We were safely ensconsced in the “sultan’s” suite of rooms.   We were supposed to rest, while Toradoth had slipped out of the inn to gather intelligence on how in the Fates we were going to get into the palace and meet with the rumored incarnation of Creation.  Our plan was limited, get their and convince the incarnation to create a cure……but quickly because it was still a long journey back to El-Kevrat.   To Valerus…..

He couldn’t shake the cloud of ill ease hovering over his soul.  The dreams in the temple complex under El-Kevrat had been proven oddly prophetic, if not in the clear way they imposed dread at the time.   Perhaps prophetic had been incorrect, maybe dream information, in ways similar to how he and Keloryian had been able to speak to each other in their dreams, when they wanted and when they were close enough at home.  A tie between twins that they had never spoken about, because……well, who knew why.  It had been their bond, their lifeline at times.   The “prophecies” spoke of choice, choices of leaving, choices, choices that resulted in Valerus’s death, the death of his child, the death of Khepri.

He had been enraged at Ignatius, and he had sworn things in that anger that felt righteous and wrong at the same time, and the mark of Vengeance itched with tingling warmth now, itched beneath the scars he had given himself scratching at it since they left.  Since Valerus had sent Adar with the Windstar ring, its light weight ornate structure weighing heaviling upon his hand, and yet, what scared him the most was that he was becoming……..used to its placement on the middle finger of the right hand.  Whatever magics it contained, and its supposed use against divination……there was more Valerus had not explained, way more.  To his knowledge, she had never taken it off in the hundred years since she put it on.  It was time he quit ignoring the feeling that she didn’t think that she was going to survive, or at the very least she didn’t think she was going to ever leave that accursed city.   To see her trapped so far from the sea, from her favorite ship……from him.

The innkeeper had brought him the large crystal bowl he had requested.  Scrying had never been his specialty…….his magic had not been the same as most of his family’s.  Studying it had always been frustrating, but he learned the basics out of necessity, at least the forms.  Something had happened in the desert on the way here, whether the ring helped, or whether the Fates, or Coral’s Bite speaking to him, after Shiolar had not returned, and the anger and frustration, and panic, burned along the bond with her, something had broken through whatever mystical barrier kept her there, but at least she was with Valerus, Zacarias and the others.  Only twice had he actually been able to make true contact, to see through her, to hear, as was proper, but he had long enough to calm her.

It was a risk, here in this city but he needed to try.  He needed to know.  So, he carefully set out the chalice, filled with water laced with salt to represent as best as possible the Sea, Coral’s Bite across his legs, he slowly touched Aunt Valerus’s ring to the water, flicking a splash of water to the north, calling on Gaer, Fate of the Sea to grant him strength to find the captain that loved the sea so greatly, then flicking more droplets to the south, calling on Nena, or as he was known here, Adar, Fate of Water, the true Fate of Water, to allow access to the barriers surrounding his old city.   Next, he blew his breath to the west, asking for Raumo, the power of the Storm, to use Tolaryian’s own magic and the storms to batter through to his people.  For the final cardinal point, he blew lightly to the east, gathering the power of the Fate of Air, or Gwilith, the first element of magic Tolaryian ever called on, the currents in which Shiolar lived and danced summoning the ethereal link that bound the three of them together.  Finally, a prick of his finger with the dagger Keloryian had given him the day he went to sea for the first time as a ship’s officer, so long ago, letting the blood drop into the scrying bowl, a symbol of his blood ties to Valerus, to family, of home, and true forms.

He would find out what was going on in El Kevrat.  You needed information to guide a strategy, and a strategy of rescue was far different than a strategy of……vengeance.