Chapter 325. Blighted Fate (Patreon)

“You’ve shown me no less than six galleries, but I have yet to see where the magic happens. Where is your necromancy workshop?” I ask, nibbling at my mostly empty plate. After entering into a mentor-protégé relationship, Achemiss insisted on giving me a full tour of his house–at least the parts of it above ground. Our tour concluded with a dinner provided by a collection of culinary puppets.

To Achemiss’s credit, the puppets make really good food.

“You should have already guessed that it’s underground,” he points out. “Time isn’t a concern. Let’s relax until tomorrow, then begin in earnest.”

He’s stalling, I tell Maria. I don’t need time to “relax”–I don’t even need sleep. He’s unwilling to show me his actual workshop, at least not yet. He’s probably reorganizing his lair to hide any sensitive or valuable projects from my senses–and keep his true body hidden. It would be most advantageous for me to go into his workshop now, when he’s unprepared, but I fear that would increase his suspicion to unacceptable levels.

Then for now, is the plan to play along? Maria asks.

For now.

The day turns over, the false sun dimming ominously to mimic the light of a moon. Rather than emulating a stellar body, it looks like the glow of a neon sign outside a dive bar.

Ash often found time to be alone and ruminate on other affinities and the will of Eternity. I give that as my excuse to pass the remainder of the night alone. In my case, I just want a break from being around Achemiss. Pretending to be a who-knows-how-old ancient around such a paranoid man is exhausting. I’m lucky he doesn’t have a Beginning or Regret affinity, otherwise he might have already found flaws in my persona.

We meet again in the morning for breakfast. It’s as delicious as dinner, consisting of small, fried, meat-filled buns served with slices of a tender-fleshed purple fruit.

As we finish eating, I wonder what Achemiss will do next. Will he finally show me his workshop, or will he find further excuses?

“The work ethic of an ancient is commendable,” Achemiss says. “I suppose such dedication is required to reach the peak. It is an inspiration to those of us struggling to take the next step.”

I suppress the urge to snort as his flattery.

He stands, a smile playing on his lips. “It’s time for us to move forward together.”

The building has very few doors, with most rooms connected by open arches. It makes sense given Achemiss’s typical solitude. However, the food pantry in the kitchen has a hinged door that swings out.

The floorplan of the room where we’re eating breakfast is open, such that the kitchen is visible from where I sit on a futon. Achemiss has but to turn around and walk ten steps before he arrives at the pantry door. He opens it to reveal a well-lit passageway with a stark interior. Hand-sized symbols emboss the walls, their curves cast into relief by overhead coils of light that resemble the twists of energy that illuminate Eternity’s planes.

It’s definitely not the pantry that was there a moment ago.

The door has spatial arrays on it, Maria says. Achemiss must have invited an End practitioner to help him create Dark arrays throughout his lair.

It reminds me of Ichormai, where Euryphel can go anywhere in the palace through any door.

I follow Achemiss into the corridor and the door shuts behind me, moving autonomously on its hinges.

Achemiss presses one of the wall symbols with a hand radiating with Dark, Death, and red ascendant energy. The surroundings suddenly shift. Achemiss and I are transported to a new room–a massive hangar with tall ceilings and endless rows of shelves filled top to bottom with artifacts. Several larger projects lay in various stages of completion on the floor.

One specific table that hovers above the ground stands out. The legs are made of bone, while the surface is made of a pure white material that reminds me of a hovergloss’ chassis. Several appendage-like growths spread out from the table like branches, with thin-fingered hands grasping all kinds of tools. It's macabre, but highly functional. With his years of experience, I bet Achemiss can control those hands like his own.

My Beginning affinity helps me to observe and catalog everything in the room. Achemiss must have removed projects from this workshop hangar, but it feels full. I don’t know how many more projects could fit. I wonder if perhaps Achemiss is showing me an ancillary workshop, or if he added a new wall to cordon off part of the room. Nothing looks amiss to me, so whatever measures he took to hide sensitive projects were effective.

There is at least one shelf filled with End array scripts, Maria observes. When I make such scripts for my followers, they’re usually simple so I can create them in large quantities. These, however, are quite complex. They must be expensive since they can only be used once.

As someone who specializes in artificing artifacts, the affinity that he probably wants most is End. My offer would really be too good to refuse if I had an End affinity.

I think it’s for the best, says Maria. If something is too good to be true, it probably is. An ancient arriving on his doorstep offering to help him obtain an End affinity would really be too good to be true.

The first thing Achemiss does upon entering the workshop is bow to me, a low, self-denigrating motion. “This is my workshop, but please consider it as your own.”

“As you wish it. Are you ready to begin?”

“Yes.”

“When I gained my third affinity, I was beset by a serious setback.” I hold out the Blade of Revelation. “Do you remember this?”

“It’s the artifact of soul binding,” Achemiss says, his eyes latching onto it with hunger.

“It does much more than that.” I pull the energy of transformation from Maria, reverting her to humanoid form. Her face is completely obscured by a dark wash of Death. She does not speak, and her gaze is oddly vacant. She plays the part of a construct: unassuming, unflinching.

With my crown of embers, flaming cloak, and silvery vambraces gone, I sag slightly, my vitality depleted. I give Achemiss my most imperious gaze. “Without the support of my construct enhanced by the power of this artifact, I grow progressively weaker. With enough time, I will be rendered unconscious.”

I’m not worried about Achemiss learning of this weakness. I don’t see any way he could use it against me at the moment of truth, and who knows? Maybe he’ll devise a way to fix the problem altogether.

Achemiss completely ignores Maria and stares at me with interest, though I suspect he can’t discern much using only his eyes and vital vision. “If this problem persists between deaths, it does sound like a problem relating to the soul.”

The flesh tree table moves across the floor, arriving next to Achemiss. The human limbs attached to the table flex, as though waking up. One of the unarmed hands extends its index finger toward me.

Energy is building at the tip of the finger, and not just any energy, but a thread of Achemiss’s ethereal body.

Realization strikes. Achemiss must be sending his ethereal energy up through these limbs, I tell Maria. It might be possible that his true body never leaves a secured area at all. If he can live in an auxiliary body while still maintaining his ability to perform necromancy, there would be little need.

That sounds rather ghastly.

It’s not too bad, I argue. If his consciousness inhabits the auxiliary body, it’s not like he’s stuck in a single room continuously, at least from his perspective. His true body should be kept in good condition through a combination of his Death affinity and technology. In all the myriad planes of Eternity, I bet there exists some futuristic fluid vat that can keep a body in stasis. If I’m wrong, then he probably has an artifact made by a Life practitioner that can do it.

If that’s all true, why doesn’t he leave? He could leave his true body here and go out without fear of capture or death.

There must be a limit to the connection between the ancillary and the true body. Perhaps they must remain on the same plane.

Achemiss interrupts my mental conversation with Maria. “Do I have permission to probe your ethereal body?”

“Yes, protégé.”

The outstretched finger hovers by my collar. A tendril of ethereal energy snakes out from the tip and plunges itself into my neck like a needle. I immediately sense the foreign intrusion and resist the urge to fight back.

The last time someone’s ethereal energy intermingled with mine was when Soolemar trained me. Y’jeni, it feels like that happened forever ago.

Achemiss’s control of ethereal energy feels fundamentally different from Soolemar’s. It’s hard to put into words, but it feels less aggressive, more languid, like his energy is viscous. What it lacks in speed it makes up for in power. It would be difficult to dislodge, even using my full strength. It’s like a thick, gnarled tree root–slow to grow, but resilient and immovable.

“Your soul is not what I expected,” Achemiss notes, his eyes unfocused. “From what I can sense, it’s as though it’s been torn to tatters but sewn back up again. They must be injuries from before you ascended.” He pauses. “Is it soul corruption?”

There’s no point in lying. “Yes. It’s never troubled me, and I don’t believe it to be related to my current circumstances.” Already I feel the weakness worsening, but I refuse to show it, forcing my body to stand upright.

After a few more minutes, he finally disengages.

I turn to Maria’s stiff form and plunge the Blade of Revelation into her chest. The regalia brings immediate relief.

“I thought there would be more to go on,” Achemiss says. “Aside from the traces of corruption, I don’t see anything wrong with your soul.”

“Then we’ll need to work hard, you and I,” I respond. “Show me somewhere I can write.”

A white rectangular pane descends from the ceiling and stops two feet above the ground. Several bony, spidery limbs emerge around its edges. It’s reminiscent of a whiteboard, but the surface is coated in powdered shell and bone.

At Achemiss’s command, powder rises off the board, revealing a black pane underneath. Three terms in black are visible: “soul,” “three affinities,” and “physical weakness.”

I’ve never used one of these before, but I assume they’re not uncommon among seasoned Death practitioners. I focus my will, and the powdery white flies off the board, revealing a detailed representation of my ethereal body and the soul that lies nestled within it. My Beginning affinity once more pays dividends for its utility.

I carefully explain to Achemiss my suspicions regarding my soul being overburdened by three affinities. I describe how the affinity-dampening properties of Starbreak’s black rock reduced the effects of weakness.

“I see,” Achemiss says after a time. Suddenly, he grins, then chuckles uproariously.

I force myself not to flinch. I remember this laughter from dark dreams.

His gaze pierces mine. “Solving this problem with you will be great fun, I can already tell. It’s been a long time since last I had a true collaborator.”

“You’ve been in Eternity for only a millennium.” The response is humorous coming from my mouth. “How long could it possibly be?”

“Since before I ascended,” he confesses. “Before I was even a peak practitioner.”

“A pity. Eternity isn’t lacking powerful Death practitioners.”

Achemiss smiles coldly, his congenial mask slipping. “I have worked with others, but they had their own paths and I had mine. They were content, I wasn’t. They were unwilling to cross boundaries that I was willing to cross. But Eternity has rewarded me for my efforts at every twist of my journey, and I have no regrets.”

“Not even the enemies you’ve made?”

“Of course not. They only served as motivation to grow stronger. One day I’ll be strong enough that no one will dare to take away what’s mine.”

I feel somewhat conflicted by this man. I respect his determination and his pursuit of mastery. At the same time, he’s killed countless people from mortal realms with his constructs, harvesting them for his artifacts. Moreover, he’s set on destroying my home world to ensure his longevity.

Some conflicts are borne from misunderstandings, Maria muses. Caught early, they can be put to rights. They can be negotiated, talked out. But left alone, a misunderstanding grows into injustice. There is no longer a clean resolution, and all paths end in bitterness. One side will win, the other will lose.

This conflict isn’t a question of justice, Maria.

Of course it is. Achemiss fights on his own side. You fight for the side of your world. But I agree, your conflict isn’t over an injustice. No–an injustice that lasts for a lifetime is no longer an injustice, but fate. You and Achemiss have a blighted fate.

She pauses. You’re lucky he can’t see it.