Familiar

UNFAMILIAR

Prologue


Two figures stood on the rooftop of the Witch’s Guild Hall, near the edge that overlooked a narrow alley. A ragged, halting breeze tugged at their hair and at the edges of their extravagant attire. The colors of the robe worn by one of the men vacillated between azure and scarlet as the passing gusts played across the folds. He peered down at the activity below, where clusters of workers labored to push smoking vehicles to one side, provide care for several wounded and organize dead bodies into a row. He gestured with a sweep of his hand.
“What am I looking at, Rynddol?”
The other man, whose robe gradually shifted back and forth from green to goldenrod, cleared his throat. “The remains of Sylene Relaz’s failed escape attempt, ArchMagistor,” he replied. “Quite a mess. None of her co-conspirators survived. Initial reports identified them as known pirates, so gratefully there’s a few less of them to trouble the world, but her attempt still caused a lot of other destruction. Eighteen dead and twenty-three wounded from the gnasher she released inside the Hall. The army has a truck on the way to collect the stolen slogtank, and the coroner has men coming to remove the bodies.”
“That’s not what I’m talking about, idiot.” The ArchMagistor pointed down at the large, winged figure crouched over one of the bodies. “What is that?”
Rinddol sighed and replied with a subdued voice. “That’s the familiar Sylene conjured during the trial.”
“I was led to believe that Miss Relaz was killed along with her pirate friends.”
“She was. You can see her body there -“
“Then why,” the ArchMagistor barked, cutting the other man off, “am I looking at her familiar?”
“I don’t know, ArchMagistor. It vanished when she died. Then it returned. There’s no way that should’ve happened, or could’ve…”
The man in the shimmering blue and purple robe turned and began to stride toward the center of the roof, which held a beautiful and immense glass mosaic dome, now marred with a shattered, gaping hole. He stopped at the sight and blew out an angry ‘tchk’ sound at the damage.
“Years of labor and Draw poured into our dome, and now look at it. Infuriating.” He threw a look back at Rinddol. “Convene any of the Gallery that are still on the premises. Have them meet me in my private council chamber. And be quick about it. We have a big problem.”



 Chapter 1

 My life went from bad to worse. Then from worse to disastrous.
Then it ended.
You’d think that would be the end of my story, you know – dying and all - but things have never gone that simply or easily for me.
The alley stank. It stank of oil and diesel, electrical residue, remnants of Draw, of lingering sweat born of desperation and fear. And it stank of worse things. Blood and death. I wanted nothing more than to leave it – to take to the air, get above these stifling city buildings and let the wind carry me someplace else, anyplace else, but I was rooted to the spot. Rooted by a love and an anguish that wouldn’t release me.
I knelt beside Nyelle’s body, cradling her cold hand and staring at her serene, lovely face. A commotion was going on around me, but I couldn’t have cared less about it. I was only vaguely aware of men doing busy things around me, but they were keeping their distance. Not, I was sure, out of respect for my grieving, but out of mistrust. After all, what could a distraught familiar be capable of? Oh, a whole lot. In the past, I would’ve given in and vented plenty of wrath on any nearby targets – given them something to be afraid of, but everything was different now. Me, not least of all. Me, even being here was the biggest difference that could be.
I am – or I was – a familiar. A creature enslaved to every law of Draw, including vanishing back into oblivion when my mistress was killed. But then I did the unthinkable. I broke that law. I returned.
And I did it without spells, symbols, candles and all the other paraphernalia necessary to conjure a familiar. It was impossible, but it happened, because someone did the impossible: someone found it in their heart to love me. And now that someone lay dead.
It wasn’t fair.
Two men carrying one of the dead pirates walked passed me and placed it at the end of a growing row. “What are you going to do with all the bodies?” I asked, not looking up.
“Well, some carts are on their way,” one of the men replied, straightening and arching his back. “They’ll get loaded and taken out of the city. There’s a mass grave there, for beggars and criminals, or anyone not claimed by a family member.”
I couldn’t let Nyelle end up there. She’d led a hard life. The least I could do was give her a better resting place. Perhaps up in the mountains, or somewhere with a beautiful view of the ocean. “I’m taking her,” I said. I slid my arms under her body and lifted it. “You got a problem with that?”
He rapidly shook his head no. I stood and looked around. The three Wardthains who were part of the fight were mulling about, pretending to not be keeping an eye on me but obviously doing just that. I levelled a challenging glare at them. There’s was no way to see their reactions beneath the helmets they wore, but they made no menacing moves toward me. Their weapons remained loose in their hands. And why shouldn’t they? Under normal circumstances, we’d be fighting on the same side, and there was no one to command me to do otherwise. Still, I was an unknown factor, and they were being cautious. I was going to take advantage of the hesitation and leave before anyone decided that something should be done about me. I stepped into the center of the alley and flexed my wings to their fullest extent. Several strong downbeats stirred the alley’s dust and debris into choking clouds as I lifted from the ground.
The city of Arlesgonne dwindled rapidly beneath me as I climbed to a height where the air was fresh and cold. I didn’t know where to go, so I hoped that the view from above would provide some inspiration. There were beautiful mountains on the north side of the island, but the east provided great views of the sunrise. I’m sure she’d be happy to be laid to rest in either place. As I hovered there looking around, though, I felt the amulet around my neck thump lightly against my chest. I glanced down at the thing which held something more precious than any treasure. It held Nyelle’s very soul. Or so I was told by the witch who examined it. There was no reason to doubt him. When she died, the green stone within the amulet began to glow with an inner light that had not been there previously.
And then I recalled my sworn oath; if there were any way possible, I would restore Nyelle’s soul to her body and bring her back.
The amulet that I once hated and considered a curse, I now gazed upon with a new-found adoration. It would stay safely with me, and because of the charm placed upon it, I didn’t have to worry about it being stolen or lost. I looked again at Nyelle and my eyes travelled down to her midsection which held the wound inflicted by my old mistress. It was a blackened and bloody hole, nearly large enough to put my hand in.
That’s when I realized the small flaw in my plans. Even if I found a way to return her soul to her body, this body couldn’t live again. Not with this damage. Instead of being trapped in a gemstone, the only thing I would succeed in doing would be trapping her soul in a lifeless, decaying shell.
No, burying her was the wrong idea. I needed to find a way to heal her body instead. What power could be capable of that? The Witch’s Guild might know a way, but I highly doubted they’d be willing to do any favors for me. Besides, I needed to steer clear of them. I was a mystery that I’m sure they’d want to solve, no matter what steps that took to achieve. What about that other religious order we met that one night? The Followers of the Design? Would they be capable of such a feat? If they were, they’d probably be a lot more widely known. The only things they seemed good at were meditating in tiny rooms and standing on street corners and annoying people. No, they weren’t the answer, either.
I glided in wide, lazy circles in the air as I continued to think. I tried to imagine what an ordinary person would do. When they needed help, they would…pray to the gods. Yes, I remembered seeing statues of them in different cities. Surely people wouldn’t put all that cost and effort into building them if they weren’t real. But which god was the right one to appeal to? There was at least half a dozen, and I didn’t know a thing about any of them. Correction; I knew about two.  There was Hadea, the Death Goddess, but something told me I wouldn’t find enthusiastic support for restoring life from her. I’d also heard of Avokke, who must’ve been the god responsible for sea storms, since when hurricanes arose than even Sylene couldn’t dispel with her Stillcasting, the pirate crew we travelled with would fall on their knees, pleading to that deity for mercy. He also didn’t seem like the right one for my needs.
I recalled seeing a place in the city -  a promenade dedicated to the gods. Lots of huge statues there, maybe even a collection of the entire pantheon of them. It would be a good place to start. It resided somewhere in the northeast section. I headed that way.
It wasn’t hard to find. Sharing half of a large, wooded park, the promenade was actually a great circle of bright limestone pavement. A fountain in the center depicted four sea nymphs at play, spraying water at each other. Silently watching them from around the edge of the circle were the gods, each in different poses on their massive pedestals. Even from a distance I could see words chiseled on them which probably contained the information I needed, but it was late afternoon and a fair number of people occupied the area. Landing in their midst, with a dead woman in my arms, and casually strolling around taking in the sights wasn’t going to work. There had to be a more discreet way to go about this.
As I circled the courtyard from above, a person below caught my attention. Actually, it was hard not to notice him. Dressed somewhat raggedly and sitting beneath an awning next to one of the statues was a man boldly delivering some type of oration to no one in particular. I couldn’t catch many of the words, but clearly the topic was the gods themselves. He’d do for a start. I flew over his position and landed behind the statue. Placing Nyelle’s body on the ground, I crept around the corner behind him.
“Pardon me, sir,” I said. “I don’t mean to startle you.”
“The only thing startling,” he replied, half twisting so his face was in profile,” is that you come from the sky, and the only reason to creep up on a poor, blind beggar is that you want to stay out sight. Of course with me, that’s no challenge. Are you a messenger sent from one of the gods? Have I spoken amiss in one of my discourses, or profaned one of them unawares? Perhaps my very presence is an offense. If so, then grant me my eyesight, or a meager fortune and I will gladly renounce my needful livelihood and vacate these premises.”
“I’m no messenger from the gods,” I replied with a chuckle. “And certainly can’t give you any of the things you’re asking for. I’m sorry for your condition, but I need your help. I know almost nothing about the gods, but you seem very familiar on the subject. Will you answer some questions?”
“Ah,” he said, turning back. “So you seek insight. I’ll be happy to provide it, once you understand that that’s the very service I provide here. Many people bring their requests and burdens, but rarely have a clue as to which god has an open ear to their plea, or what type of sacrifice to leave in exchange. So I help them, and they in return help increase the weight of my coin purse a little. I hope you can appreciate this arrangement.”
It was clear what he was getting at. “But I’m as poor as you,” I replied. “I can give you nothing but my gratitude.”
He sighed. “We can each only give what we have, and I will have to be content with that, but I’m afraid the aid of the gods might require a little more than mere thanks. But I will leave that between you and them. Now, what knowledge do you seek?”
I sat a little behind him and slowly shook my head. “I’m not sure where to begin. I don’t even know if any of them can help me.”
He laughed. “A messenger, you certainly are not. Let’s say we start with the fundamentals then.” He motioned to the huge statue directly across the circle beyond the fountain. “The god with the broad oar in his hand is Talovaze, who controls the waves, the tides and the currents. To his left, with the lower half of his body like a seahorse, is Skald, god of the creatures of the deep, both fearsome and goodly. Beside Skald and standing in beauty and grace to my right is Shaeraan, goddess of life and peace. Her soothing shadow falls upon me with each setting sun.
“Now look on Talovaze’s right side,” he continued, “and there, draped in ominous robes, is Hadea, goddess of death and torment. To her right, holding the great curved sword, is Rak-gan, god of conquest, power and victory. Beside him with his outstretched hand obscured in an angry cloud stands Avokke, terrible god of storms. And beside him, looking down upon us and holding a lamp is Ilusidayne, the goddess of mysteries and miracles. It is at her right hand and in the direction that her face is turned that I sit each day, hoping that her thoughts towards me will one day turn merciful. And that, my friend, are the gods whose circle they allow me to humbly sit within. I trust one of them has spoken to you in some way?”
I smiled and looked up at towering female figure beside me. “Oh, yes. I think I know who to ask. But that still leave the question of an offering.” I noticed that a small house-like structure stood near the corner of each god’s pedestal, and that some of the people were putting things inside before kneeling briefly in front of it. “Are those tiny buildings where I need to put something?”
The blind man waved his hand dismissively. “Those? They are just alters, and if any of these supplicants think their prayers will be answered by tossing in some trinket and making a hasty prayer on their way home, they have much to learn. The serious seekers know the only offerings that matter are those of great cost and sacrifice, and must be given in the god’s shrines, which are scattered across Thealosa.”
That didn’t sound promising. I imagined a journey that would require going to the other side of the world and felt my new heart sink a little. “How far away is the shrine for Ilusidayne?” I asked.
“Are you familiar with the isle of Silvyre? A four-month voyage to the west, against the Darvoneel headwinds. There’s one there, if you can survive the journey.”
Pretty ripping close to the other side of the world. My heart finished sinking.
 “Or…” he continued, “there’s another shrine on a tiny island just a league to the north of us. I suppose either would be sufficient for your needs. And if you’re flying, you could probably reach it in ten minutes.”
I had the sudden desire to cuff him on the back of his head. “Why didn’t you just start with that one?”
He laughed again. “You get what you pay for.”
I couldn’t suppress a smirk. A league. Actually about five minutes of flying for me. I could be there before nightfall.
“But there’s something you need to know,” he added. “The shrine is only opened twice a year, when the sun rises in the exact position and its rays shine into the doorway. And then only the shrine maidens may enter with the collected sacrifices.”
My heart began to retrace the sinking pattern again. “And when is the next time it will open?” I asked, dreading the answer.
“Still three months’ from now. But that’s good for me. It gives me enough time to gather a large enough gift. Perhaps this is the year it will be looked upon favorably.” He suddenly shifted around to face me. “I just realized how you can pay me,” he said. “It’s a great honor to be present when the doors are opened and the faithful can get a glimpse inside the holy sanctuary. Few are able to make the pilgrimage to witness it. You can fly me there. I won’t be able to see the inside of the shine, but I can still be present at the event. Perhaps being there, with my offering carried in before me, will gain Ilusidayne’s favor.”
I shrugged. “Tell you what; if we’re both still around in three months, I’ll gladly fly you to the opening.”
“I can’t ask for more than that,” he replied, smiling. “Don’t forget.”
I returned to where I placed Nyelle’s body and took it with me into the air. Three months. Yeah, that was about the run of my luck. That would be too late. But I wasn’t about to let a little thing like a closed door keep me from demanding an audience with this goddess.  I turned northward.

The servant worked quickly, struggling to get around behind the occupants of the large circular table that filled the small stone room. The Gallery seat-holders were angry two hours’ ago. Now they bordered on hostile. He finished filling the wine glasses and gratefully exited the chamber before any of them decided to vent any of their hostility in his direction.
Xiltinaul pulled back his long, dirty blonde hair as he emptied his newly-filled glass with a swallow. He levelled a glare across the table at the man sitting opposite him. “Are you so imbecilic, Korst, as to think that Primagere’s government is just being magnanimous in their dealings with the Alorayne archipelago? Oh, yes I’m sure their primary concern is that Divvrand’s armies will wipe out their tribal way of life. Stattor,” he turned to the elderly man on his left. “You’re the Guild’s ambassador to their chieftain – what do you say?”
Stattor ran a hand down the length of his iron gray beard and let his head loll back. “I couldn’t care less what happens to Alorayne,” he sighed. “The sooner I can be rid of this assignment and the squalor I have to put up with, the better.” He raised his head and returned Xiltinaul’s acerbic gaze. “But you know the issue has never been about preserving their heritage, which I don’t give a spit about. It’s that we can’t allow Primagere to establish a foothold on those islands.”
“Primagere, of course, would never openly admit that that’s their true goal,” Xiltinaul said, impatiently twisting the stem of the wineglass between his fingers. “What’s their official position on Alorayne?”
From the recesses of his upholstered chair, Korst replied over his crossed arms. “You know the root of the contention: Divvrand’s king has long claimed that Alorayne’s eastern islands, the Kliiard cluster, really belongs to him. He’s just fabricating a reason to start a war with that country. Alorayne’s bows and spears wouldn’t stand a chance against an army of armored knights and siege engines. So Primagere, in their generosity, will support the tribes of Alorayne to maintain their sovereignty. But despite your opinion, Xiltinaul, I suffer from no illusions. Even if they say they’re helping Alorayne, I know it’s really to establish a forward base necessary to start their campaign against Divvrand itself.”
“And that, fellow members of the Gallery,” spoke Ayrdona, the only woman in the room, as she leaned forward and rested her pale, graceful arms on the table, “is something we cannot allow. The balance of power we’ve worked so hard to maintain will be undermined. Primagere will become the unrivaled power of this world.”
“Unrivaled?” Stattor interjected. “What of Khalidos? What of the Federated Islands?”
“If Blelynd were here, he would tell you that Khalidos is in the midst of an uprising,” Ayrdona replied.  “Fast on its way to becoming a civil war. You can consider that island chain fairly preoccupied with its own problems. And as for that mess that calls themselves the Federated Islands?” she huffed. “They could certainly assemble a fleet big enough to challenge Primagere, but it would take them months to reach any consensus on action, if they could even achieve one at all.”
“So we want to keep Primagere from getting involved and launching a fleet of warships. Does that mean we’re going to bolster the Guild’s contingent of witches to assist Alorayne? Maybe even send a Wardthain?” Stattor asked.
A rumble of derisive chortles broke out among the circle.
“What’s wrong, Stattor?” Idrakke chimed in.  He’d been watching the exchange, causally drumming Draw-charged fingertips on the table. Each impact of a fingernail was producing a tiny, cracking spark that was blackening the wood beneath them and provoking a look of scowling disapproval from Ayrdona. “Are your witches not up to the challenge?” he continued. “Have they gone soft? Gone native? Have the bare-breasted island girls got them all addicted to skalopulp and dreamsmoke?”
Stattor flew to his feet, his right fist instantly enveloped in a black roiling orb. Xiltinaul chuckled at the rising intensity.
The door opened and the ArchMagistor stepped into the room.
“Thank you all for waiting so patiently. Glad to see there are no casualties.”
“After three hours of waiting, what do you expect?”  glowered Korst.
“I expect civility among the Gallery,” the ArchMagistor replied, circling the table to where an ornate chair awaited. “Especially in light of extraordinary events.” He slowly sat, exhibiting a vague weariness.
“Extraordinary, indeed,” said Xiltinaul, the smile vanishing. “Rynddol seemed very anxious that we gather immediately “He said you wanted to discuss the events outside the Guild Hall. We were under the impression that this was highly urgent, but then you make us wait for over three hours?”
“I would not have done so without very good reason. “
“But it’s created another problem,” said Ayrdona. “No one gave orders to the Wardthains to take the creature into custody, and now it’s flown off. We should’ve acted immediately.”
“My delay couldn’t be helped.” The ArchMagistor let out a long breath.  “I sensed a summons. The kind that must be heeded at once. Do you understand the implications of that?”
He slowly drew his gaze across everyone at the table. A dead quiet descended on the chamber. Idrakke’s fingers stopped in mid-strum. Stattor returned to his seat, the orb fading as he did so.
“But there’s been no summons in…” Ayrdona’s ice-blue eyes darted searchingly about, matching her mental effort. “Well, years…”
“Sixteen, to be precise. It would seem there are other concerns beyond a rogue familiar, although I’m sure that’s part of it. No, there are deeper disturbances, currents within currents, that could have far greater consequences.”
“Can you share them with us?”
“Not at the moment, I’m afraid. Things aren’t…clear enough yet to act upon, and if we act amiss, or prematurely, it will ruin all. It could destroy what we’ve carefully put in place and nurtured for generations.”
“It sounds like you don’t trust your own hand-picked gallery,” replied Xiltinaul.
“No, it’s not a lack of trust. It’s that the decisions are not mine to make. At least not without greater clarity.”
“Then while we’re waiting for clarity,” spoke Idrakke, “let’s come to a decision on the rogue familiar. In your absence, we decided that, at the very least, we needed to keep track of its whereabouts, so we commanded two witches to summon bird familiars to follow the creature and keep a watchful eye on it.”
“Wise. Thank you. And where is it now?”
“It’s acting strangely. It took one of the dead bodies from the scene of the conflict – an unidentified woman – and flew to the Promenade of the Gods. There, it spoke at some length to a beggar, and then flew off.”
“Have you questioned this beggar yet?”
“Yes,” replied Ayrdona. “A Guild member, accompanied by a constable, went there and questioned the man. We were given the report only a few minutes ago. We learned that the creature plans to visit the shrine of Ilusidayne. We just issued the order for a group of witches, accompanied by the three Wardthains, to make for the harbor and board a boat.”
“And I’ve been trying to tell Ayrdona that that will be too late,” spat Idrakke. “The rogue familiar could be at the shrine before they even reach a boat. The fastest solution will be to have witches summon horvaunts or kallikon to carry them directly to the shrine.”
“No!” replied the ArchMagistor. “No, if someone or some group has learned how to intercept and commandeer any familiars we summon and use them for their own purposes, that will be disastrous. I think we may have to forbid any such conjuration, anything larger or more intelligent than an imp, until we discover what’s behind this mystery.”
“Are you serious?” asked Xiltinaul.
“Completely,” said the ArchMagistor. “At all costs, we have to get to bottom of this familiar’s unexplained existence.”
“We do have one clue to solving that,” replied Korst as he reached for his wineglass. He took a generous swig and wiped his mouth. “I spoke briefly with Govinan, the witch who approached the familiar after the battle and examined the amulet that it wore.”
“Yes,” the ArchMagistor said sharply with a sudden light igniting in his eyes. “The amulet it revealed at the trial. Two events that were previously thought impossible occurring on the same day. There must be a connection.”
“Govinan said some type of power or force was present within the amulet,” replied Korst. “Perhaps that’s what caused the familiar to return to existence. We need to acquire the piece and examine it.”
“Unquestionably. If someone is capable of creating such amulets, we’ll lose control over one of our greatest assets.” The ArchMagistor stood, prompting the others to follow him. “Xiltinaul and Stattor; continue working on the Primagere and Alorayne diplomacy actions. They’re reaching a critical juncture. Ayrdona and Idrakke; keep in constant contact with the company heading to Ilusidayne’s shrine. I want frequent reports. And Korst – start investigating the source of the amulet. We need to know where it came from, and how such a thing ever came to be.”







Familiars aren’t supposed to have feelings. They’re just supposed to obey the commands of the witch who summoned them, and accomplish their task within a few short hours before the magic that gives them life runs out. For most familiars, the lesser ones like birds and cats, the task may simply be retrieving an ingredient for an elixir or spying on a nosy neighbor. For Lorgun, it’s usually murder. Being a hulking seven foot tall brute, it’s what he’s made to do. So when he’s ordered to seek out and kill an individual and instead stumbles across a beautiful beggar girl, he experiences feelings he’s not supposed to have, and is totally unprepared for. A sample of the completed novel is posted here.




Chapter 1


The words. That’s how it always starts. A distant voice uttering strange, cryptic syllables. Faint, yet motherly firm, reaching through the darkness. Igniting existence. A black match touching off a black flame, illuminating nothing but awareness. Then a small red point of light appears. It could be a league away or close enough to touch; there’s no way to know, no frame of reference in the void. It begins to move, rapidly creating an arc that encircles me. The ends touch and instantly the crimson light shoots upward, flaring into stark brightness. It permeates me, swallows me. I become aware of another sensation. A tactile one. My feet come in contact with a solid surface.
The scarlet glow around me fades, revealing chalk lines on a rough wood floor. I am crouching inside a circle of intricate symbols. Raising my head, I see the source of the voice. A young woman. Her name is Sylene.
My summoner.
She kneels outside the circle, a weary smile on thin lips. Beneath a thick tangle of long, russet hair, her eyes are smoldering slits from which pearlescent jade escapes. How long has it been since I last saw her face? Weeks, months? There’s no clue. Time is difficult to judge when one is denied a sense of its passage.
The black dress she's wearing lies piled around her like a great chrysanthemum while her torso, cinched into a corset, sprouts like a narrow stalk from the center. The trappings of conjuration - books, containers, candles - lay around her like offerings. She is a dark, consecrated flower.
A heavy coat is draped over her shoulders. Is it cold? I don’t feel it. I look around the room. There is no furniture, no fireplace, no windows. Debris and refuse lay strewn about, congregating in the corners. The slatted walls converge to a sharp peak overhead. It has all the air of an attic.
I have never been here before.
“Where are we?” I ask as I rise to my nearly seven-foot height. My balance is off. I feel like I’m going to tip forward.
“Arlesgonne,” she replies.
“Why are we back here? Has the Gallery sent a summons?”
A flicker of annoyance crosses her face. “That’s not your concern. I have a job for you.”
Of course she has. There’s no other reason for my being brought here. I roll my shoulders to loosen my wings in preparation for flight. That’s when I sense something missing. There’s no pull of weight against the bone. Startled, I turn my head to look back. There should be wings, the same charcoal color as my skin, but nothing’s there. That explains my imbalance.
“Where are my wings?” I ask.
“You don’t need them this time,” she replies. “We have to keep out of sight. The last thing I want is for you to be spotted soaring about - getting recognized.”
“It doesn’t feel right--”
“Too bad. I’m not about to waste my Draw on unnecessary things. Conjuring you is effort enough.”
I look up, searching the slatted ceiling for cracks which might reveal day or night beyond. “What time is it?”
“It’s nighttime!” she snaps. “How can it matter what the time is to you? You have long enough to perform your task and return, well before sunrise.”
So whatever she has for me to do requires the cover of night. And is probably illegal. I take a deep breath. “And what task have you summoned me for, my mistress?”
“It’s freezing up here. Follow me downstairs. I’ll explain. And pay strict attention; there’s no room for any foul-up.”

***

The next floor down doesn't look in much better shape than the attic. Nor the one below that. After a brief, one-sided conversation, she points to a door at the rear of the aged building. I open it to find a narrow alley. Stepping outside and closing the door, I gaze into the indigo, star-specked sky. Moonlit clouds stream past, stretched into long ribbons by a strong, high wind. I steal a moment to watch them. That's all I can do; I won't be flying among them tonight.  I’ve never been conjured into existence without my wings before. Why? I could perform my task so much quicker and easier with them, and then with the extra time I could...
She’s being cruel. Without any good reason. And she’s wrong - about time, that is. It does matter to me. When you only have only a little while to exist, it means everything. From previous summonings I’ve been able to learn how much time I have - about three hours - and learned as well that if I returned early, with task complete, that I was summarily dismissed back to non-existence. It’s a mistake I no longer make.
The reflection of a faint reddish light against the wall catches my attention. It’s coming from me. I look down at myself. The glow is from subcutaneous lines of mystical energy - Draw – that flow beneath the surface of my skin. Can’t have that tonight. I exert some will and subdue them until they’re no longer visible. A little trick I figured out on my own. I become just another piece of the night. Except my eyes. They still emanate a glow which I can’t do anything about. Luckily, their glow is faint.
I move silently to the mouth of the alley. Beyond, gaslight lamps illuminate a cobblestone street and drab, ramshackle structures. These aren’t the surroundings I expected to see. My mistress only stays in the finest hotels. Why is she occupying an abandoned building in a run-down part of the city? Is she hiding from something?
A few bums and beggars are poking around, probably looking for stuff to salvage, sell or eat. They pose no threat to me, except if I scare them and they raise an alarm. Can't risk it. I retrace my steps to see if the other direction is any better. It leads me into winding back lanes populated only by rats, which take one look at me and scurry quickly out of sight. Eventually the way opens to a cleaner area of darkened shops and closed businesses. No one in sight. I should make better time now. I’m about to step into the road when, a couple blocks ahead, a crowd of revelers spill out of a noisy tavern.
I huff. There are humans in every direction tonight. Picking through the city is turning out to be quite frustrating. I’m always more comfortable higher up. Maybe I can’t fly at the moment, but I can at least get above street level. The corner of the nearest building has a ceramic downspout pipe. I climb it to get to the rooftop. Several stories up, I gain a better view of the city. Better, in every sense, now that I can see beyond the slums. I’ve only been in Arlesgonne a few times, but each visit has been impressive.
Few cities on Thealosa are as grand. It’s no surprise that the Witch’s Guild chose this place as their seat of power. Its spires, arches and domes boast an array of styles and influences seen nowhere else, except perhaps within the capital city. While I’d love to stand here and admire the architecture, I have more pressing matters to attend to.  I’ll put the splendid edifices to a more pragmatic purpose tonight.
The next building in my path is a courthouse. The triangular pediment on top is filled with relief sculptures of robed figures. Important individuals, I assume, in judicial history. Their heroic poses would provide a good handhold. A leap takes me into a dark recess between two of the figures. I grab the ledge above and prepare to pull myself to the peak when the sound of footfalls below stops me. Peering down, I see a pair of figures crossing the courthouse steps, dressed in dark uniforms and aimlessly twirling short batons.  Constables. If they saw a familiar skulking through the city, I’m sure they’d think it was up to no good. And they’d be right. I freeze, becoming one of the players enacting the dramatic scene of justice until they disappear around a corner.
Growling, I scratch my empty shoulder blade. With a set of wings, I could’ve already reached my goal. I let myself stew on my pedestrian plight while I resume my maneuver.
I trade the distrustful rats in the alleys for skittish pigeons as I make my way across the building tops. They’re the only ones who notice my silent acrobatics. I’m finally making some good time through the city. Eventually, the grandiose structures melt into smaller, homier dwellings of a residential section. I see less people out and about here, thankfully. I’ll need the isolation to do what must be done.

A house at One-Twelve Perator Street is my goal. There’s a man inside I’m supposed to murder.

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