Of Souls and Seeking

  “Meddle not with matters of the Maker.”

  — Imperial Truism

  The Diviner’s Oath

  “Our craft and creed forbid the resurrection and the second calling of a soul.

  Divination is inquiry, acceptance, and comfort — nothing more.

  Powerful rites may lay bare a scheme, a tryst, or a sin, but beware: the same rites may lead down paths you’ll wish you hadn’t trod.”

  — Excerpt from the Preface to the Beginner’s Book of Divination, issued by the Diviner’s Guild of Alissia

  Aaron Kessel stood in the practice arena of Greyblood Manor. He had spent the day making preparations for the upcoming divination of the outlandish assassins who attacked the knight in his manor two days ago.

  Kessel was a strange little man. He stood only five feet two inches tall, with a rotund belly, flabby limbs, and a thick, unruly white beard. Though he was not yet finished with his preparations, his eyes glazed over and his thoughts bent toward a particular memory that had plagued him for most of his life. The trance was always the same, and in recent years, the aging diviner had begun devoting entire days to the painful details locked within his mind.

  A young boy watched in horror from a cracked doorway as a gang of thieves roughed up his father. He had awakened in the small hours, roused by laughter he first assumed was from a dream. But the echoing sound was real.

  Curious and concerned, he followed the voices through the dark halls of the manor. Who could be calling at this hour? And why hadn’t his father—an imperious man with a vengeful temper—already thrown them out?

  Aaron crept along the shadowed corridors, slowing as he neared the dimly lit study. Fear swelled in his chest. Through the cracked door, he watched, paralyzed, as they beat his father mercilessly. The leader—a man with a wicked scar down his cheek—kept shouting at the elder Kessel as several larger thugs kicked and punched wildly.

  At the time, Aaron had been too young to understand that his father had gambled most of their wealth away. He didn’t know what interest was, but the scarred man kept howling for it, spinning a large dagger in his left hand.

  It went on for some time, until his father spat a glob of blood at the man. The red spittle landed squarely across the scar—and then it happened. The dagger flashed in the firelight and fell, embedding itself in his father’s chest.

  Screaming, Aaron burst through the doorway and past the startled gang. He grasped his father's hand, sobbing as a strange look crossed the dying man’s face.

  Slowly, the light in his eyes faded. It was like a heavy mist choking out a torch. When the final spark of life departed, Aaron would always remember the peculiar rasp of his father’s last breath.

  While the thugs argued over what to do, the scarred man even came to blows with one of his own. But in the end, they hadn’t harmed the boy. They made threats. Swore he’d be next if he ever spoke of it. Aaron hadn’t cared.

  He told the investigators everything.

  A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  The men were caught and publicly hanged.

  Even now, he could vaguely recall the scarred man's feet kicking in the air as his eyes bulged from their sockets.

  From that night forward, Aaron developed a fascination with the soul—and where it went after leaving the body. Today, Lord Kessel was one of the most knowledgeable and powerful diviners in the realm. Grand Auger of the Diviners’ Guild, all high-level requests were funneled directly to him.

  As suddenly as the memory surfaced, it vanished.

  Aaron blinked, then returned to his work as if nothing had happened.

  He scanned the perfectly drawn pentagram in front of him and retrieved a small bar of white bone chalk from one of his robe’s many pockets. Methodically, he finished the last arc of the protective symbol.

  The chalk had been crafted from the bones of priests and priestesses who had donated their bodies to him upon death. A life in service to the Maker imbued their bones with sanctified power. Mixed with other holy ingredients, the chalk became an instrument of rare potency.

  It was a common misconception that pentagrams were evil. In truth, if constructed properly, they could be among the most powerful and holy symbols of all. People likely mistrusted them due to their association with death—or worse, undeath.

  Aaron had grown accustomed to the suspicion. Most failed to see the difference between divination and necromancy. After all, both professions dealt with the dead, both used the symbol, and both could speak with the departed. But the means, and the intent, were vastly different.

  To Kessel, the pentagram was a tool. And a tool, in the end, was only as good—or as evil—as the one who wielded it.

  He had made a difference. He knew that.

  Satisfied with the rune, he looked around the room to confirm everything was in place.

  The Greyblood sparring arena was dimly lit. Every third sconce burned faintly, and all windows had been covered with thick black cloth to prevent outside disruption.

  In the center of the floor, the pentagram had been drawn.

  Inside, one of the strange assassins lay as if crucified, arms and legs spread, his body anchored with care. Beside him—still within the protective ring—stood a marble podium carved to resemble three skeletons supporting a tabletop with their skulls. Resting upon the slab was one of Kessel’s most powerful tomes of divination.

  The tabletop itself was enchanted. No breeze, no force—mundane or magical—could disturb the book during the rite.

  Just outside the pentagram, a large crystal ball shimmered. The orb glowed with an eerie green light, as if it held putrid gas within. It was a rare artifact known as the Demon’s Eye, a summoning sphere of immense power.

  Kessel had no idea which plane the ritual might tap into. He doubted the assassin was naturally evolved. If the creature was as unnatural as it seemed, then he needed to be prepared. The Demon’s Eye would provide him with reserves of magical energy if the ritual tapped into a dangerous or chaotic plane—and more importantly, it would grant him dominance over whatever tried to answer the call.

  He had only used that second ability once.

  He paused, offering a silent prayer to the Maker that he wouldn’t need it tonight.

  Around the main pentagram stood five candelabras. Each held five candles: two black for containing evil, two white for containing good, and a single red candle in the center conferring authority to the diviner.

  Beyond that ring were seven smaller pentagrams, each circled by five red candles—protection and authority for the ritual’s observers.

  Divination was usually benign. Simple spells could detect weather patterns, read auras, reveal secrets, or provide closure to the grieving.

  This was not one of those spells.

  One wrong incantation—one lapse of concentration—and the consequences could be dire: madness, possession, death. But Aaron was a veteran of his craft. The danger only made this opportunity more worthwhile.

  He searched for his pouch, located it, and began to disrobe.

  Naked, he pulled out a small vial and carefully popped the stopper. A revolting stench flooded the room. Nearly gagging, he clipped a wooden clothespin to his nose. The mixture inside was made from the boiled fat of the assassins and a rare herb known as Naferin, found only in the Dark Troll Mountains.

  Naferin was a vile-smelling lichen that grew exclusively near dark troll dens. Some scholars believed a symbiotic relationship existed between the herb and the trolls. Kessel didn’t care. All he knew was that it offered exceptional protection against the curses of the dead.

  He had seen what happened when unprotected novices performed high-level divinations. Some came back... rotting.

  He slathered a thin layer of the grease over his skin, then poured the remaining contents into a mug of particularly strong tea. It didn’t completely drown the flavor, but at least he didn’t vomit.

  That done, he tied on one of the assassins’ ceremonial loincloths, pulled his most prized possession from the pouch, and hung it around his neck: the amulet of power.

  Even without the amulet, Aaron Kessel was a match for most forms of undead. With it, he was a force of nature.

  The evening was drawing near. Soon, his guests would arrive.

  He only hoped he would not let his emperor down.