28 A Strange Dinner

79BI, Before the Imperium, still 1003 years in the past

AIYANA’S FINGERS PROBED the wall’s surface. The stone was sweating, the excretions reminding her of blood. She touched a finger to her lips. Not blood at all, but the viscous liquid wasn’t natural.

Magic, she concluded, although of a kind she was unfamiliar with. A thought then occurred it might be a magical by-product. Odd, she’d never heard of such a thing, but now she thought of it, she felt confident she was right. Viralic magic was all she knew and there were as many forms as there had been virals at least before the purges. The same went for spectralic power. All lost knowledge, except here in this time it wasn’t lost. It was waiting to be discovered.

‘It is sick,’ noted Treena, the apparition who remained with her. It had behaved friendly and helpful as though a sort of ghostly minder. It had occurred to her that Cydra might have been trying to escape these two before Aiyana usurped her body. Sorry, Cydra, she thought, but my need and the world’s need, is greater.

Aiyana turned to regard her personal winged ghost. Mop had disappeared. She was growing accustomed to Treena though she didn’t trust her. There was a quirk of the ghost’s mouth whenever she smiled, suggesting a devious nature. While Aiyana thought of it as female, she could not be certain, but Treena was thus far the most normal individual she’d met since her arrival at the White Palace.

Her entry had been unopposed and people had recognised her, greeting her. Well, they’d recognised the mage, Cydra Dyre, anyway. Yet, often their own appearance and behaviour were abnormal, but Treena refused to be drawn on the subject. There were dark secrets within the White Palace.

‘It is hungover magic,’ Treena presently explained touching the wall with ethereal fingers. ‘The stone absorbs it, but it cannot hold such power, and so it weeps. The palace is saddened. You seem confused, Cydra Dyre.’

‘Wait, you said hungover? As in, it drank too much?’

Treena nodded enthusiastically. ‘Magic drinks too much of life and gets a sore head, as mortals do.’ She giggled, and then stopped and frowned. ‘But you know this. You’re a mage. Are you unwell?’

Aiyana touched her forehead pretending to feel faint. ‘It’s the blow I took, I’m afraid. My mind is fuzzy and my magic isn’t well either. Maybe you can help me regain my memory. Tell me, what is the high mage doing?’

‘Experimenting,’ said Treena, her four wings fanning in what Aiyana took to be a sign of nervousness. ‘He is doing it a lot these days.’

She suspects me, thought Aiyana, but thankfully the doors to the chamber opened and a servant in palace livery of white and gold entered. The servant’s skin was pale as though he’d never seen the sun. He avoided her eyes and didn’t speak. Yes, Treena was the only normal one, which in turn made her nervous.

‘It is time,’ said her floating companion, who dodged past the servant who seemed not to see her. She exited into the wide corridor outside, wings flapping.

Aiyana left the chamber, but not without a final glance at the bleeding walls and wondered if she hadn’t made a terrible mistake. This was not a world she knew, no matter how familiar some of it might be. It was not a world she understood.

Too late for second thoughts, she chided herself. You need to see this through. The whole of existence may well depend on it. Wondering if it might be her last meal, she followed the winged ghost to dinner.

‡

WHEN SHE STEPPED INTO the palace dining hall, Aiyana gasped. Her heart thumped in her chest. Sweat tickled her brow. Sensations, experiences she had once created as illusions. Oh, they had felt real and to a point had become real to her. But to feel them, naturally – if anything about this whole encounter could be said to be natural in the first place – went beyond words. Her thoughts didn’t get much further as she took in the scene before her.

While the city outside seemed empty, occupied by ghosts and memories, here was where everyone had apparently gotten to. Well, perhaps not everyone, but the hall, which stretched at least two hundred feet wide and half again as long, was stuffed with people. All looking at her.

‘Please, high mage,’ said Treena, a ghostly hand on her left arm. ‘They await you and you are late. You know he doesn’t like tardiness.’

‘Is that going to be a problem?’ she muttered. ‘Am I in trouble?’

Treena didn’t answer as she led her through the mob of gathered guests seated at their tables. No one spoke. Not one word or murmur, all eyes fixed on her. Aiyana felt a chill touch her spine, another sensation she wasn’t used to.

Dozens of huge fireplaces surrounded the room like gaping maws, every third one lit. Two rows of marble columns divided the central floor in three with each carved to resemble giants, which apparently were holding up the ceiling. By their expressions, one which might collapse at any moment. She wondered at the message those carvers had intended and decided she didn’t like her conclusions. She had read of the White Palace and of Nalrost, but nothing she saw had survived in the imperial histories. What else didn’t she know? Likely everything. Tread carefully, woman.

Her escort led her along the middle section of the floor towards a long oak table. Three dozen individuals sat around it on cushioned wooden benches. She tried not to stare for not all of them looked human.

Two were Nephilim. The ten-foot giants wore linen robes, and sat in large wooden chairs made for their size at either end of the table.

Staring at them and their sheathed weapons, Aiyana wasn’t certain they weren’t bodyguards. They didn’t look like guests, but then, neither did anyone else. Prisoners at mealtime seemed apt though.

The others were a mixture of human and ... well, she had no words for what those were. Four of the most alarming appeared to have no corporeal form; they shimmered as though consisting of wet smoke. They appeared less substantial than Treena. Their red-rimmed eyes appeared solid as they regarded her however, which suggested they were not ghosts. Was Treena, something like them? She’d need to ask her.

There were several undead too though again not like her or her brother. Not virals, but something less. The word zombie, entered her mind; something she’d read in the libraries once. These undead were a collection of warped limbs and distorted forms only a deranged mind could concoct. It appeared they had been eating raw flesh too.

‘What is this?’ she hissed at her escort pausing as they drew closer, but Treena remained silent.

A man, one of few who was normal in appearance, rose with goblet in hand. Bearded, tall and rugged with silver-black hair, his face was handsome. His eyes though held a dark expression promising violence. She had seen it before, in Liviana Avitus, and quickly revised her opinion. He was as abnormal as the rest. It was just better hidden.

Treena flapped a hand of air at her, motioning her to keep going.

‘Welcome, Cydra Dyre,’ said the man, before taking a sip of his drink and setting the goblet on the table. ‘You are late.’

‘Yes, everyone keeps reminding me,’ said Aiyana.

‘Very unlike you.’

‘Always a first time.’ Shut up, you idiot. Be humble or something. She had no idea how Cydra behaved. She needed clues.

The man raised an eyebrow, his face darkening. Oh, she thought, well, there’s the first clue. I wasn’t supposed to answer back. It was then, she realised who he was, as if he could’ve been anyone else. Her knees felt weak and it was all she could do to walk the remaining distance to an empty spot on the bench. She dared not lean on Treena, whom she wasn’t certain could hold her up. Wouldn’t that be a sight? A high mage leaning on a ghost and falling over.

She took her seat and glanced to her left at a smoke-like guest. Closer to it, she realised a person lay within, solid and whole. She remembered the man who’d accosted her on the street to warn her, and how his face had changed. This one beside her seemed similar, just further along in whatever it was.

‘You look pale, Cydra,’ said Rasnal Nalrost, for the silver-haired man could be no other. The most powerful spectral mage in history, although some contended Astra Dar had been the more powerful.

Last thing I need is for her to turn up too. She glanced along the table’s length, but could spot no one who might be her. The crowd of guests seated at the tables had resumed their meals although with little sound. The most normal looking apart from Rasnal himself was a young woman with snow-white hair seated at his side, and who bore an uncanny resemblance to Nalrost himself. There was no mention of Nalrost’s daughter in history, but who else could she be? A sister maybe?

‘I had an alarming encounter,’ Aiyana said, trying to think fast. ‘If not for Treena and Mop, I might not have made it here.’

She realised everyone was staring at her. ‘What?’ she asked, feeling hot.

‘Who is Treena?’ asked Nalrost. His voice had changed in tone holding a dangerous undercurrent. ‘Or, for that matter, Mop?’ He glanced at the woman she assumed was his daughter. ‘Are they friends of yours, Oracle?’

The woman said nothing, staring at Aiyana.

Uh oh! ‘Um, just my new friends. Ah, it doesn’t matter.’ They couldn’t see Treena, had never heard of her. What was going on?

She then realised her escort had disappeared. Had she imagined her or made her up? Perhaps Cydra had been insane and Aiyana was experiencing her insanity. Oh, get a hold of yourself. This isn’t helping. You’ve a job to do so get on with it. She had to fool Nalrost long enough, until ... well, she hadn’t worked out all the details. This was a see-how-it-goes sort of plan.

Seated to either side of the high mage were two human-looking mages. She guessed they were mages because of their positions at the table near him, and the air of power they exuded. Neither seemed interested in her.

‘I despise secrets, Cydra,’ said Nalrost who was watching her periodically drinking from his goblet. ‘You know that.’

‘And I despise staring; it’s rude, especially at dinner,’ she added with a smile. What am I doing? Going on instinct, I guess. Oh well, too late now. The low murmur of conversation at the table ceased. Nalrost’s face reddened, but then it broke into a grin, which everyone else took to mean danger had passed.

‘What’s for dinner,’ she asked, hoping for time to think. When she’d taken this course of action, drastic as it was, she’d had no idea what to expect. All she knew was she needed to meet her living half. She recalled the end of the verse from the White Daemoni.

... the undead one will discover a living heart,

born of death and Torment.

Where was this living heart, and how would she know her? Could she ask someone? She looked up and down the table at the array of bizarre faces and realised for the first time there was no cutlery, plates, and no food except for what the zombies were eating.

‘As I said before,’ said Nalrost perhaps noting her surprise, ‘you are late.’

‘Oh, well, was it good?’

‘Was what good?’ asked another mage to Nalrost’s right, a woman with long silver hair and skin as black as jet. Her eyes shone with a ripple of lilac, hinting of the power she held.

‘Dinner,’ said Aiyana, ‘what else?’

‘Something is wrong with you,’ said Nalrost, his gaze drilling into her.

‘It’s about time,’ said the silver-haired mage, though Aiyana wasn’t sure what she meant.

Aiyana attempted to put a name to the woman. She occupied Cydra’s body and was certain she could penetrate the mage’s memories. As she dug deep, a name surfaced. It was hazy, but her memories of history filled in the gaps. High Mage, Maralana Mal.

Then the name of the man who’d accosted her in the street, surfaced. She felt herself weaken with shock at the revelation.

‘What is wrong with her?’ asked Maralana.

‘Ralan Nalrost,’ she whispered. The high mage’s son; he’d warned her to flee. Well, he had warned Cydra anyway. She and Ralan must have been friends. She left those memories alone, feeling like an intruder in someone’s home. What had Nalrost done to his own son?

‘What did you say?’ asked Nalrost, his tone dangerous.

She gave her head a shake to clear it. ‘I took a fall earlier, I’m afraid. Hit my head hard. I do apologise. Please, remind me why I am here?’

‘Must’ve been some fall to forget that,’ muttered the ghostly mage beside her. She knew the man’s name was, Lugatim Mudd. She realised each of them, except for the Nephilim, would become Torments. Enslaved for eternity to Rasnal Nalrost, who was destined to become the Grim.

‘You agreed to this research,’ said Nalrost. ‘You all did and this is not the time for games. You know what refusal to cooperate will cost. I will brook no dissent.’

Aiyana nodded, not knowing the cost, but guessing it was expensive. It was too dangerous to comment further. Nalrost was already suspicious. I am not proving to be a very convincing Cydra Dyre.

‘The day and the hour approaches,’ he announced. ‘The Darkness must be beaten back. Guardians,’ he added with a gesture of his hands at the Nephilim seated at either end. ‘Arise. The time has come.’

The giants stood, one producing a large leather sack. It leaned forward, handing it to the high mage, its long arms having no problem reaching across the table.

The spectral mage took the sack and removed its contents.

Aiyana almost sobbed in shock as Rasnal Nalrost held up the Shathra Stone. Every fibre of her being urged her to snatch it from him and run. She knew it was impossible, but the urge didn’t fade. The Shathra Stone didn’t care about time though Cydra’s body did. Aiyana’s soul couldn’t take the Stone and if Cydra died too early, any hope of releasing the viral souls would be lost.

‘Ah,’ said Nalrost, watching her reaction, ‘you know what this is. You have not forgotten everything. Good. With the Spectrum itself in my hands, I can beat back the Darkness. I can win this war and save our world and all its echoes. Our cause is just and though it is painful and the cost is great, it is our last hope.’

For a moment, she didn’t understand what he’d meant by echoes, but then realised he meant, mirrors. Everything Scatter had told her was the truth. She wished the woman was with her, whispering advice in her ear.

She jumped when she heard Treena’s voice instead. ‘Beautiful it is, yes,’ the apparition whispered.

A second voice whispered in her other ear. ‘Dangerous it is, sister. I must have it, yes. I like dangerous and shiny.’

‘No,’ said Treena. ‘We must have it.’

‘Yes,’ said Mop, his ethereal lips far closer to Aiyana’s ears than she would like, ‘and you my dear will help us get it.’

I will not, she thought, wondering what these two were, her suspicions growing.

‘Oh, but you will,’ Treena hissed loudly and Aiyana jumped.

‘She’s having a fit,’ suggested a guest seated near her. Nalrost continued speaking, his droning lost amidst her racing thoughts. Something about these two ghosts ...

‘So clever,’ said Mop, ‘to reach across time and hide deep within the flesh of another. You fooled us at first.’

‘Impressive,’ said Treena.

‘Dangerous,’ said Mop.

‘Opportunistic.’

‘Deceptive.’

‘Yes,’ said Treena in a hurt voice, ‘you misled us. We should have seen it for we also hide deep within the soul undetected, but his mind is so vast and terrible. It infects us in return and we cannot stay within it for long. We dip in and out as needed from the Styx, our home.’

‘We know you, undead one,’ said Mop in a cheerful tone.

‘We know you, Aiyana Todralan, and you will do what we tell you. After all, the undead serve us.’

‘Yes,’ said Mop, ‘the undead serve Tartaros.’