The figure moved like a shadow between the pilings, pillars of stone and oily steel. As he turned down the last long hallways, he reached a charred oak door. It was fitted with an unusual brass knocker and nothing else. The knocker itself was polished and was composed of metal bits, gears and delicate arms and levers. The man pressed his palm on the surface and then jerked it back, a small trickle of blood dripping from a prick in his flesh. The arms and gears came to life like the internal functions of a clock. What was once an indiscernible collection of bits transformed into a delicate face of a woman. As the final piece of her high cheek bones and fierce gaze clicked into place, the door swung open, allowing the man to pass on into a large chamber of stone and blazing firelight.
"Michael." Intoned a deep male voice from the head of a long table of polished ebony. The man was tall, broad and handsome. He was dressed in a good suit, had no beard and had immense hands, which he interlaced together as he leaned back in his high back chair. "Draw nigh to the court of those who will judge you."
Michael stepped into the warm glow of a dozen candles, lanterns and a roaring hearth. Six figures, 3 women and 3 men, sat on either side in their dark silks, and extravagant furs. Gold and silver peaked out from every crevice of their clothing despite the figures only appearing as dark silhouettes. Michael passed a hand over his face and rolled his shoulders. His body shifted, bent impossibly, transforming before his eager audience into the form of a young man. He had shoulder length dirty blonde hair, a thin boney frame and a pale face. His eyes were a pale blue which sparkled and danced with the fire around him.
"Welcome to the halls of a thousand faces" the chorus of voices chanted from the shadows. "We welcome he who bore the knife. We welcome he who has spilled blood. We welcome our brother back to the fold."
"Give an account and speak honestly before those who will judge you," the leader said, leaning forward in his seat.
"I have walked the ways of mortals; I have delivered our message to the Ambassador of the North, and I have sown the seeds of disunity and discord." Michael said, his lips curling into a broad, dark smile.
"Have you not neglected to mention your failure," a female cut in like a razer, her outline full of luscious curls and jingling with chains, rings and bracelets which held a fortune of charms and tokens.
Michael bit back a bitter laugh. "I delivered the message."
"And yet," an older man added with a voice like worn leather, "You have not the knife by which to prove the message has been received. Show us her blood."
"She was surprisingly nimble." Michael said under his breath. He added boldly "I have performed my task."
"Your task was to drive a knife into the heart and dream of unification. The ambassador is unscathed, and you have surrendered the instrument by which she was to perish." Another voice, youthful and strong which wore an excess of black lace and rings on her fingers, added with a bitter shake of her head.
"You employed magic, which has attracted the attention of the agents of the Lorieths." another feminine voice added, though the acid in her vocal cords almost diminished the airy qualities of her pristine voice. She tilted her head, as if to examine an insect. "You panicked."
"I have sown doubt and paranoia," Michael protested though grinding teeth. "My capture would have undone everything. I used means given to me for just such an occasion."
"That was not the only tools given to you," a slithery male voice said, the outline of his shoulders shifting like oil across water. You could almost hear his smile spreading across his face. "You had a knife did you not? That is, until you lost it."
Michael's cheeks flushed with fury. He was about to protest when the leader held up a hand. "You have been silent, Artor" he added cooly, inclining his head to the side. Michael glanced to the seat next to the leader where a man was seated. He could see in the reflection the man was dark in complexion, with short curly hair and sharp features.
"The boy has not killed the ambassador, it is true. And he has acted rashly. But he has shifted the pieces into place, nonetheless. The Crown must now respond, as will the North. There will be denials. There will be protests. Even now the North has received word of the attempt by the Lorieths to murder their kin. Sparks we can fan into flames. Whether or not anyone believes the message, everyone will have acted just as we predicted. For it is human nature."
There was a reluctant assent to the words of the one called Artor. The leader turned back to face Michael. "This council has judged you. Blood for blood."
"Blood for Blood" the chanting voices echoed.
"The oath must be fulfilled."
"The Oath, the Oath!" they keened.
Michael felt something bump his arm. He glanced around, a spotted a knife which had materialized out of the dark, glinting like polished silver against the dark stones. He bent down and picked up the cool metal in his sweating palms. "Blood for blood," he said, drawing the blade across his hand. Holding his fist aloft as blood trickled across the stones, he cried. "Count my oath fulfilled."
"Oh, we do," the leader smiled and with a flick of his hand a mass of bodies broke from the darkness like a flood. As the cries of Michael were carried away on the wave of groping hands and bare feet, his voice now just a muffled gurgling, the only memory of that failed assassin was a silvery knife in a pool of warm blood glistening atop the slick stones.
"The court of the Masquerade has judged you" the voices chanted in unison. "And it has found you wanting."
With a growing crescendo, the chorus of voices chanted "Glory to she who wore Correllon's Crown. The children of a thousand faces have gathered beneath her skirts. It was she who set the gears of the world in motion, formed the machine from the shadow and fanned the flame of invention. We who walk in your shadow, salute the LADY LAFEEN!"
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