A story of Ambassadors, hangovers, and home
Alagadda - ????
Far from the basalt cliffs of Nigredo and the ashen shores of Albedo, in a square far from the forgotten plains of Citrinitas and the wilds of Rubedo, Albequac of Scouden, now-former Ambassador to the King of Alagadda, finds himself smiling, in spite of the blood-stained executioner's block masquerading as a pillow cradling his neck.
Know, dear reader, that executions in Alagadda always draw quite the crowd, with the Ambassador's being no different. Petty criminals, those who crimes forever marked them as a bandit or rogue in the eyes of society, would cause only a few passersby to stop, and even then just for a moment. The pillory is a common punishment, though one handed only to those who wouldn't find pleasure in that sort of degradation. Just like everything else, this consequence was one of spectacle, and quite a dull spectacle a pillory made. There was only so much enjoyment to be gained from hearing someone's cries and pleas, if they even spoke at all, though some did happen to liven it up by pelting the offenders with rotten fruit, or bathing them with chalicefuls of wine.
Spit often suffices too. I think it would be much better to save the wine.
Now, it isn't uncommon for the average Alagaddan to watch someone die. Outside of the glow and safety of the velvet tent and city walls, you'll find that death is actually quite common. Brigands, starvation and disease, roaming creatures, even the weather have brought a swift and, frankly, uneventful death to many a traveler or peasant. How… boring? Right? But for those of us (not I) who claim to be above the masses, death carries with it a certain allure. No amount of consumption nor carnal pleasure nor stack of gold coins could come close to the climax that was the apex of the executioner's axe, the lifting of a lifeless head for all to see, before their death rattle swan song rings out above the crowd. That was excitement, and our friend, Albequac of Scouden, relished that attention.
Elsewhere on the platform, a pencil-thin figure, face painted thick with pigment, holds a long sepia parchment. This is just a formality; the town crier's words had already been passed around in gossiping whispers of taverns and theatres and servants' quarters, queried by confused children to each other as they cast die on the cobbled streets, and cackled in the lustrous tones of coins that filled the velvet pouches of back-alley diviners, exiled and decried by what could be considered "polite" society around these parts. Even still, Albequac of Scouden, treasures ever word of his treason, swaying his head, as if each word was a note in a song in the story of his follyful grasp of a position too far from his reach that wouldn't have happened if only he had 'stayed in his place'. This could have caused him to laugh. It was the story of his life, after all.
In the same way moss roots its way into stone, so too did Albequac of Scouden root his way into authority, became indispensable. Few privileges are afforded to those who live in the countryside, and even fewer to those who survive until adulthood. For those who did survive, the way out hardly involved doing what is "right." Where some choose to deal in life, through the plowshare, or deal in death, by the end of a blade, there exists a more… lucrative dealing: secrets.
Haruspex, soothsayers, diviners. My colleagues and I have been given many labels, ever-changing, much like fate, though it is fate that often blinds our pursuits. People are constant, however, falling to the same needs and vices. They're malleable, shapeable like clay, and Albequac of Scouden believed his calloused hands, ones belonging to a person who didn't have the luxury of numbing himself in perpetual revelry, would be the one to shape them how he wanted. I would have called him a fool had he not been so good at what he did.
Surely it wasn't the Albequac of Scouden's fault that the governor wound up with a knife in his back. The discordant melody of infidelity is carried on the wind as potently as morning bird's song, and there's nothing sweeter to a beleaguered partner than revenge after a night of gin and whiskey.
And thus, Albequac of Scouden began to weave his web, growing in wealth and eminence, until finally he was seated at the right hand of the King. His Ambassador. The King's Four Lords protested this, of course. They distrusted the upstart Ambassador, saw him as nothing but a scoundrel. They cast mocking glances at him from behind their masks, clutching their pearls with each and every perceived slight and misstep at court. It was endearing to Albequac of Scouden, in a way. A chip on a sword isn't often feared alone, but left unchecked, that chip can spread into a crack, and that sword will fail in the moment you need it the most.
I wonder what story I would be telling you if he succeeded in his mission, though few, even the most stringent custodians of the White Lord, know the truth about the King.
With his head against the block, he would have told the truth right then and there, if only his mouth wasn't gagged. For even the King itself was snagged in this web, and with each swing of the noose, the Lords found themselves with fewer and fewer allies. He did not deem them worthy of their positions, nor the wealth and splendor afforded to them, and that simply couldn't be any longer. A corruption not thoroughly unrooted will poison all, though Albequac of Scouden was but a man. A foolish, fallible man. In his confidence, in every living pendulum that brought him closer and closer to his fate, he misstepped.
His machinations, the web of nooses of his power, were poised to strike at a moment's notice. He would have strung up the Four Lords themselves if given the chance, but in that fateful moment, there was a ripple, just off stage left. Something had tried to enter his Alagadda, his paradise from elsewhere, and Albequac of Scouden simply needed to know where. There were rumors of another plane, another reality, but the mechanisms to travel there were kept close, guarded.
And so that's how he was caught, sticking his nose where he wasn't meant to be. They insulted him, they tortured him, and finally, the order came through that he must die. And still, it was all part of his plan, a roll of the dice to trade a small sum for the entire pot; the King of Alagadda had a nice ring to it, but being the king to this unknown world? What is a king to a god? It would be the pièce de résistance to his life's work, one that his perceived enemies were unknowingly allowing him to inch ever forward towards.
If you don't cut out the weed by its roots, they'll keep returning.
And finally, the crier's words rang true. "… it is for these reasons and more that the Lords of Nigredo and Rubedo and Citrinitas and Albedo, and the wise justice of the King that Albequac of Scouden, Ambassador to Alagadda, is to be put to death by beheading. May the crows pick out his eyes and his body feed the worms!"
The crowd shrieks and cheers, many raise their goblets, spilling the contents on themselves or others. Some even embrace and kiss others, lost in the excitement of the moment. But we remain vigilant, watching as a large figure steps towards the block, holding a great axe in its hands. A black veil covers its face; it will have no part in seeing the evil it is dispensing of today. Albequac of Scouden nods to the figure, who places a boot on his back, pushing him closer to the block.
"Any last words?" the gruff voice jests. He would spit on the executioner now, if only he was able to.
But today would not be his end. If the Lords' confidence did not blind them, they would have caught the many incantations carved into his skin with a knife, and the false tooth that would crack under the agony of the beheading. That would be his final act, one last trick before he bowed out of this place to make his claim on another.
He doesn't break eye contact with the executioner as it lifts the blade, nor when the blade reaches its apex to fall on his neck. When it finally strikes, he's already gone. The story beginning anew elsewhere…
Serena Verdae College - Present Day
It's the first day of her freshman year of college, and Hana Thompson wakes in a bed that's not hers.
In her half-consciousness, she hears someone shuffling in the distance, sliding open wooden drawers and opening doors with a faint squeak in their hinges. The soft jingle of a bell joins the chorus after some time, its chirp increasing in volume as it gets closer and closer to her before finally— it stops.
Hana slowly peels open her eyes. The small amount of light she affords to them is nearly blinding, and the splitting stab of a headache causes her to close them once more with a groan. Her entire body is sore, heavy; it's a struggle for her to turn onto her side. After a few more minutes, she attempts to open her eyes again, making out the vague, grey outline of a figure in front of her.
"… is it morning already? What are we having for breakfast?"
The figure sighs.
"I was wondering when you were going to wake up. Class is in 45 minutes, by the way."
That accent is familiar, but— what little processing her brain does slowly begins to fit the pieces together. No, it can't be.
Hana's eyes shoot open, causing another spike of pain to shoot through her head. She begins to drink in the room around her: it was worlds different from her apartment; there was something overwhelmingly… medieval about it. Her environment was now one of tasseled velvet seats and plump pillows and stained oaken furniture with brass and gold fittings. Even the blanket she now felt the urge to hide herself under wasn't quite modern; it was if someone flipped open a page to a storybook and made a comforter of the first creature whose name popped up. But, more importantly, Vesper crouches next to her, their pupil-less expression a mix of smug mischief and impatient annoyance. An expression that causes Hana's face to burn pink like the creased and loose ribbon still tying up her short hair.
"Good morning, Hana. Do you remember anything that happened last night?"
Hana, mouth agape, tries to recall anything from the past 12 hours, but stops once the shadow of lost memories begin to dig themselves up in their place. Her mind goes to one place, the only place that would explain her current situation cleanly, and she can do little to stop her thoughts from becoming words.
"Oh god did we—"
Vesper chuckles before standing up, and continues to get ready as before.
"It's really cute how clueless you are sometimes, but no, we didn't. I slept on the couch."
Hana sits up and holds her head.
"What— what happened? I remember arriving at the party and then nothing else."
"That's good because you really embarrassed yourself last night." Silence hangs in the air for a moment. "Just kidding, you didn't miss much, truthfully. The music sucked, the alcohol was shitty, and the crowd was awful. I had to pull you away from some sirens at one point, but you weren't making much progress there anyways."
Vesper stops in front of their standing mirror and begins fussing with a pair of earrings.
"Sirens?" Hana laughs. "What, was I lured in by their singing? Were they trying to drown me in the punch bowl?"
Vesper stops what they're doing and turns, squinting at Hana.
"First off, that's a harmful stereotype created by sailors a long time ago."
Hana's heart drops in her chest.
"Shit, sorry. I'm still trying to get used to… all of this."
"Well, at least you have me to save you from fucking up." Vesper shakes their head and smiles. "Second, I pulled you away because Ligeia is a bitch and I'd rather die than let you waste your time flirting with her. You can do so much better than that." They pause. "You will do so much better than that."
Hana, having woken up slightly, leans forward and grins.
"I see… trying to save me for yourself, Vesper?"
"Bold statement for someone who woke up half-dressed in my bed to say." Hana looks away as her face begins to burn. "No thank you, Hana. I'm quite happy with my partners already." Vesper sighs. "I know you're probably pent up from being stuck in a cell the past two years, but place make sure you don't do anything stupid, alright? I don't want to meet your bosses because you made the wrong decision." They look at a silvery watch on their wrist. "And part of that is making sure you're not late for class. Here, I knew this was going to happen, so I put together something for you." They toss Hana a string bag filled with clothes.
Hana removes its contents and turns away from Vesper. With the same grin from before, Hana peeks over her shoulder.
"No looking."
"Don't plan on it. There's not much to see anyway." Vesper says, their attention focused squarely on packing a worn, leather sack.
Hana grumbles as she gets dressed. She walks over to look at herself in the mirror. Well, it's not the worst you've looked. It's still you, after all. She thinks to herself that she looks somewhat plain; not quite how she would want to maker her first impression, but she was much too groggy to do something about it.
There was something missing, however, and that brought more of a torment to her mind than the hangover. Suddenly, Vesper enters the frame, carefully holding out a baby blue letterman jacket to Hana.
"I would check the pockets to make sure everything is there, but I made sure to leave it as it was."
Hana wraps herself in the jacket, immediately feeling the relief of its weight. It's an anchor to her, grounding her back in reality and melting away that sharp pain in her head. Her camera sits in the left pocket, while a small, faded note sits in the other. Vesper turns around as Hana begins to read the note's contents.
"Your name is Hana Thompson. You're 20 years old, and you're from Buchanan, Michigan."
She exhales, feeling a clarity return to her head.
"Alright, I think I'm ready to go now, Vesper." She smiles. "And thank you for holding onto my stuff."
"Of course, that's why I'm here. To keep you in one piece." A pause. "And because you still owe me for saving your ass from that crab."
The pair laugh.
"So, what class is this exactly? I don't remember registering for anything over the summer."
"Regardless of major, Serena Verdae has incoming freshmen take the same set of courses, mostly your basic history, language, and thaumaturgy courses. I just pulled some strings to make sure you ended up in my class."
Hana turns her head, confused.
"Your class?"
"I'm the TA for your extra-reality histories class. There are some interesting choices, but this class is specifically focused on my home." Vesper opens their arms, presenting their outfit. They wear a long cloak of alternating red and black, trimmed with gold. Small bells are affixed along the jacket's hem.
"The circus?"
Vesper frowns.
"No, Hana. My real home, the place I hope to return to one day."
They take Hana's hands in theirs.
"You're going to learn the story of Alagadda."
Ghent - 2005
Dr. Martin Cortoys has spent the past few months going through the motions, completely disconnected from the world.
The doctors tell him he has anterograde amnesia, as if someone pressed pause on his life and he's doomed to repeat the same conversations he's had a million times before. Conversations he knows he had a million times before. But sometimes, he sees the watercolor outlines of figures he's forgotten, shadows whose hollow words echo across memories his brain can simply no longer access. Once in a while, there's a symbol he recognizes: a circle pierced by 3 arrows, surrounded by a vault. He scrawled it on notes and manuscripts and journals; an unhealthy obsession, the answer to all his questions, the most important one being why?
At first, his colleagues and students were worried about him. They tried to carry on as normal, asking him questions about his work or the works he once held so dearly. When he tried to reciprocate, bringing forth the large tomes that he had framed his life's work around, the words on the pages just didn't make any sense. What was an 'Alagadda'? What connection did that small red fox have to the place? How does one even get there?
The words might as well have been gibberish to him, the questions they formed, a similar unknown.
It was, frankly, frustrating to the scholar. It was as if he had forgotten something as essential to him as eating and drinking, an entire fundamental cornerstone of his life ripped away, starting at square one. If his hair wasn't already greyed, if stress lines didn't already mar his face, he would have given up, retired into obscurity, simply fading into nothing. He didn't feel it right to resign himself to such a fate, however, and like the texts he spent so long decoding, breathing new life into for new generations to enjoy, he saw it only right to start again from scratch.
Most nights he nearly fainted from the exhaustion, the strain of having to pierce through that mental barrier to allow forth the blurred words that rested on stained pages. His wife would find him at the kitchen table in their small apartment late in the night, covered in a cold sweat, and begged him to come to bed. For a time, even his children tried to pry him from his studies. He could see it in their eyes, the horror of watching their father slowly drift and fade into something they no longer knew, until, during these academic dives, they just began to avoid him entirely, regard him but say nothing more.
When he looked in the mirror, he was a gaunt, skeletal man bereft of soul and joy for life. Not wanting to put his family through more trouble, he lived out of his shoe box university office, oftentimes with the door closed, leaving only at night for a smoke. It was a nasty habit, but it eased the mind, regardless of the stain in left on his heart.
And it was on one of these smoke breaks that he found a new purpose in his life, the chance to right the universe's wrongs towards him.
The Ambassador floats across the concrete avenues of Ghent, a smile etched across his ephemeral face.
This gamble had cost him, sure. For a moment, just before passing on, he watched the executioner lift his dismembered head from his sly shoulders, blood staining the ground like spoiled wine. But he was no longer there, his name no longer his. The runes carved into his false molar had done their job, and he was simply a soul without a vessel now, carried across the waves of reality to the distant shore he heard the locals of this place refer to as 'Belgium'. It was an odd place, certainly. He had never seen this type of architecture or technology before. People spoke a blend of languages, some he recognized and some he did not, and they expressed themselves with odd gestures and outfits. It was a boring place compared to his Alagadda, almost depressing, but it was a start.
To the average pedestrian, he was practically invisible. He discovered that his form was invisible to the eye, but when he spoke he was like the wind, chilling those who heard his prodding words. For a time he used this for his own entertainment, whispering "encouraging" words into passersby, causing people to drop their food or drink with a simple "boo", and haunting those that roamed directionless in the night. He sought, first and foremost, a vessel. An impressionable vessel would be ideal, an unsuspecting individual that would believe his whispered words and do his bidding. On a particularly frigid night, he found such a candidate.
The Ambassador watches a haggard man limp towards the canal's bridge. The man mutters to himself as he approaches the railing, fussing with his tweed jacket's pockets for a pack of cigarettes, his hands shaking as he lifts the match up to light it. The man closes his eyes as he takes a long drag of the cigarette, looking the way weary travelers and scholars do after a restless day's work. The Ambassador floats towards him, the winter air almost piercing his spectral form. Just as he's about to reach out a hand to place on the man's shoulder, thread the eye of the silvery needle of his rhetoric, the man exhales and opens his eyes.
"I'm already haunted enough, spirit, and the night is already cold. There's nothing of value to be gained from me and you'll do little to further chill my soul."
The Ambassador stops. It wasn't often that he found himself being caught off guard, but there was something… different about this man. There was a certain way he speaks and carries himself that feels incredibly familiar to the spirit; the scholars of Albedo often walked hunched over in their grand libraries, and there was a joke that their shoulders bore the weight of all that knowledge. In fact, the man standing before him looked to be one of knowledge, at least formerly. His posture was awkward, like an animal learning to walk, constantly adjusting for a weight that should be there but isn't. What greater tragedy than the burden of knowledge gone?
"I am no revenant, wayward scholar. I do not haunt in the night. View me instead as a messenger, a courier atop zephyrus gusts, hailing from a far off land."
The man sighs and takes another drag of his cigarette.
"I must be Bayrolles then." He sighs. "What's next? Am I going to be visited by an owl? Do you intend to lead me to that 'far off land'? I'm hardly in the mood to hear about my demise. I'm already quite aware of my own hubris."
The Ambassador laughs and revolves around the man, stopping when he hovers on the railing next to him.
"The message I bring is not one of warning. Tell me, unnamed scholar, what does the word 'Alagadda' mean to you?"
"How do you know what that is?" The man turns to face the shade, his cigarette steadily burning away between his fingers. "Are you a shadow from my past?"
"Although I am now but a shadow, I speak of a place I once called my home. What is your name, scholar, so I may address you properly?"
"Martin Cortoys. Dr. Martin Cortoys. Who— what are you?"
The Ambassador's face pulls into a grin.
"I am Alagadda's Ambassador." The Ambassador bows dramatically, deep, though still unseen in all but presence. "How has a medical man such as yourself come to learn of my homeland?"
"I studied literature, and a little red fox seemed to have led me to stumble across Alagadda, but—" he holds his head, straining. "I can't remember. Something happened to me and I seem to have forgotten all of it."
"My condolences, Scholar Cortoys. I have not seen a story more tragic than this in my time, not at all." He floats closer to the man, placing an ephemeral arm around the man's shoulder. "But you do not strike me as the man to give up, and it is in my mercy that I offer you a boon."
"A boon? What did you have in mind?"
"I offer myself, my knowledge, to you. I simply require a vessel to traverse this world in." The Ambassador laughs. "Your body will remain yours, but our thoughts will be intertwined. A small price to pay for quite a large return. I was always known to be a generous holder of my station."
Cortoys laughs nervously.
"This feels far too good to be true. What's the catch?"
"There is no catch, good scholar Cortoys. I do not seek to deceive you, only offer you a windfall chance to take back what you lost. Decline and I shall be on my way, but do not take my words for those of lies."
And now, The Ambassador knows all he has to do is wait, watch. The scholar next to him looks out onto the water of the canal, the moon and stars reflecting off the dark surface. He watches as the man lifts the cigarette to his lips, stops, and then drops the cigarette to the ground, extinguishing it with his shoe. With a nod, The Ambassador and Cortoys walk back towards the nearby university, two halves now whole.
Serena Verdae College - Present Day
"So this 'Alagadda'; what's stopping you from just going to the Library and finding a Way that brings you back there? Isn't that part of its purpose? Connecting different realities in one place?"
Hana and Vesper walk along the cobblestone pathways from the apartments towards the academic section of campus. The common spaces are teeming with students; some sit at tables advertising different clubs and activities, some are in pairs or groups, throwing frisbees and other projectiles between themselves, but most walk steadily to class, shutting out the rest of the world with music or conversation.
"It's not exactly that simple, Hana. Traveling to Alagadda requires a ritual to be followed to a tee, and even then it's incredibly dangerous. One wrong move, one misstep, and you may find yourself dead or worse. Dr. Sandoval may bring it up in lecture, but if she doesn't, I can just fill in the gaps if you'll find that helpful."
"I see, I see." Hana nods "My first college lecture. I can't believe this is happening."
"Don't get too excited. These entry level courses are nothing really special, and I've worked with this professor before. She's great with more specialized stuff, but teaching more generally is where she struggles. I'm just TA-ing because of the topic and I need the money."
Hana laughs, and Vesper turns their head.
"Sorry, Hana. Not everyone has the funding of the shadow government to get them through college."
"I don't mind helping you out. I doubt they'll fuss at me about necessary expenses. It's the least they can do for my AC breaking every few months."
Vesper grins.
"You're hopeless, Hana. Never change."
After some time, the pair make their way into the lecture hall and take their seats in the middle of a large atrium. For the most part, people ignore the pair, but a few people turn to the person sitting next to them and whisper the words crab killer. The room fills as the clock slowly ticks towards the start time, before, just 2 minutes to noon, an older, greying figure enters the room and places his satchel bag down on the table. Vesper tenses.
"Something's not right here."
"Are we in the right place, or is he in the wrong place, Vesper?"
"Yeah— yeah we're in the right place."
The man grabs a piece of chalk from a box on a lectern, writing his name on the powdery-green board.
"Hello, everyone. I know this might come as a bit of a surprise, but Dr. Sandoval had an emergency and asked me to teach her class this semester." He turns around, a grin stretching across his face. "My name is Dr. Martin Cortoys. I'm a visiting professor from the University of Ghent."
A chorus of murmurs fills the room, as students turn confused towards one another. Cortoys walks up to the lectern, placing both hands on the edges. Hana turns to Vesper, who stares ahead, frozen. When Hana shifts her gaze towards the front of the room, she locks eyes with the professor. There's a dull glow around his irises that disappears when he blinks, reentering the present.
"It is an honor for me to be your teacher. I have been studying Alagadda for the better part of my life, and I am excited to bring it to you here, now, in all its dramatic glory."
He pulls a large, bound tome out from his satchel bag, and places it atop the lectern with a resounding cloud of dust. He reaches into his pocket to pull out a wiry-pair of reading glasses and, clearing his throat, opens the book to the first page.
"Let's begin, shall we?"
Rennes - 2018
"Do you ever wonder what it would be like to walk the streets of Alagadda?"
A pair stand in front of a large oil painting depicting the bustling streets of what, at first glance, seems to be an Italian city during Carnevale. Figures wear a variety of extravagant costumes and patterns, masking their faces with the beautiful or grotesque façades offered to them by the mask's porcelain visage. But the scholars alone know the truth in the bustling crowd that makes its way through the Musée des beaux-arts de Rennes.
Dr. Xiomara Sandoval chuckles at the idea, each laugh punctuating the wrinkles on her face, and turns her head towards the man standing next to her.
"You remind me of a student of mine, Martin. They're always telling me stories they've heard of Alagadda growing up. I think the two of you would get along well."
"Perhaps one day I may be fortunate enough to meet them." Cortoys grins. "Stories can only bring us so close, however. Just imagine how it would feel like to walk the cobbled streets, see the fine men and women on parade in the thoroughfare being called out to by vendors."
"My colleagues told me you had a certain eccentricity about you. It seems my old age has worn that passion down from me, though. I don't think I can dream to the same extent I used to."
Cortoys leans closer as a group of school kids awkwardly waddle behind him.
"You and I both know that what I speak of isn't just a dream, Xiomara."
Sandoval turns back towards the painting, her old, blue eyes staring defeated into the painting.
"Perhaps this isn't the best place to speak. Let's go for a walk."
Cortoys follows a pace behind the archaic figure in front of him, as the pair walk along the riverside. A pack of pigeons swarm the remnants of a meal nearby, and flee as their procession makes its way past the punctured brown bag filled with the leftover crumbs of pastry. He smiles as they scurry away; a reaffirmation of his power, and a reminder of his grand ambitions.
"I know that you and your colleagues are aware of me and my work, Dr. Sandoval, and you'll be interested to hear where my work will be taking me next. Finally will we be able to reopen the Way to Alagadda that was closed so long ago. Just think of the cultural significance of this discovery, what this means for a myriad of different fields!"
"Then you should know well why we haven't. Has Dr. Merhout's example not been enough for yo—"
"Dr. Merhout and the rest of her Foundation have taken everything from me. The only reason they didn't succeed was because I was able to pull myself together with the scraps that were left for me." Cortoys stops to steady his breathing.
Sandoval drags Cortoys back towards a collection of storefronts in a space between two buildings.
"Are you insane?" she whispers. "We all feel the same way about the Foundation and their control over anomalous literature, but this directly puts a target on your back. Once they see that it's you again, do you think they'll hesitate to pull the trigger this time? If you go through with this, no one will be around to remember you."
"I'm well aware, which is why I'm leaving Europe. Though this continent is ripe with history and artifacts, I have already gotten what I need from this place. I need to go somewhere the Foundation won't be looking for activity of this kind." Cortoys grins and leans down. "And this is where you come in."
"Me?" Sandoval laughs. "Why on earth would I ever help you?"
"You're going to give me the position I need to get this whole thing rolling." Sandoval's expression drops. "A professor incredibly knowledgeable about Alagadda near the age of retirement goes to Europe for a summer of immersion in what cultural remnants can be found here. While here, she unfortunately has a heart attack and never makes it back. A concerned friend, a scholar of the same discipline and focus steps in as a noble act, a final respect for a lost colleague, and teaches the class until a more permanent position is opened up for him."
Sandoval freezes. "What have you done?"
"Nothing yet, but soon," Cortoys opens his satchel and removes a bound manuscript labelled in simple, black ink The Hanged King's Tragedy. He hears the growl of the voice within him, stepping forth into the spotlight. "I will have my revenge on the King that banished me. Soon, everything around him will burn, and I will remake his kingdom from the ashes." Cortoys steps forward. "And you have already lit the first match."
Cortoys begins to mutter indecipherably, almost chanting, as a rope slowly uncoils in his hands. Sandoval turns to run, but she makes it not three steps before it winds around her neck. Cortoys strains as he pulls, and Sandoval claws at the cord, frantically at first, before finally slowing and becoming more and more distant. When she finally goes still, Cortoys kneels next to her on the ground. He produces a small knife from his boot and sticks it into her side, allowing it to gather into a small, clear bundle of crystal.
"I look forward to meeting this student of yours, Xiomara. The two of us have a bright future ahead of us."
Cortoys stands, brushes the dust off of him, and begins to walk away. With a snap, the rope and rope burn around Sandoval's neck disappear, and it's almost as if he was never there at all.
Serena Verdae College - Present Day
Vesper knew the way to Dr. Sandoval's office almost by heart: through the double doors near the atrium, past the hallway water dispenser staff often congregated by, a left, a right, and another left to the cozily cramped office.
The room had as much comfort an academic would require, while also being as welcoming as possible to students. Books were neatly aligned on bookshelves adjacent to the desk, and Dr. Sandoval knew what was in each and every one, dog earring pages of particular interest for recurring students who brought questions with them. A collection of knitting supplies sat in a basket on her windowsill, and the works created by her hands draped over the cushioned chairs or small futon. Vesper would recall stories their mother told them about Alagadda while Dr. Sandoval would listen intently, allowing her hands to create what they pleased.
Vesper couldn't believe something had happened to her, but there was little time to mourn; Cortoys' eyes held within them something Vesper hadn't seen since they were a child, and there was only one other person whose grin ever came close: the Ringleader.
Hana, none the wiser, had offered to accompany Vesper to this meeting; Vesper would have to fill her in on the whole story one day, but if their fears were correct, the last thing they wanted to do was put Hana in danger or worse, involve the Foundation.
"Vesper, is it? Apologies for not notifying you about the professor change earlier. Everything happened so suddenly and I wasn't aware of my new position until recently." Cortoys smiles. "I'm still trying to get used to the time zone changes as well."
This is a load of bullshit.
"Well, in that case, I'm glad to finally meet you formally, Dr. Cortoys." Vesper extends a hand out. Cortoys grins in return, and the office door shuts from an unseen force.
"Respectfully, Vesper, I am not a fool, nor will I allow you to trick me into breaking one of the sacred rules of divining." Cortoys stands and looks out his window, lifting a crimson red crystal as he does. "However, I am generous; since you have already seen through my disguise, and Sandoval has already filled me in about you, there's no reason to keep up this ruse. We will address each other as our proper titles." Cortoys clears his throat. "My name is Dr. Martin Cortoys, current Ambassador to the False King of Alagadda."
"Vesper." They cross their arms. "What happened to Xiomara?"
"Just 'Vesper'? I know it's not uncommon for people like us to have no family names, but not even a location or occupation?" Cortoys grins. "There is still so much you do not know."
"I was named only with the circus in mind; I don't know what my mother's surname was." Vesper glares at Cortoys. "Are you dodging the question?"
"What happened to Xiomara was tragic; to die, far from home with no one around to help you is one of the worst ways to go. When I arrived at the hospital, I was far too late. I only wish I could have been there to help." Cortoys sets the crystal down on the table. "Your mother, was she from here or Alagadda?"
"She fled Alagadda after the decree banning divination. I couldn't tell you how many years ago that was. How did you and Xiomara know each other?"
"Time doesn't translate evenly between Alagadda and here. Scholars still argue about the theoretical nature of it to this day." Cortoys reaches for a book with a branching crest on it. "Dr. Sandoval and I met a few times at conferences, and we cited each other's work often. She was passionate in what she did." He motions to Vesper. "And it seems that passes to her students as well."
"When she heard about my situation, she offered to be a space for me to talk about my home. All the gaps in my mother's stories, she filled in with the knowledge she knew, or searched her collection for something that may help me out." Vesper leans back in their chair. "It felt like the closest thing to home."
"How would you like to visit?"
Vesper laughs and shakes their head.
"You've got to be joking."
"I'm being serious, Vesper. I have devoted much of my life to this, and all I need is your help." He leans across the table. "Before Xiomara passed, she told me she had worked to find your lineage. When I told her that I would be working to find a stable bridge to Alagadda, the first thing she brought up was how excited you will be. With your help, we have a real shot at this."
Cortoys produces a small, leather-bound book from his satchel, and places it open on the desk. He turns the book towards Vesper, revealing a short, but elegantly painted coat of arms. Vesper's eyes widen, as they lean forward.
"What do you say, Vesper d'Oriane?"
Vesper pauses for a moment, drinking in all they can from the tome. Part of them wanted to assume that Cortoys was lying, that there was some ulterior motive, or that by entering the office, they had already signed their death certificate. But the other part of them, a much more hopeful and youthful one, thought of a home that never belonged to them, or a place only ever heard in stories, one that they had almost been sacrificed for— it was the last connection they had to their mother who, full of guilt, had split ways with Vesper. To Vesper, this all couldn't have been for nothing; home had to be worth it.
So, after their long glance at the book, they look up at Cortoys, who responds only with a crooked smile.
