The first few times Aradin had been exposed to this little perk of Witch-craft, he had been amazed and flabbergasted; Teral had been forced to manage the trick for both of them, since it required a very keen, firm will to make it work. But work it did, and was part and parcel of how their entire Order communicated over long distances, assisted others in traveling when there was dire need for it, and “carried” their belongings with them, without actually having to physically carry a thing. After a full decade of practice, Aradin could manage this quite well on his own, though his Guide didn’t hesitate to help.
As soon as they both had their hands on what they wanted, setting it at their feet, Aradin stepped back into his robe-shrouded body and spun away. The folds of his cloak parted around the object, leaving a chest as broad as any pillow and as tall as any footstool on the floor of the Grove Keeper’s study. Saleria sat up, eyes widening as she stared at the bronze-bound, carved mahogany chest. There was no way he could have smuggled that thing into her study under his robes, and no hint of magic, no cry of empowered words to suggest the use of a Gate of some kind.
“How did you . . . ?”
Shifting the hood of his cloak back from his head, Aradin knelt in front of the chest. He worked on the clasp while he spoke; the metal was cold and stiff from its time in storage. “The Dark, as you know, exists between Life and the Afterlife. But what most people forget is that it touches all corners of existence. All at once. It is the realm of spirits and magic, the souls of the departed and the life-energies that get sucked into the Dark in their wake.
“These spirits snap free of their physical bodies and head toward the home of the Gods—all the Gods,” he added, wanting to remind her that Darkhanan priests were not exclusive in their services and beliefs. “They can do so from any point in the world, and still wind up in the same place, if they will it.” The latch was stubborn, but it did move, squeaking a bit as metal rubbed on metal. “But that is the point, isn’t it? It is the will of a person that dictates how swiftly they head toward the Light of the Afterlife.
“Or they—injuries or illnesses permitting—can turn around and resume occupying the shells of their bodies. And for those who are trained in the holy secrets . . .” a few more tugs pulled it free as he spoke, “. . . one can will the existence of storage space in the Dark—ungh! There we go.” Lifting the lid up and back, he riffled through the scrolls and papers nested inside. “Burgundy ribbon, if I remember right . . . burgundy . . . no, that’s too scarlet . . . ah! Here it is.”
Pulling out the scroll, he untied the ribbon holding it shut. Unrolling the beige parchment, Aradin showed it to her, but given the first half was written in Darkhanan, her blank look was understandable. He recited the preamble for her.
“A prophecy of the Duchess Haupanea of the Duchy of Nightfall, Empire of Katan, penned by Chaiden, night-scribe to Her Holiness, tentatively entitled ‘The Synod Gone.’” He tilted the sheet toward Saleria as she shifted off her chair to kneel at his side, wanting a better look.
This close, he could smell a subtle hint of a flower—possibly honeysuckle—soap, and a bit of spice. Striving to be subtle, he leaned a little closer and inhaled. Definitely honeysuckle, and a touch of something else. Some sort of sweet spice from the local markets. An intriguing combination. I wonder who makes her soaps?
She was waiting for more information. Focusing his thoughts, Aradin continued. “According to the Department of Prophecies here in your own empire, Duchess Haupanea lived during the time of the last Convocation. She left behind a number of prophecies that suggested she would have shaped up to be quite powerful as a Seer.
“Unfortunately, she perished at a young age during a side effect of the Shattering, but this information comes from a copy extracted from the imperial archives from . . . seventy-five or so years after the Shattering? Obviously I wasn’t around then,” he dismissed, “but a previous Darkhanan Witch uncovered this information with the assistance of your Department of Prophecies. The actual prophecy comes from about a year or so before the Shattering. It’s written in the original Katani at the bottom.”
Taking the scroll from him, Saleria unrolled it further, reading the doggerel written on the page. Some Seers spoke in poetry, some in impassioned rants, and some penned their visions, hand moving across page without the owner’s volition. This was one of the first kind, obviously.
Gone, all gone, the synod gone, destroyed by arrogant might,
But not forgotten, not abandoned, not lost into the night.