5. The Rose of Naveea
Written by Ryan Kaufman[1]
Under the aubergine sky of sunset, a steady drizzle of fiery rain spattered and sizzled down onto the stone battlements. Mt. Volcanus was upset, spewing his dismay into little droplets of lava, which fell onto the shoulders of Cefaphro. His skin was pocked with small scars and burns, but he no longer even noticed the tiny pricks of pain. He had always kept his watch, regardless. Until recently.
Now he had found himself distracted. His calm and consistent surveillance was sometimes broken by thoughts and feelings about his new partner. He found it strange. And even more strange that her presence itself was not the distraction– his own emotions were. Feelings long buried, chained in the basement dungeons of his heart.
A step sounded on the stone stairs, and Cefaphro came to attention. A Sadaari emerged, her long silken hair swirling in the oven-like winds. His heart stopped– but then he realized, this was not his partner, not Paxa. “Who goes there!” he barked.
The Sadaari folded her golden wings backward, and glided up the stairs. “My name is Renna,” she said. The green glow of Death Essence in her chest stood out against the hues of red and orange on the stones of the Barbican.
“Get gone with you,” huffed Cefaphro. “The House of Death has no business here.”
“I am here on behalf of the Wardens,” she corrected. “And you must know that Warden business extends beyond Houses, for the good of all Massina. We come with information.”
Cefaphro was not entirely calmed by her admission. The Wardens did enjoy a good reputation among the populace, for their diplomatic ties across all Houses. But the Imperial Palace took a suspicious view of their attempts at unity. The Emperor saw them as a potential threat– a quiet one, but still– and he did not brook competition. And Cefaphro had risked his life to see Emperor Giotto take the Trials.
“I have not left this station in three hundred years,” said Cefaphro, haughtily. “What possible information could be of interest?”
Renna walked with the sublime grace of an immortal; a Prime Eternal, possessed of everlasting life. In some ways, his superior. “Loxio, a Champion of my House, is missing.”
Cefaphro shrugged. “That is a matter for the Inquisitors.”
“Yes, but we have learned that Loxio was seeking something,” she added. “A book called the Tome of War.”
All the tiny stars in the Guardian’s skin faded for a moment. The Tome of War… He swallowed hard. “Did he find it?”
“That much, we do not know,” said Renna. “He never returned. But it would be unlike Loxio to fail.”
She scarcely need to say more. Cefaphro understood immediately the grave threat this presented. Should someone find the Tome of War, they would possess the knowledge to navigate the dungeons. And then, possibly, to unlock the Gate to Hêla, and there release the Titans again. It would mean nothing less than the end of Massina. Cefaphro looked up at the strong walls of the Barbican. He and Paxa would be all that stood between the world and utter ruin.
“I must find him,” he said. Then, with shame in his eyes, he bowed. “Forgive my arrogance. Many thanks to the Wardens for this.”
Renna nodded. “We thank you, too, Guardian. But of course, we must protect our anonymity. We never spoke of this. You do not know me.” She let her hand drift hypnotically in the air. Some Sadaari were capable of a suggestive power, one that could mold minds into whatever truth they chose. Cefaphro stifled a smile– such things did not affect him.
Then she disappeared, and he raced downstairs to alert the High Priest.
***
Cefaphro left the Temple Fire-Guard to watch over the Barbican as he stalked the tunnels of the Cauldron. The winding staircases and passageways were carved into the volcano itself, and the path occasionally exited into the night air for a few steps, only to turn and delve back into the mountain. In a long hallway, lit by gutters of open flame above his head, Cefaphro spotted the High Priest, shuffling along in his dragonscale robes.
“Sir,” he called. “I must speak to you. A matter of great importance–”
The Priest cut him off, with a distracted annoyance. “Don’t you have a partner? Where is she?”
Cefaphro stammered. “It’s– yes– her watch does not begin for an hour. But that is not important. The Tome of War–”
“Not important?” the Priest said. He was a young man, but with an old soul. The years had consumed his energy quickly, like fire devours wax. The High Priests were chosen by the Cauldron for their attunement to the cosmic flame– not their longevity. The holy man frowned and stared at Cefaphro’s angelic face. “I partnered you two for a reason.”
The elder Guardian sighed, with undisguised annoyance. “I still find it unorthodox– this pairing. It has never been done.”
The High Priest drew a small brown cigarillo from his robes. All the priests smoked strange cigars, which they used in their prognostication and divinations. He struck a match and held it between their faces.
“Fire never takes the same shape twice, Cefaphro,” he said. Then he lit the cigar and puffed on it, smoke billowing out of his nose and mouth. “You’re too tied to tradition, and old ways of doing things.”
Priests of the Cosmic Flame were known to give lessons in their unique teaching style. The three T’s– taunt, tease and torture. Burning is learning, the priests would say to a wounded but enlightened student. Nothing teaches you about fire faster than touching it.
The Guardian, if he’d had a stomach, would’ve felt it flopping in turmoil. The Tome of War was out there somewhere– why was the High Priest babbling on about Paxa? “The old ways were better. This Sadaari is unusual. She is strange. I … don’t know how to feel about her.”
At this, the High Priest turned slowly, and smiled in a way that Cefaphro did not like. His eyes flickered along with the sacred flames in the ceiling. “Yes. And?”
“I never had these feelings about my former partners,” admitted Cefaphro softly. Then an annoyed grumble rose out of his chest. “It should have been a Gatekeeper! They are responsible for the catastrophe, not the Sadaari!”
“You’re obsessed with the past. What about the future?” The High Priest grinned again, and gestured for Cefaphro’s palm. The Guardian, anxious, tried nonetheless to indulge the holy man. There was much to learn, he knew, from the sacred and strange. Even if he himself wanted to rush off and get things done. He placed his large hand in the High Priest’s. Then the priest turned it over, palm up. Was he going to read the ancient lines there? Divine some strange runes?
But instead the Priest tapped the cigar, and the large thick ash fell into Cefaphro’s palm, like a living ashtray. The Celestial winced but did not move. The ash crumbled into feathery forms, and the Priest leaned over and scoured the shapes with his eyes.
“I see the island of Naveea,” he whispered.
Cefaphro drew a confused grimace. “Naveea? But that’s a myth…”
“Hush,” said the Priest. Then the ash crumbled again, now forming a bud-like blossom. And finally a third time, collapsing on Cefaphro’s palm like a weary pilgrim. The High Priest contemplated this for a long moment, before he spoke. “The Beast and the Rose become children again.”
“The Island of Naveea is but a story, priest,” said Cefaphro, still confused. “A place where all become free. That’s the opposite of my calling. Which is to guard this gate and keep the Titans imprisoned! To keep Massina safe. As I have promised and have done for a thousand years.”
The Priest drew one last draught of smoke, and shrugged. “Fire, like life, is a chaotic process. A forest which has stood a thousand years, may burn away in one night, and reveal what has always been hidden beneath.”
The High Priest returned Cefaphro’s hand to him, and drifted away. The Guardian’s sense of urgency returned, almost like smoke clearing. The Tome of War. Loxio. He did not need the High Priest’s advice. He already knew where to start.
***
A hulking Darulk looked down from a small staircase at the crowds outside the Colosseum. The night games had just let out, and the plaza was flooded with excited and intoxicated plebs, chattering about the match they’d just witnessed. The House of Death had declared a grudge match against the House of the Arcane, and every battle featuring Champions of those combative Essences had a special extra thrill. The public accusations of treachery still rang in the air like a giant brass bell.
If Tinaris cared that the entire controversy was her fault, she did not show it. Her tentacles were impassive as she scanned the heaving seas of exotic beings: scrappy humans, huge Karkadons, crafty beadols pickpocketing, snarling Fenrir… Celestials. Then she felt a presence. Her harsh eyes flicked downward.
A small human woman now stood at the base of the stairs, the dark curls of her hair glinting in the torch and Essence lights of the nearby buildings. Tinaris receded into an alley, and she felt the woman follow.
The human rounded the corner, and Tinaris spoke. “That’s far enough,” she said. “Speak.”
“My Master seeks the Tome,” the woman said, in a low but confident voice.
Tinaris felt her demonic senses shift into a heightened anxiety. But she did not perceive any threats nearby. Not that a threat could not be hidden from her… However, she judged that this messenger brought a legitimate query. There was no real advantage in distracting her otherwise. “How did you find me?”
“My Master knows much and sees much.”
Tinaris snarled. “Then perhaps he can find the Tome himself.”
“He believes he already has.” The woman held Tinaris’ gaze.
She was brave, this one, Tinaris thought. “The Emperor seeks it too,” she said coolly. “Perhaps I desire his favor– or his coin. Either way, he has something to offer.”
The woman’s face did not change, almost like a doll. “That may be, but if my Master succeeds, he can offer you something the Emperor will not. He can offer you a reunion with … The Absolute.
Hearing that name, Tinaris felt her demonic heart burn with sulphuric lust. The Absolute. Her former paramor; a lover unlike any other she had ever experienced. The most powerful being in all of Hêla– and second only to Alteus in the universe. The Absolute– to be with him again, she would give anything. But could it be possible? Perhaps this runty mortal worm was lying.
“If your Master is serious about a deal, then he can prove it to me,” she said. The woman nodded, and Tinaris continued. “Rumor has it that a Guardian has been called to investigate this matter. His involvement may cause me much difficulty. Take care of him, and I will deliver the Tome to your Master.”
The woman bowed deeply. “It shall be done, oh great Tinaris.” Then in a billow of cloaks, she disappeared back down the stairs.
The mighty Darulk shifted back into the shadows and waited for the streets to empty, before she worked her way home. The Tome was safely stashed elsewhere. But her hiding place would not remain anonymous much longer, should the Guardians begin to make connections.
Down on the plaza, the human woman hurried into a storefront, and then along a small water-channel. She emerged in a circular piazza, where a dark obelisk hung in the center. The Sleeping Karkadon was nearby, and she slipped into the alley behind it. A hooded figure awaited her there. She could barely make out the claws of a Vitra hanging down from its sleeves, and the woman made it a rule to avert her eyes when dealing with her Master’s spies. The woman had seen much in the last few months. Her former time at the Colosseum, drinking tea with friends, selling geckoid on a stick; these days belonged to someone else’s life now.
“Contact the Shadows,” said Yujin. “We have need of their specialities.”
***
Cefaphro wandered the Ruins of Dôl, for the first time in many years. Paxa and the Fire-Guard held the Barbican safely, but he was anxious to return. He was away purely out of necessity. The being he needed to speak with could not merely be summoned or given a message.
The Guardian’s powerful eyesight scanned across the city, all the way back toward the Barbican, where he saw Paxa chatting with a human woman known as Elmora. He found himself annoyed. Did she not take the job seriously? Also, what were they chatting about? But their calm demeanor reassured him, and he returned to searching the Ruins.
Then he sensed the rustle of silken robes, and he saw the drifting ghostly cloaks and skirts of the one he sought.
“Emilie,” he called softly. She turned, her eyes somewhere far away. She saw even farther than he did– into the future, into the past. Such vision was her inheritance.
“You were the one they called Cefaphro,” she announced to him, her voice slipping in and out of time.
“Yes,” he said. “They still call me that. Emilie, I come to ask you about Loxio.”
Her luminous face filled with shadow; made her seem more human for the moment. “What of beautiful Loxio?”
“Where is he? He has not returned home for days. We are concerned for his well-being.”
Emilie received his question with little emotion. He had known many Celestials to be distant and unconnected to mortal life, but Emilie’s heritage gave her an especially complex relationship to time and the profane world. She could not perceive death and life and place separately. She wandered through the Ruins, contemplating the question. Cefaphro followed her in silence.
“I had a vision,” she said. “The wharves. Oil and algae.”
“The wharves? At the Harbor of the Fallen?” Cefaphro gasped. “What is he doing there?”
“You will find your answer there tonight,” she said. And then she turned away. As she walked off into the Ruins, Cefaphro heard her speak again. “Do not go alone.”
“Why?” he called out.
He heard her voice on the wind. “You will die.”
***
The Fire-Guard stood atop the Barbican, ready to assist the Guardians in its defense. Four powerful Elementals, tethered to this plane by the power of the High Priest. Their legs were thick as tree trunks, and ended in pools of lava. They held massive ponderous axes made of obsidian– hardened volcanic glass, sharpened to cut the hair of an Il’Gra and whose heavy blow could split a dragon down the center– and they towered over most beings.
“Hey, take a step back, boys,” cracked Elmora. “You’re gonna singe my cards.”
The inveterate gambler huddled against a battlement, protecting her hand. Paxa eyed her suspiciously. They were playing “Blood of Alteus,” a popular card game pitting two would-be Imperial Houses against each for the right of succession.
“You’ve been holding the Emperor’s nephew this entire time, haven’t you?” Paxa scoffed. “That’s cheating.”
“So!” barked Elmora. “You’re hiding a pregnant Duchess up your sleeve!”
Paxa clutched her sleeve and frowned fiercely. Then she gradually broke into a smile. She sighed, and pulled the illegal card from her wrist. “Old habits die hard, I guess.”
The two had been friends for many years. Since Paxa’s gambling days, when she was a Champion of some ill repute.
“Where’s your partner,” Elmora asked. “You remember. The handsome one with the starry skin.”
“He’s got business somewhere,” Paxa said. She peered out over the wall, down toward the city. “Boring business, no doubt.”
“Things going great between you two, then?”
“He’s so… uptight, Elmora,” Paxa tapped her spear on the ground in annoyance. “All he thinks about is guarding that gate.” She gestured toward the Barbican.
Elmora shrugged with ambivalence. “Some would call that loyalty.”
“Well, whatever you call it, he’s annoying,” Paxa frowned. She tried to make out details in the city, like Cef could. His unsettling power. “It’s like he can see right through me. I don’t like it.”
Elmora nodded in sympathy. She, too, carried a few secrets that she’d rather not have the whole of Massina know. And Paxa carried a few more than that. But secrets had weight; too much could drag a person down, hold them under the rushing waters of the river. “So, I assume you haven’t told him much about your life before this?”
“No,” said Paxa. “And I hope he doesn’t find out.”
“Paxa, you are who you are,” said Elmora. “You better watch out you don’t become ashamed of it.”
Paxa sighed, and dug her spear into the stones. “I know. But the weird thing is…” She met Elmora’s eyes, and held the gaze for a moment, trying to bring forth the emotion into words. “I actually care what he thinks.”
Elmora grinned. “You’re doomed.”
Paxa began shuffling the cards again. She shot a glance at the Fire-Guard. They hadn’t moved an inch, not even to breathe, which apparently they did not. Why did the Cauldron of Fire require living Guardians when they had these brutal behemoths to guard the gate? The unfeeling, immovable warriors were invulnerable to boredom, or self-doubt, or other troublesome emotions. They certainly didn’t develop irrational feelings about their cohorts. There must be something she was missing.
“I’d walk away in a hot second, if I hadn’t made a promise,” she said.
Now it was Elmora’s turn to puzzle. “You have changed. I’ve never known a promise to get in the way of Paxa Lystera.”
A deep voice broke the moment. “I require you.”
Elmora whirled in shock, as Cefaphro descended into the Barbican on his magnificent fire-tipped wings. He landed with surprising lightness, and nodded to her in acknowledgement. Then he saw the cards Paxa held.
She shoved the cards into Elmora’s hands, with exaggerated annoyance. “Stop trying to get me to play your ridiculous card games, Elmora!”
“We have new business,” Cefaphro said, with a strange awkwardness. “And I… this mission requires your participation.”
“Now?” Paxa asked. Elmora shrugged in confusion.
“Yes,” he said. “And we will be leaving our posts for a short time.”
Paxa glanced back at the hulking Guards standing behind them. “Does that mean we’re leaving them in charge?”
“The Fire-Guard will be supplemented by the Smoldering Ones.” The Smoldering Ones were ten Il’Gra devotees, pledged by a wealthy and faithful Maestro to serve the Temple for a year. As they did, they increased their devotion and connection to their Fire Essence and emerged more powerful than before.
Paxa smiled. “Twenty brains, thirty eyes– should be barely enough to replace us.”
Cefaphro began to answer, and then, he launched himself into the sky. Paxa grabbed her spear and leapt after him, leaving Elmora alone on the battlement. She meekly waved to the Fire Guard and edged slowly toward the exit.
***
The wharves were not a place for a respectable Celestial to spend time. Still, Cefaphro found himself fascinated by the flurry of activity in the grimy doorways and warehouses. He had thus far only seen it from a great distance– now he could feel the heat of the food grills, and smell the fried lykes, and hear the burble of the bookies making deals and grunts of the Karkadon and Il’Gra stevedores hauling cargo on their backs.
Paxa, for her part, knew the wharf only too well. She’d been of those, flitting in and out of storefronts and back-door game rooms. The stink of overcooked lykes and cigar smoke hung in the air, and recalled harsh laughter, loud music and easy money. She tried to forget, as much as she could. There was blood and horror mixed in with those other memories.
Cefaphro tried not to watch her, keeping his eyes centered on the world in his immediate vicinity. He was looking for some clue to Loxio’s disappearance. Even a stray Fenrir hair in the gutter might help.
A nearby stall was a unique explosion of soft pastel colors: a greenery-vendor, full of imported flowers. He marveled at the variety of petals and blossoms from faraway lands and dimensions. Massina City was but a small point in a very wide world. One in particular caught his eye: a rose.
As he stood in a puddle of rancid water, he lifted the rose delicately in his fingertips. “I have seen this bloom before. Where is it from?”
Paxa moved up next to him. “I don’t know,” she said. “But they call it the Rose of Naveea.”
Cefaphro gazed intently into the whorls and feathery tendrils inside. “The High Priest mentioned Naveea to me.”
The Sadaari considered this. Then she rolled the sleeve of her garment up, to display a similar rose, inked into her strange grey marbled skin. “I always had a yearning for that place, when I was a girl. A stupid dream, from before– when I was alive and had a future.”
Cefaphro’s eyes drank in the sight of the tattoo, and the exposed flesh. Then, embarrassed, he dropped his gaze down to his feet and the filthy water.
“That’s the problem with being undead,” she said, rolling her sleeve back down. “No matter how I try and carve it off… it always grows back.” She shrugged and continued down the street.
As Cefaphro watched her go, he noticed a shimmer in the distance, one or two miles down the road. “Paxa,” he barked. “Let’s go.”
They hurried along through the streets, until they found the source of the light. A group of Inquisitors stood, lighting cigarettes and conversing. They became suspicious and guarded as Cefaphro approached.
Paxa looked up and realized they were in the warehouse district. Weathered wooden buildings with faded numbers loomed with gaping doors on either side. She could smell that the sewers emptied nearby.
“What is it,” Cefaphro asked the Inquisitors, with no introduction.
The Inquisitors regarded him with reluctance. They knew the Guardians were loyal to the Emperor, but they kept their own counsel when it came to investigations. Still, one of them, a girl who looked to be twelve, addressed Cefaphro tersely. “A Fenrir Champion. Washed up on the riverside an hour ago.”
“Show me,” said Cefaphro.
The Inquisitors clambered down an old iron ladder, bursting with salt-water rust, while the Guardians floated over to the riverbed. On the graveled beach lay a Fenrir, bloated and wet, fur matted with oil and algae.
Paxa leaned in over him, but the Inquisitor warned her off: “We haven’t done our tests yet, Guardian. Don’t contaminate the subject.”
Cefaphro frowned. “I knew him. His name is Loxio.”
The Inquisitor wrote that down. “Likely that the crocammits got him.”
Cefaphro shook his head. “I doubt it.”
The investigators shared disapproving glances. Some folded their arms in annoyance. But Cefaphro continued to explain. “There are no spines present, and no piercings of the skin. In fact, from the small protrusions around his collar bone, I can see his neck was broken.”
The Inquisitors began to talk in agitation among themselves. Finally, the girl turned to them. “If you know so much, then you must also know that your friend Loxio was probably a filthy rebel.”
Cefaphro hid his shock. “Really?”
“Yes,” the girl continued. “They’ve been in and out of the sewers, and all over the Blood Wharf for the past few months. So given your relationship to the victim, I don’t think it’s a good idea, you being involved in the investigation.”
“You need to leave,” said the other. “Now.”
The wearied eyes of the children became hard and accusatory. Paxa reached out to guide Cefaphro away. “We’re Guardians of the Sacred Fire,” she reminded him loudly. “We’ve got better things to do than listen to a bunch of pint-sized freaks whine while we do their job for them.”
The Inquisitors glowered, as Cefaphro and Paxa rose into the sky.
As Paxa flew toward the Cauldron, she saw Cefaphro turn and land on the roof of one of the warehouses. She glided down next to him. “What is it?”
He pointed toward the gathering on the beach. “We need not be invited, in order to participate. They are deploying their spirit strips. Now they shall reveal who killed Loxio.”
Paxa watched Cefaphro watch the Inquisitors do their work. He concentrated intensely with his magnified vision, staring intently at the small group. In the moment of strange silent anticipation, she studied his profile. His skin was like a nebula, a swirling mix of indigo blue and clouds of pink and orange. The little stars that glowed beneath pulsed with a life of their own. She wanted to touch them.
“Fascinating,” he whispered.
“Yes,” she said.
He turned to look her in the eye, his expression one of delight and discovery. “A Darulk! Arcane!”
Paxa shook herself out of the moment as Cefaphro grabbed her shoulders. “What?”
“They have detected Arcane Essence! His killer was a Librarian!” he beamed.
Then suddenly, a sizzling crack hissed through the air, and Paxa felt a length of barbed rope choke her neck. Her eyes rolled back into her head, and her body began to flop lifelessly sideways and slide off the roof. She felt nothing but despair and hopelessness, and an overwhelming terror.
Cefaphro, in a flash of light, drew his scimitar, Lissa — the blade imbued with the life of his former partner and legendary Gatekeeper by the otherworldly talents of the Osteomancer Merleenken — and sliced through the restraint around Paxa’s neck. The rope snapped and whipped back into the hands of its owner: A Shadow Assassin.