Chapter 53 – Teller of Fate

Teller of Fate

Sixth Movement: The Fate of Stars

Chapter Fifty-Three

* * *

The Hermetist who greeted the Templar in front of the Blue Griffin, simply asked him to follow.

The Templar now had confirmation of the play the Wanderer in the Wastes was making. He and Abram had guessed right. In returning to the City Glyph, the Wanderer had now shown him how he intended to carry it out.

Merely sending the White God ravening though the Thirty Aions was not the Wanderer’s plan. No doubt he thought it would not bring enough fodder to his master quickly enough after the Lord of Entropy had so long been starved of food.

The City of Portals had been sealed for only the second time since its construction.

If isolating Glyph had been the Wanderer’s first step, the logical second move would be eliminating the population. The White God’s presence would make that task easy.

That meant the Wanderer’s goal was the Spire, as clearing the city atop it would allow his master access.

The Templar had not lied when he had said the Lord of Entropy could not feed off the Spire itself. Technically it was not living and had no structure to break down. It was potential energy in its least ordered form, siphoned off things that had lived.

The freedom of the White God, the Wanderer’s ‘hound,’ would allow IT to feed on the stuff of the Spire. No doubt the Soul and Messenger of the Lord of Entropy thought it fitting that sustenance that had been stolen from off the White God’s metaphorical fork should finally sate ITs hunger.

The White God would then feed the Lord of Entropy and not willingly, the Templar was sure.

That would be a fine solution to the problem of the White God’s imminent freedom, did it not first require the consumption of the Spire, created for a future need only the Templars knew.

Nameless could not win this fight alone. The allies he called would, with one exception, need evidence.

He now intended to present some to those he hoped to call as he followed the Hermetist who had come to fetch him. Out into the returning order of the city they went.

A quiet tension had replaced the chaos of an hour before. People were dealing with their fears by doing what their leaders asked them to do, burying their anxiety under furious activity.

None of the populace knew what to expect and everyone worried about themselves, family, business, and relations in distant corners of the Thirty Aions. It had been an age since a threat of harm to this much of civilization had occurred. The Templar Wars had been the last, in fact; and that was a series of events so distant in time that most who’d heard of it discounted it as myth.

The Hermetist leading him was heading straight for the Mages Guild citadel. The trip took longer than it might have because of the congestion of the streets. The main thoroughfares were passable, but traffic along them was quite heavy and would remain so until everyone was placed where they would be least underfoot for however long the siege would last.

Finally, the grand gates of the Mages Citadel were visible over the muttering throng. The gates of each of the four fastnesses of the guilds had been identical in design, customized over the centuries to suit tastes of each as to what the primary home of their trade should look like.

The mages had gone with sinister and imposing. Their entrance was black and baroque. Strange symbols incised into the stone of the portico were inlaid with silver. The gate itself looked to be made of red crystal. It was, according to his guide, ruby enchanted with spells to make the soul of anyone foolish enough to try to force an entry scream for eternity.

That was meant to sound fearsome.

To the Templar, who with the memories of the Lost and screams of his sister’s soul, the proclamation so proudly given failed to impress.

A word with the guard, a faceless giant of a woman all in midnight blue armour and welding spiked polearm that visibly crackled with power, and the gate opened to admit them.

Murther holes, hidden deadfalls, and doubtless many other invisible deterrents to unlawful entry, punctuated the passage behind it.

The main hall of the guild was brightly lit, yet ill-defined. Indirect lighting from the edge of the floor gave the space an ominous feel. The walls and ceiling were three dimensional landscapes of small stone cubes. Most were highly polished. The light cast deep shadows and dim reflections that made the true extent of the room impossible to determine. Some of those shadows must conceal doorways, for none were visible.

Three mages entered the space, passing into it from different shadows. Without acknowledging the Templar or his escort they crossed the room and appeared to walk into their own reflections in dark, polished stone.

The Hermetist led him forward and to the left, into a shadow just vacated by one of the mages. The pair walked into it. A moment of blackness and disorientation and they walked out into a narrow hallway.

It was the familiar grey stone of the underground part of Glyph. After only a few steps the passage opened into a space larger even than the caverns of the Underdwellers.

The two stood at a railless edge looking down at a cubical pit. Perfectly smooth, squared, and empty, it was filled with a subtle energy that could be felt but not seen.

Several hundred yards across the void was another entrance.

“Take my hand,” the Hermetists said. Together they strode right out into thin air. The Templar felt nothing under his boots, not even the slight resistance indicating a solid surface. Walking felt rather like swinging his legs in space.

After a few strides, the Hermetist stopped. Her companion followed her example. Their forward progress continued unaided.

They stayed directly on course for the opposite entrance, at a brisk talking pace.

Stepping back onto stone was as smooth as stepping off. The Hermetist let go the Templar’s hand and beckoned him to follow.

Down another hall they went and to another door, this one a dark hardwood decorated with bas relief of lush vegetation along a river. The detail was so fine, its origin had to be magickal.

With a spoken word in Kazhi, the use of which made the Templar flinch, it slid down into the floor.

Before them was the image of that riverside made real. Following the Hermetist through, Nameless turned back and saw only more jungle. A mild floral laden breeze ruffled his hair.

Silver light, grass, trees, the rustling of leaves…

It took a moment to realize that it was all contained in a tunnel vaster than anything under Glyph should have been. The Templar had to remind himself that they were still under the city. The magick of the Hermetists seemed greater by far than it had been all those millennia ago.

The river itself was a blinding series of moving scallops of silver light. This was the Styx, the fifth river of Glyph—a part of the Silvergrey Sea.

So wide was it that he could barely make out the verdancy defining its further shore.

A trio of three-masted ships floated out in the current. A longboat was pulled up on the sand and a dozen Hermetists stood regarding the newcomers.

Among them, he was surprised to see, was Abram. The Hermetist strode over the sand and onto firmer turf. Smiling as he came, the Archivist left the others by the boat.

“Surprised to see you here, little brother,” the Templar said. “How will the library manage without you?”

Abram waved a hand dismissively. “It runs itself for the most part. My intervention is rarely required. I have eager junior archivists by the score looking to impress me with their skills.”

His smile faded, replaced by a frown the Templar thought rather theatrical. “I’m afraid the worst has happened. The White God has slipped its bonds.” He said this for the benefit of the other Hermetists in earshot.

The Templar checked on his connection to his sister. She was still there, still fighting. There was something different, though. She seemed stronger somehow. Was she also eager?

The Templar looked at the others on the beach. “We should, discuss this privately.”

Abram nodded.

Turning, Abram beckoned two of the Hermetists on the beach before him. A longboat was pushed most of the way into the water, as Abram and the Templar walked to the shore. They climbed in as the remaining two pushed the boat the rest of the way and jumped in after. They were careful not to touch the stuff of the Silvergrey. They then assumed positions facing backwards, each gripping an oar.

The longboat began to move toward the ships.

The Templar was squinting in the glare from the water for almost a full minute before his eyes adjusted. The ships were silhouettes against the light. The longboat was quite close to one of them before details began to emerge.

Stone and metal were the chief elements used in the ships’ construction. A ladder of steel cable and stone rungs was lowered. First Abram then the Templar climbed. The other Hermetists remained aboard and rowed the longboat back to the shore.

They were greeted by the Mate when they stepped aboard the ship. He led them sternward and down a steep ladder.

Along a short companionway they went, to a door at the very end.

Without ceremony Abram opened it and led the Templar to the captain’s cabin which spanned the width of the boat at its stern.

It was a well-appointed space, though without the ostentation one might expect considering Abram, one of the governors of the Hermetic Order, currently occupied it. A bunk along one wall, cupboards lining the other, and a table and chairs of plain wood which dominated the room under a bright lamp.

Abram took a seat with his back to the large, diamond paned stern windows which formed the whole of the far wall of the cabin.

The Templar sat opposite. “I’ve confirmed our suspicions. I’ve found the answer we’re looking for. It is as we feared.”

Abram’s brow descended. “The White God is coming here. We have concluded the same.”

The Templar nodded. “The Wanderer means to feed it the Spire. He was also able to divert me again. I’ve spent centuries since our last meeting looking for the thirteenth Syrat and the Incunabulum. He managed to hide me from myself again and to direct me to acts that served his purpose.”

“Such as?”

“I’m responsible for allowing him access to the Incunabulum.”

Abram sat forward. “He has it?”

“Not now. I was able to retrieve it, but not before he had a chance to work the mischief we’re now dealing with.”

“The closing of the Portals.”

“Yes, and that’s not all. He latched onto one of the former custodians of the Incunabulum, the male, John.” The Templar gave Abram an abbreviated version of the quest for the Book.

“Can the Wanderer still affect you?”

He shook his head.

“How badly were you compromised?”

The Templar decided the time for secrets had passed. “You remember I told you of that long ago avatar on Scorn. Well, through him, I became a father again.”

“A father? So, there’s a living Seanduine?”

Here the Templar met Abram’s eye, again. “Yes. She is the Teller, Dævara.”

Abram’s shock was considerable. “Has there ever been a Leannán Sage?”

“No.” The Templar went on to relate the details of his dealings with her as the Dark Man.

“Does she know?”

Smiling. “Yes. She has the strength of all the Sages.” Even in this crisis, the Templar dared not reveal origins of the Fæ. “She not only forgave but accepted me as her father. Her reaction was much better than I deserved.”

“A strong one, she is. Not the pawn the Crawling Chaos evidently hoped she would be.”

“I do not know if she was any part of the Wanderer’s plan but if so, he badly miscalculated with her. I have traded the Incunabulum to the Teller for the use of her Syrat.” With that, the Templar produced a purse of dark indigo. Sliding the deck out, he placed the three-inch stack of cards on the table.

“At least we still have a chance. Any idea where the Wanderer might be now?”

“Likely here, hidden. I do know he’s lining his pieces up for the end game.”

“These Custodians of the Incunabulum, the Airkharts; what’s become of them?”

“They’re both in Glyph and reasonably safe.”

“I’m impressed the male survived.”

“They are strong. Their sires taught them well,” the Templar said. “Did you have any trouble releasing the God?”

The Hermetist chuckled. “Besides convincing some of our more junior members that we hadn’t lost our minds, no. We had some problems with a rebellion three decades back. Memories of that are still fresh.”

“Have you been able to track the God?”

“Not as well as we would like. We rely more on the chaos that follows in ITs wake than on anything esoteric. We’re comfortably certain he’s still headed for Glyph, though. Is everything ready here?”

“Almost. The Wanderer used energy stolen from the Spire to reinforce the spell that shut all the Portals into the city. He’s also managed to banish the Garda. Glyph is effectively sealed off and lawless.”

“The absence of the Garda troubles me more than the sealing of the city,” Abram.

“There will be time to deal with that problem if we survive. For now, we need to get those Gates open if the plan is to work. Any thoughts on how?”

“There’s only one way I can think of.”

“I was afraid you were going to say something like that. No doubt this was the Chaos’s intent when he forced the gates closed.”

“What would the Wanderer have to gain? Unless—” Abram’s face slackened; eyes widened.

“My thoughts exactly. He means not only to loose the White God on Glyph but to overwhelm the Thirty Aions with death. It will make our plan easier, though riskier.”

“Anything else?”

“Yes. When I encountered the Wanderer in the Under, he mentioned a ‘hound’ that was on its way here. He likely felt confident enough in his plan to taunt us with the knowledge that the White God is coming. To counter his stroke, I’ve decided to try bringing the Myr in on this.”

The Myr had been bitter foes of the Templars throughout the latter’s reign. When the Magi of the Airgid Temple breached a sphere in Nonspace and released the White God, the former condemned the entirely of the Templar’s race, the Atlanteans, to death. As far as the Myr knew, they had succeeded. If they found out differently, their first reaction would be to kill those remaining.

Getting them to ally with the last Templars might be more difficult than fighting the White God on their own, saving only that the Myr’s loathing of that deity exceeded their animus toward the last of Poseidon’s Children.

“You’re thinking our plan is not the best one?”

The Templar shared a humourless laugh with his host. “It’s a bit late for second thoughts. The best we’ll likely manage is to get the Myr to perform perimeter duty to prevent any spreading of disaster should we fail, but that much at least would comfort me.”

“Do you think they’ll come themselves?”

“Doubtful. They’ll likely send some of the Rakesh to help.”

“Shouldn’t be a problem, then. I guess all we need to do now is to prepare the Working, then contact the Myr.”

The Templar touched three fingers to the top card of the Syrat and smiled.

* * *

Abram took the Syrat from the table, sliding it back into its bag. Standing, he beckoned the Templar, and the pair left the ship, heading for the shore of the Styx.

Back into the Mages Guild they went. After travelling a circuitous route through the yellow lit Blaxstone hallways, the two found themselves in a small ritual chamber. Already present were the Kokkinos and the Albedo, the former all in red, the latter in white.

The room was about twenty feet on a side and devoid of any feature except an elaborate and detailed mandala covering most of the floor.

The mages of Glyph were a progressive lot. No dim candlelight, smoky incense, or strange robes and banners for them.

But for the floor, the room was plain. The space was brightly lit.

Abram took the Syrat and began crabwalking around the floor, placing cards on the mandala.

Four piles carefully arranged—one, atop a square of four, atop a square of nine—were laid out one the corners of a square inscribed within the circle of the mandala. Within the square was inscribed another circle and within that, a triangle. Three more piles of similarly configured cards he placed on the points of that triangle. Individual cards were placed along the smaller circle between those three stacks. The whole thus formed the points of a hexagon.

Inside the hexagram, thirty-nine cards were laid on the points of thirteen triangles forming a wheel about the center of the design.

Within this again, he laid seven cards in a heptagon.

The remaining cards the Archivist fanned in a tight circle around the exact center of the design, saving the last card which he placed dead center.

The three Hermetists and the Templar moved to stand at the corners of the square defined by the outermost stacks of cards.

The spell was simple: four words intoned simultaneously, one by each participant. The effect was mesmerizing.

Lines that had appeared to be mere incisions in the stone floor became channels for dancing worms of light. Brilliantly coloured streaks zipped along the channels, buzzing all the while and, converging on cards, changed them.

It started with the pyramid of cards nearest Abram: the suit of Erthe.

The stack lifted off the floor, each layer ascending a bit further than the layer beneath. Starting with the top card, The Creator of Erthes, each of the fourteen cards in the stack became the focus of racing, skipping dashes of light: black, brown, forest green, wheat amber.

From diverse points on the mandala, light sprang from the floor, flashed enthusiastically to the floating pyramid of cards, and mugged the top one. Sparkles skittered over its surface, leaving bright colour and a luster behind.

Once finished, top card looked like a thing reborn.

The streaks of light spilled over the edge and champaigned down to the next level and the next until the entire suit looked sparkling and beautiful. Light spilled onto the floor, slid into the channels, and vanished from the field.

Next was the Ærs suit. Yellow-white, sky blue, and spring green lights overhauled the suit.

And so it went, until the entire deck was renewed and ready for the task ahead.

The light show ended and with it, the sound. The cards all shot up like a fountain in reverse and collected themselves into a neat stack right in the center of the mandala.

The operation had taken less than ten minutes.

The Templar retrieved the Syrat and placed the cards back into their indigo bag, while the Hermetists passed their hands over the stone, muttering cantrips, thus erasing the design.

In less than a minute, the floor was as bare as the rest of the space.

The Templar said, “Younger Siblings, we must now contact the Myr and beg their aid.”

Grave nods for the others.

In silence, the four left.

— Gideon Jagged
Innsmouth, August 2026

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