—excerpt from Kelafelo’s notes
Epilogue
Yonte Saire, the Jungle City—Kingdom of the Yontai
Somewhere in the gloomy labyrinths beneath the world’s beating heart, where the suns never shine and reptilian monsters prowl unseen, the Enchantress enters a subterranean sanctuary, where she has come to visit the apostate sibyl who calls it home.
Attar of bloodroses trails behind her as she walks, the heels of her gold-encrusted shoes clicking on the wet floors. She has covered her face in a diaphanous scarlet veil and clothed her hands in matching gloves. Dirt will not cling to her robes of violet Dulama silk, nor will the stench of sewage pervading the tunnels overpower her perfumes.
To the pair of masked Jasiri guardians walking two steps behind her—they are her escorts, courtesy of one of her Faro friends—she is an oasis of glamour in the foulness of the undercity. They perceive her as fragile, a delicate flower in need of their protection; the Enchantress knows this because she made it so.
What they don’t know—indeed, what she will never let them know—is that she is a mystic herself, whose power is hidden beneath a field generated by her metaformic jewel. They don’t know that her perfumes, grace, poise, beauty, and allure are in fact specialized spells of a kind. Like a spider hidden in the shadows, she has woven them surreptitiously around their minds, ensnaring them in fervent loyalty to her. Their devotion is so complete they would slit their own throats if she only commanded it.
The Enchantress smiles at the thought. Jasiri guardians, arguably the world’s deadliest warrior mystics, and she has them wrapped around her little finger like twine.
She has come a long way from the sniveling victim she once was.
They enter a dimly lit chamber within the sanctuary, a shrine of sorts, with the stone carving of a stylized eye ensconced within a niche on one wall, candles arrayed beneath it so that it seems to move in the wavering light, like it’s alive. The Enchantress lifts her veil and studies the blue hieroglyphs painted onto the wall behind the statue. They all bear the faded quality of age.
This sanctuary is old. It’s been here for decades at least.
She purses her lips, displeased. Damn these cultists. Like cockroaches, they spread everywhere no matter how many you crush beneath your boot. How in the world did they infiltrate the Red Wilds without anyone noticing until now? The Enchantress would shed much blood to know the answer to that question.
“Welcome to the Sanctuary of Vigilance, Your Highness.” A bright-eyed woman of middle age has materialized next to her, dressed in a patterned blue caftan and a matching head wrap, no trace of fear in the depths of her gaze, only mild curiosity.
A mystic, no doubt, though not a powerful one. Probably one of those pesky independents who run around “helping” the poor with their magic. The Enchantress wonders why the Faros tolerate them at all. This woman alone has likely proselytized many converts into her cult.
“You draw power from the Mother,” the Enchantress says and gestures at the carved eye with a gloved hand, “yet you insult her by bowing to false idols. Do you not fear her retribution for such flagrant apostasy?”
The woman remains calmly impassive. “I do not reject the Mother, Your Highness. I only accept that she is merely one of many expressions of the greater good and that there are other expressions that can work through us just as well. If the Mother did not approve, I doubt I could still call upon her benevolence.”
“I wonder if you’d say the same thing about mystics who consort with the devil. The Mother allows them to keep drawing from her, does she not? Even after they’ve sullied their souls. Do you mean to tell me that she approves?”
“I wouldn’t know, Your Highness. Would you?”
Silence falls between them and thickens as they stare at each other, and to her credit, the woman remains cool as frost. Such composure when I could have your head with the snap of a finger. The Enchantress ends the staring contest with a smile. “I have come to consult with the Sibyl Underground. Is she free to see me?”
“As a matter of fact, she is. I can take you to her now.”
“Excellent.”
“If you would please follow me, Your Highness.”
The apostate mystic proceeds to lead her down dingy tunnels with wall-mounted crystal lamps barely bright enough to illuminate the many figures milling about. The Enchantress frowns in distaste when a little Faraswa girl in a dirty blue tunic almost bumps into her as she scurries after her friends.
They have children here. And Faraswa living among them. This isn’t just a cultist sanctuary; it’s a thriving community.
They have grown far too comfortable in this city.
The Jasiri cause quite the stir as they follow her deeper into the sanctuary. Cultists blanch and turn around; children huddle together in the corners, pointing and whispering. Their reaction doesn’t surprise the Enchantress; the eyeless masks of the Jasiri—fashioned to resemble weeping skulls with horns—are never welcome sights to those who have cause to fear the authorities.
The apostate mystic leads her into a chamber lit by so many candles the walls seem on fire. Wax flows thickly down the candlesticks, and a flowery aroma pervades the air, a change the Enchantress welcomes with a relieved breath.
Like well-trained pets, the Jasiri do not enter; they stand guard by the door outside, arms folded over broad chests, enchanted spears balanced on their ends.
Beyond the door, a girl not yet old enough to sprout breasts sits on a grass mat in the center of the chamber, her shaved head bowed, her chest encumbered by beaded necklaces, folded legs hidden beneath a voluminous layered skirt. Bones and other mysterious articles are strewed on the mat around her. A table and a wicker chair sit in one corner.
“Your guest has arrived, Reverence,” the mystic announces, and the Enchantress fails to conceal her surprise.
“You were expecting me?”
“I expected someone,” comes the sibyl’s juvenile voice. She still hasn’t raised her head. “Please, sit. Have some tea.”
The woman motions the Enchantress to sit by the table and then proceeds to serve her aromatic spiced shaah in a porcelain cup. She has an inscrutable expression as she sets the teakettle back onto the table. The Enchantress notices with a quirked eyebrow that the tea is still hot enough to steam.
“I’ll be right outside if you need me,” the woman says and then glides out of the chamber.
While she takes off her gloves and sets them on the table, the Enchantress studies the so-called Sibyl Underground. She knows that her gift of foresight is an ancestral talent unique to Void mystics of a now-extinct tribe of hunter-gatherers who lived in the Umadi savannas. Hard to imagine that this girl is the last of them, the world’s last soothsayer. A child. She must be something truly extraordinary to have built an Axiom and faced a redhawk at her age. A pity she had to go and entangle herself with cultists.
The Enchantress lifts her cup and takes a sip. Perfect. “You knew this was my favorite tea, didn’t you,” she says, breaking the long silence.
“I knew only that my guest would appreciate it,” the sibyl replies without lifting her head.
“I do. Thank you.”
“You are welcome.”
The Enchantress wonders briefly how to extract the information she has come for. Her Faro accomplice wouldn’t give her the full picture of what’s going on, wouldn’t say anything about the key or where to watch out for it, expected her to simply trust that things were under control. But she’ll be damned if she lets herself sit in the dark. If the Faro won’t tell her, she’ll have to find out for herself.