Chapter 62. The Illusionist

hrenody returned to his side as black storm clouds eclipsed the stars and icy rain poured into the sea.  The unnatural storm grew rapidly in strength, lashing the sky with pillars of lightning that swirled around the cliff-ringed island.   Pendaran gazed down from his lofty perch of lichen encrusted basalt, searching for her amid the waves.  The ocean surged and churned against the narrow finger of stone, each flash of lightning revealing her translucent figure rising in the spray.  He recoiled from her chill touch as she slid easily into his flesh.

“It is time,” Threnody said.

‘Where were you?”

“Watching our foe and allowing you to rest in your natural form.”

“I thought you could not travel without me?”

“A piece of me resides with Ashekoroth.  I may go to him.”

Pendaran was chilled by these words.  If Threnody was aware of his misgivings, she made no indication.  Instead, she outstretched his arms and he looked on in wonder as his pale flesh sprouted snowy feathers.  As a gull, she launched skyward, his stomach lurching with a mixture of horror and excitement as the world flattened beneath them and the wind sang through his feathers.  Such euphoria his flight into the jaws of the storm, his tiny form powerful yet delicate as he soared and plummeted through the icy wind.  Laughter caught in his throat as Threnody guided him, their flight effortless and swift through the curtains of frigid sleet.  Within moments the cliff-ringed island was beneath them and they spiraled down over a cluster of ragged slate-roofed buildings.  The largest of them glowed from within with an actinic light.  He reeled as a surge of fear and powerful magic clashed with his sensitive mind.  Threnody took over, landing lightly in the lee of a small house.

His body shuddered and he unfolded, his outstretched limbs becoming smooth human flesh once more.  Standing upon a dripping door stoop, he fingered the latch on the door, his mind probing for what might lie within.

“Enter and gird yourself for battle,” Threnody said quietly, “I must go now, Ashekoroth commands me.  Come within the hour and we shall move to defeat him.”

And she was gone.  He swooned, grasping the door handle to steady himself as her warmth left him.  The wind hurled sleet at him and he felt it fully now, cold and harsh against his naked skin.  In the darkness he fumbled up the steps and pulled the door open, relieved when the warmth of a hearth rose up to meet him.  Slamming the door quickly behind him, he paused dripping upon the flagstones.  There was a peat fire in the grate and a small gathering of comfortless chairs and a couch.  A body was stretched out there: the silver-haired elementalist in his tattered lavender and gray robes.  His throat and face were bruised and his arms were pinioned against his back.  The faint rasp of his breath indicated that he still lived and Pendaran found it oddly satisfying that Ashekoroth had used the foolish man in the end and discarded him here like so much garbage.

With little time to waste, he took up a candle resting in a tin sconce and lit it with the peat fire.  His mind detected no others in the small house and so he pushed deeper into its interior, pausing beside a sparse room with a single bed and then pushing on toward a locked door when the other two rooms appeared to hold little more than the first.  Frowning, he jiggled the latch and sighed.  It was the work of several minutes of searching to find a suitable piece of cutlery in the kitchen to jimmy the crude lock open.

The windowless room beyond was a large closet stacked high with sealed crates.  Sighing, Pendaran retrieved the fireplace poker and gingerly pulled the first of the splintery crates down, mindful of his state of undress, and prized it open.  It was full of splendid clothes.  At first he thought it was Ashekoroth’s wardrobe but the clothing was of different sizes and styles, possibly even time periods or nations.   As he pulled each beautifully tailored piece of attire into the fluttering candlelight he saw they had belonged to distinctly different individuals.  A few were violently torn and many were splattered with blood.  It did not take long before the grim tale of their origins emerged in his mind.  They were the men Ashekoroth had devoured over the decades, possibly centuries, since his rise to consciousness.  And he had kept a token of every one, a physical trophy of those he had broken and absorbed in his rise to power.

Pushing this horrible thought aside, Pendaran set aside the clothing most likely to fit his lean frame and thrust the rest of it back in the crate.  He opened a second sealed box and found canes, daggers, a few graceful swords, chakrams, and a cord filled with signet rings.  Holding them up in the candlelight, this last item he realized was a prize beyond measure, a library of skills gathered from the stores of all those mesmers Ashekoroth had slain.  He carefully released the knot and poured them out onto a blouse in all their tarnished glory.  Now quickly he fit them onto his fingers, carefully seeking eight that would attune to him.  One by one the pile that he might use accumulated until out of the scores of rings there remained only twelve.  One of them was a prize beyond measure, a golden ring that shimmered with chaotic potential when it rested upon his outstretched hand.  All that remained open to him were those that complemented his penchant for illusion.  His everlasting flirtation with the mistress of lies caused a bitter smile to quirk his lips. 

He rose to his feet and gathered up his chosen attire and weaponry.  Clad in a loose silk blouse under a weathered slate blue top coat, he drew a narrow belt around his waist to shore up the ill-fitting black leggings adorned with a piping of burgundy satin.  Black suede boots and gloves finished his mismatched attire.  He had chosen the lightest of the chakrams, a silvery loop inscribed with powerful protective runes and studded with bright green gems.  A graceful rapier with a ruby encrusted hilt was carefully tucked beneath his belt.  He knelt before the peat fire and held out his be-ringed hands.  Pendaran focused upon the knowledge and energies stored within each ring, attuning to them in turn as they unlocked the potential within him.  Some were old favorites that awakened readily to his focused mind, but the greatest one was magic undreamed of.  When is full purpose and potential were made known to him, he laughed and thanked Lyssa.

Prepared for battle, he rose, removing the rings and placing them within the pocket of his top coat.  Invoking an enchantment, he laughed softly as the blessings of Lyssa enshrouded his form.  Armed with the subtle lies of his matron deity, he strode once more into the storm.