Teller of Fate
First Movement: The Birth of a Teller of Fate
Chapter Ten
⁂
One by one, the cards of the Syrat sizzled as they passed from Scorn to Ælfen, settling into a dome over Dævara and Tathar.
When all the cards returned, the hemisphere they formed expanded, like an explosion in slow motion.
A silver lamp shining a pale blue light, brightly lit the normally dim Portal room.
The dark ash-coloured funnel of the Portal winked out with a chime of crystal bells.
Dævara was sitting on her heels just outside the edge of the circle containing the magick, with Tathar on the other side. The Syrat held its place for a moment, then fountained up and spiraled down into the Teller’s open palm. A sweet energy suffused her body as contact with the Syrat was regained.
Silence descended for several moments as each contemplated the last thing they’d seen.
Just before the contact with Scorn was lost, they both saw the abandoned desert city tilt and drop.
Finally, “Tath, what happened there?”
The corners of Tathar’s mouth were down, hidden in his beard. He was staring at a point in the circle. He closed his eyes, buried his face in his hands. “Tath!”
Tears streaked his face when his hands descended. “We misjudged something, Dævara.” His voice was thick with emotion. “The city moved upward when we encircled it. I’m afraid your Dark Man has been killed.”
“Is there anything we can do?”
Tathar shook his head. “Another attempt at contact would only muddle things. We took a big chance doing what we did. If it hadn’t been your life, I wouldn’t have allowed it.”
Dævara stood and walked a bit stiffly toward the older elf, who rose as she approached. “I’ve a death on my soul, I do.”
“Yes. You’ll have to deal with the consequences.”
“What will those be d’ya suppose?”
“I don’t know. It will be paid, though. All such debts are, to the uttermost farthing.”
They embraced then in mutual grief, so Tathar didn’t see the look of guilt and shame cross Dævara’s features.
Continued here.
— Gideon Jagged
Innsmouth, July 2026
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