Valiant: The Covenant Chronicles

[Covenant #37: The Ties of Family]

Log Date: [1/8/12765]

Data Sources: Jayta Jaskolka, Raikaron Syntaritov

Event Log: Raikaron Syntaritov

The House of Regret: Raikaron’s Study

3:52pm SGT

There’s a rustling as each of Trinity leans back from the wide, shallow bowl floating in the center of the room. The liquid within it carries the fading image of Tirsigal afire; the end of the same dream that I’d showed to Miqo when I called upon her to visit during Krysmis. Each of Trinity look at each other, the pale feathers in their white hair fluffing as they fidget with their fingers.

“And what are your thoughts, my daughters?” I ask.

“You saw things which have been.” the one on the left says.

“You saw things which are.” the one on the right says.

“And you saw things which have not yet come to pass.” the one at the back concludes.

I consider that answer, before replying. “And are these things seen with certainty?”

“The past is seen with certainty.”

“The present, sometimes so.”

“The future never is.”

The answer is one I was expecting, to the point that I wonder why I bothered asking it. I know quite well that the future is never fixed in stone; that in the struggle between fate and free will, free will would always win out for those that were sufficiently motivated. “I apologize for asking fool’s questions.” I say, rubbing my thumb over my forefinger. “I am unsure what to ask. There is much that I do not understand of this dream; I know it has significance, but I cannot parse its meaning. So, I would like to request your insight, if you have any to offer.”

Trinity does not answer right away; they look at each other, their fidgeting palpable as their fingers pick at their long, silken tunics. The one in the center skims a fingertip through the liquid dream in the floating bowl, sticking it in her mouth afterwards and smacking her lips as she mulls the taste.

“I see a pattern repeated.” she states after a moment.

The one on the left dips her finger in the bowl, sticking it in her mouth as well. “I see that the past casts long shadows on the future.”

The one on the right follows the example of her sister, and when she takes her finger out of her mouth, she delivers her insight. “I see a story of blood.”

The other two quickly nod, murmuring their agreement.

“A story of blood?” I repeat, tilting my head. “Expound.”

“Blood that is spilled.”

“Blood that is shared.”

“Blood that is thicker than water, but flows just as freely.”

I quickly work through the double meanings in their words, trying to piece together what I can from their riddle-speak. “You speak of violence and family ties.”

“We speak of blood, and blood is red.” the left one says, lacing her hands behind her back.

“What else is red?” the one in the center asks.

“Foxes, and fire.” the one on the right answers, combing pale fingers through her snow-white locks.

I narrow my eyes at that. “Foxes and fire… you refer to Azra, and… a fire of some sort. The fire that was in my dream?”

“One of your great-grandmothers carried the fire, yes.”

“Your blood spilled blood with the fire.”

“Buried with the fire as well.”

I turn and begin to pace as I cogitate. “You mean cremated.”

“No, buried.”

“Buried.”

“Buried.”

I pause at that. The triple repeat is rare. It’s common for Trinity to describe or rephrase something three times over in different ways or with different words, so the emphasis on using the same word three times is an indication that they mean it exactly how it was stated. “Buried with the fire.” I repeat, staring at the blue flames flickering in the recessed groove between the study’s bookshelves. “I don’t suppose you could provide explication for that?”

“It means what it means, Lord Father.”

“We tell you what we can; you know that.”

“We cannot say it more simply than it has been said.”

“Yes. Yes, of course.” I murmur. “I simply search for understanding. One cannot help but grasp at a light in the dark room.” Taking in a deep breath, I let it out slowly and turn back to them. “Is there anything more you can offer in the way of insight?”

All three of them shake their heads. “We have told all there is to tell.”

“Patterns repeated, shadows of the past.”

“And three things which are red.”

I nod. “I understand.” I say, walking along the curve of the wall, studying the books on the shelves. “The mechanisms of clairvoyance cannot be forced to yield more than they are willing to dispense, lest we risk destroying the future which was witnessed.” Reaching up, I pick out draught that I keep for display one of my shelves, pulling it down and examining it. “Perhaps a bottle of Bubble Hiccup might persuade the Fates to provide some additional counsel?”

Trinity’s attention immediately goes to the bottle in my hands, their pale red eyes alert and focused as they begin shuffling and shifting in place, ducking and weaving a little closer. I rotate the bottle so they can see the custom label, confirming it is indeed a bottle of Bubble Hiccup.

“Perhaps… perhaps there is a little more direction we can provide.” the one on the left says hesitantly.

“Of course, we cannot give you the answers.” the one on the right says quickly.

“But there is nothing saying we cannot point you in the direction of the answers.” the one in the middle says, edging forward with her clawed fingers tapping together, staring intently at the bottle.

“Of course, of course.” I agree modestly. “I have to be the one that does the work, after all.”

“Yes, yes, of course.”

“That is the way it’s supposed to be.”

“We tell you where to look, and you must do the rest.”

“That seems fair to me. Let me know where I must look, and I will let you have this bottle of Bubble Hiccup, my dear daughters.”

The one on the right makes grabbing hands, and the one on the left procures a notepad and a pen from within the folds of her white tunic. Writing down a couple of lines, the one on the right rips the sheet off and hands it to me, while the middle one comes forward, reaching for the draught bottle. I hand it over to her as I take the sheet of paper, and she snatches it from my grasp, hugging it close.

“Now we have told you all we can tell you.” the one in the middle says firmly.

“We can tell you no more, at all.” the one on the right says.

“Even if you try to bribe us.” the one on the left adds.

“Of course, I would hardly think of tempting the Fates further than one should.” I say, reading the scrawl on the torn sheet of notepad paper. Insofar as I can tell, it is the title of a book — a rather dry one, if the length is any indicator. “You are dismissed; you may go enjoy your prize now, and I will see what answers your guidance may yield me.”

Trinity promptly turns and wanders off with that, already working on trying to pry the cork loose from the bottle. Once they have left, I examine the ripped scrap of paper once more, then fold it up and tuck it in the pocket of my waistcoat.

It seems a visit to the library is in order.

Event Log: Jayta Jaskolka

The House of Regret: The Library Labyrinth

1/9/12765 10:21am SGT

“Mmm, what have we this morning?” Mek says, lifting the lid on the platter I’ve set down on his least-cluttered table. His whiskers twitch when he sees what’s under it. “Ah. Quiche.”

I raise an eyebrow. “You don’t like it?”

“Well… it’s not the worst thing in the world.” he equivocates, setting the lid to the side. “But it is, at the end of the day, egg pie — and I firmly believe that pie should only be fruit, sweets, or a covered meat pie, such as pot pies.” He leans down a little, his nose twitching. “At least they sprinkled crumbled bacon on the top. A savory garnish goes a long way in making it more palatable. Honestly, I might even enjoy quiche if you dialed back the egg and put more meat in it. But most quiches are ninety percent egg by volume, and there’s not much sympathy for my opinion in the courts of quiche connoisseurs.”

I almost smile at that whimsical phrase, but can’t really bring myself to it. “Well, I’ll let you to it, then.” I say, turning and heading towards the maze of bookshelves.

“Leaving already?” Mek says, sounding surprised.

I look around at him. “I’ve got, uh. Stuff to do.” I can’t even bring myself to put any effort into the words, though.

“Why don’t you stay for a little bit.” he says, motioning to the chair he pulled out at the table. “I could used some company to help me get through this miserable yellow abomination of a pie.”

“I really should go…” I mumble.

“Jayta.” he says gently, motioning again to the chair. “Stay, and let’s talk.”

I sigh, then give in and come back to the chair, sitting down in it as he sits down in his own chair and unrolls the cutlery from the napkin. “…I guess Danya told you about what happened, then.”

“About the visit to the Maelstrom and what happened with your brother?” Mek says, tucking his spotted tail as he gets comfortable in his chair. “Indeed. She came down here to vent about it the day after it happened. I understand it was not quite the jubilatory occasion you three had been hoping for.”

“Probably a good time for everyone else, but yeah, it sucked for me. And for Danya and Rai as well, I guess.” I say, folding my arms and looking away.

“I understand it drove a bit of a wedge between you and Lord Syntaritov.” Mek remarks, starting to sink his fork into the quiche.

I snort at that. “Well yeah, no surprises there. He just stood by while my brother and his friends got bulldozed by Azra and her zealots. And then he said that in order to keep me safe, he had to stand by and do nothing.”

Mek chews on his quiche slowly, his eyes darting away and back again.

“What, you agree with him?” I demand.

He sets his fork down, reaching for his milk. “Jayta, has anyone in the House ever told you about hypernaturals, and deminaturals, and what they’re capable of?” he asks carefully.

“Yeah. Hypernaturals are gods and deities and stuff, deminaturals are archdemons and archangels like Raikaron, and all that.” I say, shrugging. “I learned all that from Raikaron and Danya.”

“Okay, that’s good, but have they ever told you what those beings can do? Exactly how powerful they are? In concrete, measurable terms?” Mek presses.

“Well, I mean they’re powerful, I know that much.” I say defensively. “Like, some of them can rearrange matter and energy on a whim, or create new bodies for themselves, or have eldritch forms, like Raikaron does…”

Mek presses his lips together, picking up his fork again. “Let’s approach this another way. You wanted to be a scientist, yes? You were curious about the universe, and so you should also be familiar with stars, and how they fuse basic elements into heavier elements through the power and weight of gravity.”

“Yeah…?” I say slowly.

“So you are also generally aware of how efficient fusion is as an energy source, and how, if you could fully harness the energy output of a celestial object, like a star, then you could power a planetary society for billions of years.” he says, carving another chunk of the quiche.

“Well, yeah. That’s why some solar systems have satellite swarms, to collect and transmit energy back to distribution platforms.” I say. “And ringworlds; they’re built around neutron stars and white dwarves because they’re smaller, but will be radiating energy for trillions of years to come.”

Mek nods. “So, understanding that, I want you to take a star — its vast scale, the immense power it contains and produces — and I want you to imagine condensing all of that down into the approximate area and dimensions of a normal person.” He pauses for a moment to let that sink in. “That is the kind of power that hypernaturals wield.”

I lean back, squinting at him. “…that’s not possible. That kind of matter compression would form a black hole. So it’s not possible, and you’re messing with me.”

He shrugs, taking his next bite of quiche. “In normal circumstances, yes, that sort of matter compression would result in a black hole. That does not quite apply to higher powers, but the point is to provide a comparative model for you to understand when we talk about hypernaturals. When we talk about people like Azra, and the Sovereigns, and other deitic figures. There is, of course, some variance in hypernaturals, just as there is a wide variance in the different types and sizes of stars. And of course, power is commensurate with age in hypernaturals, so the younger they are, usually the weaker they are. But they are, generally speaking, capable of scorching entire worlds, stripping them of atmosphere, or pulverizing them into a thinly-distributed asteroid belt. That is the kind of power that you would’ve been asking Lord Syntaritov to contend with by urging him to intervene in Azra’s ritual.”

I frown at that. “But… he’s like… he’s an archdemon, right? The Lord of Regret. Shouldn’t he—”

Mek shakes his head. “Lord Syntaritov is three thousand years old. Azra Guile is over fifteen thousand. I will admit there is a chance, if he was tapping into the fullest extent of the power allowed him by Sjelefengsel for his role, that he might be able to approach the power that she has, and only because Azra is a very young hypernatural, as hypernaturals go. But trying to contest Azra, in her own house, in her own hell, would’ve been manifestly suicidal and guaranteed to fail, even as a representative of one of the most powerful hells among the afterlives.” He takes another bite of his quiche, then reaches for his milk. “Not to mention the diplomatic and political fallout.”

I let out a sound of disgust, looking away at that.

“I do not say that idly, Jayta.” Mek says, using his napkin to wipe his mouth. “Inviting an archdemon to your house and your hell as a guest of honor, only for that archdemon to try and interrupt a long-planned ritual that would bring you to the mortal plane? That would be a breach of many established treaties and bilateral agreements; in short, it would’ve been a diplomatic crisis. The hells stay out of each other’s business as much as possible, and only interfere in each other’s affairs when absolutely necessary. It is similar to how civilized nations in the mortal plane stay out of each other’s affairs, for the most part. Civilized nations do not tell other civilized nations what laws to write, or how to run their society; they respect that other nations have different cultures, and different ways of doing things. The heavens and the hells are the same way — we do not make a business of telling other hells how they should be conducting their affairs, much less taking action to interfere in those affairs. In the same way that nations doing such a thing would be considered grounds for war in the mortal plane, it would also be grounds for war between the hells, and that is an ugly, ugly outcome that nobody wants.”

I shuffle in my chair, not entirely willing to accept Mek’s reasoning, even if I understand the logic it carries. “Okay, I get that, but it’s not that simple, Mek. This isn’t just between two hells; I had a personal vestment in this issue. My brother was there, in danger, and he was trying to rescue his girlfriend from being possessed. That should give me a right to take action in a situation like that, shouldn’t it? If not to help my brother, then at least to protect him, right?”

Mek takes a deep breath, grimacing as he considers that angle. “…you raise a… valid point. The ties of family are strong; and even in the afterlives, it is not clear whether the ties of family give a person rights that would supersede the rules and customs of the afterlives. But I would point out that such a right, in the situation you were in, extends only to you. You are the only one that could hide behind the excuse of saying that you were acting as a sister, and not as an agent of Sjelefengsel. Raikaron and Danya would have no such protection, and if they had acted to assist you in trying to foil Azra, they would’ve been treated as representatives of Sjelefengsel, not as relatives of endangered kin. Both of them knew that doing so would’ve dragged the entirety of Sjelefengsel into a war, or at least a very unpleasant spat, with the Maelstrom. That is why they did nothing — the consequences would’ve gone far beyond themselves.”

I press my lips together. Though it makes sense, I don’t like the answer. I don’t want to be told that doing nothing was the right thing for Raikaron to have done. I can see now why he did it, and why doing so was for the greater good, but I don’t like that. I don’t like that doing nothing is technically the right thing to do in the situation we were in.

When I still say nothing, Mek adjusts his spectacles. “Jayta, I hardly wish to be a relationship counselor. I very much doubt that it is a strength of mine, and I know you have not asked for my input on the topic. But I think that I should ask you this: if Lord Syntaritov could’ve intervened without causing greater damage by doing so, do you think he would’ve?”

I rock a little in my chair, looking away. “I dunno. He’s always explaining why we can’t do certain things, but I don’t hear him talk a lot about what things we can do.”

There’s a clink as Mek uses his fork to break up the crust of the quiche. “Perhaps you are right. But what I can say on that count is that Lord Syntaritov does think about the things he can do for you. You are one of the few people for whom he will go out of his way to do things, if it is within his power to do. And that is not insignificant, coming from him.”

I narrow my eyes at Mek. “You haven’t been talking to him, have you?”

“I have. Yesterday evening, in fact. But not about you.” Mek says, reaching for his milk. “He came here looking for a very specific book, and much to my surprise, we did not have it. It didn’t seem to surprise him; he said he suspected he would have to visit a different kind of library for it, but wanted to check here just to be sure. He did ask about you before he left, though.”

“He did?” I ask, sitting up a little.

“Indeed. He wanted to know if you had stopped by, and if you had, how you were doing. Since you hadn’t, I let him know that I couldn’t help in that regard.” he says, picking up his fork again. “He seemed… disappointed when I told him that.”

Some part of me takes delight in that, because it seems to imply that the cold shoulder’s been having the effect I wanted it to. We’ve been sleeping separately ever since we came back from the Maelstrom, and I’ve been sliding around him like oil around water whenever I see him, mostly because I’m still angry at him. Albeit less so now, coming off this talk with Mek. “Good. Serves him right.”

Mek’s ears flick at that. “It may be worth remembering that a relationship is not a competition with defined winners and losers, Jayta. It is a joint venture — if one of you loses, both of you lose.”

That truth in that statement stings a little, but I’m not yet ready to concede the point. I still want to be mad, a little bit; still want to feel like I’m in the right and Raikaron should’ve done more than what he did at Azra’s party. It’s clear now why he refrained from doing so, but I still don’t like that doing nothing was technically the right thing for him to do. It doesn’t feel right to me.

“I’ll take it under advisement.” I say, starting to get up and motioning to the plate with the last bite of quiche on it. “Are you gonna finish that, so I can take the plate back to the kitchen?”

“I will, yes.” he says, spiking the last little chunk with his fork and holding it up. “Do you know how to tell when a pie is bad, Jayta?”

I’m unsure if this is going to lead into a larger metaphor about my relationship with Raikaron, but Mek’s never seemed like someone to harp on an issue longer than he should, so I figure I’ll humor him. “Well, I can think of a number of ways, but how do you know when a pie is bad?”

“When the crust is the part of it that you enjoy the most.” he says, sticking the last chunk in his mouth. Setting the fork back down on the plate, he picks up the cover and sets it back on the platter, shaking his head. “Egg pie. Every now and then, it seems Lord Syntaritov does wish to remind me that I am in hell, and this is supposed to be punishment for my mortal crimes.”

I snort at that, picking up the platter. “I can think of a lot of damned souls that would exchange their sentences for the egg pie punishment.”

“True. I suppose I will be content with my culinary lashes.” he says, taking up his milk to sip from it. “Enjoy the rest of your day, Jayta. And know that I am wishing the best for your brother and his girlfriend. You are a good sister — there are not many that would risk the wrath of a demon goddess to help their siblings.”

It’s a sobering comment that catches me before I go, and one that lands heavier than I was expecting. I realize that it means a lot to me, considering all the castigation I’d gotten for my behavior in the Maelstrom. “Thanks.” I say quietly, my fingers curling around the platter’s edges. “I’m hoping everything works out for them as well.”

With that, I turn and leave, trying to escape the doubt in those words. While I did hope things would work out for my brother, and he would be able to get his girlfriend back, all I can think of is how awkward and clueless he was when we were kids. Even if some of that had melted away since then, the fact remained — he was still up against a demon goddess, and Mek had made clear the power that such entities had at their disposal.

And with what I’d seen of Azra when I met her, I can’t help but be worried that she’ll eat Jazel alive if he tries to fight her.

Event Log: Raikaron Syntaritov

Valcorria: The Inkspell Library

1/10/12765 11:02am SGT

When I open the door, it leads into a long, dark hall, at the end of which is a threshold through which pale, soft light filters. The passageway is silent, enough that I can hear my footsteps echo as I step into hallway and pull the door shut behind me. Taking a moment to straighten my tie, I start forward towards the light, the echo of my footsteps heralding my arrival long before I’ve reached the end.

The walk is not a long one; I soon emerge from the threshold at the other end, finding myself within a library of rich, dark colors. The shelves are not the flimsy metal scaffolding of a public library, or particleboard pasted over with a faux wood grain that one often sees within rural libraries. Instead, they are actually carved of rich, dark wood, thick and stable, and instead of being laid out in straight rows, they are often built into the walls and along the sides of staircases. Carved into their sides are glowing words, denoting a particular genre or alphabetical range for each shelf.

From where I presently stand, multiple paths lead deeper into the library; one is a staircase that heads straight in, while one arm leads deeper into the library’s shelves, and the the two arms on the left and right appear to lead to other rooms within the library. Reaching in my pocket, I pull out the scrap of paper Trinity had given me, looking it over again before folding it up and tucking it away once more. After a moment to assess my options, I start up the staircase, my fingers tracing over the smooth, lacquered banister on my way up. There is a smoky warmth here that is not dissimilar to the old House of Regret, back before the Great Realignment, when the fireplaces stayed burning through the winter to keep the mansion warm.

Upon reaching the floor above, I am greeted with an archway that leads into an open room with a circular desk at its center. Hanging in the air above it is what appears to be a massive, glittering map made of light. The center of the map appears to be organized like a standard floor plan for a library — the paths mostly geometric and angular. But as they start getting further and further away, they begin branching into hundreds of other paths that twist and wind outwards in tangled, wandering lines, almost like a root system or the canopy of a tree.

Sitting in the open area at the middle of the desk, beneath the soft glow given off by this celestial map, is a young man in a hoodie and jeans, with his feet propped up on the desk as he reclines back in a swivel chair and reads a book. Other books like scattered on the round desk, some of them stacked, others lying on their own; most of them look like normal, traditional books, but there are a few that resemble the living books of the Dreaming. Translucent tomes that look like they are made of glass, and give off a steady, living glow in one hue or another. As for the librarian himself, he’s a slender fellow, his general demeanor resemblant of a cat. His hair, which is bound back in a loose ponytail that reaches his midback, is a very particular shade of moonwhite.

Folding my hands behind my back, I step through the archway. “Hallo.” I say, announcing my presence with a polite softness.

His eyes flick up from the book, revealing that they are singularly vivid shade of leaf-green — something he seems to notice about me as well. His gaze goes to the archway behind me, then to the other archways leading away from this room, as he sets down the book he was reading. “Hullo.” he says, closing up the book and setting it down as he tilts his head to one side, studying me.

“Pardon the intrusion.” I apologize. “This is the Inkspell Library, correct?”

“It is, yes.” he says, still staring at me as if he knew I was not a normal visitor, but couldn’t quite place the reason why.

“I had a request, if you would humor it.” I say patiently.

He narrows his eyes at me. After a second, he takes his feet off the desk, the swivel chair creaking as it straightens out again. “You… have a very odd scent about you. There’s the brimstone of one of the hells, but you’re not a demon. Or you’re only a demon on the surface. Underneath it, there’s this… kitchen smell. Cinnamon and spice and… pumpkin?”

I give a small smile, and nothing more.

The librarian scowls. “Knew it. You’re one of us, aren’t you?”

My smile broadens a bit more. “I did not know that a Syntaritov worked in one of the Libraries.” I say, starting to walk around the room and take in some of its finer details.

“I don’t work in it so much as I run it.” he says, the chair creaking as he stands up, and spins it around so he can rest his knee on the seat and fold his arms over the back of it. “And I didn’t know that a Syntaritov worked for one of the hells, though it doesn’t quite come as a surprise. Shame about your hair, though.”

I reach up, taking one of the scarlet locks between two of my fingers. “Yes, a side effect of demonic employ. That being said, I find that there are some benefits to not being instantly recognized as a Syntaritov.”

“You must work in more elevated circles than I do. Most people don’t know I’m a Syntaritov, even with the core traits.” he says, turning in the swivel chair to keep an eye on me as I slowly circle the room. “Then again, to mortals, we’re usually just a myth. Monsters under the bed. Cautionary tales for children.”

“Yes, I have considerable exposure to the immortal community.” I say, studying the other archways in the room, and the halls or rooms that they lead off to. “We may not be well-known to mortals, but we are very real to the immortal community.”

He snorts. “A real pain in the ass, more like.”

I smile at that. “Our reputation precedes us, yes. Especially in the immortal community.” I pause in my pacing to introduce myself. “Raikaron Syntaritov.”

“Karasol Syntaritov. Looks like my parents weren’t the only ones that decided to break the rules when picking names.” he answers in turn.

That gets a chuckle out of me as I start pacing again. “Yours seem to have been bolder than mine were. Giving a K name to one of the boys, that’s very adventurous.”

“I suppose they thought they were doing me a favor by gifting me with a conversation starter.” Karasol says drily. “At any rate, we both know you’re not here for small talk or family reunions. You’re looking for something.”

“I am, yes. A book, as you have likely surmised.” I say, stopping to pull out the ripped piece of paper from my pocket. “One pertaining to one of my recent ancestors that married into the family.” I hold the scrap of paper out to him with that.

He wheels the swivel chair closer, reaching over the desk to take the paper and read what’s on it. “Mmm. It’s ringing bells, faintly. I see now where the root of your first name springs from.” Pushing off the chair, he parks it at the desk, and walks out through the cutaway portion of the desk while examining the paper. “I am fairly certain we do have this book; however, I have a feeling that this is a precursor to trouble of some sort.”

“Trouble, perhaps, but not of my making. The Dreaming gave me a vision of my ancestors, but I am struggling to… interpret it.” I explain, nodding to the scrap of paper. “The counsel I have received from others, in the form of that book recommendation, is that I should apparently acquaint myself with my forbearers. I am not entirely sure what I am looking for, but I am operating under the assumption that some insight into the life of my ancestor will help clarify the vision I received.”

“Mm. I find that when we go looking into the lives of our predecessors, we often find more than we want to know.” he says, pulling out a lighter and flipping the cap open. Holding the paper over the blue flame, he lets it catch fire, then holds it up towards the celestial map overhead. The fire quickly burns through the scrap of paper, but it leaves behind a ghostly trace that condenses into a little wisp of light, which is pulled upwards until it reaches one of the glowing arms of the map. From there, it streaks along the branching paths, zipping along through the tangled maze until it stops in one of the rooms a little ways outside of the central library structure. “It seems like we do have it. I can trust you to return it if I let you check it out, yes?”

“Of course. Stealing from a library always struck me as poor civic behavior.” I say mildly.

“Theft from a library tends to be a matter of forgetfulness. Theft from a Library, however, tends to be a more motivated affair, considering what Libraries sometimes keep on their shelves.” Karasol says, reaching for a set of rings embedded in the desk, then presses his knuckles against his forehead. “Dammit. Look what you’ve done to me. For a minute there I was talking all fancy and high-falutin’ like I was raised in a palace or something.”

I give a shrug. “There is nothing wrong with manners and a polished vocabulary.”

“There is when it’s used to mask and manipulate. I know the playbook, cousin. Words are the weapon of choice for our family.” he says, starting to turn the stone rings embedded into the desk. Each one is has markings that are divided into equally-spaced sections, with thousands of possible combinations, each one presumably forming a room ‘address’. Once he’s clicked the third and outermost ring into place, he presses the stone in the center of the rings. A pulse of pale, fuzzy white light ripples out across the room like a small wave at the beach, hitting the walls and traveling upwards before it fades away. As it does so, the view through the connecting archways becomes blurry and indistinct, and when it settles again, the archways are now linking us to a different set of rooms than before.

“I suppose you are right.” I concede while watching all of this take place. “Words are one of the most versatile tools we have at our disposal, and many members of our family are taught, from a young age, the various and sundry ways to use them. But a fondness for refined speech is not inherently sinister. At least not any more than a frontier drawl would imply ignorance or unintelligence.” With my scrap of paper disposed of, I return to keeping my arms folded behind my back. “I suppose you fancy yourself an advocate of the common creature, with your emphasis on casual speech?”

“Mortals need an advocate. Someone needs to remind immortals that the stories of mortals matter too.” he says, stepping back out through the cutaway portion of the desk and moving towards one of the archways. I fall in behind him, letting him lead the way. “I know there are many of them, and they come and go like sparks to us. Flickers of light that burn hot and bright for a few seconds before fizzling out. But those few seconds can still have meaning. Beauty.”

“The beauty of fleeting things, yes. I am familiar with it.” I say as we start into a hallway lined with shelves carved into the wall. “I’ll concede there can be a certain wistful beauty in the brevity, but not all lives are beautiful. There are a quite a few that are rather ugly and destructive, even in the short time they are given. I’d caution against idealizing mortals as either one thing or another; they are capable of beauty and brutality in equal measure.”

“Well, you work in the hells. You only ever deal with dead mortals that were scummy enough to get sent there in the first place, so you only ever see the worst of them.” Karasol says, tracing a finger along the rounded shelves as we walk past them. “I believe in mortals, despite their failings. Sometimes they disappoint — I won’t deny that. But they have potential, and if you give them a chance, you might find yourself pleasantly surprised with what they do with it.”

“Surprised at some times, horrified at others. But such is the gift of free will.” I say as we emerge into a circular room that has a spiraling stairwell that leads downwards from the floor we’re on. The bannister is solid, with shelves carved into it so it can hold books, and Karasol moves towards it, descending a dozen steps so he can crouch down and run his finger over the spines of the books. “We have always known that this is the price we pay for a free universe.”

Karasol glances at me. “You believe that?”

“I know it.” I say, arching an eyebrow in return. “Our ancestors fought a war over this, did they not? This question was settled thousands of years ago. The occupants of this universe chose freedom over fate, and rejected the promise of the Shyl-tari.”

“They did.” he says, pulling a book out from the shelf and standing up. “For better or worse. I suppose, as a Librarian, someone who deals in stories, I can see the appeal of giving up a little freedom in return for a desired outcome. Writers do this all the time with their characters… in the books they lead such eventful and adventurous lives, but those are facilitated by someone seeking to relay a story with a desired outcome. Give those characters freedom to write their own stories, and some of those stories become boring. Others may become tragedies, and still others…” He trails off, tapping the book against his hand. “Well, no use in mangling the metaphor. Book characters aren’t the same thing as real people, at least where it comes to fiction.”

“Most of the time.” I say, my eyes flitting to the glass books here and there, giving off their soft-hued glows as they sit on the shelves. There aren’t many of them, less than a dozen, if I had to guess. It’s easy to spot them among the dark shelves and muted colors of other books.

He follows my gaze. “Ah. So you’re familiar with the quirks of Libraries, then.” he says, coming back up the stairs.

“This isn’t my first time visiting a Library, though it is the first time I’ve been to the Inkspell.” I say, looking down at the book that Karasol’s retrieved. “I suppose, as a Librarian, you have an instinct for finding the books that visitors are looking for?”

“You might be family, but that doesn’t mean I’ll share the secrets of my Library with you. If you ever choose to change jobs and do a stint in a Library, you’ll learn how we do things.” he says, looking the book over as he walks past me. “I will say that now that I have the book in hand, I do remember Raiko. Vaguely. It’s been a few thousand years. She visited once — came to try and check out a book from the Library, a very powerful and dangerous one. When we would not give it to her, she decided she’d try to take it by force.”

“Is that so? I hadn’t realized.” I say, realizing as well that Karasol must be older than me, if he was here when my great-grandmother visited. I wouldn’t have guessed it, from the way he’s dressed and the way he behaves. “What book was she trying to check out?”

Karasol gives me a sidelong look. “You don’t really think I’m going to tell you that after how badly it tempted your ancestor, do you?”

I smile. “No harm in curiosity.”

“I’ll not take my chances.” he says, continuing to lead the way back along the hall that we took to get here. “We battled and defeated her here in Inkspell, but she escaped before we could properly check her in. As result, we only able to extract this from her — a biography.” A tap on the muted purple cover of the book.

“Interesting. What would’ve happened if you had properly checked her in?” I ask.

“Then she would be on the shelves here, and you would be able to talk to her in person. Assuming you even existed. If we had checked her in, then the events that led to your birth might’ve never happened.” Karasol says. “It is probably for the best that she escaped. Had I known she was going to become part of the Syntaritov family tree, I might’ve cut her some slack. Probably would’ve regretted it too, considering how much trouble our family gets into.”

“Trouble is necessary. We are agents of change, and there’s no shame in the work we do.” I say as we wind our way through the hall.

“Easy to say when you’re not the one cleaning up the mess.” he says as we arrive back to the nexus room. “I can tell you take pride in what we are, in our family’s legacy. And I’m sure you know how much misery it’s caused as well.”

“Misery and suffering are good teachers. We never appreciate them at the time; it is only in retrospect that we see their value.” I reply easily.

He pauses to look at me, then steps back into the cutaway portion of his ring desk. “I envy the confidence you have in our family’s paradigms. I always found it hard to stomach many of the things that our family has done in pursuit of proving a point or teaching a lesson.”

“I believe in our family’s paradigms because I have experienced their truths firsthand.” I say as he presses the book to a scanner in the desk, presumably so he can log it as a book that has been checked out. “My conviction comes not from blind faith, but from bitter experience. I see why our family teaches the lessons we teach; I understand why we do what we often do. I have a respect for the fact that those lessons are not just passed on from generation to generation, but shared with others outside our family as well. Perhaps your path has allowed you the luxury of idealism, but mine has permitted me no such privilege. I have learned to take a measured and realistic view of matters, rather than giving myself over to a blind belief in the goodness of people.”

“Well. What can I say to that, except that we seem to be reflections of the paths we have chosen.” Karasol says, holding the book out to me. “I’m sure that at this point, you’ve been told this before, but… your life does not have to be defined by the name you carry on your shoulders. There are members of our family who have forsaken the name, who have forged an identity for themselves that doesn’t rely on the reputation of our ancestors. We may be born Syntaritovs, but we are neither bound nor obligated to that legacy.”

“I am aware.” I say, taking the book and tapping it against my palm. “But you have not forsaken the name either, have you.”

He doesn’t answer, or rather, his answer is to remain silent and purse his lips at that.

“You keep the name, just as I keep the name, because it is a privilege, and also a responsibility.” I go on. “It is a burden and an honor bound up into one, and a challenge to do something with your life, more than what most others will do. You keep the name because you have accepted the challenge, although you are clearly stubborn about reinterpreting our legacy on your own terms. And that, among other things, is what makes you a Syntaritov. The spiteful stubbornness; the desire to make a point and prove someone wrong. That is why you will never take the advice you have given me — it would be easier to forsake the family name, and its absence might even allow you felicities that are often withheld from us by our roles. But you have a point to make, and it would eat at you for the rest of your life if you gave up and admitted defeat.”

He considers that, then gives a loose shrug. “What can I say. Advice is the wisdom we freely give to others, since we cannot make use of it ourselves.” He motions to the book in my hand. “Are we going to keep moralizing at each other? ‘Cause I’m gonna need to put on a cup of hot cocoa to get through it, if so.”

“No, I think we’ve wearied each other enough. I’ll leave you to your devices now.” I say, slipping the book into my buttoned vest and turning towards the archway I initially arrived through, then pausing. “One last thing before I go. I have a set of Fates at my disposal; before I came here, they let me know that your Library will be receiving a special set of visitors soon. They were fuzzy on the timing, which is to be expected with clairvoyance, but they were fairly certain you would soon have an opportunity to check in some very unique books, if you and your Librarians are so disposed to broaden your collection.”

Karasol had started to sit down in his chair again, but pauses at that. “Is that so.” he says quietly. “I’ll take it under advisement. I was a bit more enthusiastic about procurement when I was younger, but I’ve become more selective as the centuries have worn on. Expanding the Inkspell’s catalogue is important, but I’ve tried to be more ethical about it over the last millennium.”

“Fair enough. I will not deny a person’s growth.” I say, fully turning now to the archway. “Farewell, Karasol. I will return when I have learned what I need from this book.”

“And good reading to you, Raikaron.”

Event Log: Raikaron Syntaritov

The House of Regret: Raikaron’s Study

1/11/12765 12:15pm SGT

The soft hiss of my door sliding open gets my attention, and I look up to see Danya stepping into the study with a platter in hand. Adjusting my glasses, I set aside the biography of my ancestor, starting to organize my desk and clearing some space. “What greetings from the kitchen today?”

“Well, as we are still in the winter months, it’s been soup and stews all the way down.” Danya says, striding over to my dest and setting the platter down. “Frankly, I don’t mind; they are excellent for keeping away the chill of winter. Today was not particularly inspired, though; chicken noodle with grilled cheese on the side. Not every day can be a masterpiece, it seems.”

“Rather basic, yes. But at the end of the day, food’s primary purpose is sustenance, not pleasure. I can forgive the occasional instance of lackluster cuisine; it provides a necessary contrast to the more audacious dishes.” I say, lifting the lid off the platter and picking up the diagonal cut of the grilled cheese sandwich, giving it a light squeeze and being rewarded with a soft crackle. “Oooh, very nice. Warm, fresh, just a little crisp, but not too much. See? Even basic dishes can be works of art, with enough love and attention.”

“Would that I had your optimism.” Danya says drily, glancing to the biography I’d been reading. “It’s been a while since I’ve seen you pick up a book.”

“Recreational reading is a luxury that one only seems to have time for in their youth and in their old age.” I say, running a finger along the edge of the book as I take a bite out of my grilled cheese. “As much as I wish I could say this was recreational, it is not. Trinity provided some guidance for me to interpret the dream I had near Krysmis of last year, and that apparently takes the form of reading up on my ancestors.”

“Well, it never hurts to know one’s roots.” Danya says, clasping her wrists behind her back. “Have you discovered anything of merit yet?”

“Surprisingly, yes.” I say, tapping some of the sticky-note markers deployed on some of the pages. “There was an unexpected connection between my ancestor and our recent visit to the Maelstrom. Apparently, at some point early in her career, Raiko came into possession of Aephero, one of the mythic weapons of Rantecevang, and it became her primary weapon for the remainder of her days. Once I learned that Aephero originated from Rantecevang, I did a little bit of side research on the weapon. You know who else wielded that blade in the past?”

“I have a suspicion I already know, and I will not like the answer.” Danya says.

I nod. “It was Azra’s weapon of choice during Rantecevang’s Void Wars.”

Danya’s lips draw into a tight line. “So your ancestor once wielded a weapon that Azra also used. Do you know what happened to it after she died?”

“It was buried with Raiko on Xalomerren, in a heavily enchanted tomb. As is appropriate for a hero and a weapon of that stature.” I say, leaning back in my chair.

“Now that Azra is free, do you think she will head there to try and reclaim her old weapon?” Danya asks, her thoughts clearly moving in the same direction mine are.

“She already has.” I say, taking another bite of my grilled cheese. “I checked last night. The tomb has been broken open, the enchantments wrecked and torn apart, and the sword is very much not there anymore.”

Danya’s brow furrows. “She’s moving fast.” she murmurs. “It’s been less than a fortnight since her return to the mortal plane. She is up to something, my Lord.”

“Oh, without question.” I say, dipping the crust of my grilled cheese in the soup. “But we cannot act. The customs of the hells bind us; we are not to interfere in the affairs of other hells. The only exceptions for action are to prevent the excessive loss of life, or if the actions undertaken by another hell would negatively affect our own. Or if we are directed to do so by the Gathering.”

“Of course, but she broke into the tomb of your ancestor, did she not?” Danya points out. “I imagine the desecration of a family member’s tomb would give you a fairly defensible vestment in the issue.”

“A good point. One I had considered as well.” I say, taking another bite of my grilled cheese. “I had considered also the counterpoint that Azra would likely raise: that her desecration of Raiko’s tomb was justified because she was reclaiming an artifact that originally belonged to her.”

“But I imagine that sword has belonged to many people, has it not?” Danya says. “The mythic weapons of Rantecevang have changed hands many times; I don’t imagine Azra was the first to wield Aephero, and likely would not be the last. I very much doubt she could claim an exclusive right to the blade.”

“Perhaps not, but Azra’s tenure with the weapon was long and influential enough that it has developed an aspect specific to her.” I explain. “That alone is compelling proof that she has an escalated right to the blade, at least relative to other wielders. As much as it galls me to say it, I would not be confident in our chances if we tried to take her to court over the graverobbing.”

Danya frowns at that. “She could’ve at least had a little class and asked you for permission to take the blade, instead of vandalizing your ancestor’s tomb and stealing from it.”

I give her a look. “Danya, do you really expect the goddess of tyranny to ask permission before taking something she desires?”

“It’s still bad form.” Danya mutters.

“True, but I very much doubt she cares about that.” I say, finishing the first half of my grilled cheese and picking up the second half. “I will admit that Azra’s machinations leave me uneasy, but presently we do not have the standing to try and interfere in them. For now, the best we can do is keep an eye out and see if she does anything which might give us standing to get involved.”

Danya’s attention moves to the shallow, broad bowl floating beside my desk. “I assume that is why, among other reasons, you have elected to continue monitoring Jayta’s brother.”

I glance to the scrying bowl, just barely deeper than a plate, and filled with liquid that is currently providing a window into the room of Jayta’s brother. The lighting is dim, and the view stares down from above, showing the witchling curled up in his bed in the dusky dimness of his lantern-lit room. “That is part of the reason, yes. The other reasons, you are well aware of.”

“Have you tried to smooth things over with her yet?” Danya asks, her eyes flitting to me.

I grimace, setting down the second half of my grilled cheese. “I figured I would give her time to cool off, but I am not entirely sure how to approach that conversation. I cannot think of an angle that will keep the conversation from migrating to the question of why I didn’t intervene in the ritual, and why I will not help her brother.”

“If I may, my Lord, there is no way for you to avoid that question.” Danya says. “Nor is there a way for you to give her the answer she wants. You can only tell her the truth: that our hands are tied. She will not like it, and it will not be easy to tell her, but nothing is achieved by avoiding that conversation. The sooner you tell her, the sooner she can start to come to terms with it.”

I pull a deep breath. “I have a feeling she already knows.”

“She does.” Danya concurs. “But she needs to hear it from you. You are the ultimate authority in this House; your word carries a finality that mine lacks. It does not matter how many times I tell her that we cannot intervene to help her brother, because she will always feel like she can appeal that verdict to you. You have to be the one to settle the matter — she will not accept the verdict of anyone beneath you.”

“No choice but to tackle it head-on, then.” I say, giving a resigned sigh. “I’ll gather my thoughts, then, and find a time to sit and talk with her. Hopefully she will be understanding.”

“She is an emotional creature. She will not be happy, but it will be important for her to learn that sometimes, there are things beyond our power to fix or change.” Danya says. “You and I have long since learned that lesson, but Jayta is young. This may be the first time she learns this lesson at this scale, so be firm, but gentle with her.”

That last bit of advice catches my attention. “I think that may be the first time I’ve heard you counsel me to show her anything other than sternness, Danya. You’re not finally warming up to her, are you?”

Danya bristles. “Young women are delicate creatures with a precarious balance of emotions, and she is your Mistress Lady. I give you this advice for your benefit — see to it that your Lady remains happy, and your own happiness will improve measurably. Now, is there anything further to discuss?”

“No, that should be all.” I say, hiding my muted amusement. “I will not keep you further; you may return to your duties.”

“Thank you.” she says tartly, turning and striding back towards the study’s door. I allow myself a brief smile as she departs, though it soon fades as I look back to the scrying bowl that holds the view of Jayta’s brother.

That conversation is not going to be an easy one.

Event Log: Jayta Jaskolka

The House of Regret: Jayta’s Room

9:45pm SGT

I’m lying on my bed, scrolling through the news on my phone, when I hear a knock at my door.

I stare for a moment, then lock my phone and set it on my bedside, wondering who would be knocking at this time of night. Slipping off my bed, I straighten out my hair a little, then go to my door and wave it open.

Standing patiently in the hall is Raikaron, neatly dressed as usual.

My heart drops into my stomach a little; I’d expected it would come to this at some point, I just didn’t know when. “My Lord.” I say quietly, looking down.

“Jayta.” he greets, just as softly. “Do you mind if I come in?”

“Well, I can’t really tell you no, can I.” I say, folding my arms.

“You could. But I was hoping we could sit down and talk.” he says.

For a moment I’m tempted to tell him no anyway. To be difficult. But it’s only a half-hearted feeling; it’s not really satisfying anymore, and even I know that I’ve dragged this out longer than I should’ve. I roll my bottom lip in to bite on it, and after a moment, I push away the urge to be stubborn, stepping out of the way and motioning him into the room.

He steps in, making his way over to the bed and sitting down on the edge. Once he’s settled, he looks to me and pats the spot next to him; fighting off the contrarian impulse, I wave my door closed, then head over and sit down beside him as he laces his fingers together.

“You are not happy with me.” he begins. “Because I would not intervene on your brother’s behalf during Azra’s centennial.”

“I’m angry because you did nothing.” I mutter, not looking at him. “You didn’t even say anything. You could’ve asked Azra not to do it, but you just stood there and watched it happen. You didn’t even try.”

“Had I asked Azra not to follow through on her agenda, I would’ve been roundly mocked at best.” Raikaron says patiently. “At worst, she may have lost her temper with me, and by extension, you and Danya as well. And in neither case would it have stopped Azra, nor changed the outcome of what happened.”

“You could’ve tried.” I repeat, still refusing to look at him.

He doesn’t reply, but after a moment, he unlaces his fingers, making a small upwards gesture with one of his hands. The air in front of us bends and bulges, like something rising out of the water, and what looks like a shallow, floating bowl comes into view as the distortion smooths out. Taking it by the edge, he floats it over to me so I can see that the liquid within acts as a window into another place — my brother’s room, aboard whatever ship he’s currently on. He’s currently curled up and sleeping, the room dimly lit by the witch lantern hanging from the ceiling.

“Your brother has been recovering.” he says as I take the floating bowl and pull it closer. “His friends have been watching over him, and he has been resting. They took him to a hospital for a little while, and returned just recently. While he has not yet returned to his full strength, he is safe, and getting better.”

I keep staring into the bowl, seeing many of the tokens of our childhood in it. His bed is layered with coven quilts, and his bedside has all sorts of little witchling knicknacks. He’s wearing one of the shawls that witches often wear around the home, with the patterns of our coven woven into it — white-tipped triangles of green that mimic snowcapped mountains, covered in pine trees. Feeling a sudden pang of homesickness, I push the floating bowl away from me a little, not wanting to look too closely anymore.

“Your brother’s important to you.” Raikaron observes softly, watching my motions.

I nod wordlessly, rubbing at my eyes. A moment later, I feel his hand on my shoulder, and turn to look up at him.

“If I could’ve helped your brother without putting other people in danger, Jayta, then I would’ve.” he says, looking right into my eyes.

I can tell that he means it; I can feel that he means it. And in that instant, I realize that even though doing nothing was the right thing for him to do, it doesn’t mean it was easy for him to do it. I don’t know why it took this long to click; maybe it was looking into his eyes and seeing that he had wanted to do something. Standing by and doing nothing was not easy when you knew you could do something, but shouldn’t do anything.

And I can’t hang onto my anger once I realize that. With the anger gone, all that’s left is the homesickness and the loneliness, and I don’t want to be sad and alone. Turning on the bed, I lean into him, crawling into his lap and burying my face in his shoulder as I wrap my arms around him. It seems to take him off guard, but it isn’t long before he’s pulled me into his embrace, gently stroking my hair as I try not to cry into his shoulder too much.

“It’s not fair.” I murmur into his shoulder, my voice low and thick.

“No. No, it isn’t.” he agrees gently, slowly running a hand up and down my back in soothing cycles. “The universe is imperfect. Life is not fair. And that is the price we pay for the beauty, the gift, and the curse of free will.” Pressing a kiss to my head, he goes on. “If I find a loophole that allows me to help your brother, or otherwise interfere in Azra’s designs with minimal danger to others, then I will, little flower.”

I swallow hard, my fingers starting to loosen from where they snared in the thin fabric of his whitecollar shirt. Turning my head, I keep it rested against the junction of his neck and shoulder, realizing how much I’d missed his scent. Spices and pumpkin and sweet things.

“Will you stay with me tonight?” I whisper.

His jaw bumps lightly against my head as he answers. “If that’s what you want, then of course I will.”

“That’s what I want.”

“Then I will.”