Interlude 1: My Soul Lies in Tellura

The flames were a dark green, shading to purple where they licked against the silver bowl. Golden liquid bubbled within; sap from a tree that grew only on the borders between one world and another. The heat from the fire was intense, but not as hot as the frustration smoldering in the heart of the very ambitious man kneeling before it. He spoke in a harsh, hard-won tongue known on the other side as English. “Where is the soul that was promised me?”

The reply came from the smoke, echoing and faint. “I did everything exactly as you instructed. She died on schedule. The soul departed. If there is fault, it must be on your end.”

“Impossible. Do you have any conception of how many years I have spent developing that ritual? Learning to harness the impoverished azoth of your world to some useful effect?” In the corner of the workshop, reflected firelight gleamed off polished metal. It mocked him, perfect and empty.

“That’s not my problem. You and I have a deal. I did everything you asked. In my world, that means I am owed my payment.”

“Your job isn’t over until I have my soul. If not this one, then another. You must begin again. Prepare the runes exactly as I showed you.”

“Once I have my payment.”

The very ambitious man took a deep breath. There were times when one was forcibly reminded that more than his own world was filled with short-sighted fools. It was an unfortunate truth that, when he no longer required such useful idiots, he would do his best to rectify.

Preferably with large quantities of fire.

For now, he had to use the tools he was given. He’d spent too long cultivating a pair of hands in that distant, alien realm to throw them away. Even if they were clumsy and infuriating. He gentled his voice. “Of course. That’s a reasonable request. But as I have not received what I was promised, the payment cannot be in full. When I have what I want, you will get everything that you want. You have my word on that.”

There was silence. Then, “Very well. I will start the preparations. And you–”

Stolen novel; please report.

“Will send your payment. Do not doubt me,” he snapped.

Even with the connection between worlds so tenuous, something of his tone got through. The response was gratifyingly apologetic, “Of course. I’ll start right away. If you–”

A curt gesture killed the flame, and with it, the link between them. For a while, he sat, watching the silver bowl cool in the darkness. The sap lost its gentle glow, hardening into a single, golden half-globe. It fit comfortably in his hand. Warm, but without the ability to do more than sting the skin of his palm. It represented a small fortune.

He spoke a short, sharp word. The dome split with a crack. He spoke again, and again, spoke until the sap was reduced to powder and it trickled through his fingers to fall on the stone floor with a hiss. It would take time to reconstruct the ritual.

Time was not his friend.

He flung the rest of the powder at the wall. It bounced off of his carefully chalked calculations, the product of decades of unceasing effort. It should have worked. The foreign soul should have been drawn through the chaotic realm between worlds, gaining that peculiar resonance he required, depositing itself into the vessel he had prepared for it.

His calculations could not be in error. He stalked to the board, checked them once more. They were right. They had to be right.

“Very well,” he muttered. “Assume they are correct. What else could have gone wrong?” Three phases of the project. The death had obviously happened on schedule; he doubted his catspaw would lie to him about such a thing. If his calculations were correct - and they were - then the soul would have reached this world, transmitted in a cage of azoth through the primal borderlands and ready to be ensnared in a prepared vessel.

It was there the fault must lie, if there was any fault at all. Something tickled at the corners of his memory. He raised a hand. “Tome of the Distant Herald.” It shimmered into view, a book constructed of pure azoth, one of his most coveted skills. News of distant lands could be found here, anything that was important enough to reach the ears of one of his…little helpers, scattered throughout the realms.

Accurate intelligence was very important for a Conqueror.

As such, he read it regularly. “Compile the news from Tellura.” The text writhed into a new configuration. It took only minutes to find what he vaguely remembered.

Stolen, the star opal known as the Fiery Heart of Xanctel, by a force of golems, commanded by Golem-master unknown. Investigation by the Illuminated Order is ongoing.

“Golems.” He smiled. Someone had been very clever, indeed. When he found them, he would shake their hand. Perhaps discuss the complexities of vessel construction; surely, they would have knowledge that he could entice them to share. Then kill them, obviously.

But first, the retrieval. “My soul lies in Tellura.”