The train of her carmine-and-indigo robe sweeps the patterned marble floors as she makes her way through the halls of her palace. Lush interior gardens fill the air with their earthy scent, like stolen pieces of the jungle. She is still amazed that such luxury can exist here, in what should be—at least according to what she thought she knew about the so-called Red Wilds—a squalid cultural vacuum inhabited by a primitive people. Indeed, she has had to renounce her preconceptions in the face of evidence to the contrary. They may not be as advanced in technology as the rest of the world, but this city alone has demonstrated an architectural sophistication and a mastery of pure magic that has at times left her speechless.
The world is right to fear this place, she thinks, for there is great power here.
Inside her private chambers the Enchantress reclines on a lounge chair and prods the centerpiece of her golden necklace with her thoughts. The crimson jewel—a synthetic quartz stone saturated to the atom with the moon’s essence—thrums in response, and she lets herself relax, closing her eyes.
Instantly, the metaform operating in the crystal’s high-speed lattices responds and begins to weave her consciousness into a mental construct that takes shape around her from the ground up, rising like a vivid dream. Soon she finds that the lounge chair has been transported into an open circular pavilion built on the highest peak of the tallest mountain range in the world.
Balls of fire are raining from the twilight skies, thousands upon thousands, each leaving a stream of smoke and flame in its wake. A man stands silhouetted against the skies in the foreground, leaning against one of the pillars encircling the pavilion with his back toward the Enchantress. His is the kind of stillness that suggests he could wait for a thousand years.
A shiver of worry runs through the Enchantress, and she briefly second-guesses herself, but then she remembers her priorities.
I need his support if I’m going to move mountains.
She gets up from the chair and slowly walks to the edge of the pavilion, where the world drops into steep, jagged snow-covered slopes that spread away into the slight curvature of the distant horizon. The sight still leaves her queasy, even though she knows it is only a construct.
“So. You’ve finally decided to remember me.”
In such constructs, where minds can be entangled even across great distances, communication is by thought. But the metaform running the construct can be directed to vocalize this communication. What the Enchantress hears as the man’s voice sounds like something that might belong to a cold-blooded monster if it could speak.
The Enchantress reminds herself not to be afraid. “Hello, Prophet. Thank you for agreeing to meet me.”
“But how could I not? I was worried when I heard my favorite prodigy had gone missing.” Prophet finally looks at her. “Imagine my surprise when I learned you’d snuck off to the world’s back end. I’m interested to hear what tale you will spin for me.”
While the Enchantress has manifested in the construct as she is, Prophet is a god-king in a white hooded robe over a full suit of gold-plated armor. Atop the hood sits a golden crown, with two horns like those of a young ram curling out on either side. His face is an empty void. The Enchantress knows he’s interfacing with a metaformic jewel just like hers wherever he is.
“I couldn’t risk telling anyone I was coming here.”
“And why not?”
“You would have tried to stop me.”
“For good reason, Enchantress. The law is clear: there is to be no contact between the hinterlands and the outside world. If you are caught, I will not be able to protect you from the consequences.”
The Enchantress stares at the fires raining ruin upon the world far below. “If the Veil fell today, the world would unite against our Master, and all would be lost. But with your help, I can brew a war that will shake the foundations of the earth and crack the heavens open. That’s what I’m doing here.”
Prophet chuckles, and it comes out as a bloodcurdling roar. “Ah. So you want my help. I should have known.”
“I can’t do it on my own.”
“But what can you possibly accomplish there? And I’d better like your explanation, or this will be the last time we speak.”
“An analogy, if you will.”
“Proceed.”
“Say there is a contested swath of land that all the great powers of the world have agreed to leave alone.”
The Enchantress can almost feel his amusement. “An analogy, you said?”
“Bear with me.”
With a magnanimous gesture he permits her to continue.
“Say this land, though exceedingly rich and fertile, is fraught with danger, and the indigenous peoples are . . . problematic. In fact, you might think of this place as a giant hornet’s nest no one wants to poke—so long as everyone else stays away. Are you with me so far?”
“Carry on.”
“Moreover, everyone knows that breaching the agreement to stay away would trigger a scramble so vicious there would be no victors, only losers. No one wants this, so the treaty holds. Now, if you want to start a war, how do you use this to your advantage?”
“If these were the only pertinent facts, then you would pour your efforts into persuading one of the world powers to break the treaty. The question is how.”
The Enchantress feels a modest surge of hope. She has Prophet’s attention now. “A good question. Let us suppose, then, that one of these world powers once had an enemy so terrible that the mere mention of its name could get you imprisoned indefinitely. Suppose they vanquished this enemy at immense cost to themselves and upon their victory vowed to do everything in their power to ensure that this enemy would never again rear its head. Do you see where I’m taking this?”
Prophet’s monstrous voice is suddenly subdued. “Not exactly, but you are treading on dangerous ground. Explain yourself.”
Ah, the mighty Prophet, afraid of a long-dead ghost. The Enchantress continues. “What you do, Prophet, is raise the specter of that vanquished enemy in the hornet’s nest. Then you will have your war.”
He watches her, stunned, but quickly finds his voice. “You cannot be serious.”
The Enchantress gives him the rest of her pitch. “This specter wouldn’t be the real thing, of course—it can’t be and wouldn’t need to be. It would only need to be convincing enough. Let this great power think that their old enemy is resurfacing in the heart of this contested land, and they’ll break any treaty to quash them. And once the treaty has been broken, there will be no incentive to hold anyone back. War will break on so many fronts it’ll crack the world like an eggshell.”
Prophet turns back to the burning skies, his broad armored chest rising and falling in a slow rhythm. “I must admit it sounds . . . feasible in theory, but raising this specter would be no simple matter. And the consequences of failure . . .”
“I will not fail, not with your support. I have already infiltrated the most powerful tribe on the continent and will soon restructure it as I see fit. In my hands it will be a weapon that will deliver us the war we’ve always wanted.”
“There are too many variables in this plan of yours, too many moving parts that may break.” Prophet turns to face her, dark emptiness where his eyes should be. “Worse, I worry you will unleash a monster you cannot control. Even as a pale shadow of what it is imitating, in the Red Wilds for that matter, this specter would be tremendously dangerous and unpredictable.”