I spent three days before Deinaros the All-knowing summoned me. The three floors of the tower to which I had been confined soon lost their novelty, and I wandered the city instead, taking in the sights and sounds of the sprawling metropolis. The markets beckoned me with the scents of fresh fish and warm bread, and the taverns promised strong drink—with some effort, I avoided them, to keep my wits about me. Wherever I went, the steepled temple looked down on me from above, its seven carved pillars a constant reminder of Phyreios. What relation the Ascended had to these tall, faceless gods of the West, I could not deduce. These seven stayed confined to their temple and the small carved icons in the windows lining each winding street, and for that I could only be grateful.
Cricket left each morning to sell her trinkets at the harbor. I went with her, on the first day, curious as to why her teacher sent her alone to the market. At best, I feared she would be robbed, weighed down as she was by such a quantity of silver; at worst, I had just recently learned of the flesh-markets of Nyssodes. A clever kidnapper needed only to coincide with a waiting ship, and Cricket would never have returned to the tower.
She bade me keep my distance, though, when we reached the docks. She had charms to sell, and my looming presence frightened away her customers. I asked if she was afraid, and if she had the means to defend herself.
Cricket showed me two objects on her person: a sharp knife hidden in a skirt pocket, the length of a finger and curved like a claw, and a thin golden chain around her neck. Each link was no bigger than a grain of sand and as fine as a spider’s web, and it had no clasp and could not be removed.
“There’s magic woven into it,” she explained. “Deinaros can find me if he ever loses me.”
I did not ask what sort of magic this was, and neither did I inquire what would happen if Cricket were killed before she could return to the tower. The latter I could imagine well enough. Deinaros had the book now, and with it he might bind Cricket’s soul to her flesh, ensuring that his apprentice could return to the market the next day with only a grayish cast to her face to suggest that she was only pretending at life.
I did not linger in her company after that, but I wandered back to the harbor with every toll of the temple bell, just to make sure she remained among the living.
Soon, I tired of the city. I wanted to be back on the sea, or at least on the high roads through the desert and the mountains. I had slept too many nights on the hard ground, and the bed in Deinaros’ tower gave me no comfort. I lay awake, watching the stars move across my window, and contemplated setting out on my own once more with no guidance from the all-knowing one.
With the book no longer in my possession, I had little choice but to remain where I was. I was surrounded by books I could not read, the body parts of creatures I could not identify, and tapestries I could not interpret. This was the world of the tome I had carried, and I had at last returned it home. Fittingly, this tower was as inscrutable as the text itself.
Deinaros moved about above my tiny room, his footsteps tracing recursive, circular paths at all hours of the day and night. If he slept, it was in short bursts at odd times. He had said that his master had penned the book centuries ago; if he also lived to teach Deinaros, who appeared no older than forty, he must have lived far longer than a man has any right to go on. Had he used what he knew to extend his life even longer than the ruined king of Salmacha, or had Deinaros brought him back from death to learn his secrets? What evil sorcery had I agreed to assist?
I had been warned—at the village around the well, by the man who had given the book to me, and by my own conscience—that no good would come of it. I had not listened. I still would not listen, even here at the edge of the endless sea, so far from anything I knew. I would remain in the tower until Deinaros called for me. Having come this far, I vowed I would see it through.
I had the lightning weapon. I kept it close at hand, even at night. If some evil magic were to be conjured in this place, I expected I would have the ability to stop it.
At last, Deinaros appeared upon the stairs, early in the morning when the sky was still a pale gray. Cricket provided my morning and evening meals on a tin plate outside my door, though I had no idea where she prepared the food. This morning, like the previous ones, she had given me dried fish and brown bread before disappearing to attend to her other chores elsewhere in the tower.
“You’re awake,” Deinaros said when I opened the door to retrieve my breakfast. “Good. I have a task for you.”
His robe flowed around him, falling down the steps like dark water. Even in the weak morning light, it shimmered with an unearthly brilliance. Despite his strange habits, his angular face showed no sign of a lack of sleep. His eyes were bright, his demeanor alert and calm.
“I’ll do it,” I said, “but first, I would ask if this task will help me on my quest, or if this will be a test of my capabilities before the real work begins.”
He laughed, a low, whispering sound that nonetheless filled the room. “Worry not. I will not waste your time or mine with such frivolities. You brought the book here. Clearly, you are an experienced traveler and a fine example of a warrior. I will perform the ritual you wish, and retrieve the soul in question from the land of the dead. In order to do so, I require certain artifacts—artifacts that were lost when my master at last left this world.”
“I suppose you’ve found them recently, then,” I said.
His smile was as cold as the wind coming in from over the sea. “Not quite. Eat, and then ascend one more floor. I will meet you there.”
He turned, and his robes twisted around him for an instant before they spun out in a rush of rustling fabric, and he climbed the stairs as though he floated above them.
At last I would leave the tower with a destination to reach, instead of wandering the city to better pass the hours. I wolfed down the food and gathered my pack, and I took the stairs two at a time.
The fourth floor had the same octagonal structure as the previous three, with the same narrow windows. A collection of strange, silver instruments lined three of the walls, hanging from hooks with curved blades and thin points aimed toward the floor. I recognized a few as surgical tools, for cutting through flesh and severing bone. The rest I could not identify.
A long table of polished wood stood behind the stairs, and a second took up a place on the opposite side of the room. Deep gouges scarred the surface of both tables, and strange, dark stains, long ago soaked into the wood, swallowed the light of the oil lamps placed atop them. A sharp smell hung in the air, like grain alcohol and harsh lye soap.
Deinaros placed the book upon one table, opening it to a page I did not recognize from my brief attempts to examine it. It showed the black surface of what might have been a pond, still and smooth, surrounded on all sides with blocks of tiny, bleeding text. Even if I knew the letters, the ink would have made it impossible to read.
“Look at this image,” Deinaros instructed. “Learn it well. It is the Sage’s Mirror, and it has not been seen by any man of this country for three hundred years.”
I stood before the book and did as I was instructed. To tell the truth, there was not much to look at, only a circular patch of black ink. In the lamplight, it shimmered as if it had just been painted.
“I suppose you want me to find it for you,” I said.
A scowl briefly crossed his serene features. I had no patience for his theatrics, and it vexed him. “It has already been found. I want you to fetch it for me.”
“Then tell me where it is.” As I stared at the page, the black spot seemed to expand, becoming huge and liquid. The faint outline of my reflection appeared in the darkness. I closed my eyes and gave my head a sharp shake, and it was gone, the page unchanged.
“Far to the south, across the sea, the land is covered in forest. The trees are as tall as the heavens, and they blot out the sun so that nothing else may grow upon the ground. A tribe of powerful mages dwells among the branches, weaving spells of rainwater and lightning and spiders’ webs. My master had a great respect for them, and when he passed into the other world, he hid the mirror among them, admonishing them never to gaze upon it. If they obeyed, and my master was certain they would, it remains hidden in one of their strongholds above the forest floor.”
“That isn’t much to help me find my way,” I said. “How long ago did your master relinquish the artifact? Three hundred years? How do you know it hasn’t been stolen in a raid, or dropped from the trees and shattered?”
Deinaros held up a hand to silence me. “My master had great trust in a particular wizard: Atsu, son of Lusala. You must find him, or his descendants, in the high citadel.”
“And what should I do if they no longer possess the mirror?” I asked. “It is a fragile thing, surely.”
“It is not so easily broken. Now, listen well: my master’s name was Maponos, and he was called the ever-living, though that is no longer true. His name may serve as a password to open doors that are closed to you. Repeat it to me, so that I know you understand.”
“Maponos the ever-living,” I said dutifully.
Deinaros favored me with a slow nod. “You must tell them nothing of me, nor of your goals. In the forests of the south, the dead are sacred, and it is even more of a taboo to manipulate them with magic than it is here. Do you know how the church of the Seven punishes necromancers?”
I could only shake my head. My only contact with the church had been viewing its statues from outside. A terrible dread settled into my belly, but I ignored its warning. Deinaros had agreed to help me. I could not question his methods.
“It is better that you don’t,” he said. “I will give you coin and provisions. It will be up to you to charter a ship and to make your way from there. You will likely spend many months upon the road, but I trust you will return promptly, and carrying the mirror.”
It was not the mention of necromancy, nor the confirmation that Deinaros’ master had cheated death for centuries, that finally caused me to doubt—it was the time that this errand promised to take. Years had already passed since I had last seen Khalim. How many more would I spend chasing the sorcerer’s whims?
“I’ll fetch you your mirror,” I said. “But I will not depart until I know what purpose it has in your ritual. How will this mirror help me find Khalim?”
Deinaros smiled, blank and still as a carved statue. “It will open the way,” he said. “As soon as you return, I will show you. I make this promise on my life and the long life of my master. Return, and you will understand.”
Back to Chapter XLIII: The Book-Collector
Forward to Chapter XLV: The Summer Sea
So, good news, I have an outline for the rest of this book. This version of it will be 68 chapters and 6 interludes, making it a little shorter than The Book of the New Moon Door but significantly longer than Beyond the Frost-Cold Sea. A lot of it will be cut and reworked in the editing phase, but I thought I’d give you a little roadmap of what’s to come in the near future.
Thanks for reading!
Space Whales Press 
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