The library clock struck twelve. According to Preyne, it was now midnight—though in this city, it was difficult to distinguish day from night. His Black Goat spawn hadn't come downstairs. Meanwhile, Jeanne's sleep schedule had become increasingly erratic due to ongoing negotiations with the bone-smiths about the priests of Hood. Unlike Sassel, she was still awake.
Sassel and Preyne sat across from each other at a long, dark brown desk, poring over documents and copying spell notes. A soft glow from a witchlight lamp lit the scattered mess inside a storage box and the floorboards etched with grain patterns like river currents.
"Preyne, you're well-versed in this world's obscure histories. Do you know the origin of the Guardian Knight ritual?"
As they exchanged arcane texts—within their own sect, spell knowledge was fully shared, but external exchanges required equivalence—Sassel posed his question.
"Even if you find a way to break the ritual, you'll still be bound by the Covenant of the Gate Key," Preyne said meaningfully. "You'd do better to work on improving your relationship with the Inquisitor than think about running from all of this."
Sassel knew that already. But more escape routes were always better—that was a lesson hard-earned during his seven years on the run.
He set down his quill and straightened the newly transcribed pages on the desk.
Then he muttered, "How the hell did you make all those connections from a single question?"
"Well, if you hadn't thought of those things, I suppose I owe you an apology," Preyne replied, taking the handwritten notes Sassel passed him. His tone remained calm. "The Guardian Knight ritual originated in the Principality of Vamar on the Lethsell Continent. If you're interested, you can try finding more detailed records at the Duke's estate. The current Duke is Juventine Roderick. He's spent most of his years on the frontlines fighting the Grey Elves, so I'm sure you can guess what his temperament's like. No promises he'll hand over anything."
"I actually find that kind of noble easier to deal with," Sassel said, noncommittally. "Where exactly is this Vamar Principality on the Lethsell Continent?"
"Far northwest," Preyne replied, shaking his head as if he'd given up trying to dissuade Sassel. "North of Vamar lies a subcontinent occupied by Grey Elf tribes. Even when humans hadn't fully evolved, those fur-draped savages were already in endless civil war. They still are. To the east is the Kingdom of Britannia—recently ruled by King Uther's illegitimate daughter. She's fond of war but also pragmatic; rather than provoke the Grey Elves near Vamar, she set her sights on France, which fell into civil strife after Charles V went mad. As for the south of Vamar—"
"What about ports?" Sassel cut in. Preyne had a tendency to ramble whenever history came up. "Bernachis is north of Lethsell. Why should I care what lies south? Just tell me—can I get to Vamar by sea?"
"If you want to sail straight to Vamar, you'd have to detour through the Grey Elves' subcontinent," Preyne said, tapping his fingers lightly on the desk. "I advise against it. The safest route is from Debraeni Port in northern Britannia via merchant road."
"You're joking, right? You want me to take a woman who dreams of paving the Celtic borders with corpses into Britannia—and call that the safest route?"
"If you're heading to Vamar for what I think you're planning, would you really bring the Inquisitor with you, Sassel?"
"…Fair point."
"Even if you break the Guardian Knight ritual, how will you handle the Gate Key contract?" Preyne asked.
"By tearing my soul apart."
"…What?"
"Crude, but not a simple solution," Sassel replied as he stood up and pulled a book from Preyne's shelf. "If things get desperate, I'll rip out the half of my soul that holds the binding and abandon it—then escape with the other half."
The book was titled Studies, Analyses, and Transformations of Lunar Beasts, written by Preyne himself—seemingly based on experiments involving degenerates in the city of Zobed.
"I don't think that's a good choice. As a fellow black sorcerer, I advise against such dangerous methods."
"Better than leaving nothing behind," Sassel said evenly as he flipped through the pages.
Preyne stared at him for a moment, then asked:
"Would you treat our covenant the same way?"
"Our pact doesn't include me dying with you if you kick the bucket."
"Ah," Preyne gave a faint chuckle. "Fair enough."
He picked up the stack of notes Sassel had just transcribed—his end of their knowledge trade—and began reading. The soft white light flickered, illuminating two silent black sorcerers who scarcely noticed time passing while immersed in study.
"Greetings, human who made a pact with Shavazon Tulan," came a gentle voice from behind.
Sassel looked up. Preyne, it seemed, was immediately on alert.
"How did you get in here, mage?" Preyne asked.
"I apologize for intruding on your domain, Wanderer," the feminine voice replied. "We bone-smiths sometimes walk through mortal dreams. Just now, I used this man to shift my location within the Pathway."
"Bone-smith…"
Sassel turned. In the shadows stood a slight, slender figure, cloaked in tanned black-deer hide or something similar. Two white antlers jutted from a sharp deer skull atop her head—more a hat than a helmet, with two eyeholes symbolically carved into it.
He stood and gave a bow. He'd always held reverence for these ancient beings.
"The person before you is Sassel Betrafio, current profession: knight. Bone-smith."
"I am Syll Ibell, a Temas of the Logros clan under the command of Cogh Aevan," she said, stepping into the lamplight. "I am also called Red Fox, Sassel—symbol of fire and rebirth."
Her skin tone was different from that recorded for the Temas—brown, not golden. Her joints weren't particularly broad either. She wasn't much taller than Viola. Her long red hair was braided in twin twists over her chest and tied into a single ponytail down her back. Her eyes were hidden beneath the golden pelt dangling from the deer-skull hat, but Sassel still noticed her striking amber gaze.
Syll reached out her soft, slender brown hand toward the arc-lamp.
"Mortal technology brings new light, like fire," she said. "The age of frost has passed, Sassel. We've roamed the world, hunted great beasts, and fought the surviving Snow Demons. With the rise and fall of glaciers, we are born, and we die."
"You're not quite like the Temas described in records."
"I am a descendant of the Levi. I was born in a bone-smith's ritual, inheriting what I was meant to inherit and becoming one of the Temas bone-smiths."
Sassel studied her. "I've never known how the Levi reproduce."
The woman—or more accurately, the girl-like bone-smith—smiled.
"Neither do I. No one knows how the Levi reproduce, except the Temas who perform the rites."