The Tears of Kas̆dael

As Jasper approached the tavern door, he kept an eye peeled for any sign of a trap. He couldn't see any visible traces of tripwires or hidden trapdoors, but that didn't do much to reassure him; Ihra was the expert, not him. I hope she's alright.

Pushing his worry aside, he took the final step onto the threshold and, wrapping his hands around the handle, shoved the tavern door open.

He'd been to Agur-Alamittu a half-dozen times by now, so he knew what to expect: a typical dining hall, with a dozen rough benches arranged in rows between a twin pair of hearths, and a long bar in the back where most of the regulars sat. But that was not the scene that welcomed him.

His foot froze on the threshold as he found himself staring at a small, dark room he recognized all too well.

The only light in the room was the constantly changing colors of the old TV that faced away from him, with the sound turned too low for him to make out much except for the occasional staccato of a laugh track. A ratty couch, with a prominent rip on the leftmost of its blue plaid cushions, and a worn-out leather armchair sat opposite the tv, their seats empty - though, judging from the pillow and blanket draped across the couch, it looked like someone had recently been sleeping there.

His eyes flitted from the bucket of toys peeking out from behind the couch, to the brightly crayon pictures taped to the wall, to the old window, with its dark blue drapes plastered against the wall by carefully placed throw pillows, preventing anyone from peeking inside. The room was ripped straight out of his childhood, and he had little doubt that the missing person on the couch was himself, on one of the many nights he'd woken up, unable to sleep, and snuck downstairs to watch tv.

"Are you seeing this?" he asked, half–turning as he spoke to Samsadur, only to realize no one stood beside him. "Damn it!" Jasper spun around, fumbling for the tavern door, but it had been swallowed up by the rough, plaster walls of his old home. He felt around anyway, certain that it was only an illusion, but despite running his hands up and down the wall repeatedly, he could not feel the missing handle.

Finally forced to give up, he turned his attention back to the room. The TV lights continued to flicker against the wall as he circled around the edge of the room. His inability to find the missing door had shaken his faith that this was nothing more than an elaborate illusion, but he was unsure what else it could be - a dream? a vision? He was pretty sure he hadn't actually been transported back in time to his old home, but he walked to the edge of the dark archway that led to the hall and stretched a tentative hand toward it.

It bounced off an unseen wall, and he tried again, punching it with considerable force to no effect. So I'm stuck in this room.

With nowhere else to go, he circled round to the old couch, finally catching a glimpse of the show on the tv. From the occasional rounds of canned laughter he'd heard, Jasper had assumed it was a rerun of some old sitcom, so he wasn't prepared to see snippets of his own life playing across the screen.

The video feed looked like it had been filmed on one of those crappy home camcorders, with grainy feed, occasional creaks, and the usually shoddy workmanship of an enthused amateur, but they were scenes he knew hadn't been filmed. He watched in confusion as a video of him playing tag in the backyard with his sister, transferred into him fiddling with his costume for a school Thanksgiving play, and then to a dark closet with a curled up body on the floor, weeping - a body, which thanks to the unfortunate haircut, he recognized as himself shortly after his first real breakup.

"What the hell? What do you want from me?" He snarled, looking around the room angrily, as if he could spot the unseen cameraman. In truth, he didn't expect a response, so he was surprised when the picture on the telly froze, replaced by a white mask with black teardrops dripping from its eyes.

"Please, have a seat, Hand." The mask's lips didn't move as it spoke with a high, reedy voice. "Our mission does not concern you, and you will be released when it is complete."

Jasper nearly did its bidding, his ass already hovering over the old, plaid cushions when the torque Belet-Imtu had given flared him red-hot around his neck. He sprang back to his feet like he'd been pricked by a pin, rubbing at his neck as he stared at the TV angrily. "What the hell was that - you tried to mind control me, didn't you?" he accused them.

"Please, have a seat, Hand. Our mission…" Jasper growled with irritation as the mask repeated its message word for word. He'd been hoping he was speaking to a person, but it seemed it was just some sort of pre-recorded message.

What do you mean, 'our mission' doesn't concern me? Whose 'we,' and why the hell would you just let me go? He couldn't discard the possibility that the mask was just lying. The attempted use of mental compulsion on him made Jasper disinclined to trust it blindly, but he had to admit that if it was trying to harm him, he couldn't figure out what the plan was. What's it going to do? Force me to relive all my most embarrassing memories?

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Jasper supposed it was possible this was all in his head, that in reality he was actually being bound and tortured somewhere while trapped inside his mind, but the fact that the torque had successfully resisted the mask's command made him think that was unlikely. Yet it was clear that the spell was deceiving his senses somehow, assuming, of course, he hadn't been actually transported back in time and space, an assumption he felt pretty damn good about. So how do I break the illusion?

Ignoring the voice's command to take a seat, Jasper paced back and forth in the small room, searching for a way out. He tried the walls again, fumbling in vain for the door handle. He pulled the armchair and toys out of the way, running his hands across the floor. He even fiddled with the tv, flipping through one channel after another that continued to play scenes from his life, occasionally interrupted by the white mask bidding him to sit. It was only after he'd exhausted all other options that Jasper realized he'd been unconsciously avoiding the couch.

The red chenille blanket was still draped across its drooping cushions, its red fuzz scattered across the white pillow class. There was a hollow in the blanket, the perfect size for a little boy, and as he approached the couch and stretched out a tentative hand, he could even feel the heat emanating from the spot, as if the child had just left. The curiously warm void made him wonder if he needed to crawl beneath the covers, if somehow that would unlock the illusion that confined him, but given the mask's repeated requests for him to sit down, Jasper was afraid that doing so might trap him deeper in its controls.

With a sigh, Jasper rose and surveyed the room again. He was running out of ideas - unless trying to burn the whole damn thing down counted as an idea. Flames rolled along the edge of his fingers as he contemplated it, half-tempted to do it if it wasn't for the fear that the fire might end up hurting the others, when another spell popped into his mind.

Scales of Justice. He tried not to get his hopes up as he banished the flames from his hand; sure, Scales of Justice was a truth-telling spell, and an illusion could certainly be considered a lie, but that didn't mean it would work. But as the spell took form on his hand, the world around him wavered.

The den snapped back into place around him a second later, but in that second, Jasper had seen the tavern - and more importantly, he'd seen a ritual circle glowing beneath the skirt of the couch he'd so carefully avoided. Bloody mages outsmarted me, he cursed himself as he ran over to the couch. They must have known that if I resisted their commands, I'd avoid the couch like the plague, keeping me away from the circle regardless of the outcome.

With one hand, he flipped the couch over and slammed a flaming palm into the ground. He couldn't see the ritual circle any longer, but it didn't matter. Wood cracked and charred as he pummeled the spot, tearing up the ritual, and the world flickered before resolving into the tavern.

Circle of Forgiveness. He healed himself reflexively as he stood up, brushing splinters out of his palm, and looked around. He was not as alone as he'd thought. Samsadur was only a dozen feet away, just beyond the arch he'd been unable to pass through, though the durgu seemed to be having a worse time of it.

The man was tied up and bound to the floor, with an oily rag stuffed down his mouth, and his eyes were wild as Jasper jogged over to him.

"There's others here," the prince spat out as he pulled the gag free.

"Ihra and Tsia are here?" Jasper asked, as he moved on to work on the man's ropes.

"Not them. Mages," he hissed. "They're not true mind mages, whoever they are. It only took me a minute to unravel their spell, but they must have been able to feel it. Took me out as soon as I broke free, and made off with Naklāti."

"Naklāti?" Jasper glanced up in surprise.

"Aye, they took the girl upstairs. I don't know what they want, but I think this whole thing's about her. Go, go," the durgu urged, rolling his shoulders as Jasper loosened enough of the ties for him to work his way free. "I can finish the rest of these myself."

Jasper lurched to his feet and took a half-step toward the stairs, before glancing back. "Any idea how many are waiting for me?"

The durgu glanced at the ceiling, eyes scrunched in concentration, then bobbed his head. "Three plus Naklāti." He whispered back. "One of them is out in the hall, the other two in a room together."

With a silent nod, Jasper jogged off, slowing his steps as he reached the stairs. Hiding himself against the balustrade, he took a cautious peek up. It was as Samsadur had said.

A woman wearing white robes leaned against the railing. The absence of any armor or even a weapon led him to believe she was a mage - and either a supremely confident or foolishly arrogant one at that, a deduction supported by the fact she had her back to the stairs, apparently unconcerned with the possibility they might escape.

Unfortunately, at that moment, the floor squeaked beneath his weight, and Jasper quickly ducked out of sight, but not before catching a glimpse of the woman's face as she glanced over her shoulder. He wasn't sure if the stoneflesh could have blonde hair and blue eyes, but he was pretty damned sure they didn't have pointed ears. Is she an elf? Or maybe a Celestian?

His thoughts raced as Jasper hugged the wall, his ears straining for any the first hint of a tell-tale creak on the steps. He'd assumed that this was all part of Ēpis̆dāma's plan. It made sense that sometime before he'd died, the Bloodspiller had primed the village as a trap for the reinforcements the Empire would inevitably send, but that didn't explain why the mage looked to be one of their own, and as he mulled it over, more questions arose. Why had the mages taken Naklāti, but left him and S̆ams̆ādur alone? Why not just kill them? There's something else going on here, he realized, but damned if he would wait.

Having not heard any further noise from above, he chanced another glance up the stairs, but the landing was empty. That was when he noticed a blotch of white in his peripheral vision.