Fate of the Seventh: Prologue

The river ran backwards on the day the Queen vanished. Laborers along the River Aéyv in the royal city of Delfirth were the first to notice when the strong eastward current suddenly reversed and oozed languidly towards the west. Word spread throughout the city within the hour. But while the common folk were preoccupied by superstitious gossip, the royal family were alarmed when the queen had failed to appear to court before midday. Her chambers were ordered searched: her bed was made, there was no sign of struggle, everything was uncannily pristine. After the castle had been nearly torn apart to search for her, there was an uproar as the wells of Delfirth now tasted of bitter salt.

The city had no chance to panic over their tainted water before it began to seep up through the cobbles. The Aéyv itself threatened to spill its banks as the Royals grew desperate for answers. With them unable to deal with two concurrent crises and options dwindling, a representative was sent down the roiling Aéyv to their ancient ally: the Wizard's College of Delfirth.

Hours later, Lord Chancellor Culm ma'Callan disembarked his skiff directly onto the muddied green of the wizard's college. Much of the lower campus adjacent to the river was flooded up past knee-depth. A senior magister was already stood wating for him by the water's edge.

"Greetings, Magister," shouted the Chancellor.

The magister was focused towards the sky, his hood barely revealing his heavily furrowed brow. "I don't like the look of those clouds," he muttered.

"Magister!" Culm called again.

The mage suddenly locked eyes with Culm. He shook the gathering mist from his hood and addressed him impassively, "Hmm? Yes, Lord Chancellor, welcome. Follow me to the Central Tower, please."

The wizard left no time for argument or pleasantry as he turned towards the tower, forcing Culm to hurry along struggling against the sodden ground.

Of the grandiose halls, cloisters, and towers of the college, the Central Tower was by far the tallest and grandest structure. It appeared like a tapering granite spire of nearly impossible size, its upper reaches decorated with delicate marble sculpture and massive panes of stained glass.

The magister approached the front door, two gargantuan oaken slabs bound together by wrought iron bands shaped like leafy vines. He placed his hand onto the door. In response, the iron bands slid away and the doors opened inward.

"Keep close to me." The magister said, stepping inside, "This tower's layout is unpredictable."

Before Culm had a chance to question that unsettlingly deadpan remark, he noticed a small shape falling towards them. He had just enough time to dodge it before it hit the ground with a somewhat incongruous slap.

It was a salmon.

"Is that normal?" Culm asked, looking the magister dead in the eyes.

The magister was growing impatient. "No."

After the briefest and most decisive contest of wills, Culm assented to following the magister into the Central Tower.

The ground floor appeared like the cavernous foyer of a well-appointed mansion. The walls were a pleasing mix of exposed stone and carved mahogany panels and adorned with tapestries and paintings of myriad narrative scenes. When Culm looked away from each art piece, he could have sworn there was motion within them in the corner of his eyes. He attempted to avert his gaze from them as he followed behind the magister up a grand staircase.

When he and the magister stepped onto the landing of the grand staircase, they suddenly found themselves in the middle of a claustrophobic stone spiral staircase. Culm made the mistake of glancing out the window beside him and saw that they were now a startling height above the ground. His senses were immediately assaulted by vertigo. The magister stopped and flared his nostrils as he paused to study the passage.

After a moment's hesitation, he turned and squeezed unceremoniously past Culm to go down the steps. "Let's not keep the Archmagus waiting, Lord Chancellor. This way to the top."

Culm intended to object to the wizard's sense of directionality before he disappeared down the spiral stair. The fear of getting lost in such a strange place set in as Culm bounded down the worn steps behind him. He spotted the magister's cloak disappearing into an inconspicuous stone archway and flung himself the same direction.

Culm was suddenly alone in a featureless marble rotunda bounded by many doors and a large stained glass window depicting a calm sylvan glade. Before he could panic, he was intrigued by numerous shadows falling past the window. He approached the glass with hesitant curiosity, finding a clear panel through which to gaze. He gasped. Salmon were falling from the sky in droves in a veritable downpour.

"Fascinating, isn't it?" Said a voice behind him.

Culm turned around, very nearly having a heart attack. There was an old man of indeterminate age in a thick, elegant purple robe adorned with silver thread. A long, wiry beard ran down from his face and silver hair sprouted from beneath a brimmed mage's hat. Culm instantly recognized him as Archmagus Gregor of Aéymouth.

"A salmon squall," the wizard mused, "very rare, very dangerous. An ill omen... or a form of magical assault, there really is no 'in-between' with aerial piscine conjurations, especially pelagic species..."

Culm cleared his throat. "Did you get our raven, Archmagus?"

Gregor inhaled sharply, wasting no moment. "Apologies, Lord Chancellor. Yes, follow me. Teleas noi."

Culm felt his stomach lurch as he appeared in a much smaller room. It was a laboratory of sorts, though suited more towards arcane endeavor than alchemical. Gregor stood beside him, taking a small covered cauldron from an exceedingly fearful novice. There was a window to the outside where he could still see the fish falling.

"We received your raven, your request for a finding spell, and her majesty's earring. Well, as you can see..." Gregor began.

He opened the cauldron. Vines immediately started lashing out and trying to grapple the Archmagus. The novice then repeatedly struck the plant-beast with a wooden spoon, forcing it back into the cauldron. Gregor promptly closed the lid.

"...The earring became that beast and ate the raven. There is someone -or something- that doesn't wish the Queen found." He said matter-of-factly.

"Then what leads have we left?" Muttered Culm.

"One thus far," the wizard replied.

Gregor led Culm into an adjacent room. Culm was met by a blast of heat that rivaled the air within a foundry, forcing him to squint.

"Mind the circle," Gregor shouted, pointing to the intricate chalk lines on the floor.

He peered into what appeared to be a summoning parlor. In the room's center was a chalk circle containing a roaring column of otherworldly fire with a shadow at its center. A group of seven wizards were focused on maintaining the circle's protection, each spaced evenly at the points of a seven-pointed star inscribed above the circle.

Gouts of flame and shadow battered at the confines of the invisible barrier projected by the circle before retreating into the mass of shadow within. Culm could swear it was staring at him, though it had no visible eyes. He barely heard Gregor speaking as he gazed into the writhing abyss.

"Without a mortal avenue of research," resumed Gregor, ignoring the entity, "I convened the college council to discuss alternatives. One of the senior conjuration faculty reminded us of one option that could yield the most expedient results. This, my lord, is a knowledge demon -though it is still forming in our realm. All demons are notoriously adept at enchantment, I wouldn't stare."

Culm refocused when he heard the Archmagus' warning. He realized he had begun walking towards the circle. As he blinked his eyes, he swore he could see the flash of an anthropomorphic figure through his eyelids. A hum ran through his mind like distant echoing laughter.

The fire then flashed with eldritch light, causing everything within the circle to swirl into a vortex. With every twist of the gyre, the fire sank into the looming shadow. The room was suddenly dark and frigid as the shadow finally ate the fire and grew substance.

"Fascinating," spoke a voice within the shadow. It sounded as though a man and woman were speaking simultaneously. The shadow coalesced into a black robe made of midnight. The figure within appeared human, though no one in the room could discern whether it was a man or woman. "Ah, wizards! What lovely company. To whom do I owe the pleasure of mortal shape?"

Culm could feel the demon stare at him, even when it looked away. It was becoming more and more feminine in his eyes. She was of alluring beauty as such he had never seen. The other wizards began to notice, too. The change was as subtle as a gentle breeze but as strong as a hurricane.

"Fil'goroth ai-Astar Mentathien, Knower and Keeper, Lieutenant of the Ninth Infernal Legion, First and Last of Your Name," Gregor incanted, "by your true name, you are by coil and seal bound to the fabric of our realm."

"Oh, is that right?" Spoke Fil'goroth, seeming chillingly excited. "Is this Calmach, Dun Artain, Temargrad? I've always wanted to go to Temargrad."

Culm saw the flicker of a shadowy tail behind her. Fangs flashed beneath her smile. The wizards in the circle began exchanging tense glances.

Gregor spoke after a short, uncharacteristic pause, "We have summoned you here to learn a secret-"

"Oh, yes, yes, of course," said Fil'goroth with a pang of disappointment, "business before pleasure. You wizards are all the same."

One of the wizards began slouching and looking at the demon with a sense of familiar longing. When Fil'goroth turned its head to her, she snapped back at attention like the others. Fil'goroth grinned mischievously.

"Demon," spoke Gregor.

Her head whipped back towards him with a sickening snap, locking her eyes on the Archmagus.

Gregor continued, "We desire to know the location of her majesty, Queen Catriane of Delfirth, Queen Consort of King Roban de Lignet."

"Hmm," Fil'goroth began, stroking her chin, "a rather intriguing snippet came to my attention recently, something that sent ripples throughout the outer realms..."

Gregor leaned forward expectantly, staring intently at her.

"... I could tell it to you," she continued coyly, "for a price..."

"A soul?" Asked Gregor.

"Your name," she replied in laughter, "your true name, that which calls your soul to bear. You know mine, darling, but I am at a loss for yours. Come now, dear."

The word rung through the air like a note from a harp and disoriented Gregor. His stern façade melted in an instant. In that moment, he saw the face of a man he knew most intimately from his youth.

"Gregor..." the Archmagus said.

One of the wizards gasped. The invisible barrier projected by the circle began to shimmer worryingly as their concentration was beginning to waver.

Gregor caught himself in the trance and broke it. The deal with the demon was halfway made and there was no way to back out now. There was still a way through, he knew, but it would require enough cunning and deception to outwit a knowledge demon. He thought hard about the foggy years of his youth unburied by the trance and the brackish shores of his nearly-forgotten home by the sea. A tear dripped from his eye.

"Gregor... Marshfield, Seventh Son... of a Seventh Daughter, Child of the Seventh."

The demon smiled. "Such longing, such pain, such sweet nectar. In return, I give you what you seek."

The Archmagus was too shocked for words as he hid his sigh of relief.

"Your monarch was taken by a clan of Otherfolk. She is now hostage of King Thumeäl Karmestios, Lord of Salt."

Culm looked scared out of his wits while the wizards in the room exchanged nervous glances.

"The Others?" Croaked Culm.

"Worse than demons;" Gregor noted, "why would the Others want the Queen? How do we even find-"

"Tisk tisk, pet," sang Fil'goroth as tall horns began to sprout from her forehead, "One name freely given, one answer."

The Archmagus grew angry as he began to twist a spell in his hands and stepped forward. "You will show me what I seek, wretch."

Fil'goroth laughed as she began to float from the ground. "I don't think so, Wise Fool. You have broken the seal and I am free."

Gregor looked down and saw his foot had smudged the chalk. He was not even given a moment to curse before he and everyone else in the room were flung against the wall by an unseen force. Fil'goroth hovered over Gregor hungrily.

"You shall make a wonderful plaything."

Gregor sat up hurriedly and incanted the demon's true name while weaving a spell. "Fil'goroth ai-Astar Mentathien!"

The demon paused.

"I curse you by the rite of geas! From now on shall you be bound to mortal coil and robbed of all but a third within a third of your power until Queen Catriane sits upon her throne once more! BEGONE!"

Gregor slumped over as the demon dispersed into the air. Culm ran over and helped him to his feet as the other wizards left. The two left the parlor with sweat on their brow. They had not a moment for rest before a page boy appeared in the laboratory with them.

"Archmagus?" The boy chimed.

Gregor nodded for him to continue.

"The evening deliveries are delayed due to the storm. The kitchens are wondering if there is something else they can prepare you."

"Whatever is freshest," Gregor answered.

The boy looked out the window at the falling fish, then back. "Salmon?"

Gregor nodded exhaustedly. "That will do, boy, now on with you!"

The boy left.

"Archmagus," whispered Culm, "you have a plan, right? The demoness escaped!"

"We have nothing to fear. Unable to properly banish it, I merely sent it away. It should buy us time to deal with it in due course."

Culm was not convinced. "What if... it finds you?"

Gregor exhaled. "It won't find us for a while. I was able to fake my true name, which was a gambit in itself."

Culm thought a moment. "So, we can find it by finding this Gregor person?"

Gregor laughed. "Even with magic, that is like finding a louse on an angry dragon. Regardless, the odds that there actually is a Gregor Marshfield who is the seventh son of a seventh daughter who also bears the Gift of the Seventh are statistically impossible."

-----

Gregor Marshfield, the youngest son of seven and barely a man grown, was rewarding himself with a mug of cider after a hard day's labor on the farm. Moments of privacy were rare for him, but few moments were more private than in the crowd of a tavern. There is a precious anonymity to be had there, one that he valued greatly. However, unknown to him, his day's toil was only just beginning.