The Spell of Rosette - Kim Falconer [17]
His tampering had severed the Entity, unleashing one part—an elemental intelligence greater than anything he anticipated—into the immediate environment. The other portion remained trapped in the portal, ever seeking a way to escape and rejoin its sundered half. All the while a sickness leaked into Gaela, a sickness from that other world. Corsanon’s despair was not entirely her own—a good portion of it belonged to Earth.
The temple of Corsanon had rallied to negate the blunder, but their attempts proved ineffective. Other temples had stepped in, also unable to contain the Entity or undo the damage. Debates turned into heated arguments, fights into widespread skirmishes, combat into battles until a full-scale war erupted. Many perished, and the effect of the weakened portal unleashed myriad energies, one causing climatic changes within the province. Crops failed, hunger and desperation ensued. Eventually, temple had battled temple, farmers became vigilantes, and the surviving population deteriorated into a collective of violence and anarchy.
Corsanon, as it had been for countless generations, ceased to exist, but the severed Entity that languished there survived. It adapted, becoming smaller and more self-contained as the riches of the environment no longer sustained it. It lived in back alleys and burnt-out buildings—alone, desperate and aching. Ultimately, all it desired was a way to return to the portal and re-combine with its sundered half. There its nature was harmonious—complete—but it couldn’t find its way.
Kreshkali came upon the drifting Entity, recognising it for what it was. It had also recognised her for what she was: a powerful witch of unknown origin who wore the aura of another world—even though the Entity knew she hadn’t passed through before the sundering.
Kreshkali had come after, with designs of her own.
Archer watched as shadows advanced over the ruined city of Corsanon, its jagged walls turned red by the sunset. A single gas street lamp flickered on and off, like an eye scanning for signs of life. Somewhere in the distance a door slammed.
He turned to the man behind him. Rogg looked skinnier than usual in the shadows, swallowed up by the fading light.
‘Well?’ Archer asked.
Rogg crouched, scooping a handful of dirt from the side of the road. He crumbled it between his fingers, letting it trickle to the ground. The other men gathered around.
Archer stooped until his head was level with Rogg’s ear. ‘Is she here?’
Rogg licked his lips before tasting the dirt that clung to his fingers. ‘Naw.’ He stood up, dust falling from his hands as he brushed them on his pants. ‘What now?’
‘We wait,’ Archer said.
‘Ale?’ Rogg jerked his head towards the tavern beneath the winking light.
‘Why not?’
A gust of wind swept past, blowing Rogg’s hat—a rag tied in knots—onto the ground. Rogg looked at it, shoving his hands into his pockets. The other men stalled as well.
‘What now?’ Archer asked.
‘She’ll skin us. She’ll cook us. She’ll boil…’
Archer whooped with laughter, slapping Rogg’s back and knocking him to his knees. ‘More of this?’ His laughter vanished. ‘Get it, all of you.’ Archer’s hands went to his hips, head cocked sideways. ‘She’s nothing…as good as dead.’
‘And the other?’ Rogg asked.
Archer winked and pulled out a long, thin dagger, twisting it in the space between them. ‘You’ll see. Watch for my sign.’
Kreshkali stood at the edge of the road, staring towards the heart of Corsanon. A single street lamp shone like a beacon in the darkness, flickering with an eerie glow. She took a deep breath, pushed back her hood and smiled.
‘Nothing, am I?’ she whispered into the night air,