Teller of Fate
Second Movement: The Last Templar
Chapter Seventeen
* * *
Nameless woke twice, both times during rest stops for the flyers. When the journey finally ended, he was stiff, though rested. He was also hungry but forbore to mention it.
It turned out Fatalidad resided at another edge of the platform, beside a roaring torrent of water that cascaded over the edge—down to another part, as it turned out.
Dozens of new-born stars competed for his attention, nestled in the folds of a nebular crèche. The cottage before him was nothing but a silhouette before that light.
It was in a proper house that the Teller lived, a sprawling organic looking dwelling, seeming almost part of the landscape.
Nameless’s steeds bid him a friendly farewell and, lighter for his absence, piloted the empty chariot back the way they had come.
He watched until a kink in the landscape hid them before turning back to the large dwelling.
A track led to the front door. As he followed it, the Templar recalled that he’d seen nothing like a road on this colony. Not surprising considering the ease of flight for them.
The door was wide beams of old wood, bound in black painted wrought iron. The large knocker wouldn’t move. The Templar rapped his knuckles on the door three times. The noise seemed muffled, so he knocked harder. Still too quiet.
He didn’t want to seem rude, besides, his knuckles hurt, so he decided to wait a few moments.
Nothing. What to do?
One more time, with the heel of his hand.
Still Nothing. It would be a long walk back.
There were several options, but only one that wasn’t, on some level, rude.
He walked the perimeter of the cottage slowly.
The windows were small and square, with single panes of rolled glass. Most had curtains drawn and most were dark. Windows into lit rooms all had veils of cloth over them.
The Templar spent some time peering into the first few of those he met, looking for the shift of a dim shadow that would indicate life.
So far, he’d been disappointed.
By the look of the weathering, the cottage had been built in stages over an extended period.
Its perimeter dodged around peculiarities of landscape. One big one was the edge of the ground. The cottage hugged it closely enough that the walk along that edge was a bit unnerving.
The Templar had just seen what he thought might be an uncurtained window to a lit room when he noticed the wide space ahead of him suspiciously devoid of cottage.
There was a door on this side of the house. The front door, obviously.
For people who flew everywhere, the door you could walk out of would be the one least used. No wonder that knocker had been rusted in place. He wondered why he hadn’t been dropped off here and concluded that it was the doing of the Teller.
The window, when he reached it, was bare of obstacles and lit. It opened on the front hallway, in fact. The Templar stepped in front of the door, comforted a little by the width of the platform behind him, and used the knocker.
The single boom was satisfyingly loud and, as it turned out, enough. The Templar heard footfalls approaching before the echo had died away.
The Iola who answered the door was ancient. He had once been much taller than Nameless, but a stoop had robbed him of this advantage and now the elder was just two inches taller than the Templar.
The gold of his skin was tarnished in places; his wings probably couldn’t support flight, even the colony’s gentle gravity.
His eyes, though…his shiny, black-oil eyes were as present and penetrating as an arrow to the heart.
He wore a plain black robe that left wings and arms free.
“You would be Nameless,” the elder said. “I am Fatalidad, Teller of Fate.” He held out a clawed hand.
The Templar took it reverently. “Teller, I thank you for seeing me.”
Having completed the ritual handshake, Fatalidad withdrew his hand and waved his visitor in. After closing the door, “I see all who come to me for a Telling. It is the calling of my soul. I cannot refuse.” Fatalidad’s voice was high, but not reedy. There was strength there, yet.
The Templar was led down a hall painted blue and taupe and carpeted in burgundy to a small room, similarly decorated. It held a plain wooden table and two low-backed chairs; that was all.
A lamp hung from the ceiling by four silver chains and cast a pale blue light on the table, leaving the rest of the room in deep shadow.
The Templar took the seat indicated. The Teller took the other.
Between the old Iola’s hands was a Syrat. The Templar felt an itch in its presence. The discomfort of a lifetime battled the urgency of his mission.
Fatalidad spoke. “You’ve not come here for anything trivial. Darkness preceded you. I know what you are.”
The Templar held back his first response, which would have been to kill the old being in front of him, remembering he’d come here for help and to strike a bargain, if he could.
A Teller would be almost impossible to hide anything from, he knew. The Iola before the Templar had deliberately sought to provoke him.
No point in prevaricating. “An ancient evil is breaking loose.” It sounded so melodramatic, now he came to tell anyone of it. “I need help or worlds are doomed.”
The other simply met his eye. It was hard for The Templar to match the other. “More worlds, I think you mean.”
The Templar sighed. “I know. Worlds and races died by the thousand before we—”
“No!” Fatalidad’s voice was loud enough to hurt. The Templar jumped. His heart was racing. He was momentarily frightened of the Teller. “This time! Now! Over four hundred worlds have died in the last decade. Burned by their suns or blown away by cosmic winds or just consumed.” The way he said the last word chilled the Templar all over again. “Your White God is already loose, Templar!”
Though he had just reminded himself that Tellers knew most everything about their clients, it comforted him somewhat to realize they could still be wrong.
For minutes, the Templar sat, forcing himself to meet the unforgiving stare of the Teller. The Iola had every reason for anger, however misplaced it might be. Finally, he spoke. “I have just come from Azhure’en. The White God is still imprisoned.”
The other waved a hand dismissively. “This I know. But IT is not entirely held. Something has loosened ITs bonds.”
The Templar thought of his conversation with Abram and the impossible sickening of his sister, the last Ebon Templar, who had been fighting IT for so long. “I fear you are right. That’s why I’ve come to ask for help.”
“You’ve come for this.” Fatalidad placed one hand flat atop the deck. “You will not have it, nor will you have my services in your fight. My time grows short and I’ve a new Teller already trained. However, I will show you what I know of the nature of the danger.”
With that, the Teller began to practice his art. The deck was shuffled and fanned out on the table. “Draw a card.”
The Templar complied, sliding a card out from the rest. Fatalidad placed it, face still down to one side. Six more times, this was done.
The Teller gathered the rest of the deck and stacked out of the way.
He arrayed the seven cards in a line.
“Pick one.”
The Templar did.
“Hand it here.”
The Templar gave the card to Fatalidad, who placed it face up on the table. “The Creator of Activity.”
Again, the Templar picked.
“The Fall.” Placed to the Teller’s right of the first card.
Again.
“The Creator of Lucidity.” To the right again, and a bit closer to the Teller.
And again.
“The Birth of Light.” Under the second card, leaving a space above.
And again.
“The Creator of Stillness.” Left of the previous card.
Again.
“Face to Face.” Placed to complete the hexagram.
The Teller took the last card himself. Without looking at it, he turned it and placed it in the center.
“The Blue Lamp,” the Templar said. “Tell.”
“The Creators are the forces that begin things. These three,”—the Teller indicated the three creators— “are the forces behind the forces.
“The Zeroth Lamps—” he pointed out The Fall, The Birth of Light, and Face to Face—“are that beginning.
“The Blue Lamp can be many things. Here, though, it has only one interpretation. It is the Abyss into which everything falls. It is worse than death. It is the undoing of what has already been done. It is not murder; it is never having been born.
“Something comes, oh nameless Templar. Something that undoes what has been done. The White God has been allowed to feed. As its hunger grows, the tomb you’ve made for IT will no longer be able to hold IT. But that is not the real danger. Something greater, darker is behind this. This greater darkness wants to erase everything.”
“Why?”
“To make something new, you have to remove the old.”
Nameless shuddered at this.
“Seven times I have asked this question. Seven times the Syrat has answered with the same message. It will give me no more.”
“Is it alive, this greater darkness?” Pointing to the cards.
“Not really. It is a thing; a made thing.”
“Is my quest the right course?”
Fatalidad smiled, showing yellow, pointed teeth. “You don’t need a Teller for that. The Syrat is the only thing that can redo what has been undone. It’s only a bandage, though. This thing that uses the White God as a weapon, this greater darkness must be neutralized.”
The Templar knew what this greater darkness was and now, what was needed to neutralize it—the Incunabulum. There was nothing for it, he’d have to get it before the darkness—the Wanderer in the Wastes, he was sure now—did. Still, he needed a Syrat for the nascent plan he was forming.
“Teller, I thank you for the Telling.” The Templar stood up and made to leave.
The Teller didn’t follow.
As he was leaving the room, Fatalidad called out, “Was this the first time a Templar has asked for a Telling?”
He turned and faced the elder. The latter had not turned its head. “It was the second. The first time is the reason we condemned the Syrat.”
The Templar walked down the hall with the derisive laughter of the Teller in pursuit.
— Gideon Jagged
Innsmouth, August 2026
© Gideon Jagged
All Rights Reserved
