I stiffen at that voice, even though I have only heard it once. The door to the balcony of my apartment is closed, you couple that fact and that voice together….
I wheel around to face Yellow Carcosa, the Council’s messenger, who can appear simultaneously at many locations. Bilocation, Kai called it.
Carcosa is wearing the same suit that he wore when he brought the news about Censure to Fallowfell; a jacket too long in the slevees and pants held up against his waist with a frayed rope that smells like seaside.
He flashes me his white teeth in all too broad smile, teeth that makes me think of something that hides beneath shallow waters.
“I bring news from the Council, Rune Fallowfell. Fenrir Suneater has escaped the Bastille. It is believed that he will make his way here. Should you encounter him, you are to tell Tam Linn of his whereabouts…”
“Nidar Greyscale”, a voice says in the darkness. Greyscale makes a startled movement before his eyes narrow in recognition. “Carcosa”, he spits out, on making out the scent, or perhaps more accurately, the lack of it.
“I bring news from the Council,Nidar Greyscale. Fenrir Suneater has escaped the Bastille. It is believed that he will make his way here. Should you encounter him, you are to tell Tam Linn of his whereabouts”, Carcosa says in a neutral voice.
He glances east. “The forest here is quite nice” he begins in a strange sequitur,” don’t you think so, Nidar Greyscale?” Greyscale shrugs. “It’s alright, I suppose”, he mutters, not quite sure of where the conversation is going. “There is particularly fine thicket outside of Fallowfell, isn’t there, Nidar Greyscale?”
Greyscale’s blood turns to ice. He knows. About the Casket, the World-Tree.He shrugs again, but making the movement seem unstrained is hard. “I wouldn’t know about that”, Greyscale eventually says.
Carcosa nods. “I am sure you don’t”, he responds in a tone filled with hidden mirth.
“Fenrir Suneater has escaped the Bastille….” Carcosa continues to talk, but Amanda Skog can’t hear him. Fenrir.
Skin break, bones reform, and in the space previously occupied by a girl with black hair a white wolf now sits.
“This is not good”, Richard Corazon reiterates. He leans back against the comfortable wicker-chair. “It wasn’t ‘good’ when they declared Censure on Fallowfell, it sure as hell wasn’t ‘good’ when they decided on Tam Linn out of all monsters of the Seven…. but this is as far from good as the moon is from earth”, Perenelle Flamel declares.
“I am beginning to think that they have slated Fallowfell for annihilation”, she goes on to say,” because not only have Censure been declared, the strictest state of governing possible, they’ve sent Tam Linn to enforce it.”
Perenelle holds a hand up. “In every incarnation of the Seven, there has been atleast one lunatic.” A thumb goes up. ” Medusa, who destroyed those cities durning ‘Nam’.” The nail on her index-finger is chipped, she notices. ” The Horned Serpent, who drowned all those poor people in the St Felix’s Flood incident.” As she raises her middle, her eyes turn cloudy with memories. “Tennin Miho, who orchestrated that storm in Galveston at the turn of the twentieth century as revenge for what the Americans did to her.” Her second last finger, the finger on which she carries her wedding ring goes up. ” Rong, that vile rapist, who was expelled from the Flight.” And lastly, her pinky. ” Zenobia, who in truth believed that the Council should have taken control of the Roman senate and gone public with the knowledge about supernaturals.”
“It’s common for rulers to employ hatchetmen, lord knows I used one or two during my time as king”, Richard adds, “indeed, good rulers always have someone willing to bury the bodies, people they keep close, but not too close.” “Though dearest, there is a difference between a soldier or assassin, especially compared to Tam Linn, mad dog that he is”, Perenelle retorts.
“To think that he would stoop as low as to hurt children”, she repeats in a grudge-filled voice. Unmentioned goes the fact that children died in the Plague, for which Perenelle was responsible.
Having said his message, Yellow Carcosa looks at Shirin with those eyes that lack pupils. He gives her a meaninful glance, one that bespeaks shared secrets and intimate knowledge before vanishing into thin air.
Yellow Carcosa’s sudden appearance causes Esaia Eldrige to fly up against the ceiling. “Hello, Esaia Eldridge.”
“Long time in greeting, Yellow King”, he calls back, not to sure aswhat to say. As the Council’s messenger, harbinger of ill news, what will Carcosa do to him?
“I thought, Mr Eldridge, that you’d liked to know about the decision the Council have taken in regards to your…. your reanimation, yes?”
Eldrige swallows. He prepares himself to fling waves of changed gravity at Carcosa. “The Council finds that you have broken no laws, done no wrong and that while your refusal to report to the Council in the interim since you last awoke is telling, that by itself does not constitute a crime.”
The relief that Eldrige experiences is one he will forever cherish. It is a form of relief felt in one’s bones, one’s heart and even one’s soul.
Carcosa continues to speak.
“Now then, I have another message to tell you. I bring news from the Council, Esaias Eldridge. Fenrir Suneater has escaped the Bastille. It is believed that he will make his way here. Should you encounter him, you are to tell Tam Linn of his whereabouts”, Carcosa says in a neutral voice.
“Wait!” Yellow Carcosa veers around at Hermann’s sudden shout. “Fenrir’s escape, under whose jurisdiction will it fall? Pier 7 or the Seven?”
Carcosa shrugs non-committedly. “Finder’s keeper. But seeing as Amanda Skog resides here, and who can ever tell where Garm is, the odds are that it is Fallowfell he will end up in. Of course, Pier 7 already have several operatives deeply entrenched Fallowfell.”
And like that, he is gone. Hermann digests the information for a split-second. “Wait, what?!”