Hidden Threads
Twenty-Seventh Day of the Second Month 293 AC
The soft fall of measured steps was the only sound echoing through the empty halls. Only a single, sickly green light showed the path forward for the small procession. Ancient were the stones around them, their age shown by the smooth grooves worn by countless steps into the flagstones and the thick patina growing on the walls though some of said overgrowth was much more recent than what the casual observer might have guessed, and as they slowly came closer to their destination, the air began to taste of the signs of their lords' favor. The stench of old blood mingled with the musty smell of rot, a nauseating mixture for most, but they proceeded with resilience born from long practice.
Rohar of Tyrosh, who was priest and magi in equal measure, strode at the front of them and set the ponderous pace. Some had questioned him on these processions, for the lords cared not for what they did on the way to the chamber, only for the ritual itself. Before he ascended to his rank through his predecessor joining the elders in the crypts, they used torches to light the way, damp cloths to mute the smell, and walked much fast through the crumbling halls.
But even if the lords did not care about these things, he did. To wield the might bestowed by them carried the weight of eons and each of their gifts should be appreciated. Those whose stomach turned from experiencing it were simply unworthy in his eyes. His pupils followed in contemplative silence, making no sound of discomfort even when they reached the heavy door to the chamber itself. These small rites had always been for their benefit, so that they might be worthy successors and it had borne great fruit. Soon his glamours would no longer be able hide the blessings bestowed upon him, yet all five of those behind him would be ready to take his mantle as he joined the elders.
The door appeared to be covered in thick mold, but in fact there was nothing behind the splotchy carpet of green and brown. A door could be broken, but this barrier would only let those pass who showed themselves faithful. Each of them drew a small knife to pay the tithe, and as they pressed the fresh cuts on their hands onto the fungus it drank deep from them. As sudden as it started, as suddenly it ended, the pain of the moment quickly forgotten as inconsequential while the mold parted like a curtain to admit the group into the chamber beyond.
What purpose this room served before its current purpose Rohar did not know, for he only knew it its current state. Man-high piles of filth and offal leaned in the corners of the octagonal room, almost appearing to be creeping up the walls. The remnants of previous rituals, made home and feast for the vermin, touched by their lords. The maddening buzzing of countless little wings replaced the silence as the thick cloud of flies lazily rolled beneath the high ceiling. In the midst of it all were drawings, made in blood and other fluids, with a squirming pile of rats resting in the center.
His pupils dutifully took their places around the circle, brandishing the staffs they carried, waiting for Rohar's orders. "See if she is ready." With the command given, they made a step towards the pile of rats, banging their staffs on the floor all the while. The vermin quickly scurried away from the sounds and the last few stragglers were unceremoniously bashed away with a quick strike of the staff.
"She is ready." He just nodded at the confirmation and with a satisfied smile, he studied the woman who had been hidden underneath the rats. She was a common whore when she came to Rohar to seek enlightenment and a release from the pain of her life, but when he thought her ready and showed her the deeper truths of this world, she foolishly rejected his wisdom. Now she would serve their purpose anyway as all would do in time. It was inevitable. All things would end. That was the sole truth of this universe.
With a few quick glances, he confirmed that the markings were done. The rats had not fed on her in a mad frenzy, though a few fingers or an ear would not be missed if it served to sate their appetites, but did the careful work that no man could have done. Runes were bitten into her flesh and the black ichor running from them showed that they were active. Tendrils of bile green rot snaked through the skin around them, forming intricate patterns not even the finest artisan could ever replicate and pulsing with the power of Abaddon itself. How he would have loved to study them in depth, but Rohar knew that his mind would shatter under the burden of the insights he could gleam from these marks just as all of those who tried before. He would have to be content with the truths he could gleam from the woman's words spoken tonight.
"All is in order, then. Speak your prayers, but listen closely. The portends have shown that we shall learn important things tonight. Not a single word you shall forget that is spoken here, for it might be the key to matters of grave import." It was not as if Rohar expected less from his pupils under other circumstances, but it could not hurt to stress the importance of this ritual. Short nods acknowledged his words before the five of them fell to their knees and began to quietly chant the words to praise their lords and ask them for their guidance.
While they began, he pulled the most vital piece of the rite from his robes. A long dagger of what once wase purest, flawless white. The bone of an angel. Purity given form, yet even this had succumbed to decay. Now the material was cracked, splintered and foul. Green and black ran through the white and the smell of pus would cling to his hand for hours after handling it. That he could even touch it with his bare flesh was a sign of how much favor the lords had shown him.
The blade in hand, he strode forward and lifted the head of the woman. Milky eyes, caked with dirt, roamed around at the motion, and tears of black ran down the torn face and into the hole where a nose once was. She was nearly gone, not just her life, but something deeper, yet enough remained to be a vessel. With practiced ease Rohar plunged the profane knife into her chest, the sickness-weakened bones offering no resistance and at once, new vigor filled the body. Quickly he stepped back to his place as the woman swayed for a moment, then sat again. The lipless mouth tore into a snarl and the unseeing eyes focused on him unerringly.
A wretched voice came from the body, broken and raspy like the last rattles of the dying and underlain with a endless scream of torment. "You have offered this flesh, Rohar of Tyrosh. You have offered the life and spirit within, and the pain it bore. What is it that you seek in return?"
He did not flinch at the twisted voice, for he had heard it many times before and to his satisfaction, neither did his pupils. "Truth I seek. The strands of fate laid bare before me so that I may better serve to unmake them." Only a curt nod confirmed his request, and so he carefully formulated his first question. "One of the lords, residing in the officer of the hired swords has briefly manifested himself just hours past, but does not respond to our calls by sorcery to say why he did so. Has he been discovered?"
"By falsehoods was the traitor brought low. The dagger bared just to fall from lifeless hands." The body slightly swayed as the cacophonous voice delivered his answer. The markings grew ever starker with every word as the might channeled through them took it's toll from the weak flesh.
But Rohar paid it no mind, his mind quickly running through the implications of these words. They had used utmost care to not show their hand openly, but it seemed that they finally were discovered. The most important thing was now to learn how bad the damage was. "So the lord manifested into our world. Has he slain the witnesses?"
Again the rasping voice answered at once. "No. As swiftly as he came to this world, he was rebuffed from it. Trapped he is in the currents of Abbadon, seeking to speak a warning, yet unable to deliver it in time."
A snarl came unbidden from Rohar's lips as he glared at the dagger still sticking in the chest of the woman. It must have been the same celestials who had slain one of the other lords some weeks ago. "Do the sellswords know about us and will they try to move against us?"
"They know, yet they will not bear their blades against you. They will only aid the torch-bearers." As if to punctuate the statement, one arm of the body came loose from the socket and fell to the floor with a dull thud, ichor running out of the wound where the rot had worn away the flesh completely.
He had dearly hoped he could settle this matter in a few questions, for the sacrifice was hardly of the best quality, and now he had gotten snared in a riddle. It was never a good sign when Rohar had to abandon his carefully-laid questions in the middle of the ritual, let alone when he was reduced to waste them on clarifying the one before. It might have been just a strange title for the servants of the Lord of Light, but never before had her heard that term applied to them and this was not the moment to guess. "Who are the torch-bearers?"
Something was odd when the dying woman spoke again. The faint screams accompanying every word seemed somehow lesser. Fainter. Something he had never heard before and neither was the twitching of the tattered lips a familiar reaction to him. "Clad in armor made by tamed fire. Many marching as one, guided by the torch-light. Servants of him who crowned himself in flame. His blessings they will wield, the light he gave them for guidance and even your lords shall fear their wrath."
Even before she had finished her prophecy, Rohar knew who she talked about. He carefully glanced at the state of the body before him, trying to gauge how many questions he had left before it would break down completely. The answer was not pleasing, for it wold be only two, maybe three more. Yet he couldn't take chances now. They could prepare another ritual in time to learn more details, but he needed to be sure about what he had heard. "The Targaryen and his rabble army will attack Tyrosh and us?"
If the face would have enough skin left for it, Rohar would swear up and down that it grinned at him as he finished the question. It still spoke in that dry rattling sound, yet no screams accompanied it this time, just a weird sound that he couldn't quite make out. "Yes. The threads of fate were laid bare before his gaze and as he was done to order them to his whims, he hid them from even his own eyes. Now the torches will burn. The trees will drink poison and make it to water. A crown shall be consumed by flames, for it would never sate its bearer."
They had known this was a possibility. Everyone in Essos knew that the dragon was building an army, though nobody knew for sure for what purpose. Every month they had asked in one of these rituals if he would attack Tyrosh, for while the lords would triumph over even the likes of him, it would be impossible to stay hidden afterwards. Only a month they had. The portents were clear that a month would be all the time he would need to march on these walls. Maybe it would be less, but Rohar was certain that they confirmed just last week that the Targaryen had no intention to attack Tyrosh, so it should still be enough time to prepare for him.
His thoughts were interrupted by the chiming of a bell. At first, he was befuddled by the noise and looked around himself for the source of it before he remembered. The ward he placed on the outer temple every night to be alerted if any thieves or other rabble entered it. His stomach roiled and churned as the words of the last answer sunk in deeper. He had hidden the strands of fate.
Again Rohar leveled his gaze at the half-decayed body in the ritual circle. It still contorted its cheeks as if grinning at him. "When will he attack?" Even before it could answer him, he heard the another bell chiming. The intruders were in the inner sanctum. The acolytes in the outer temple hadn't even been able to slow them down.
This time he understood the weird sound beneath the words. It was laughter. Vicious and cruel like that of his lords. "You know the answer to that question already, Rohar." With his name spoken, the body finally gave away. The remaining flesh melting into a brown mess with yellowed bones haphazardly sticking out of it and the ritual dagger buried somewhere in between.
For a long moment, he stared at the pile as if begging it to answer just one more question until one of his pupils broke the silence. "Master? What should we do?"
Just as the bones had no more answers for him, neither had he any for his pupils.
Authors Note: For those wondering, the laughter was coming from the sacrificed woman. She took a lot of satisfaction in her last moments out of seeing just how deep the hole for Rohar is.
] Two chapters at once! What a treat!
