RE: Monarch

It was, without a doubt, the oddest tea party I'd ever attended. And considering I'd once traded veiled threats with an infernal power broker over root tea and sceoquel at the edge of an abyss, that was a surprisingly high bar.

My soldiers seemed to think the same. Hundreds of them awkwardly sipped from whatever vessel they could drum up. Cups of all sorts until they ran out, then canteens, arriving eventually at bowls and ladles. The sewer's stench and the strong herbal taste of the brew had already turned several stomachs, and they'd spread out some, away from the grating and runoff, forming impromptu social circles that presented an odd, almost satirical reflection of noble society.

All while the keening voice of a prophet, or soothsayer, caterwauled in the distant outskirts of the city, howling something barely intelligible about death. Or dying. Or something equally grim.

Vicant, our recently discovered and thankfully unoffended regimental Warlock, was nervous. Understandably so. If folklore was to be believed, witches and warlocks spent a great deal of time brewing their concoctions in dark and occasionally subterranean spaces such as basements and caves, valuing the safety such isolation presented. Conversely, plying his craft in the middle of a clearing in the clear light of day, brewing a cauldron directly in view of a wall of soldiers, must have been at least somewhat alarming.

However, after some time, Vicant seemed to be taking a shine to the additional duties. He no longer cringed every time he served the next soldier as if expecting reprisal in the form of a gauntlet to the face. If anything, there was a quiet giddiness beneath his neutral expression. Nothing malevolent.

I stepped up onto a small stone outcropping a few steps from the grate and caught Sevran's eye. He nodded and waved to the rest of the Banner Lieutenants, and within minutes the regiment was assembled and alert, waiting for orders.

So damn organized.

Quickly, I drained the rest of the brew from my stein, grimacing at the taste, then set it aside.

Calm. In control. Confident. My father's voice echoed in my mind. I no longer resisted his counsel as I once had. He was far from a perfect person, and we'd always have our differences, but in this much, at least, he was right.

"There's been a lot of talk regarding the threat we face." I smiled, glancing around. "Yes, I've been listening. Personally, my favorite theory so far is that the notorious Sirens of the Gilded Coast packed their bags, somehow navigated the mainland, hopping upon piscine fins for miles between rivers and lakes, until they finally reached their ultimate destination." I pointed towards the grate. "Our collective shithole."

There was laughter. Nervous, but better than none.

"'Bout the only thing that'd get me excited about goin' in there." A big voice bellowed out, drawing more mirth.

I rested my hands behind my back, waiting until the amusement died down. "I bring up the Sirens, because they are not altogether different from the threat before us. They don't leap from dark waters and drag men to their deaths by force. No. They sing with the voices of angels, presenting their alluring figures just beneath the ocean's surface, sensuous features illuminated by starlight. Out of curiosity, has anyone ever heard one?"

A man towards the front with weathered skin raised a calloused hand. "Aye, my lord."

"In the king's navy?" I asked, surprised to find a sailor in our midst.

He shook his head. "Privateer."

"And during your tenure, how were you counseled to deal with the presence of Sirens?"

The once-privateer crossed his arms. "Short explanation? Ignore 'em. Though it doesn't always work."

"Tell us why."

He cleared his throat and raised his voice. "Most folk with sense are bright enough to understand you shouldn't look at 'em. Goes double for anyone sea-bound longer than a month. You can feel it, if you do, a tug right here," he tapped his temple. "It's obvious. Intentional. Everyone else—the folk without sense—wise up real quick like after watching some poor bastard tip over the side and disappear into a cloud'a red." He shuddered.

"But that's not the end of it." I filled in. Sirens appeared frequently enough in stories and bestiaries that I had basic knowledge of the topic, despite a lack of personal experience.

"No." The privateer shifted uncomfortably as he recalled the memory. "There's shit to do at sea. It's quiet. Nothin' but the wind, and water, and gabbing of your fellow sailor. Most who ain't green stay the hell away from the sides at night, especially if they're singin'. Problem is, they don't stop. They keep singin', sometimes all the way through morning. Thing a lot of folks miss is that you gotta go out of your way to ignore it. Filter out the most beautiful sound you ever heard like it's the local blacksmith, banging away at some stubborn iron. 'Cause if you don't? That's when the real evil starts."

"What sort of evil?"

The man's face screwed up in disgust. "The song isn't just a song. It's magic. A whisper. 'Just go up on deck. Glance at 'em a little. When's the next time you're gonna see somethin' that beautiful? You're a grown man who can control himself. You're not like that other idiot on his first voyage who fell off the boat a month ago, got ripped to shreds. You're experienced, can handle it. With every voyage, you tire of the sea. It won't be long until this life wears you down and you retire, landlocked, so this could very well be the last chance. What's the harm in looking, just this once?'"

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The privateer's recollection was too specific to be anything but personal. He'd listened to the song, felt the pull, and fought it.

Somehow I took solace in that.

He stepped back into line, and I drew a deep breath, thinking through what I needed to communicate to the regiment at large. "That's what makes Sirens insidious. A sailor can maintain their composure for countless voyages. Grow deft at resisting the call. But all it takes is one bad night. One evening you didn't shut them out, because the melody offered some small comfort from loneliness and hardship, or simply because the necessary precautions slipped your mind. And that is the gravity of the threat we face—"

Echoing loudly from the distant streets, the manic prophet's voice grew louder. "Elphion has forsaken us! The ferry is gone, our passage barred! The spirits of the damned draw near—" The voice grew muffled, obscured as the speaker continued an indecipherable holler.

I cleared my throat. "Pardon, someone seems to be celebrating Draugeblod early."

The joke invited confusion from the regiment instead of laughter. A soldier nearby murmured, "Draugeblod is today, milord."

It was?

Draugeblod was a religious holiday, commemorating the passage of the dead. According to the Church, it was the one day over the course of a year that Elphion rested. And when he did so, he turned his eyes from us and from the souls still scattered on the mortal plane seeking reincarnation. And with emancipated souls being devoid of all but the dimmest senses and awareness, they reacted the same way any person would, suddenly finding themselves alone, abandoned in the dark. They panicked. Grew angry and restless. And tried to find their way back home. The weak spirits would take to mischief, moving and knocking over objects, while the stronger presences lashed out directly, causing injury, and rarely, attempted possession.

That was what the Church believed. None of it ever really happened. There were sporadic reports from the superstitious involving lesser spirits shaking tables or destroying wine cellars, but nothing that couldn't be explained away as shoddy craftsmanship.

It probably sounds like I disapprove of the belief. I don't. Just because there weren't spirits tearing through the city, enacting mayhem every Draugeblod, didn't negate the value of it. If anything, it was better in their absence.

Because celebrating Draugeblod meant reflecting on those we'd lost. Setting aside whatever pressing concerns we had to take time to honor the dead. Tradition dictated plated portions of food placed on one's doorstep, as offering and ward, accompanied with some small possession of the deceased.

When evening fell, every mana lamp, candle, and lantern remained lit, guiding lights to bring the spirits comfort and direction.

In my last life, the practice was a great source of comfort. I spent the first Draugeblod after my mother passed in the isolation of my rooms, gazing down at all the flames burning against the darkness. Imagining her traversing the streets beneath me, drifting from lit windows to doorways, partaking in the offerings, waiting for Elphion to guide her home.

And every year after, I lit a candle for her.

I cursed internally. Another lapse. We were later in the seasons than I'd realized. My sense of time was terrible, for obvious reasons, but my recall in general had suffered. Minor details slipped through my mind like a sieve. If there was any hope of defeating Thoth, I needed to be at my sharpest.

Which meant snapping out of this haze.

I surveyed the waiting faces, reminding myself of how much was on the line, and how terrible the consequences could be if we failed.

Straightening, I picked up where I left off. "Where our foe and the sirens differ, is that a Lithid doesn't require your attention. It likely prefers otherwise. Over time, it will leech the energy of anyone who sets foot into its domain. Every step taken, every effort made, will be felt tenfold. Which is, of course, the entire reason Vicant's been slaving away." I clapped in his direction, a ripple of applause following my example. "But Vurseng is a supplement, not a replacement. I don't need soldiers who follow orders blindly. What this regiment requires is men and women who understand their own limits. So, whether you were up late last night because you couldn't sleep, out on a discreet rendezvous, or simply hungover, congratulations. You'll be very awake for the rest of the day, courtesy of the tea. But I need you to step aside." I scanned them, imparting the seriousness of my words. "There'll be no honor lost, no penalty given."

Some of them would leave. The picture I was painting was hardly a pretty one, and I was being clear enough that they'd take the mandate seriously. Part of me worried there would be a sudden exodus, halving the available manpower.

But, thankfully, only a few did. A dozen at most, wincing apologetically as they retreated. If anything, the overall number seemed low. I was still waiting for more when Sera asked the obvious question.

"Say it puts someone to sleep. What does it do? Feed on them, like the sirens?" Whatever doubts she held, Sera's demeanor was imperious, confident. She was taking the lieutenant role seriously.

"In a manner of speaking." I nodded, not entirely sure how best to explain it. "Its ultimate goal is possession. In theory, it's capable of controlling hundreds, possibly thousands."

That drew a din of alarm, and I raised my hands for calm.

"Possession is not as straightforward as in the tales." I assured them. "Even if you fall asleep, and it snares you, the outcome is uncertain. In the brief window between unconsciousness and possession, the Lithid will attempt to break down your mental defenses. There are countermeasures in place, should that come to pass. If you fall asleep, your fellow soldiers will attempt to carry you out of the Lithid's domain. If that fails, there are other alternatives. Even if the worst comes to pass, all you need to do is resist until we can find its form, and end it.”

"The sirens use a song of seduction to trap their prey. What does the Lithid use?" Sevran asked at the front of his division, seemingly unbothered.

This was the part they wouldn't like.

"The Lithid—"

"—THEY ARE UPON US! THEY ARE HERE! THEY ARE HERE!" The herald screeched, loud enough that he could have been less than a wingspan away.

"For the sake of the gods, does the man never shut up?" I spun, furious, trying to catch sight of the speaker and finding no one.

"Quiet!" Maya said. Her head was tilted, as if she was straining to listen.

Seconds later, I heard it too, saturating the ambient noise from the city. Horses whinnying in fright, the frantic crashing of panicked movement, distant screams, forever echoing across the city as the cacophony grew louder, and louder still.

What the hells is happening?

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