'Silence.'
'My lord? I said nothing. Oh, best glance away now, and think on this.
I said nothing. Silence. Perhaps he's making an observation? Yes, that must be it. Look back, now, deferentially, and say aloud: Indeed, my lord. Silence. There. How does he react? Is that growing apoplexy? How can one tell, with all those shadows? Now, if I sat on that throne-'
'Iskaral Pust!'
'Yes, my lord?'
'I have decided.'
'Yes, my lord? Well, if he's decided something, why doesn't he just say it?'
'I have decided, Iskaral Pust-'
'He's doing some more! Yes, my lord?'
'That you…' Shadowthrone paused and seemed to pass a hand over his eyes. 'Oh my…' he added in a murmur, then straightened. 'I have decided that you will have to do.'
'My lord? Flick eyes away! This god is insane. I serve an insane god!
What kind of expression does that warrant?'
'Go! Get out of here!'
Iskaral Pust bowed. 'Of course, my lord. Immediately!' Then he stood, waiting. Looking around, one pleading glance to Cotillion. 'I was summoned! I can't leave until this foaming idiot on the throne releases me! Cotillion understands – that might be amusement in those horribly cold eyes – oh, why doesn't he say something? Why doesn't he remind this blathering smudge on this throne-'
A snarl from Ammanas, and the High Priest of Shadow, Iskaral Pust, vanished.
Shadowthrone then sat motionless for a time, before slowly turning his head to regard Cotillion. 'What are you looking at?' he demanded.
'Not much,' Cotillion replied. 'You have become rather insubstantial of late.'
'I like it this way.' They studied each other for a moment. 'All right, I'm a little stretched!' The shriek echoed away, and the god subsided. 'Do you think he'll get there in time?'
'No.'
'Do you think, if he does, he'll be sufficient?'
'No.'
'Who asked you!?'
Cotillion watched as Ammanas seethed, fidgeted and squirmed on the throne. Then the Lord of Shadow fell still, and slowly raised a single, spindly finger. 'I have an idea.'
'And I shall leave you to it,' Cotillion said, pushing himself from the wall. 'I am going for a walk.'
Shadowthrone did not reply.
Glancing over, Cotillion saw that he had vanished. 'Oh,' he murmured, 'that was a good idea.'
Emerging from Shadowkeep, he paused to study the landscape beyond. It was in the habit of changing at a moment's notice, although not when one was actually looking, which, he supposed, was a saving grace. A line of forested hills to the right, gullies and ravines directly ahead, and a ghostly lake to the left, on which rode a half-dozen grey-sailed ships in the distance. Artorallah demons, off to raid the Aptorian coastal villages, he suspected. It was rare to find the lake region appearing so close to the keep, and Cotillion felt a moment of unease. The demons of this realm seemed to do little more than bide their time, paying scant attention to Shadowthrone, and more or less doing as they pleased. Which generally involved feuds, lightning attacks on neighbours and pillaging.
Ammanas could well command them, if he so chose. But he hardly ever did, perhaps not wanting to test the limits of their loyalty. Or perhaps just preoccupied with some other concern. With his schemes.
Things were not well. A little stretched, are you, Ammanas? I am not surprised. Cotillion could sympathize, and almost did. Momentarily, before reminding himself that Ammanas had invited most of the risks upon himself. And, by extension, upon me as well.
The paths ahead were narrow, twisted and treacherous. Requiring utmost caution with every measured step.
So be it. After all, we have done this before. And succeeded. Of course, far more was at stake this time. Too much, perhaps.
Cotillion set off for the broken grounds opposite him. Two thousand paces, and before him was a trail leading into a gully. Shadows roiled between the rough rock walls. Reluctant to part as he walked the track, they slid like seaweed in shallows around his legs.
So much in this realm had lost its rightful… place. Confusion triggered a seething tumult in pockets where shadows gathered. Faint cries whispered against his ears, as if from a great distance, the voice of multitudes drowning. Sweat beaded Cotillion's brow, and he quickened his pace until he was past the sinkhole.
The path sloped upward and eventually opened out onto a broad plateau.
As he strode into the clear, eyes fixed on a distant ring of standing stones, he felt a presence at his side, and turned to see a tall, skeletal creature, bedecked in rags, walking to match his pace. Not close enough to reach out and touch, but too close for Cotillion's comfort nonetheless. 'Edgewalker. It has been some time since I last saw you.'
