The old rules no longer apply, it would seem. The chosen leaders of today are selling their souls to keep their seats of power.
This is wrong. This is wrong. This is wrong.
The chants in Peetor’s head clanged like an alarum bell as the shadowy figure on the ebon dais began to materialize in its smoky cocoon that smelled vaguely of burning leather.
Peetor averted his eyes. Maybe refusing to witness the proceedings would reduce his culpability in such nefarious affairs. He was a good man and had risen to Vizier to one of the great Ghaultic Lords. His ability to chart the motion of the heavens and provide precognitive information to his liege had made him rich. Powerful. Indispensable.
But this… this cabal sundered one the most basic moral tenets of humankind. He would not keep mute. He recently suspected his liege had been in contact with the Autumn Folke, but to ask Peetor to attend contact? The Gods would refuse absolution in the afterlife should he allow his liege to continue these aberrant trysts in the long-forgotten shrines far beneath the castle.
“Our patience wanes.”
That voice. Somehow, it filled Peetor with equal parts dread and desire. A siren’s song. It was decided. He would stare only at the ancient stones of the dungeon floor. But what were these scrapes in the stone?
“Did the information prove false?” This more corporeal voice came from the scheming Royal Alchemist visiting from Greyarch, Peetor’s associate in these proceedings with the Folke Lord. Tolerating treason. Another sin to account for.
“Indeed.” That Folke voice was chillingly pleasant. Seductive. “But the heavens are maddeningly complex, aren’t they, seer?”
Peetor focused on the scrape on the floor. “They are what they are. Only a fool would deign to think he could know them.”
“So, still no components?” the alchemist asked, betraying a hint of desperation in his voice. “Our lord will not be pleased.”
“Your lord showed foresight in forging his contract with me,” the Folke Lord responded. “Where your seer has failed, I have laid bare the location of a single Dormu-lily.”
“No,” the alchemist gasped, a mix of disbelief and excitement.
“I have found it. You will obtain it. Do it immediately. It is an ephemeral thing and will dissipate like ash in the wind in all but the most nurturing hands. On this scroll, you will find its exact location.” The voice was sharper now, with a focus that bore into Peetor’s brain. The alchemist stepped forward and received the parchment.