Chapter three: Ravenscar
Hmm, this isn't going so well. I'm behind on words, and I seem to have some trouble really "feeling" the plot. Still, nothing to it - on we go...
Chapter three
All right. So she couldn't count on help from the government on this one.
So she was in fact likely to run into trouble very soon, because if Kroll wanted to stop this line of inquiry, she had far more methods at her disposal than simply refusing to help.
So this was bigger than anything she had ever encountered before, and likely to be insanely dangerous and quite possibly hopeless.
She hadn't become the go-to gal for unexplainable mysteries and unsolvable crimes by being easily discouraged, had she? Besides, it wasn't like she had any plans for tonight. Or indeed any night. The benefit of having no life outside of your work was that you could give it your undivided attention.
Ravenscar Hold was a fairly small mansion on the shores of Ebonsoul Lake. It was mainly Witch Stone, but supported by pillars of basalt that rose like the blackened bones of a giant all around the structure. The windows were small and dimly lit from inside, resembling narrow, peering eyes. The wrought iron fence was crowned by vicious thorns, and the yard inside it was small - just a graveled court where carriages could be parked, along with the stables and a few outhouses. It didn't look like the kind of place that welcomed visitors.
Yet, for a certain crowd, this was very much the place to go for a party. Ravenscar Hold hosted some kind of get-together at least once a week, and rebellious youths and rakish old people alike flocked there. There were rumours of Ravenscar Hold's parties. Priests had been to investigate several times, but nothing definite had ever been uncovered.
There was a party tonight. Dara's gargoyle-drawn carriage stopped alongside a number of other carriages in the courtyard, and Dara stepped out. She had dressed for the occasion - a black silken dress with long sleeves, beneath a white mink coat to keep the chill off of her on the journey. The dress was a little more daring than the current fashion dictated - the trend right now seemed to be towards somber, conservative cuts that gave a sense of tragic dignity - but Dara wasn't about to go to a Conjurer for a new dress just because some random Brownian motion of taste and opinion had cared to raise the cleavage a few inches since she had gotten this one.
She walked through the entrance. A couple of Servants in livery bowed to her as she passed. She felt a slight relief that they hadn't insisted that she wasn't on the guest list. Guest lists were illegal, technically - any gathering of more than fifty people was considered open to the general public, by a law that had been written to ensure that everyone who was so inclined had a party to go to, to keep some warmth and happiness alive in a cold, dark world. But it was the kind of law that got ignored whenever it was convenient, and the authorities usually overlooked it.
Of course, the master of Ravenscar Hold would want as many people as possible to embrace his scandalous lifestyle, wouldn't he?
Ravenscar Hold had Nobles, like any other mansion, but everyone knew they were just bureaucrats doing the bidding of the mansion's true ruler. Mansuur of Ravenscar Hold, caste of Mystics, master of his home by virtue of his almost legendary charisma and master of Witch Stone by virtue of an unparalleled talent for witchcraft. That was the man Dara had come to see tonight.
He was one of a handful of witches in the city who had the power to shape a gargoyle beyond his own eyesight and successfully use it to kill. And all of the others had alibis of one sort or another - Dara had spent the day checking, since being thrown out of Kroll's office. Barring the existence of unknown witches, that meant that Mansuur was almost certainly the culprit. All Dara needed to do was find out how and why - and, of course, build a strong enough case that it would stand up to a Lord Minister's attempts to shoot it down.
And then I'll lift the darkness and make the Wastelands bloom, while I'm at it, she thought sourly.
Following the music from ahead, she entered a huge ball room, where scores of people were turning slowly on the dance floor. The scene was lit by glittering candelabras in the ceiling, and the guests were decked out in their finest clothes. The more fashionable ones were in somber black or grey - Dara's dress was, by a happy coincidence, just right in that way - while a few, either out of touch with fashion or nonconformist enough to make their own rules, stood out like splashes of colour in the monochrome.
From a dais at the far side, a string orchestra was playing, and a young man was singing. He was one of the ones in colourful clothes - he wore an old-fashioned waistcoat over a puffed shirt, both of them a pale blue that set off his silver-golden hair beautifully. He had a slender, fit physique, and a thin, fresh-looking face. He sang an old ballad with a voice that was so well-schooled and honey-sweet that Dara actually stopped in her tracks for a moment to listen.
She shook her head. She wasn't here to listen to pretty music. She needed to find Mansuur and take his measure. And after that, she needed to either find someone who knew more about him than he would want Dara to find out, or else sneak off and see if she could snoop through his office or something. She set off between the dancing couples, looking around for someone who matched Mansuur's description - a thin man of medium height, middle-aged, with close-cropped grey hair and rough features.
She looked while the song ended and a new melody, without song this time, began, but she couldn't find anyone matching the description. Maybe Mansuur planned on making his entrance later in the evening.
"May I have this dance?" a voice said. Dara turned to see the singer holding out his hand to her. He was grinning, looking friendly and cheerful - though Dara's trained eye noticed a tension about him that he was trying to hide, a hint that even while he was waiting for her answer his mind was rushing ahead to something else. She had an idea what it was - some mysteries were not very mysterious at all - and it irritated her.
She wasn't sure why she didn't tell him to get lost. Maybe it was the way his voice had affected her, or maybe it was the more rational reason that she would have to wait for Mansuur to turn up, and she would look less conspicuous if she looked like she was enjoying herself. She was no good at looking like she was enjoying herself - was no good at enjoying herself, come to think of it - but chatting with a handsome man was a start.
"What's your name?" she said.
He bowed.
"Jalon of Tenchurch Abbey, caste of Artists," he said. "I noticed you coming in. Did you stop because you liked the music, or was that pause a shudder of horror?"
Dara raised an eyebrow.
"Quit fishing for compliments, would you?" she said gruffly. "You know that your voice is spectacular."
"Yes," Jalon said modestly, "but my artistic ego enjoys hearing attractive women saying so. Dance?"
Dara winced.
"Oh, why not?" she said.
Jalon led her out onto the dance floor. She was very aware of his hand on her waist. The silk of her dress was thin enough that she could feel the warmth of his skin. She had her own right hand on his shoulder, and being the master of observation that she was, she couldn't help but notice that it was a very broad and well-defined shoulder.
"That's a lovely dress you're wearing," Jalon said conversationally as they moved to the music. She stumbled a little, uncertain of the steps, but he gently led her through it, and she soon picked up the rhythm.
"Remind me how this works," Dara said. "Is this where I'm supposed to say something self-deprecating, like 'oh, this old thing?'"
"You could," Jalon said amiably. "Either you could affect sincerity, in which case you should try to pick a less cliched choice of words. Or you could make a joke out of it by affecting a silly voice and saying it just like that, and we could both smile at how stereotypical we were being. Alternatively, you could subvert expectations and shamelessly accept the praise as your rightful due - 'why yes it is, thank you for noticing - and don't I look especially dashing in it?' Or you could return the compliment and tell me that I look very handsome in this outfit. Or you could tut-tut at me for making such meaningless small talk and bring up a weightier topic."
Dara looked at him with equal parts amusement and disbelief as he led them in rhythmic circles through the hall, navigating deftly through the other dancing couples.
"Conversation is just like any other art," Jalon said. "There isn't any right way to do things. The trick is finding the right way to do the thing you have chosen to do."
"Well, I see that you honed that one to perfection, also," Dara said dryly. "So what is this, to you? Another performance?"
"All the world is a stage, or so they say," Jalon said.
He had a very nice smile, Dara had to admit - brilliant and boyish and just a bit sheepish. That just made her all the more annoyed that she had reason to believe it was an affectation.
"Uh-huh," she said. "Does that mean that you have a script? Do we end up in bed before the third act?"
"Ooooh." Jalon laughed. "So forward! And a bit cynical, I can't help it feel. Can't I just want to dance with a very beautiful woman, without having anything definite planned beyond what, if anything, might naturally develop from it?"
"You could," Dara said. "But you don't. You're good at pretending to be relaxed and spontaneous, I'll give you that, but you were just a little too rushed back there, and you let some eagerness slip. You have an agenda."
Jalon's smile remained, but his voice turned serious.
"I do, yes," he said. "I only wish that it was the one you think." He glanced discreetly to the side. "I think you should go, right now. We'll pass the door in a moment. Go through it, get to your carriage, and leave." He paused. "To make it more believable, I could leer at you like I just said something ungentlemanlike, and you could look angry, push me away, and storm out." He nodded to himself. "Yes - they might believe that. Everyone knows what Artists are like."
"Now, why would I want to do that?" Dara said.
"Because something bad is going to happen," Jalon said.
"What is?" Dara said.
"Just... something bad," Jalon said. "And I'm afraid that if you're here, you'll be right in the thick of it. They don't like you."
"They?" Dara said.
"They. Them." Jalon smiled unhappily. "I'm sorry, I don't get an instruction manual."
"Make sense!" Dara snapped.
"I wish I could." Jalon glanced at the exit. "We're here. Please leave?"
"Forget it," Dara said. "I want to know just what it is you think you know about me."
"Only that you're at the center of it all," Jalon said. "I think you're the only one who can do something about it."
"About what?" Dara said, as they spun away from the entrance again.
Jalon hesitated.
"About He Who Comes," he said. He grimaced and started singing tonelessly, at odds with the music that was playing. "The sky weeps blood, when he comes. The stone is dust, when he comes. The dark grows cold, when he comes. The city falls, when he comes."
He drummed out the rhythm with his fingers against her hand for every line - ta ta ta tum, tam-tam-tam. Ta ta ta tum, tam-tam-tam.
"You're insane." Dara pulled her fingers out of his grip and pushed him away. Her untrained muscles shouldn't have been able to budge him, but he took a few steps back anyway - out of some strange sort of politeness, she thought. "Or else making fun of me. Either way, go do it somewhere else."
The music stopped. It didn't trail out naturally, or even end in a screech of fumbled notes, like it would have if the musicians had been startled into stopping. Instead, it ended cleanly in between two notes, as if cut with a knife.
Dara turned slowly. All around the room, people were turning towards the dais. The looks on their faces were expectant, hungry.
"Here it comes," Jalon whispered.
"Here what comes?" Dara whispered furiously back. "Just what is it you think you know?"
Jalon looked unhappy.
"Not enough to make a difference, at this point," he said. "I'm really sorry. You should have left when you had the chance."
A man stepped out onto the dais. Dara recognised Mansuur from his description right away, but nothing about it had prepared her for the sheer presence of him; he looked around the room like everyone in it was his slave, and from the looks of people around her, no one felt like disagreeing. He walked with a certain stiffness that hinted of age, but he stood tall like a King, and his face was alive with passion and hunger.
"My friends!" he said. He had a powerful voice, deep and resounding and free of any doubts. "Thank you for joining me on this night! We live in special times, you and I. Worlds are being born and destroyed all around us - the very air is alive with birth wails and death rattles! I say to you, each and every one of us will live to see a glorious transformation! Are you ready for it?"
There were cries of agreement all throughout the hall. Fists were shaken in the air. Several people fell to their knees, tearing at their hair - in some form of ecstasy, as near as Dara could tell.
She whispered a few words beneath her breath, and felt the floor beneath her feet quiver. Witch Stone. Whatever happened, she was in her element, surrounded by her power.
Of course, Mansuur had comparable powers to hers, and he was the one who was familiar with the surroundings...
"Throughout the endless years," Mansuur cried out, "we have been promised!"
"PROMISED!" the crowd echoed as one.
"Down the fated bloodlines," Mansuur said, "the faith has been kept!"
"KEPT!" the crowd roared.
"In our undoing, we will be remade!" Mansuur shouted.
"WHEN HE COMES!" the crowd bellowed, dozens of voices raised as one. "WHEN HE COMES! WHEN HE COMES! WHEN HE COMES! WHEN HE COMES!"
All along the walls of the room, Servants took up drums and began hammering out a deafening beat, quick and furious.
"The rapture will be ours!" Mansuur bellowed, and raised his hands.
Throughout the hall, between the groups of frenzied guests, the stones of the floor parted, and gargoyles arose. They were human in shape, the runes across their bodies burning as they scraped against the floor stones on the way up, and each one bore an expression of mad elation that perfectly matched that of the revelers.
Dara spun around, hands raised, shouting words that were drowned out by the chanting. All around her, the gargoyles that had been finding their feet on the floor shuddered and staggered, torn between her control and Mansuur's. Her head was spinning, her senses overloaded. All around her were struggling gargoyles and roaring people, and the air was thick with voices and drumbeats. Were had Jalon gone? What was Mansuur doing?
The gargoyles close to her, the ones she was trying to control, numbered no more than half a dozen. There were scores of them in the hall, and as she watched, they went to work. Each one took a guest in its stony arms, spinning him or her around in violent circles. Dara thought she saw clothes being ripped off, thought she heard screams.
"Jalon!" she shouted, but of course her voice was drowned by the din. She tried again and again, straining her voice until her throat burned. "Jalon! Jalon!"
She couldn't see him - most of her attention was taken up by controlling the gargoyles, and the rest was a whirlwind of stone and flesh and expensive clothes. She told herself that she should go, right now, run out into the night and away from this madness. Why stay behind for a stranger?
Because he tried to warn me, she thought. Confused as he was, he knew something, and he tried to get me out of the way. He's not one of these people.
That thought was immediately followed by another one.
So what was he even doing here tonight?
Having a question to focus on helped - she had spent her life answering questions. With a final string of arcane words, she brought the gargoyles under her control, pushing Mansuur away. As one, driven by a single will, they turned and started marching through the crowd, pushing aside humans and other gargoyles as they went. Dara hurried along in their midst, protected from the turmoil around her by their thick, stony bodies.
With her own band of gargoyles keeping her unmolested, focusing her attention was easier. She caught a glimpse of a head of silver-golden hair and hastened after it. She found Jalon, struggling to free himself from a group of laughing people who were dragging him back, laughing like lunatics all the while. Their faces seemed twisted and distorted to Dara, like demonic masks emerging from the collars of their pricey clothes. Their skin was flushed, with heat and exertion and excitement. Jalon was fighting them without success - he was young and strong, but he was flailing about wildly, clearly without a clue how to employ his powerful limbs to advantage.
Dara's gargoyles crashed into the group molesting the Artist like a ton of bricks, scattering them across the floor. Dara took Jalon's hand and pulled him towards the exit, sending the gargoyles out around her to clear the way. Several of them ran into other gargoyles who fought back, and there were crashes and sparks as Witch Stone collided with Witch Stone, breaking to pieces before the violence of the impacts.
She looked back a single time before walking out the door. Mansuur was still standing on the dais, and he was looking straight at her, amusement on his face.
Dara shot him a defiant look. I know what you are doing. I will stop you. I'm not afraid of you.
Mansuur's thick lips were parted by a smirk. I don't care. No, you won't. Yes, you are.
She fled out the door with that mocking face etched into her mind, merciless and haunting.
Chapter three
All right. So she couldn't count on help from the government on this one.
So she was in fact likely to run into trouble very soon, because if Kroll wanted to stop this line of inquiry, she had far more methods at her disposal than simply refusing to help.
So this was bigger than anything she had ever encountered before, and likely to be insanely dangerous and quite possibly hopeless.
She hadn't become the go-to gal for unexplainable mysteries and unsolvable crimes by being easily discouraged, had she? Besides, it wasn't like she had any plans for tonight. Or indeed any night. The benefit of having no life outside of your work was that you could give it your undivided attention.
Ravenscar Hold was a fairly small mansion on the shores of Ebonsoul Lake. It was mainly Witch Stone, but supported by pillars of basalt that rose like the blackened bones of a giant all around the structure. The windows were small and dimly lit from inside, resembling narrow, peering eyes. The wrought iron fence was crowned by vicious thorns, and the yard inside it was small - just a graveled court where carriages could be parked, along with the stables and a few outhouses. It didn't look like the kind of place that welcomed visitors.
Yet, for a certain crowd, this was very much the place to go for a party. Ravenscar Hold hosted some kind of get-together at least once a week, and rebellious youths and rakish old people alike flocked there. There were rumours of Ravenscar Hold's parties. Priests had been to investigate several times, but nothing definite had ever been uncovered.
There was a party tonight. Dara's gargoyle-drawn carriage stopped alongside a number of other carriages in the courtyard, and Dara stepped out. She had dressed for the occasion - a black silken dress with long sleeves, beneath a white mink coat to keep the chill off of her on the journey. The dress was a little more daring than the current fashion dictated - the trend right now seemed to be towards somber, conservative cuts that gave a sense of tragic dignity - but Dara wasn't about to go to a Conjurer for a new dress just because some random Brownian motion of taste and opinion had cared to raise the cleavage a few inches since she had gotten this one.
She walked through the entrance. A couple of Servants in livery bowed to her as she passed. She felt a slight relief that they hadn't insisted that she wasn't on the guest list. Guest lists were illegal, technically - any gathering of more than fifty people was considered open to the general public, by a law that had been written to ensure that everyone who was so inclined had a party to go to, to keep some warmth and happiness alive in a cold, dark world. But it was the kind of law that got ignored whenever it was convenient, and the authorities usually overlooked it.
Of course, the master of Ravenscar Hold would want as many people as possible to embrace his scandalous lifestyle, wouldn't he?
Ravenscar Hold had Nobles, like any other mansion, but everyone knew they were just bureaucrats doing the bidding of the mansion's true ruler. Mansuur of Ravenscar Hold, caste of Mystics, master of his home by virtue of his almost legendary charisma and master of Witch Stone by virtue of an unparalleled talent for witchcraft. That was the man Dara had come to see tonight.
He was one of a handful of witches in the city who had the power to shape a gargoyle beyond his own eyesight and successfully use it to kill. And all of the others had alibis of one sort or another - Dara had spent the day checking, since being thrown out of Kroll's office. Barring the existence of unknown witches, that meant that Mansuur was almost certainly the culprit. All Dara needed to do was find out how and why - and, of course, build a strong enough case that it would stand up to a Lord Minister's attempts to shoot it down.
And then I'll lift the darkness and make the Wastelands bloom, while I'm at it, she thought sourly.
Following the music from ahead, she entered a huge ball room, where scores of people were turning slowly on the dance floor. The scene was lit by glittering candelabras in the ceiling, and the guests were decked out in their finest clothes. The more fashionable ones were in somber black or grey - Dara's dress was, by a happy coincidence, just right in that way - while a few, either out of touch with fashion or nonconformist enough to make their own rules, stood out like splashes of colour in the monochrome.
From a dais at the far side, a string orchestra was playing, and a young man was singing. He was one of the ones in colourful clothes - he wore an old-fashioned waistcoat over a puffed shirt, both of them a pale blue that set off his silver-golden hair beautifully. He had a slender, fit physique, and a thin, fresh-looking face. He sang an old ballad with a voice that was so well-schooled and honey-sweet that Dara actually stopped in her tracks for a moment to listen.
She shook her head. She wasn't here to listen to pretty music. She needed to find Mansuur and take his measure. And after that, she needed to either find someone who knew more about him than he would want Dara to find out, or else sneak off and see if she could snoop through his office or something. She set off between the dancing couples, looking around for someone who matched Mansuur's description - a thin man of medium height, middle-aged, with close-cropped grey hair and rough features.
She looked while the song ended and a new melody, without song this time, began, but she couldn't find anyone matching the description. Maybe Mansuur planned on making his entrance later in the evening.
"May I have this dance?" a voice said. Dara turned to see the singer holding out his hand to her. He was grinning, looking friendly and cheerful - though Dara's trained eye noticed a tension about him that he was trying to hide, a hint that even while he was waiting for her answer his mind was rushing ahead to something else. She had an idea what it was - some mysteries were not very mysterious at all - and it irritated her.
She wasn't sure why she didn't tell him to get lost. Maybe it was the way his voice had affected her, or maybe it was the more rational reason that she would have to wait for Mansuur to turn up, and she would look less conspicuous if she looked like she was enjoying herself. She was no good at looking like she was enjoying herself - was no good at enjoying herself, come to think of it - but chatting with a handsome man was a start.
"What's your name?" she said.
He bowed.
"Jalon of Tenchurch Abbey, caste of Artists," he said. "I noticed you coming in. Did you stop because you liked the music, or was that pause a shudder of horror?"
Dara raised an eyebrow.
"Quit fishing for compliments, would you?" she said gruffly. "You know that your voice is spectacular."
"Yes," Jalon said modestly, "but my artistic ego enjoys hearing attractive women saying so. Dance?"
Dara winced.
"Oh, why not?" she said.
Jalon led her out onto the dance floor. She was very aware of his hand on her waist. The silk of her dress was thin enough that she could feel the warmth of his skin. She had her own right hand on his shoulder, and being the master of observation that she was, she couldn't help but notice that it was a very broad and well-defined shoulder.
"That's a lovely dress you're wearing," Jalon said conversationally as they moved to the music. She stumbled a little, uncertain of the steps, but he gently led her through it, and she soon picked up the rhythm.
"Remind me how this works," Dara said. "Is this where I'm supposed to say something self-deprecating, like 'oh, this old thing?'"
"You could," Jalon said amiably. "Either you could affect sincerity, in which case you should try to pick a less cliched choice of words. Or you could make a joke out of it by affecting a silly voice and saying it just like that, and we could both smile at how stereotypical we were being. Alternatively, you could subvert expectations and shamelessly accept the praise as your rightful due - 'why yes it is, thank you for noticing - and don't I look especially dashing in it?' Or you could return the compliment and tell me that I look very handsome in this outfit. Or you could tut-tut at me for making such meaningless small talk and bring up a weightier topic."
Dara looked at him with equal parts amusement and disbelief as he led them in rhythmic circles through the hall, navigating deftly through the other dancing couples.
"Conversation is just like any other art," Jalon said. "There isn't any right way to do things. The trick is finding the right way to do the thing you have chosen to do."
"Well, I see that you honed that one to perfection, also," Dara said dryly. "So what is this, to you? Another performance?"
"All the world is a stage, or so they say," Jalon said.
He had a very nice smile, Dara had to admit - brilliant and boyish and just a bit sheepish. That just made her all the more annoyed that she had reason to believe it was an affectation.
"Uh-huh," she said. "Does that mean that you have a script? Do we end up in bed before the third act?"
"Ooooh." Jalon laughed. "So forward! And a bit cynical, I can't help it feel. Can't I just want to dance with a very beautiful woman, without having anything definite planned beyond what, if anything, might naturally develop from it?"
"You could," Dara said. "But you don't. You're good at pretending to be relaxed and spontaneous, I'll give you that, but you were just a little too rushed back there, and you let some eagerness slip. You have an agenda."
Jalon's smile remained, but his voice turned serious.
"I do, yes," he said. "I only wish that it was the one you think." He glanced discreetly to the side. "I think you should go, right now. We'll pass the door in a moment. Go through it, get to your carriage, and leave." He paused. "To make it more believable, I could leer at you like I just said something ungentlemanlike, and you could look angry, push me away, and storm out." He nodded to himself. "Yes - they might believe that. Everyone knows what Artists are like."
"Now, why would I want to do that?" Dara said.
"Because something bad is going to happen," Jalon said.
"What is?" Dara said.
"Just... something bad," Jalon said. "And I'm afraid that if you're here, you'll be right in the thick of it. They don't like you."
"They?" Dara said.
"They. Them." Jalon smiled unhappily. "I'm sorry, I don't get an instruction manual."
"Make sense!" Dara snapped.
"I wish I could." Jalon glanced at the exit. "We're here. Please leave?"
"Forget it," Dara said. "I want to know just what it is you think you know about me."
"Only that you're at the center of it all," Jalon said. "I think you're the only one who can do something about it."
"About what?" Dara said, as they spun away from the entrance again.
Jalon hesitated.
"About He Who Comes," he said. He grimaced and started singing tonelessly, at odds with the music that was playing. "The sky weeps blood, when he comes. The stone is dust, when he comes. The dark grows cold, when he comes. The city falls, when he comes."
He drummed out the rhythm with his fingers against her hand for every line - ta ta ta tum, tam-tam-tam. Ta ta ta tum, tam-tam-tam.
"You're insane." Dara pulled her fingers out of his grip and pushed him away. Her untrained muscles shouldn't have been able to budge him, but he took a few steps back anyway - out of some strange sort of politeness, she thought. "Or else making fun of me. Either way, go do it somewhere else."
The music stopped. It didn't trail out naturally, or even end in a screech of fumbled notes, like it would have if the musicians had been startled into stopping. Instead, it ended cleanly in between two notes, as if cut with a knife.
Dara turned slowly. All around the room, people were turning towards the dais. The looks on their faces were expectant, hungry.
"Here it comes," Jalon whispered.
"Here what comes?" Dara whispered furiously back. "Just what is it you think you know?"
Jalon looked unhappy.
"Not enough to make a difference, at this point," he said. "I'm really sorry. You should have left when you had the chance."
A man stepped out onto the dais. Dara recognised Mansuur from his description right away, but nothing about it had prepared her for the sheer presence of him; he looked around the room like everyone in it was his slave, and from the looks of people around her, no one felt like disagreeing. He walked with a certain stiffness that hinted of age, but he stood tall like a King, and his face was alive with passion and hunger.
"My friends!" he said. He had a powerful voice, deep and resounding and free of any doubts. "Thank you for joining me on this night! We live in special times, you and I. Worlds are being born and destroyed all around us - the very air is alive with birth wails and death rattles! I say to you, each and every one of us will live to see a glorious transformation! Are you ready for it?"
There were cries of agreement all throughout the hall. Fists were shaken in the air. Several people fell to their knees, tearing at their hair - in some form of ecstasy, as near as Dara could tell.
She whispered a few words beneath her breath, and felt the floor beneath her feet quiver. Witch Stone. Whatever happened, she was in her element, surrounded by her power.
Of course, Mansuur had comparable powers to hers, and he was the one who was familiar with the surroundings...
"Throughout the endless years," Mansuur cried out, "we have been promised!"
"PROMISED!" the crowd echoed as one.
"Down the fated bloodlines," Mansuur said, "the faith has been kept!"
"KEPT!" the crowd roared.
"In our undoing, we will be remade!" Mansuur shouted.
"WHEN HE COMES!" the crowd bellowed, dozens of voices raised as one. "WHEN HE COMES! WHEN HE COMES! WHEN HE COMES! WHEN HE COMES!"
All along the walls of the room, Servants took up drums and began hammering out a deafening beat, quick and furious.
"The rapture will be ours!" Mansuur bellowed, and raised his hands.
Throughout the hall, between the groups of frenzied guests, the stones of the floor parted, and gargoyles arose. They were human in shape, the runes across their bodies burning as they scraped against the floor stones on the way up, and each one bore an expression of mad elation that perfectly matched that of the revelers.
Dara spun around, hands raised, shouting words that were drowned out by the chanting. All around her, the gargoyles that had been finding their feet on the floor shuddered and staggered, torn between her control and Mansuur's. Her head was spinning, her senses overloaded. All around her were struggling gargoyles and roaring people, and the air was thick with voices and drumbeats. Were had Jalon gone? What was Mansuur doing?
The gargoyles close to her, the ones she was trying to control, numbered no more than half a dozen. There were scores of them in the hall, and as she watched, they went to work. Each one took a guest in its stony arms, spinning him or her around in violent circles. Dara thought she saw clothes being ripped off, thought she heard screams.
"Jalon!" she shouted, but of course her voice was drowned by the din. She tried again and again, straining her voice until her throat burned. "Jalon! Jalon!"
She couldn't see him - most of her attention was taken up by controlling the gargoyles, and the rest was a whirlwind of stone and flesh and expensive clothes. She told herself that she should go, right now, run out into the night and away from this madness. Why stay behind for a stranger?
Because he tried to warn me, she thought. Confused as he was, he knew something, and he tried to get me out of the way. He's not one of these people.
That thought was immediately followed by another one.
So what was he even doing here tonight?
Having a question to focus on helped - she had spent her life answering questions. With a final string of arcane words, she brought the gargoyles under her control, pushing Mansuur away. As one, driven by a single will, they turned and started marching through the crowd, pushing aside humans and other gargoyles as they went. Dara hurried along in their midst, protected from the turmoil around her by their thick, stony bodies.
With her own band of gargoyles keeping her unmolested, focusing her attention was easier. She caught a glimpse of a head of silver-golden hair and hastened after it. She found Jalon, struggling to free himself from a group of laughing people who were dragging him back, laughing like lunatics all the while. Their faces seemed twisted and distorted to Dara, like demonic masks emerging from the collars of their pricey clothes. Their skin was flushed, with heat and exertion and excitement. Jalon was fighting them without success - he was young and strong, but he was flailing about wildly, clearly without a clue how to employ his powerful limbs to advantage.
Dara's gargoyles crashed into the group molesting the Artist like a ton of bricks, scattering them across the floor. Dara took Jalon's hand and pulled him towards the exit, sending the gargoyles out around her to clear the way. Several of them ran into other gargoyles who fought back, and there were crashes and sparks as Witch Stone collided with Witch Stone, breaking to pieces before the violence of the impacts.
She looked back a single time before walking out the door. Mansuur was still standing on the dais, and he was looking straight at her, amusement on his face.
Dara shot him a defiant look. I know what you are doing. I will stop you. I'm not afraid of you.
Mansuur's thick lips were parted by a smirk. I don't care. No, you won't. Yes, you are.
She fled out the door with that mocking face etched into her mind, merciless and haunting.