The final leg of their journey to the sea of chaos takes slightly more than a day and a half. Blackwing estimates they could have managed it in one if not for the intermittent rest stops necessitated by the heavy mental toll of constant concentration. He muses that, with practice and an absence of cargo, he and Candlewire could eventually build enough endurance to accomplish the flight from his mountainside fortress to the sea with only a single stop at Wall Town. She tells him to forget it.
Regardless, the measurement of a day has become somewhat arbitrary since they passed over the wall. The sun no longer sets or rises. It simply drifts lower and lower into the sky as they progress farther south, gradually dimming to reveal the faint stars by which their captain navigates. Their first half-day of travel simply ends when Blackwing calls for an extended stop. The day afterwards concludes in the same manner.
On the second morning, Lamp wakes to the unexpected sound of Ashti’s singing. He doesn’t recognize the melody, and she’s off-key anyway, but the words hew close to an old nursery rhyme he once sang to younger children at his orphanage. After picking up the simple rhythm, he attempts to join along, but his partner quickly loses her tune in a fit of giggles.
“Your singing voice is much smoother than mine.” The outlander compliments him with a self-deprecating smile. “Please pardon my lack of skill. I am half-a-decade out of practice.”
“You sounded fine.” He lies.
“Please.” She scoffs. “Do you think my family could not afford to hire singers? I know what talent sounds like, and I do not possess it.”
Ashti plops down next to the scholar while he maneuvers himself into a sitting position, and the two of them wish each other good morning. They share a moment in quiet admiration of the cloudless, heather sky before she resumes in soft tones.
“I actually tried a bit of singing during my first few days of consciousness after Lord Blackwing left me behind in Wall Town. I suppose I was trying to make the most of losing my mask by doing something it had taken from me. Singing seemed like a fun idea at first, but once I started, it felt wrong somehow… And not just because I sounded terrible.” She laughs and looks away. “I suppose my spirit was still too heavy at the time, but thanks to all of you, it now feels light enough again.”
Turning back to him, she smiles with a warmth normally reserved for anecdotes about her princess. “I am almost home now, and I carry hope back with me. Thank you, Lamp. I can never say it enough. Thank you.”
With a gentle smile, he tells her she’s welcome, and they return to watching the sky together. Nearby, they can hear Candlewire and Blackwing engage in a conversation of their own as the duo slowly rises and unhurriedly begin preparing for the day. Lamp pays the couple no mind and merely waits to be summoned.
Eventually, on a passing whim, the scholar lifts his arms and begins to pray. He offers thanks to all the gods but directs the bulk of his words to Mother and Wayward for his group’s continued welfare and safe travels. Almost as an afterthought, he praises Artisan for the airboat’s sound construction. Ashti adds her own words at the end, though she employs greater parsimony.
After both of them fall silent, the outlander glances at him askance. He can tell she’s mulling something over, so he prompts her to say it.
“It is only that…” She hesitates a moment. “You seem to be a remarkably pious man, Lamp, more so than most in my kingdom. I struggle to understand how a person such as you could be driven out from any body of faith.”
He smiles wanly. “You want to know why the central cult evicted me, I take it?”
“I am curious.” She admits with a mildly apologetic tone.
The scholar pauses to think for a long stretch, then finally shakes his head. “Perhaps another time.”
The answer to Ashti’s question lies inside one of those painful memories Lamp doesn’t like to touch. It’s a dark and twisted thing long since crammed away inside the same mental box that holds his flight from the graft thieves, Clearheart’s first night of conquest, and the final days of his marriage.
He dusted off enough of his pain in recent days, and he’d rather let what remains sit undisturbed a while longer. It wouldn’t do for him to lose composure now.
A few minutes later, his superiors call both passengers over, and their vessel returns to the air. Less than an hour afterwards, Blackwing claims they’re finally getting close to their destination. When Lamp asks how he knows, the merchant simply points ahead. Following his employer’s finger toward the horizon, the scholar squints into the distance until a strange sensation tickles the back of his mind.
It’s a gap in sound, like the special quiet that comes just after a voice falls still. It’s an object missing from sight, like a sunbeam hidden by clouds the instant before he looked. It’s a fragrance blown away by the breeze. A taste he almost remembers. A touch he should have felt.
Something is there, at or beyond the edge of perception. Something that whispers and teases, that beckons him closer while warning him away, even though it doesn’t notice him at all. In one instant he thinks he sees it; in the next, he knows it can’t be seen.
“It’s the sea.” He whispers reverently. “The trackless, writhing chaos between worlds.”
From beside him, Candlewire murmurs. “Beautiful, isn’t it?”
He glances over, intending to voice his agreement, only to find the woman facing an entirely wrong direction with her eyes crossed. Lamp bursts into surprised laughter at the unexpected sight, and the others, even Blackwing, join along.
The joke can’t distract him for long, however, and his eyes soon wander back to the horizon. After a time, he turns to Blackwing and asks. “What would happen if we just flew out above it? Do you think we’d eventually find Ashti’s home? Or maybe we’d even discover new world-tiles. Who knows what else is drifting on its surface?”
The older man answers with an indulgent smile. “We’d evaporate on contact with the waves, but if you can think of a way for us to safely land and rest, please share it.”
“Will do.” The scholar promises half-seriously.
Lamp continues staring forward as the airboat drifts along, striving to understand what he can’t quite see. In remarkably little time, however, an even more arresting landmark appears on the horizon. It begins as only a dark smudge traced below the border of the sea. As they draw closer, though, Lamp’s hungry eyes begin to resolve the vague silhouette of a skyline. When he realizes what he’s looking at, he gasps.
“Lost Carcosa.” The scholar’s voice nearly breaks as tears well unbidden in his eyes. “Ye gods, it’s endless.”
In the distance, a narrow band of compacted urban buildings, extending less than a mile wide, stretches forever along the flat border of reality. Historical accounts had attested to this city dwelling somewhere at the edge of his world, but what Lamp sees now, he had not expected.
“How is there so much of it? Can it really run all the way to the western edge?” He mutters to himself, shaking his head in wonderment. “Surely our ancestors never built this extensively, so where did it all come from?”
“The memories of gods.” Blackwing answers plainly. "I’m no expert, but some of the buildings you’ll find down there don’t look like they belonged to Carcosa at its height. Also, these structures weren’t just transplanted; they were copied and scrambled. Search a few hours, and you’ll find replicas with identical states of disrepair. Excepting whatever damage we caused ourselves.”
Lamp nods and ponders aloud. “Carcosa was the nexus… I suppose we should expect inexplicable oddities.”
“A good mindset to carry forward.” The merchant agrees before meeting the scholar’s eyes to caution him. “The sea will induce hallucinations as we approach. You should stop looking.”
“Yes sir.”
Lamp complies with his directive, and the group falls silent so Blackwing can focus on flight. Referencing tiny landmarks on the horizon, the merchant adjusts their heading, reduces their altitude, and lowers their speed in a sequence of seamless actions. Under his breath, he mutters something about just being an assistant.
Within the next few minutes, their destination becomes obvious. A narrow strip of naked earth carves a straight line through Old Carcosa’s dilapidated buildings. Rubble clogs the streets to either side, revealing the sorry fate of every structure that once blocked the caravan’s path.
As they draw closer, Lamp loses himself in a gleeful examination of the mythical metropolis. Most architectural elements large enough to be visible at this range seem intimately familiar to him; their forms still linger in present-day cities and surrounded the scholar all his life. Dotted here and there, however, monuments dating from an even older time make plain the city’s truly ancient roots.
After his initial survey, two features arrest the bulk of Lamp’s attention. The first is a headless, one-armed statute towering above the cleared courtyard that seems to be their intended landing point. The second is a single-story building Lamp barely recognizes as a temple. It lacks the flourish, color, and scale of its modern counterparts, but the shape of it is right. Most telling is the gap established between its perimeter and all surrounding structures; the crowded city gives it space.
In the interest of not distracting the focus of a man who holds their lives in his hands as they descend, Lamp refrains from asking to visit that building for now. There’s plenty else to engage his attention as their vessel approaches the courtyard to make its landing, not least of which is the process itself.
Lamp entertains a brief moment of panic when he realizes their cargo net might clip a stone chimney as they pass uncomfortably close to a rooftop, but Blackwing judges his distance correctly, and they bypass the obstacle with room to spare.
They slowly cross over the edge of the courtyard. Then, after pulling to a complete stop in midair, the airboat slowly lowers to the ground. The graft crates land first with barely a whisper, and the wooden frame of their seating platform softly touches down a moment later. Nodding proudly to himself, their captain takes a moment to glance around before declaring that they’ve arrived.
“This is where we camp while awaiting the world-tiles' collision.” Blackwing explains with a glance at his translator. “Wire can set up here while she waits for rescue.”
Talking over the copper woman’s grumbled reply, Lamp excitedly asks. “How much have you explored?”
“Enough to determine an absence of local threats.” Blackwing answers simply. Then, noticing the scholar’s deflated expression, he adds. “I’ll let you take a few days to document it at some point, if you’d like.”
“Thank you!” His enthusiasm immediately returns. “I can’t wait to look around. This place is almost as significant as the gate itself!”
“Hmm. From a historical perspective, perhaps.”
The four of them, led by Candlewire, exit the landing platform and amble about to stretch their legs. While her elders are limbering up, Ashti eyes the decapitated statue at the center of the courtyard with open curiosity. After confirming with Blackwing that they can spare a few minutes to explore, she strides off to investigate the fractured head lying at the titan’s feet. Sharing her interest, Lamp hurriedly follows behind.
As they approach the gargantuan figure, Lamp quietly confesses to the outlander that even his home city doesn’t host any statues quite this large. Ashti nods and expresses admiration for the old kingdom’s master masons, a sentiment which Lamp emphatically endorses.
Circling around the base of the colossus, the two of them agree that his garments look vaguely familiar, but they still can’t place him yet. He must have been a great hero or a king if not both. Ashti proceeds directly to the fallen head in hopes of answering that mystery while Lamp lags behind to more closely examine the giant’s other features.
A few moments later, he hears her shout in surprise. “Oh! Lamp, I’ve seen his likeness before! This is King Hastur!”
Lamp blinks once, then rushes over. Scampering around around the broken head’s wavy hair, he turns its corner only to behold an unfamiliar face. In immediate retrospect, he’s not sure why he expected to recognize the old man’s features, having never seen a surviving depiction. Still, Ashti excitedly assures him that the dilapidated statue before them represents none other than humanity’s first divine king.
Turning back toward Blackwing, the outlander calls across the courtyard with affront. “Did your people knock his head off?”
Lamp repeats her question with similar volume but a gentler tone. The merchant calmly denies their accusation and begins walking closer. As the man approaches, Lamp explains Ashti’s assertion regarding the figure’s identity. Blackwing nods as he reaches them and claims that he had long speculated along similar lines but was never certain.
Then the merchant turns toward the statue and salutes it while reciting a well-pronounced quote in the old tongue. When Lamp looks at him askance, the man smiles and explains, “It’s one of the few phrases I know.”
The scholar nods, then softly lays a hand upon the statue’s forehead and murmurs the same refrain. “‘Hail to you, old shepherd.’”
The first words spoken to any human by a god. The words that begat their civilization. Lamp would have crossed all the water and land between his home city and here just to lay his hand upon this visage and speak that phrase.
Ashti joins the scholar in placing a hand upon Hastur’s brow. With a touch of reverence, she murmurs. “Even in death, he continues to look after us.”
A moment later, Blackwing also rests his graft arm on the back of the statue’s head. For a brief instant, Lamp believes the three of them are sharing in an act of worship.
Then the merchant mutters. “Since I’m here…”
Digging in with his claws, he shoves a large fragment of the old king’s fractured head upwards. Then, jutting a leg forward into the stone’s shadow, he roughly kicks an object aside. Lamp hears ringing and scraping as something metallic bounces and rolls its way across the courtyard.
Ignoring the horrified expressions on the other two’s faces, Blackwing gently lowers the statue’s fragment back into place before turning to walk after the object he’d liberated from beneath it. Lamp and Ashti share an aggrieved look, then circle around Hastur’s head to witness the treasure he’d apparently guarded.
Lamp has a sinking suspicion already, and it’s quickly validated as the object comes into view. Lying on the ground at Blackwing’s feet, having just been blindly kicked there from across the stone, lies the fabled golden spear.
Lamp examines the object with intense curiosity as his employer stoops to grab it in his human hand. Cast as a single piece into the shape and size of a hoplite spear, its polished surface glints brightly even in the dim twilight of a distant sun. Dark engravings wrapped around the haft stand out starkly against its brilliant gold sheen.
After the two observers take a moment to absorb the sight, Ashti sighs heavily and mutters. “I think it would be best if no one heard of this. Lord Blackwing’s reputation might suffer if his ‘casual’ treatment of that treasure became public knowledge.”
“I don’t know.” Lamp comments suggestively. “Telling everyone that Old King Hastur himself guards the holy spear might enhance Blackwing’s mystique.”
The outlander nods begrudgingly. “That detail may survive in my accounts of this journey, though I will keep my phrasing on this matter vague.”
Lamp thanks the girl for her discretion, then turns to his employer and remarks. “I had thought you’d retrieved your spear from Wall Town and simply not mentioned it. I was not expecting its actual location. I suppose that proves it’s a decent hiding spot.”
“It’s good enough.” The merchant presses his lips into a thin frown. “I could do better if it let me.”
Lamp responds with a confused expression, so Blackwing flips the spear in his hand so its shaft faces the scholar. “Here. Take it. You can see for yourself.”
After a brief moment of stupefaction, Lamp hesitantly approaches and reaches a glass hand forward to accept the divine implement. As Blackwing casually hands it off to him, the scholar braces himself for a sudden expansion of awareness, or a brush with the divine presence, or at least a bracing shock. Nothing happens, however. The spear simply settles in his palm like any other piece of metal. The scholar almost asks his employer whether he’s sure it’s genuine.
A smile twitches on Blackwing’s face, showing suppressed amusement at Lamp’s underwhelmed reaction. Then, pointing back in the northerly direction from which their airboat had sailed, he asks his subordinate to carry the spear away.
Lamp complies nervously, suddenly convinced again of the artifact’s authenticity and fearful of some manner of divine retribution prompted by unwitting trespasses. Still, he walks north as directed, and Blackwing accompanies him until they reach the end of Hastur’s courtyard. When the scholar takes a single step beyond that border, the spear stops dead in midair, tugging him to an abrupt halt.
Lamp looks back at the weapon in shock and finds that absolutely nothing about it has changed. In the absence of physical restraints, he searches his mind for the dream-like half-knowledge brought about by the force Ashti calls authority, but he feels nothing. The spear simply refuses to advance in the same naturalistic manner as a boulder refuses to be budged. In all aspects except visual, its resistance seems perfectly ordinary.
“Quite a thing, isn’t it?” Blacking quietly asks. “Either our world-tile won’t allow the spear to push any deeper inside, or its owner won’t allow it to pull too far beyond the sea. We occupy a narrow band of potential here.”
He reclaims the haft from Lamp, turns around, and begins walking back toward the lift platform. The scholar follows in a daze, only fully returning to himself as the group reconvenes around the airboat and its cargo. Once they’re together, Blackwing gets straight to the point.
“The icon of manslaughter never ventures close to the location of the portal, correct? Does that maxim hold true even when it’s closed?” He directs his questions to Ashti. After she provides confirmation, he continues. “Does anyone other than Lady Jaleh visit that section of the desert? Could we abandon valuable items there?”
“To your first question: No. To the second: Yes, we should be able to do so safely.”
“Then we’re leaving nearly everything behind. To guarantee that Lamphand, myself, and our cargo pass safely through Manslaughter’s territory, I’ve decided to load a single bag with as many grafts as you can comfortably carry. You’ll transport that bag to Heartbreak’s domain while I haul our interpreter and the tusk. This approach limits our initial offering for Growth, but I believe it’s a necessary tradeoff to ensure my mobility in case we encounter the first icon.” He holds Ashti’s eyes and waits for Lamp to finish translating before he asks. “Do you agree?”
She nods. “It seems fair- or perhaps fitting- to bring only as many grafts as I can personally carry. Hopefully, that amount will suffice to at least prove the viability of our approach. If we demonstrate that graft-matter can indeed repair the icon of growth, then Lady Jaleh could easily arrange an exclusively female caravan to convey the remainder.”
Blackwing nods. “We’ll take the highest quality for our first delivery. Let’s start sorting.”
The merchant loosens the formerly hanging net, pulls a crate from atop the stack, then plucks off its lid with his graft claws while using his foot and a bit of magic to keep the box stationary. When Lamp sees the man squinting to examine the objects within, he holds out a hand and activates his graft. Blackwing thanks him, then squats down next to Ashti to begin removing and examining the assorted organs and appendages.
The two of them handle the material with solemn care as they work, slowly turning each piece to check for cracks or dull patches. Blackwing and Lamp coach Ashti on the signs of injury, helping her identify which grafts still retain their full vitality. In spite of the objects’ drastic diversity of both composition and form, she learns quickly and soon matches her host’s pace in discerning what to set aside or return.
While they work and Lamp provides Light, Candlewire searches adjacent buildings for a suitable location to establish her camp. Eventually finding one, she returns to the airboat to transfer her provisions over several trips. Blackwing throws a minutely frustrated glance after his partner as she departs but doesn’t insist on bearing the load instead.
As the two graft sorters start on their third box, Ashti breaks the lingering silence by saying. “If I may return to the subject of the protected region surrounding the gate, I wanted to mention that it was the only reason my people discovered your activities. House Courage stumbled across some of the items you had tossed through while they were investigating a change in Manslaughter's roaming patterns. They followed the scent of a rotting body, assuming it was the icon’s latest victim, only to discover the carcass of an animal no one had seen in centuries.
“After the investigative taskforce conclusively determined that Manslaughter was avoiding that region of the wall, they initially assumed that another true icon had taken up residence inside it. The prospective existence of an icon that conjured livestock was itself quite exciting news at court. House Deference was still trying to dig their way inside when you opened your gate a second time.”
Blackwing nods. “I assumed they found me because of that goat. A fresh animal was one of the first trade goods Jaleh requested.”
“She still has its pelt displayed in her sitting room.” Ashti smiles. “But, returning to topic: After your appearance discredited our ‘wall icon’ theory, my people next speculated that the protrusion was established as a divine aegis to prevent Manslaughter’s escape into your world. Whatever the cause, Manslaughter hasn’t ventured within sight of your portal since it first opened. We should be safe to linger there, and it might even serve as a secure point to which you can retreat. In a worst case scenario, you and Lamp could camp at that location while I proceed alone to summon a rescue party.”
“Good to know.” The merchant replies while gently returning a chipped sapphire wrist bone to its box. “Would you be able to judge when we’ve passed the halfway point between the gate and Heartbreak’s border?”
“Yes, and so could you. When the stars begin changing color, we are close to the next icon.”
“Oh. They’re not red everywhere?” He asks curiously.
This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
“No.” She shakes her head. “In the space beyond my kingdom’s edge, the sky remains completely dark. Our stars only shed light in reaction to authority. That is… to magical pressure.”
“Ah.” Blackwing falls silent.
Eventually, the pair sort as many grafts into Ashti’s backpack as will safely fit. They confirm she can carry it without straining herself before reorganizing the remaining contents of their opened boxes into as few containers as possible. Then the merchant stacks those crates back into a stable configuration and wraps them inside his net. Around the same time, Candlwire returns from an excursion to declare that her campsite is adequately prepared.
With those tasks completed, only one objective remains. Everyone seems to hesitate for a moment before Blackwing stoops to pick up his spear.
Turning towards the sea, the merchant takes a single step and utters. “Well-”
“Do we have time for me to look around?” Lamp cuts him off with a sheepish tone. “For a few minutes, maybe? I saw a structure from the air I wanted to investigate, if that’s alright.”
Blackwing releases the meagerest of sighs, then turns to Ashti. “We can tarry if our guest consents.”
Lamp thanks his employer with great enthusiasm and deep gratitude before relaying the proposal to his foreign friend. She smiles in reply and nods without a moment’s hesitation.
“The day is young yet, and the final leg of our journey is not terribly long.” She answers while meeting Blackwing’s eyes. “We can spare an hour for Lamp to explore this place and still expect to arrive at Daughters’ Palace in time for an early supper. We need rush only if you feel particularly keen on sampling lunch.”
“Very well.” The merchant returns his heavy gaze to Lamp. “You have an hour.”
Before Lamp can reiterate his words of thanks, Candlewire seizes the moment by clapping her hands together with a metallic rasp.
“You wanted an architectural survey of the city, right Hand? Wing and I will get started on this half of the courtyard for you.” She cheerfully offers to Lamp before spinning on her heel and raising a finger to point in a seemingly random direction. “Over there we have a pair of common grey blobs. Right next to them is the big brown shape- very rare, that one. A bit further on, I think I see a sad pile of rubble that used to be something important until a bunch of oafs tragically knocked it down. Beyond that- I trust you’re documenting this?- Beyond that we have…”
Candlewire wanders off while continuing to ramble. Blackwing shakes his head and follows after his partner to ensure she doesn’t get lost in the abandoned city. If the two of them happen to be headed towards her private campsite and its prepared bedding, that’s surely a coincidence.
Shaking his head with a small, knowing smirk, Lamp turns in the opposite direction and briskly walks onward to give the couple their privacy. Ashti quickly catches up to him and keeps apace.
“I think I may accompany you.” The outlander mutters with a slight blush before clearing her throat and asking. “How far away exactly is this structure you wanted to visit?”
“Far enough to be out of earshot.” He suppresses a chuckle at her expense before offering a more serious answer. “I saw a small temple from the air, and I wanted to visit it before we left. See how the ancients practiced our faith. Maybe say a prayer before we risk our lives.”
Ashti nods, clearly feeling genuine interest now that she knows where he’s headed. Walking together, the pair hastily exit Hastur’s courtyard and proceed in what Lamp thinks is the right direction. His intuition proves unreliable, and they lose a few minutes meandering through the empty city’s tight and winding alleyways, nearly getting turned around at more than one point.
Starting to feel slightly concerned, Lamp suggests climbing one of the shorter buildings to get their bearings. He reasons that the courtyard’s towering, headless statue should remain clearly visible for quite some distance, so they should still be able to find their way back. Ashti tells him he’s welcome to scamper up but also mentions that she remembers the route back thanks to her graft. She had been activating it every time they reached a new intersection to ensure relevant landmarks lingered in her mind.
The grateful scholar thanks his companion and entrusts to her the full responsibility of remembering their position in the labyrinth and eventually navigating their way back out. With his own focus no longer split, Lamp begins paying greater attention to their surroundings. The first thing he confirms, which he had already half-noticed, is the sheer ubiquity of dust.
It clings to every surface, including the walls and ceilings of any building he peeks inside. After confirming the phenomenon, Lamp comments that he hadn’t noticed this light coating at their landing site. Ashti confirms that she also hadn’t spotted it until they exited the square. Repeated human traffic, demolitions, and deliberate cleaning efforts must have swept the dust away from that location. What remains around them now has likely lain undisturbed since the rupture.
Lamp marvels at its permanence. In this place, no wind can blow the fine particles away, no rain can wash them off, and no broom will ever sweep them clean. The dust will likely remain- just as it is now- long after Lamp is dead and gone. The faint footprints he treads upon its surface might outlast any other monument or record of his existence. The scholar finds that thought both fascinating and comforting; Ashti agrees on only the first point.
As the pair continue their meandering path toward the small temple, Lamp whiles away a few minutes exploring the more mundane buildings they find along their route. He quickly determines that neighboring structures often hail from different time periods and regions. It feels odd to see them scrambled together so haphazardly.
A humble, mudbrick bakery from at least six hundred years ago stands incongruously beside a grand public bathhouse that was still under construction when the gods reclaimed it. The cluttered floors of two adjacent pottery studios display wildly dissimilar styles of work that seem not to share a single form, style, or clay body in common. A thatch-roofed stable built entirely from sticks and vines rests in the shadow of a stout stone tower with a polished facade. Nothing seems like it belongs.
Lamp and Ashti make use of the tower to safely gain an overlook of their surroundings. From its four-story peak, the scholar manages to locate both the courtyard from which they came and the diminutive temple to which they’re headed. The latter structure is thankfully quite close now, so he promises to head directly toward it without further detours.
A minute or two later, they arrive at the border of a wide open space which separates their destination from all surrounding structures. The two of them pause for a moment at that threshold to examine the temple across from them.
Short columns support the front-facing edge of a hefty triangular roof while simple stone bricks hold up its three remaining sides. That same brick wall also cuts behind the forward colonnade at a slight remove, shutting off the temple’s entryway. A sturdy set of closed wooden doors promises a way inside.
“Wouldn’t it be funny if it’s locked?” Lamp throws a joke over his shoulder to break the stillness.
His companion replies with a grin. “I would laugh at you, yes.”
Shaking his head for lack of a witty comeback, Lamp turns away and proceeds forward over the flat, empty stone. He swiftly reaches the temple and passes between its columns, then presses lightly on its door. His first attempt fails to push the entrance inward, and he worries for a moment that his jest will prove prophetic. However, a firmer shove manages to force the doors open despite loud protests from their bronze pivot hinges.
Grateful to be spared from Ashti’s promised mocking, Lamp steps inside the dark structure and activates his graft for light. Then he pauses by the entryway to look around, absorbing the sight of the temple’s barren, empty floor and its unadorned stone ceiling. Both surfaces sport their anticipated layer of dust.
Glancing at the walls next, the scholar finds five faces staring back at him from the shadows. Those figures might have given him quite a shock if he hadn’t expected to meet them here in one form or another.
Lamp increases his output to fully reveal the temple’s interior as Ashti steps through the doorway behind him. Together, they examine the quintain of chipped and faded frescos depicting their gods in human likeness. Two images line the walls to either side, while one stands alone at the far end of the room. Lamp casts his eyes across the assembly and murmurs each of their titles in turn, paying homage.
In spite of his reverence, the scholar can’t help but think that something looks off about these paintings. His gods aren’t carrying their usual symbols, and their faces differ slightly from common depictions. He walks closer to the first image on the left to get a better view, and his eyes widen when he finally confirms what he’s seeing.
“Oh my.” Lamp mutters. “This is older than I thought.”
Turning to Ashti, he begins to explain the historical wonder they’ve stumbled across. “This temple was likely constructed in the early first century of the old calendar, somewhere between seven or eight hundred years ago. Given its age and characteristics, it likely fell out of use long before the time of the rupture. There’s a chance it was buried under the city’s newer strata until the gods dug it back out.”
“How can you tell?” The outlander inquires without suspicion.
“Hmm.” He taps a finger of his non-active graft against his leg. “How much education do you have on the early development of pre-rupture cultic practices?”
“A bit.” She shrugs. “My tutors touched upon that subject only briefly. Much knowledge was lost in the rupture; I am eager to hear history as it was recorded by your people.”
“Very well.” Gesturing at their surroundings, Lamp begins his lecture with a fond familiarity. “Even before the gods’ arrival, ancient humans were predisposed to engage in worship. So fervent was their yearning for higher voices that they invented multiple extensive pantheons of personified natural forces. They honored gods for earthquakes, farmland, storms, rivers, flowers, hearth fires, beasts, mountains, and anything else that shaped their lives or struck them as profound.
“The earliest cults to emerge after Wayward’s revelation had a tendency to combine these preexisting, farcical deities with the newly revealed true divines. We can see evidence of that ephemeral syncretism here. In fact, from the cultural elements on display, I feel confident in stating that this temple was constructed by one of the Hellenic tribes, rather than your regal ancestors to the northeast or Blackwing’s quasi-independent forebearers to the southeast.”
Making a half turn away from his single-person audience, Lamp lifts his graft toward the room’s center and flares his magic slightly, casting the five simple paintings in clear sunlight for a few brief seconds. When the radiance dims, he turns back to his listener. He doesn’t know how often the girl visited her homeland’s temples, or even how their gods are depicted inside those foreign halls, but the visages around them should still seem unfamiliar.
He resumes. “All that is to say: this art predates the gradual corrections that resulted in our modern iconography. It shows our gods as our- or rather, my- predecessors first understood them. Their newborn faith was less refined than ours, but it contains intriguing insights.”
Lamp waves toward the nearest fresco. “On our left, we have Mother. You can see they depicted her as a conventional human matron holding what appears to be a sickle in her right hand and shield in her left. The boy hiding behind her skirt might reference her prohibition against pederasty.”
He points upward to her face. “The painters presented her with wet hair, but otherwise neglected the nautical motif we would expect to see in modern representations. Additionally, the diadem atop her head identifies her as a queen; early worshipers often presented Mother as a wife to Regent, almost certainly in imitation of wedded ‘gods’ who filled similar roles in their earlier mythology. That misunderstanding proved incredibly persistent; if we found another temple from two centuries later, it would likely contain the same mistake.”
Lamp shakes his head and steps deeper into the room. “Next, we have Regent. Judging by the trident they stuck in his hand, he seems to have supplanted the place of an oceanic deity, an association that we know faded quickly. The painters gave him the correct number of heads, at least, though they characterized his emotions unconventionally. His angered and calm faces are displayed as we might expect, but the last one sneers at us instead of weeping. Perhaps the ancients saw him as less mournful towards the guilty than we do, or maybe this temperament simply matched their perception of kings.
“Regardless, the ships behind him likely reference his guiding role in the rebellions of that time. Although- they might also relate to an early practice of praying to Regent for safe passage by sea, a responsibility that later transferred to…” Lamp trails off as he reaches the next fresco.
Now that he’s in front of it, he notices another oddity. This painting’s surface is covered in dust. The last two weren’t.
Doubting himself, Lamp glances back at the previous frescos to be sure, only to confirm what he remembered. Then he looks down to the floor, where he sees his own footprints recorded in the fine powder. Another set trails behind Ashti. No other tracks exist alongside their own.
Peering up at the gods again, the scholar points a glowing finger at the first two depictions, almost as if to accuse them. “Either dust never formed on that pair, or someone cleaned both of them before skipping this one.”
Overtaken by curiosity, Lamp delays his lecture to make a quick tour of the room. Walking past the two remaining paintings, he finds that the fifth deity on the far end was also freed of dust. Only the fourth and third gods languish beneath a soft layer of gray particulate. A closer inspection confirms that neither of those two frescos was even partially cleaned. Whoever last came through here skipped those gods entirely.
“Was that intended as a slight?” He wonders aloud.
Lamp glances back at his associate as if she might know the answer. At first, Ashti seems engrossed by the frescos, trailing her eyes over them in a slow procession, but she returns Lamp’s attention a breath after he looks at her. When their eyes meet, she poses a question.
“Could Lord Blackwing have cleaned them?” She asks uncertainly before glancing down at the floor and muttering. “It must have been someone who could avoid leaving footprints.”
“Maybe.” Lamp answers doubtfully. “But who would dare to stop paying their respects at just three gods? Even I want to finish the work here, though I don’t think it would be feasible for us to attempt that, sadly. Given the paintings’ great age and our inexperience, we’d only damage them… Though that does leave open the question of how someone else managed it.”
“Perhaps Lord Blackwing caused the dust to fall from their surface?” Ashti’s suggestion almost sounds hopeful.
Lamp shakes his head. “I doubt his control is that fine. He’d almost certainly tear chunks out of the underlying piece… unless he only touched them with down feathers and limited his force with magic. Maybe that would have worked.”
He sighs, and the two of them fall silent for a long stretch to ponder a mystery they can’t possibly solve with any confidence. Eventually, the outlander prompts him with a polite request to continue his analysis of the gods where he left off.
“Gladly.” Lamp clears his throat and points to the third painting. “As the only figure depicted with a walking stick, this can be none other than Wayward. Every temple I’ve ever visited bestows its central position to Regent, but here that honor belongs to the wanderer. Clearly, his role as the first heavenly voice still carried immense weight in these early days of worship.”
The scholar gestures downward. “The small wings sprouting from his ankles almost certainly reference an earlier ‘messenger god’ whose name is now lost to history. The petasos atop his head might share a similar origin, or perhaps it was merely a convenient way to provide cover. Speaking of which- it’s noteworthy that although the painters hid Wayward’s eyes under the brim of his cap, they still depicted the lower half of his face. Even a slightly more contemporary team of artisans would obscure all of it.”
“Now.” Lamp points at the painting’s background. “Forgive me if I’m retreading familiar territory here, but this next detail is too interesting not to mention. You may recall that Wayward first appeared to us in the aftermath of a brutal, decade-long war for control of a highly trafficked strait called the Hellespont; this burning city behind him almost certainly represents that conflict. Many of the first minds touched by his hand were refugees or captives of that violent time. He guided them to a sanctuary on the northern coast of the inner sea, where Hastur kept his flock.”
Lamp raises his left hand, bringing the previous deity back into light. “When Regent deemed it necessary to sweep away man’s empires, and the gods began spreading their influence further south, the people of young Carcosa viewed his cleansing as a reprisal for their previous defeat. The loss of their former home still lingered within living memory. It would have been equally relevant to the builders of this temple, whose parents fought on the opposing side. For them, the new wars were seen as an act of penance.”
Staring into the painted flames dancing high behind stone walls, he shakes his head. “The faith’s focus shifted as it recruited new populations. We likely wouldn’t find references to this war on a temple established along the shores of Phoenicia, for instance. Regardless, nothing else I say of this god is likely to be novel to you.”
Lamp moves along to the next fresco and switches to using his other hand for light. “Here we have the lady of mirrors, shown in her aspect of the huntress. At least, I assume that’s what they meant by giving her those antlers and wolfish ears. They also made the error of painting her with a mouth, though she at least isn’t shown with eyes.
“If those stars around the border are any measure, she seems to be affiliated with the night sky, although I’m not certain what that silvery disc behind her head was meant to indicate, and I won’t speculate in this instance. Judging by her pale dress and flower crown, it seems the painters sought to represent her as a maiden. The early cults must not yet have grasped the irrelevance of chastity to non-physical beings, and perhaps they had not yet understood Mirror’s place as the eldest of her cohort.
“Lastly…” Lamp steps onward to the fifth fresco as Ashti trails behind. “Lastly, we have Artisan, replete with eleven arms and a single eye. Each hand holds a different tool, as we’d expect; it seems he hasn’t changed much in the years since his arrival. The people of that time already worshiped numerous gods of the forge, and some clans told stories of many-armed or single-eyed monsters with an aptitude for skilled labor. Artisan likely settled easily into the mold early civilizations prepared for him.”
Lamp lowers his arm while allowing his light to dim. He rolls his shoulder to resolve stiffness, then looks back to Ashti. The handmaiden stands slightly deeper into the room than himself, having trailed behind as he followed the sequence of paintings back towards the temple’s exit. Though she faces toward the door, the wan twilight filtering in from outside barely reveals her features.
Lamp searches the girl’s face for questions and spots no indications of curiosity. She seems pensive, but not yet poised to engage in conversation. That’s just as well; he didn’t have much left to say.
The scholar suggests speaking a prayer together before they leave. Ashti leads off without further encouragement, and they praise each of the gods in turn. Lowering his arms at the ritual’s conclusion, Lamp hooks his thumb toward the exit and asks. “Shall we?”
His companion agrees, and they exit the temple in brisk single file. Once they’re both outside, Lamp tries to gently close the sacred doors behind them with as little noise as possible, but the damn things still squeal at him as he resorts to forcefully dragging them shut.
“I’ll have to petition Blackwing for some oil.” He mutters before shaking his head and facing Ashti to remark. “Well, that was a touch strange but well worth the trip, wasn’t it?”
She nods in agreement. “The experience was peculiar but enlightening.”
“What did you think of the gods’ old guises?” He asks lightly.
Ashti hesitates before answering. “I could not help but wonder if these first impressions were in some ways more accurate than our own, modern comprehension. After all, the first members of our faith had far more regular contact with the gods than we enjoy today, and they witnessed the divine before it began adapting to us.”
The outlander looks to him cautiously as if expecting a challenge, but Lamp grins in triumph instead.
“You’ve squarely hit the head of the nail.” He tells her proudly. “That very debate has raged quite hotly in the past two centuries, and its embers still smolder today. Or at least, it was still instigating private arguments within the Blessed Order before I exited their fold. The cult’s official line is that people living directly prior to the rupture knew our gods best, having experienced them for the longest duration, and we should therefore preference later writings and depictions above earlier work. Incidentally, that’s the more convenient choice since most of our surviving records date to that period anyway.”
He glances back over his shoulder and smiles fondly. “A single find like this temple wouldn’t come close to upending those entrenched conventions, but it would certainly renew scholastic interest and spark novel conversations. But that’s just one building! Who knows what other gems this city’s hiding between all its gymnasiums, dormitories, hostels, and the like? To my eye, this is a place of infinite curiosity, an endless expanse of lost but undisturbed history... It almost seems a shame to leave it all in one person’s hands. Especially someone so furtive.”
Lamp sighs and rubs the back of his neck before grumbling. “Maybe he’ll let me build a team to investigate it properly at some point, but- to be honest- that still doesn’t seem like enough. Gods… searching through this place could be the work of a lifetime. Several lifetimes, really. I’d probably need to convince multiple people with a lot of money to finance me…”
He tilts his head to stare up at the sky and continues griping. “Frankly, the cult should already be out here. Blackwing’s gate might be a secret, but every educated person inside the caldera knows our lost capital’s somewhere on the edge. The Blessed Order should be funding expeditions. Mirror knows they aren’t spendthrifts.”
Closing his eyes and releasing another long sigh, he mutters. “Ah, well. That’s a challenge for another day.”
“Is it?” Ashti asks pointedly before turning around to examine the temple’s closed doors. “It seemed like someone beat us here. Either Lord Blackwing cleaned those three paintings himself, or somebody else came before him. The only other person we know to have crossed from another world was Lady Clearheart, but I cannot imagine her attempting or succeeding in the restoration.”
“She also would have left footprints.” Lamp adds.
“Just so. This was not her work.”
“Well.” He clicks his thumb against two fingers. “We’ll just ask Blackwing once we’re reunited with him. No point in worrying about this now.”
Lamp turns away from the temple and begins walking back the way they came, striding ahead across the empty corridor that isolates the holy structure from its secular neighbors. Upon entering the first alleyway, however, he decides to fall behind Ashti so her superior sense of direction can prevent them from getting lost.
As they proceed in the direction of Hastur’s courtyard, his guide asks. “Has an hour passed yet?”
“Not quite, I think.”
“Then we risk… interrupting them.”
“I’d be surprised-” Lamp stops himself from finishing that thought. “Never mind. You’re right. We can find somewhere to wait so they have a bit more time alone.”
Ashti suggests returning to the tower which they had climbed for a vantage point on their way out. Lamp agrees, and with their destination set, she leads the way unerringly forward. Lamp refrains from questioning any of the outlander’s navigational decisions even when he feels certain he would have chosen a different route. A few minutes later, both of them are vindicated for placing their full faith in her when they arrive at the tower’s base.
Electing not to pause before the stairway, the girl marches directly up. Her moderately older companion follows at a slightly slower pace but manages not to fall an embarrassing distance behind. Proudly reaching the top step before Ashti’s fully seated, Lamp settles in beside her to share in a breathtaking view of the abandoned city.
They sit quietly for a while, having long since exhausted their most obvious topics of discussion and feeling disinclined toward signing practice. However, Lamp does have a subject nibbling at the back of his mind- one that’s lingered there for quite some time. It’s a question he’d wanted to ask the outlander since the day they met. He delayed because the inquiry felt insensitive, but if he doesn’t pose it now, it’ll become irrelevant by the next time they have a quiet moment to themselves.
Turning to Ashti, he asks softly. “Do you expect to recover your old magic? When you cross back through… You don’t have to answer, by the way.”
“I suspect that I will not.” She responds lightly and without hesitation. “I still hope to, of course, but I believe my former blessing is lost to me forever. It saved my life and brought me here, at least. So, although I miss what I have lost and likely always will, it was a worthy sacrifice that I would gladly make again.”
Lamp nods, waits a moment to be sure she’s finished, then hesitantly poses a follow-up. “I take it you don’t expect Blackwing and myself to acquire soulmasks?”
She laughs at his question, seeming delighted by its absurdity. “You assume correctly! Magic in my world is awarded to promising youths from strong families. If I fall outside the normal range of ages, you and your master are both well beyond it.”
“Fine.” Lamp shifts his weight unconsciously and mumbles. “Maybe you didn’t have to put that much emphasis on the age point.”
The outlander grins. “I mostly meant it in Lord Blackwing’s case.”
“Sure. Mostly.”
“Mostly.” She nods with a lingering smile. Then her expression shifts back to neutral as she muses. “The open question is actually whether all of us will retain your world-tile’s magic on the opposing side of the gate. If we do, that development would suggest that any pregnant member of the Select could cross the border and give birth to a child blessed with graft magic.
“There are risks, of course. The mother would lose her own soulmask in the process, there’s no guarantee that her body would protect the life inside her, and her child might become ineligible to receive a mask of its own if it survives. That first point is now irrelevant to me, however, and I might accept the latter risks on my third or fourth child, depending on how many I produce.”
She falls silent when she notices Lamp’s perturbed expression. After a moment, she asks. “What? Was that too callous? I was proposing a hypothetical.”
“No. It’s just… I thought you and the princess… Or you with women in general…” He falters, unsure of polite phrasing.
Ashti smiles sadly in response, understanding his point despite his fumbled words.
“Yes. We are. I am. But.” She pulls her legs up to her chest and folds her arms around them. After a moment, she continues woodenly. “Even if my darling lives beyond her scheduled execution, we will both still marry noblemen of whom our respective parents either approved or else selected. Her father has permitted considerable delay on those arrangements out of consideration for his daughter’s unprecedented burden, but if we succeed in absolving Her Highness’s obligation to become the next icon of growth, then her other duties will arrive all the faster.”
Her voice falters, and she falls silent.
“Huh.” Is the best Lamp can offer in response. He scratches his head uncomfortably as he belatedly remembers Clearheart’s parting words to the girl. Pressing on, he says. “Arrangements like that happen here too sometimes, but there’s usually a way out. Do either of you want to accept it?”
Ashti slumps over her knees and answers weakly. “No, yet we have our roles.”
Lamp responds with a flat, disapproving stare but says nothing. The girl sighs and turns away. “You could never understand, Lamp. Power follows blood in my homeland. I need to ensure that my ancestors’ line survives another generation. So does she.”
“I’m confident your kingdom would survive perfectly well without the two of you forcing yourselves into loveless marriages.” Lamp frowns. “Maybe it’s not my place to say this, but a tradition that deprives you of lifelong happiness probably isn’t worth upholding. I’m sure both of you can find other ways to contribute to your society’s welfare beyond mere propagation. And I know it seems like the gods care a lot about blood on your side, but from what you’ve told me that situation didn’t arise naturally. Maybe if you all put less stock in it-“
The girl turns her face downward and buries it in the cloth of her himation, breaking eye contact and ending the conversation. Thinking it best to let her stew in her own thoughts, Lamp returns his gaze to the horizon. A few minutes later, he sees a distant figure climbing the side of Hastur’s statue to stand atop his neck stump.
Lamp stands, raises a hand, and flares his graft to draw his employer’s attention. Blackwing waves his long arm in response, then jumps off the statue to drift across the courtyard in the scholar’s direction. Landing atop a tiled roof, he leaps again with his strange, weightless grace and carries forward.
Since their host seems to be on his way to collect them, Lamp gently pats Ashti’s shoulder to rouse her. The girl wipes at her cheeks and nose before finally lifting her face, but her hasty efforts fail to disguise the evidence of tears. Lamp squeezes gently before letting go, then tells her that Blackwing is en route to their position.
She hurriedly rises to her feet and stands beside the scholar as they await the merchant’s arrival. The man crosses above the winding city much faster than they had wandered through it, and his sandaled feet soon touch down upon the tower’s roof.
Blackwing holds out his graft for the two of them to grab hold and tells them firmly. “No more delays. It’s time.”
