Memoirs of Your Local Small-time Villainess-Chapter 322 - Mounting alliances

“—And there I was, cornered by a gaggle of disgruntled merchants armed with little more than vehement declarations and what I assure you were the most woeful assortment of misplaced indignations,” Raimond declared, sweeping one hand grandly through the air while the other rested upon his heart. Leaning against a marble pillar, his near-golden hair caught the dappled light streaming through the stained-glass windows above, casting what he was sure was a most magnificent glow. “They were convinced—utterly convinced—I was to blame for their supposed misfortunes. And as merchants often do, they paid little heed to my most humble and priestly of demeanours. It was only by keeping in mind the universal truth—that the sweet balm of diplomacy is best applied with a delicate touch of honeyed flattery—that I soothed their ire and escaped unscathed, allowing them to leave with their dignity intact!”

The young priestess before him, her cheeks tinged a becoming shade of pink, giggled behind her hand. “You certainly have a way with words, Father Abraham.”

“My dear sister,” Raimond said with a wink that could—and had—charmed swaths of men and women alike. “It seems you, too, appreciate the universal truths. If only more of the world embraced the power of gentle words and mutual understanding, we might all find ourselves living in a paradise of our own making.”

Before his enraptured audience of one could respond, a polite cough interrupted the moment. Turning, Raimond found an acolyte clad in the white mask of their station standing a few paces away, watching him.

“Father Abraham,” the acolyte said, her tone measured but firm. “The delivery you were expecting has arrived.”

“Ah, duty calls, it seems.” Raimond sighed, straightening with the air of a martyr. He turned back to the young priestess with an apologetic smile. “Forgive me, sister, but it seems I must tear myself away from this most delightful communion. Fear not, for I am certain Ittar will bless us with another such encounter soon.”

The priestess offered her own polite farewells, and Raimond moved to follow the acolyte. As he did, he thought he caught the faintest glimmer of disapproval in the woman’s masked gaze. Nothing he wasn’t accustomed to, though. Many misunderstood his intentions, even among his own peers. His exchange with the priestess had been entirely innocent, a simple moment of camaraderie between fellow followers of Ittar’s teachings. Surely, the world could only benefit from a touch of more charm, not less.

Raimond trailed after the acolyte through the sunlit halls of Elystead’s grand temple, his boots clicking softly against the polished stone floors. The corridors were adorned with elaborate tapestries depicting radiant suns and the storied deeds of sainted luminaries, interspersed with statues of notable figures from the history of the Followers.

Occasionally, they passed other priests and acolytes, their red, white, and gold robes lending an air of serenity to the temple. Yet, compared to the usual bustle, the halls almost felt muted now. Elystead’s grand temple, second only to the Sanctuary of Ittar itself in prominence and size, was typically abuzz with activity. But as unusual as the subdued atmosphere was, it was not surprising. Not given the current state of the empire. Most clergy were scattered across the empire, tending to the citizens affected by the turmoil gripping the realm. Elystead, as the heart of the empire’s refugee efforts, bore the greatest strain. Priests worked tirelessly, offering shelter, healing, and solace to the displaced masses.

A slight furrow appeared on Raimond’s brow as they walked. It was unsettling how swiftly the empire had descended from a period of relative peace to one of disaster after disaster. More troubling still was how promptly people adapted to such calamities, out of sheer necessity. The normalcy with which such hardships were quickly viewed by those not directly at their mercy. It was one of the many paradoxes of the human spirit.

Although imperial-aligned forces had managed to establish a tenuous stalemate against the monster incursions in key regions, the cost had been one that would weigh heavily on any honourable soul. Bridgespell had endured another dragon attack just days ago, and reports of fresh assaults on smaller settlements were beginning to pour in. The crown had issued an urgent request for cooperation among the mage towers and the Ustrum Assembly, calling for the erection of temporary barriers and their aid in mass evacuations, but it was likely far from enough. There were thousands of villages and hundreds of smaller towns in the empire, and not each could reasonably be reached in time.

Raimond couldn’t entirely dismiss the pang of guilt that lingered in his chest as he reflected on his own role in the crisis. As the nominal overseer of the Orders of the Solar Hand, he received daily reports detailing the ceaseless efforts of his colleagues as they provided succour where they could. Their work was heroic and selfless, but they were stretched dangerously thin, and Raimond’s presence among them would undoubtedly have saved many lives. Yet instead, here he was, ensconced in the safety of Elystead, offering little beyond counsel.

His peers in the Quorum had likely taken note of his absence by now, no doubt attributing it to his well-known ‘eccentricities’ and supposed idleness. Contrary to popular belief, Raimond didn’t particularly relish perpetuating such notions — but they sometimes proved rather useful to his endeavours. And this was an occasion where even his dear friend Ava was in agreement that his current role served a greater purpose.

That didn’t stop him, however, from sometimes venturing into the city in disguise to offer healing to the afflicted, even if these efforts felt like drops in an ocean of suffering.

He set aside his musings as they entered one of the temple’s larger naves, where rows of devout worshippers knelt in prayer. Raimond’s gaze swept over the congregation, noting the bowed shoulders and clasped hands, each soul bearing an unseen burden. A family of three passed by, moving towards the far end of the chamber. Raimond offered them a radiant smile, locking eyes with a young boy who looked up at him, wide-eyed.

Here in Elystead, children like this boy were spared from the worst of the empire’s woes. But Raimond knew that elsewhere, countless others lived in fear, their futures uncertain. The empire had never been this vulnerable in living memory.

Still, those in power were taking action. The Empyreal Barrier venture was the latest subject of fervent discussion in the capital. Raimond had heard that most of the locations for the magical ‘pylons’ anchoring the barrier had been chosen, and efforts were underway to gather the resources needed to establish the empire-covering array. The Followers were not too deeply involved, but the project’s scope and urgency had nonetheless left ripples even within their order — as well as their coffers.

Just the past week, more funds had flowed through the major factions into this project than through most imperial cities in the months prior. Raimond suspected that many a merchant now reclined in their newly-opulent chambers, positively giddy at the windfall brought to them. No doubt, they were indulging in celebratory glasses of wine, toasting their good fortune while the empire teetered.

As for the Barrier itself…Raimond found his thoughts conflicted. The politics surrounding it were muddled — a labyrinth of heated discourse he had no desire to navigate and was happy to leave to his more politically inclined fellow deacons. However, the Barrier could grant the empire a much-needed reprieve.

That, of course, depended on whether it reached completion.

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Already, rumours swirled of sabotage and clandestine interference, alongside the expected protests from discontent nobles. Some whispered that the recent monster attacks in cities were no coincidence, occurring suspiciously close to planned pylon sites. Raimond wouldn’t be surprised if there was truth to it.

Both the Tribe and the Cabal had every reason to oppose the Barrier’s creation. He could only hope that neither group would be the ones to decide its ultimate fate.

The acolyte led him out of the hall and into a maze of dimly lit corridors. Their destination lay deep within the temple, far from the sanctified spaces open to the public. Here, no windows allowed the natural light of Ittar to grace the halls, and magical lighting was scarce — evidently, few ventured here often enough to warrant the effort.

Finally, they reached a secluded antechamber lit only by flickering candles. At its end stood a heavy wooden door, its surface worn with age, flanked by two silent figures in simple acolyte robes and white masks. To the untrained eye, they were nothing more than ordinary attendants. But Raimond knew better.

These were Dawnbringers, knights of unparalleled skill—that was the official Followers’ position—stationed here under the guise of anonymity.

Raimond couldn’t help but marvel—albeit warily—at how Ava had managed to secure their services. Persuading the Dawnbringer’s First Light to lend these knights overtly was no small feat. It was, in equal measure, a move he admired and a manoeuvre he preferred to distance himself from when the rest of the Quorum inevitably discovered it.

Then again, given the nature of some of the activities conducted in this room, their presence was far from unjustified.

The acolyte who had guided him bowed and departed. Raimond stepped past the two disguised Dawnbringers and pushed the door open, stepping into a chamber that was a hive of organised chaos. Stacks of parchment-covered tables crowded the space, and a sprawling map dominated the central table. At the far end, an intricate arcane array glimmered faintly on the floor. At its heart lay a small, unassuming object resembling a metal scroll.

By the map stood a young woman with curly auburn hair and sharp, intelligent eyes. She glanced up as Raimond entered, offering a respectful nod. “Deacon Abram, the Scriptel arrived just a short while ago.”

“So I’ve heard.” Raimond smiled warmly. “Thank you, Alina.”

It was refreshing, working with someone who actually deferred to him in genuine respect whenever he entered! Someone who recognised his brilliance, at last! He didn’t know where Ava had found her, but working with Alina these past weeks had made him begin to understand why some leaders fought so fiercely to maintain their dignified airs. If this was the reward, perhaps he should consider cultivating one himself.

Maybe, once he regained more authority, he would adopt the persona of one of those enigmatic yet wise old eccentrics.

Ah, but a beard simply would not suit him.

A shame. He supposed he would have to abandon that goal.

Crossing the room, he approached the array and knelt to examine the object within. The runes of the array still shimmered gently, their magic like luminous threads visible to his attuned senses, hinting at the teleportation spell that had delivered the item. Carefully, Raimond lifted the Scriptel — a cylindrical artifact etched with impossibly intricate lines and symbols.

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Returning to the central table, he held the cylinder up, turning it over in his hands. While Raimond prided himself on his vast host of talents—so vast, in fact, that he often refrained from learning new ones lest he outshine everyone around him—ancient Zuverian artifacts were not his area of expertise. Still, he had handled enough of them lately to know the basics.

With practised precision, he pressed a small, recessed symbol at the top of the cylinder and channelled a delicate tendril of mana into it. Then, twisting and pulling in a specific sequence, he triggered a faint click. The cylinder extended, revealing a dull grey crystal nestled within. As he released the Scriptel, it floated above the table, wobbling briefly before stabilising. Moments later, the crystal projected an image into the air — a luminous display of symbols and patterns.

Many of them were incomprehensible — a chaotic mosaic of meaningless shapes. But here and there, fragmented sections of Zuverian script had been painstakingly arranged into an intricate, if overwhelming, tapestry of knowledge.

He had always held a certain respect for the mages and wizards of the empire’s towers. Their relentless curiosity and innovative spirits were vital to the empire’s progress — its lifeblood, in a sense. And yet, if they had one collective failing, it was an abject disregard for the noble art that was presentation.

Raimond could vividly imagine such a wizard tasked with unveiling a world-changing relic to the Emperor himself: no pomp, no context, and no preamble — simply the dusty artifact plunked onto a velvet cushion, possibly still smelling faintly of the ruins it came from.

Truly, they were scholars, not showmen, and it was a tragedy of their profession.

He was grateful they had the good sense to send him the deciphered contents at all. A minor miracle, but one he did not take for granted.

He turned his gaze to Alina, who was already engrossed in her work. Her quill darted across a piece of parchment with trained elegance, each completed note swiftly joining the orderly stack beside her. She reached out one hand to touch the arcane projection and adjust it, causing new clusters of symbols to bloom in the air. Occasionally, she murmured quiet observations, cross-referencing details with annotations and legends scattered across the map on the table. Key locations across the empire and its fringes were marked, their significance bolstered by notes and small figures. Among the most prominent were the Forgotten Tower and the Rising Isle — hallowed sites within the field of Zuverian inquiry.

Raimond let her work, dividing his focus between her commentary and the glowing lattice of symbols. While he could interpret some of it himself, Alina’s familiarity with the script, honed over the last couple of weeks, made her slightly faster. More importantly, Raimond delighted in letting her feel indispensable — a role she fulfilled with aplomb, for she truly was.

His eyes lingered on a particular section of the projection where a portion of the text had been nearly fully deciphered. These specific Zuverian symbols themselves were largely meaningless to him. Truthfully, he had his doubts whether anyone—scholars or wizards alike—could claim full fluency in the written language, its complexity defying much of modern linguistic understanding.

Yet there was an undeniable beauty in its intricacy — a testament to the ingenuity of a civilisation long gone.

Perhaps the most notable example of this brilliance were the ingenious ‘Chartglyphs’, as they were called today. An encoded system within the Zuverian script that embedded locational information into the text itself. By interpreting a Chartglyph, one could deduce the position of a referenced site. The precision could vary depending on the Chartglyph, but with enough understanding of the system, it was possible to pinpoint a Zuverian site from a single mention of it.

This, Raimond knew, was how many of the known sites had been discovered. It was also, he suspected, how Baroness Hartford had uncovered several of her illustrious finds.

The method wasn’t foolproof, not in this era. Ambiguities surrounded certain glyphs, and interpretations often required a blend of scholarship and intuition to fill in gaps in what they knew. Yet, despite its flaws, it remained one of the most efficient means of discovery they had available to them. In many cases, one didn’t even need to understand a site’s name — just its glyph.

As Alina worked through the Scriptel’s contents, she updated the map with the fresh notes. Her quill refined the annotations for locations like the Rising Isle and the Forgotten Tower. These two, in particular, featured prominently in the fragments they had examined so far, which was not a surprise given their importance.

Raimond’s gaze drifted across the map as his thoughts wandered. For weeks, he had been unravelling the enigmatic threads surrounding Beld Thylelion and the cryptic clues Baroness Hartford had provided. His early findings on the Cabal’s movements had brought him tantalisingly close to uncovering something significant, of that he’d been certain. But even with Deacon Solnate’s support and additional resources at his disposal, the final pieces remained elusive.

The Baroness had suggested reaching out to Elystead Tower’s leadership — a suggestion that, in hindsight, seemed glaringly obvious. Raimond should even have considered it himself. But perhaps his ongoing investigations into the questionable dealings of his fellow Deacons, Townsend and Davenport—and their insidious influence within the Followers—had made him overly cautious. Much of that inquiry overlapped with the more discreet operations conducted from this very room, and others like it across the empire.

Eventually, he had heeded the Baroness’ advice and contacted one Emeritus Master Docent Grand Wizard Adalicia Mendenhall of Elystead Tower. By a fortuitous coincidence—if you were particularly careful not to read the proverbial writing on the wall—the wizards of Elystead Tower, along with several others, had recently made groundbreaking progress in deciphering a class of Zuverian artifacts known as ‘Tabernacles’.

Though their exact purpose remained a mystery, the wizards had begun extracting fragmented knowledge from them, uncovering references to previously unknown aspects of Zuverian civilisation.

To scholars, the implications of this discovery were, quite understandably, staggering. But Raimond’s interests were more immediate.

He wanted to know more about Beld Thylelion.

It turned out he was not alone in his wish. The dean of Elystead Tower, along with several other influential figures, shared his goal. After careful discussions with some of them, Raimond had joined an unofficial coalition of sorts. He had shared his suspicions about possible locations for the site, and together, they had agreed that the best way to pinpoint it was by cross-referencing his findings with the knowledge hidden in the Tabernacles. Since then, dedicated groups of wizards from multiple mage towers had been working to decipher the devices, sharing their discoveries in an ongoing exchange of information.

Progress had been steady, in a sense, as they had gradually narrowed the possibilities. Among the locations Raimond had initially considered, one stood out—the very one his instincts had pointed to from the start. On the map before him, the area surrounding Elystead was covered in far more annotations than any other, even more than the Forgotten Tower or the Rising Isle. The Tabernacles frequently referenced this region, making it clear that something of immense significance was hidden here.

Curiously, however, most deciphered texts refrained from naming the site directly. The Rising Isle and the Forgotten Tower were often referred to by their original Zuverian names, Uleodalar and Xarindaleth, yet what they suspected to be Beld Thylelion was described only in vague or indirect terms.

That was not the real obstacle. The challenge, instead, lay in the Chartglyphs they had recovered thus far — none were precise enough to mark the site’s exact location. Raimond remained confident they would eventually find one. Or so he told himself. Optimism, after all, was among his many, many charms. But time was their most insidious foe, for they had no way of knowing how much of it remained. With the empire beset by its crises and the mage towers consumed by other demands, there was no guarantee they could unravel the site’s secrets before it was too late.

But as it often was for those who believed, fortune had smiled upon them not long ago as welcome news arrived. While Elystead Tower and its peers had shouldered most of the deciphering efforts thus far, the Rising Isle had recently lent some of its own wizards to the project. Soon after, the Ustrum Assembly — presumably in an attempt to counterbalance the Isle’s influence. Both groups had apparently been deeply engaged in previous research involving the Tabernacles, and though Raimond wasn’t sure how much their involvement would accelerate the work, he welcomed their expertise. At the very least, their participation strengthened the half-secret expedition force forming behind the scenes, ready to explore Beld Thylelion when the time came.

Not all involved agreed on the necessity of a combat-ready force. Some tower deans remained skeptical of Beld Thylelion’s existence altogether, caring only for the knowledge within the Tabernacles. Nevertheless, enough individuals—or perhaps influential voices—had been convinced otherwise. Raimond had little doubt the Baroness had played some role in ensuring their preparedness, though her name remained conspicuously absent from most discussions.

Alina’s quill paused mid-stroke. She frowned as she jotted something down.

“Something troubling you?” Raimond asked, leaning in to examine her work.

“I’m not entirely sure, Deacon Abram.” She gestured to a section of the arcane projection. “This part here… I’m wondering whether I’m reading it right.”

Raimond turned his attention to the symbols she indicated. Much of it was garbled—likely the result of incomplete deciphering—but the Chartglyphs remained largely intact. He studied them carefully, glancing down at the table to reference the codices and indexes there. Most glyphs clearly pointed to the general Elystead region. Nothing seemed amiss — until Alina directed him to one particular segment.

At first, Raimond’s eyes widened in excitement, before then narrowing into a frown of his own.

This Chartglyph was different. It was, without a doubt, the most precise they had found for this region yet. If accurate, it was exactly what they had been seeking. That alone would have been a monumental discovery. But…

“I may be mistaken,” Raimond said slowly, “but this appears to suggest that it is above ground. Am I mistaken?”

“That is what it says,” Alina confirmed.

“And why would that be?”

She shook her head. “I don’t know. Could it be a mistake in the deciphering process?”

Raimond’s gaze drifted to the map once more, thoughtful. To be precise, the Chartglyph pointed to Lake Rellaria. If accurate, then whatever they sought should be plainly visible — perched or suspended somewhere within the lake’s waters. But those waters had long been charted and studied. If such a structure existed, it would have been discovered ages ago.

The wizards had warned that some decipherings might contain errors. This could be one of them. Perhaps they had already suspected as much, which was why the glyph hadn’t been flagged as significant before the Scriptel was sent to Raimond.

He considered the possibilities. Extensive divinations and searches throughout the Elystead region had uncovered nothing. Their working theory remained that the site was underground, as most Zuverian ruins tended to be. It could perhaps be concealed by ancient wards or illusions, but even such protections were unlikely to have evaded detection for so many centuries.

Another possibility was that the site existed in another realm or an interstitial space of some sort. Such anomalies were rare, but not unheard of. Magic existed to detect them, but it was conceivable that advanced Zuverian wards could obscure even those methods. Still, the lack of clarity troubled him.

Mistake or not, this glyph warranted investigation. If he recalled correctly, the latest Scriptel had come from Bridgespell Tower, likely before they had completed their own analysis. Even now, Raimond suspected some galvanised wizard at Bridgespell was communicating with their counterpart at Elystead Tower, debating the glyph’s meaning. No doubt, some diligent mage would be dispatched to verify the finding before long.

The question was if they would find something…

Raimond straightened abruptly, adjusting his robes with an air of determination. He reached up, brushing his fingers through his luxurious locks to ensure every strand fell perfectly into place.

Alina gave him an odd look. “What are you doing, Deacon Abram?”

Raimond cleared his throat. “Ahem. Preparing, of course.” He composed himself for the briefest of moments, then flashed her one of his most dazzling smiles. “I cannot, in good conscience, allow others to embark on an investigation of this magnitude without lending my generous aid. It would be unbecoming of me as a deacon, don’t you think?”

The woman raised both eyebrows. “You’re going to check it out yourself?”

“Precisely!” Raimond declared, raising a finger in the air. “Though I trust our esteemed wizards implicitly, we are associates, and some matters can only benefit from when a particular…finesse is applied.”

He turned on his heel, striding towards the exit with purpose, only to pause just before reaching the door. A thought struck him — a realisation so dire it halted him mid-step.

Cold water. Lakes consisted of cold water. Worse still, ice at this time of year!

Raimond’s shoulders tensed. Lake Rellaria’s frigid embrace would undoubtedly wreak havoc on his meticulously beautified hair.

…What sacrifices didn’t he make for the good of the empire and its people?