Amidst huge stacks of books on the times of yore: “Ancient History,” “The Cultures of Yliakum before the New Gods,” “When the Crystal Lit,” “Divinity According to Galeran,” “Language up from the Labyrinths,” “Kadaikos before Blackflame,” “Portal Magick for Dunces,” “The Passage of the Xacha,” “Signs Ciphered from Suns,” and hundreds more on loan from Jayose and The Death Realm’s Library, Xillix sat, ink spattered, head in hands. Panthro lie asleep presumably recovering fully from the poisoning that was intended for her, Xillix could hear his troubled sleep from the next room in the temple.
"Janeous! How is it coming? A clank of beakers and hiss of acid spilled retorted. “Still not done?” she yelled.
A calm educated man dressed in the fine white robes of a Laughing Chorister entered from the direction of the hissing.
“My Lady, these things cannot be rushed, one small mistake and the intended effects will be spoiled and the process will need to be repeated from the beginning . . .” Janeous explained. “Incidentally, Irick is a talented hand at alchemy.”
“How long will it be Janeous?” Xillix shot back.
“My Lady these things must be perfect if you wish your vision to go as planned, it must be tasteless, odorless, and potent enough to pass through a glove.”
“Don’t forget the onset time must correspond to the time it takes to read the letter . . . So how long”
“Twelve hours at least Lady Xillix.”
The lady’s hand slammed the desk disturbing the inkstand, black liquid moved like the forces of opposition before her spreading over documents as she watched placidly. Janeous returned to the makeshift lab carefully hurrying his labors. Xillix paced the iron floors of the temple, returning often to her desk to work the draft of her letter of surrender. Ten hours pacing, writing, pacing, she tired of watching shadows to see from where her assassin might come. She tired too of the rabble ever with a hand poised to receive from the temple coffers and same seldom returning to offer. She tired of the rough breaths of Panthro from his sleeping chambers. She tired of the clank of Janeous’ and Irick’s labors. She tired of plans and contingencies. She tired of the ancient tongue of the Book of Names meant to compel and confound her. She was tired.
Xillix fell to her knees there alone in her chamber and prayed with all her might that her savoir, Laanx might give her words. Words from the Book of Names, and inspiration, inspiration for the letter she must soon finish. Her mind was pained and her hands cramped, days worth of notes destroyed by her angry spill of ink, she focused. Focused past the trivialities of these worries, focused in, to the silverweave strand of self that stands unassailable in all woe and, grabbing on to that for anchor focused outward out to the ether or forever or wherever Laanx roams, seeking, beseeching, reaching for words from her god. In this state all erupted a waking of consciousness . . . she slept.
In her dream a sermon was fluidly spoken by Galeran himself a smooth poised Xacha, elegant as Death Realm weddings, standing in the very temple of Laanx that he had built. Magic flowed and sparked about him whimsically as he spoke. His charisma was beyond mortal and Xillix could feel his deep honest love beam out and through the faithful then to herself. She stood at the entrance robed in rich silver-laced white of an initiate. A being robed in a coat of rust faced Xillix from beyond the shroud of the hood, eyes glowing white with heat as air melted before the words. The voice was elderly, male, resonant, it was Galeran.
“We all come to this Lady Xillix.” Xillix shook herself and looked again to see the congregation gone but the one speaker. The solitary temple seemed hollow and cold.
Galeran broke the sterile silence, “while you live your enemies are our lord’s you shall be sheltered by that mighty hand through great trials, but what of those around you my Lady?” “who will protect them from the rain my Lady?"
“My Lady,” then quieter, “my lady, you must wake. The hour is late. Janeous and Irick send for you from the lab. They say the have done it!” The sound of muted rain on the iron roof of the temple ran a cold chill through Xillix. She collected herself, keeping her shaking hands under the desk she had fallen asleep at so Gyerfry would not sense her alarm. She steeled herself. “Gyerfry, tell them I will join them in the lab shortly.” Xillix blinked once took a breath and wrote:
Dear Aradia,
My way and that of Laanx is not to thank
villains for villainy, nor to but grieve.
I hope you will in kindness now receive,
The terms of my surrender are so rank
that I quail and quake hands shaking and sore
for rewriting until anger and danger
left the sad pen I push toward a stranger
once a friend and alas, not anymore.
I would rather you slept a while to think
on the dangers this course compels, then leave
you or your friends bereft of life by knives
in the dark, or send you poison to drink.
By now you tire and soon you shall sleep
Laanx’s eyes are the night in which thieves creep.
I surrender nothing for that is my Kingdom . . .
Lady Xillix, Queen of Fools-
On the outside of the envelope Xillix purposefully wrote: The terms of my surrender. She rushed to the lab where the other Vespers diligently worked. The letter was carefully coated in a thin layer of the fine contact poison they had contrived from distilling ulbernaut musk. The letter dried and was neatly folded with thongs and placed into the envelope whose interior had been lightly coated with wax. Xillix then applied her seal and handed the letter to Farren. “Farren, deliver this to Aradia please and tell her that I would have her open it in private so as to spare me what embarrassment its contents might do me.” Farren smiled at his Lady and departed. Xillix thought it best that he did not know what was contained therein.
