muttered to himself.

His host paced the room slowly, his hand rubbed at his face.

But no more questions arrived.

His host turned.

“Well, this has been most interesting - I will leave you to your studies.”

His host left the room, his black cloak ruffled and followed him through the door.

A still silence of fell across the chamber.

Gimel sat near the desk; isolation could be a troubling thing, but undoubtedly it was more comfortable than to be under the sour tension of his host’s searching eyes.