Work Text:
The last thing Verin had said to Essek, in their final conversation before nearly twenty years of complete silence (as opposed to the near complete silence of the thirty before that), was a hissed, "I can only hope that someday you open your eyes and realize the only thing all your work has gotten you is a lifetime alone."
It hadn't stung at the time. Essek was used to self-sufficiency. You did not establish a reputation for yourself by collaborating with others. Let Verin have his jovial cameraderie with his soldiers, the only wages of which would be grief for their deaths when Bazzoxan swallowed them whole. Essek stood alone. It was too bad, because he did like Verin in a way he didn't most people, but ultimately for the best. And for good reasons, as much for Verin's good as his own.
Like all of Essek's choices: always for good reasons, or at least what seemed like good reasons at the time. He is no longer quite as sure of his judgment on that matter as he had been.
What he does know, and has known for two centuries, is that he hates when Verin is right. For a fleeting moment Essek considers telling him so, using a spell on an utterly pointless Sending just to say well, Verin, your hope has been fulfilled, may you take satisfaction in it. My eyes are open and I am, apparently, alone. Three words left over.
He won't, obviously. It would be maudlin, and pointless, and invite far too many follow-up questions. The best case scenario would be silence; if there is a good reason (several reasons) Essek hasn't reached out to his brother before now, the bad one is the horror of possible rejection. His pride has suffered enough crushing blows recently. If it took another he might simply die of shame.
How very dramatic.
There are a great many things he should be doing. Loose ends to tie up. Plans to craft. He is, objectively speaking, in a fairly good position. No one will be looking for a Beacon thief with one already found. The Assembly have what they want, and no immediate reason to want him dead. He can't lay down his entire guard, of course — he can never assume he will be truly safe again — but objectively speaking, Essek's situation is better than it has been any time since seven mercenaries turned up in the Bright Queen's throne room.
He shies away from that thought, seven mercenaries, like the glare of sunlight. Searing and painful if not blinding. There is the trouble, of course: the Dynasty won't look at him, the Assembly will (hopefully) go on ignoring him, but the Mighty Nein…
They left him alive, he tells himself. Things between the Empire and the Dynasty are so delicate just now, and turning him in would risk reigniting hostilities; they know that, and surely won't risk it, not after all they did to bring about this peace in the first place. The Bright Queen's fury might not only burn Essek but reach again beyond the Dynasty's borders. They left him alive. (He's too conspicuous to disappear without explanation.) They let him go. They left him alive.
You were not born with venom in your veins. The click of manacles around his wrists. The press of dry lips against his forehead. The reeling vertigo that had nothing to do with the motion of a ship underneath him.
He doesn't understand. It's been weeks and he's still reeling. And from the people who hold his life in their hands? Nothing. Silence. Which is — it's fine. It's for the best. Essek has no idea what he would say to them. Any of them. For a breathless and eternal moment, immediately after returning to Rosohna with the peace talks concluded, he thought perhaps that delirious, unintelligible conversation was a prelude, but it is clear now that it marked an ending.
Which — again — is fine. Inevitable, most likely. There was always an endpoint on their involvement with Dynasty politics. They came with a purpose and, purpose served, are moving on. Essek is—
—a loose end—
—his treason has been ruled a permissible evil to let stand, perhaps with an implied for now, and now he is on his own. Provisional mercy granted, and it is his to decide what to do with it. A gift. A burden.
Essek stares down at his half-finished letter and has to read it again from the beginning to remember which letter it is. There are social engagements where he is expected, and connections — personal and political — that need to be managed and maintained. Work, as always. And yet he has spent an inordinate amount of time the last three days crafting messages — twenty-five words or less — that he doesn't send.
Jester, it's Essek. How are you? Is everyone safe? Tell me where you are and what you're doing. I am curious to know.
Jester, hello. Do you intend to return to Rosohna anytime soon? I've found a new bakery and would like your opinion. I hope you're well.
Hello Jester, it's Essek. Things are quiet here. There was a great celebration after the talks concluded. You should be proud.
I can see your tree from the top of my tower. I wish I knew what adventures you've thrown yourselves into. Take care of yourselves.
Thank you for not killing me. I miss you. I hope you come back. Tell Caleb—
Jester, tell Caleb—
Caleb, I'm sorry. You must know that my respect and admiration is genuine. There is more I could teach you, if you were interested.
None of them get further than the bounds of Essek's own skull. The decision is theirs. If they (want) need him, they know how to reach him, and otherwise…
Otherwise, his life goes on.
His life goes on, almost excruciatingly normally.
His world has been inverted, but nothing has changed. Which is how it goes, Essek is well aware — his mother got sick, nothing changed, his mother was executed, nothing changed, momentous shifts in his personal life are of indifferent relevance to Exandria's turning. It is probably something he should take as a humbling reminder that he is not that important.
The thing is done. He has been seen, he has been known, and he has been…no, not forgiven, certainly not, but not condemned either. A brief breeze of…something…blew sharp and bracing through the layers of his indifference, but now the curtains have fallen still, stuffy silence descending once again, and one is more aware of the mustiness of the air by the brief freshness of the wind. There is a pink parasol tucked in the corner of his wardrobe.
Essek has wanted a great many things in his life. Want is a dangerous thing, and he knows this. Essek's wanting caused a war, his need to bend the world to the shape of his desire sparking a fire that grew into a conflagration, and he told himself, over and over, that there would have been another spark, it was only a matter of time, but the fact of the matter is that in this place and time, he lit the flame.
Flame. He thinks of Caleb Widogast, and flinches. The lights twinkle on the tree in the distance. Somewhere, Jester is laughing. He hopes.
He keeps Teleport prepared, always, even when something else is more likely to be useful. Just in case.
The spell. Caleb finished it, he must have, and a foolish, childish part of Essek insists on thinking without me? Essek knows the feeling of possibility fanning out beneath his fingertips, the sense of possible paths being born and dying every moment, and it is something like that magic that possessed him that night before the spell failed. When Caleb threw an arm around him, breathless and smiling, and something clicked into place like the last rune of an arcane circle. A future, so close he could taste it, where he had a peer, an equal, where nights like this could be the rule and not an exception, and once again Essek wanted with a force that feels like it should have bent fate.
Maybe it did. Just not in his favor.
Essek takes dinner with Trilka Bodhin in the Firmaments, one of the researchers at the Marble Tomes he has a modicum of respect for. Sometimes he even likes her: she’s clever, but not overly showy, and more inclined to talk about her studies rather than hoarding her knowledge. Her only flaw, in his opinion, is her religiosity, but that can generally be avoided.
Generally. Just now, it seems everyone’s thoughts are preoccupied with the recovery of two Beacons, the Luxon be praised, the Light shines undimmed and brings an end to the war, etcetera, etcetera. The efforts of an improbable group of inexplicably clever and determined fools and some very quick diplomacy brought an end to the war, he thinks irritably, but he doesn’t share that particular opinion.
“The Mighty Nein,” Trilka says abruptly. Essek doesn’t jump, but he does startle a bit.
“What of them?”
“You had some kind of...association with them, didn’t you?” she asks. For a moment Essek’s stomach clenches, anxiety spiking, wildly imagining them closeted in the Lucid Bastion with the Queen even now.
“I was their – liaison,” Essek says, because he isn’t going to say friend. “Why? They aren’t back in the city, are they?” He tries to sound casual.
“No,” Trilka says. “I guess I’m just curious. I’ve heard so many bizarre things.”
Essek shrugs. “Probably true,” he says. “They’re a...remarkable group of people.”
Trilka’s eyes sharpen and she leans forward, grin showing her tusks. “Light,” she says. “That almost sounds like a compliment. From you, Shadowhand?”
Essek smiles back at her with a polite laugh. “I think everyone can recognize that much,” he demurs. Trilka cocks her head.
“They had a wizard, right?” she says. “I feel like I heard somebody say that you were studying with him.”
The back of Essek’s neck, thankfully concealed by his high collar, warms. So does the rest of him, even as his stomach squirms. “He is reasonably clever,” he says primly. Trilka laughs.
“Well,” she says. “That’s definitely a compliment. You’ve never called me ‘reasonably clever.’ You’ll have to introduce me to this human arcanist who’s managed to unimpress the unimpressable Shadowhand.”
Essek is grateful his complexion has never shown blushes. He folds his hands together so they don’t tremble. “I expect their business in Rosohna is done,” he says levelly. “But should the opportunity arise.”
She still seems amused. No doubt she’s formed her own ideas, already building an embarrassing edifice of gossip. The objective part of him recognizes that it’s only to his benefit to be more tied to the Nein, politically beloved as they are (at least for now), and that gossip about his ostensible personal life is far preferable to gossip about his professional one. The rest of him – that hideously soft underbelly the Nein seem to have found – feels nauseated. He can imagine Jester laughing but Caleb, surely—
Irrelevant. It is all irrelevant. He will likely never return here and therefore will never even know. So long as it aids in the ultimate goal of Essek’s continued survival, that is what matters.
(And if he does come back? What then?)
Immaterial. He won’t.
That night Essek jerks himself out of his trance, convinced that he’s heard Jester’s exuberant Hi Essek! in his head, a brief and terrible euphoria sweeping over him before the recognition that there’s no residue of magic, no Sending waiting for his reply.
He should know better. There have been no unexpected, rambling, nearly nonsensical messages at odd hours since Nicodranas. He is half waiting for one, even knowing it’s unlikely to come. They used to annoy him in their impudence, their presumption, but Essek knows he would leap even at a demand.
How the mighty have fallen, he thinks, and rubs his eyes, and sighs. He goes to the top of his tower and looks toward the glimmering lights of the tree that grows out of their house, its outline visible as a darker shadow against the night sky. For a fleeting moment he imagines it still there, a century from now. He will stand here, just the same as he is now, and just as alone.
His hand moves through the motions of Sending and this time he doesn’t stop it. “Verin,” he says. “I hope you are well. Now that the war is over, requisitions for reinforcements at Bazzoxan should be approved. Take care of yourself.”
His hand falls. Essek waits one breath, two, three, then feels immensely foolish – wasn’t he just thinking about the irritation of Sendings at odd hours?
"Essek?" Verin sounds confused and surprised. "Is that you? Uh – I’m fine. Still kicking. Reinforcements will be a relief for everybody. Do you need something?"
Essek exhales, slowly. “No,” he says, casting again. “Nothing. All’s well.”
"If you say so," Verin says dubiously. "Was that all?" Essek squeezes his eyes closed and swallows. He wastes one more spell to say, “yes, that’s all. Be safe.”
Silence yawns again. It was a response, he thinks ruefully, but he would almost rather there’d been none. Somehow the awkwardness was worse.
A month and a half after the peace talks conclude, Essek stumbles over a brief report that makes his breath catch. It’s not much, barely even two paragraphs, but that’s enough. It is the opinion of this operative that we should consider the possibility of a larger conspiracy behind the theft of the Luxon, he reads. Adeen Tasithar may not have acted alone. I recommend further investigation.
Essek places the report carefully aside, his stomach starting to churn. He notes the signature – not one he recognizes, not someone he knows. It's not dire, he tries to tell himself. One person's opinion, no definitives, just a suggestion of a possibility. Not a high-ranking operative or I would probably know the name. There's no trail left. No witnesses within the Dynasty to give me away, and the Assembly wouldn't want to draw attention to themselves. He might even be able to put a stop to this line of inquiry now, insist that the matter is settled and there's no need to keep digging.
But this report wasn't sent to him. Intentional, or oversight? If intentional then the only reason would be because he is under consideration, and in that case then drawing further attention by opining on a piece of information he's not supposed to know would be — unwise, to say the least. Even if it is only oversight, commenting on it might still draw more attention, especially if it would otherwise be deemed unimportant or low priority.
No. He can't move to try to squash this. He has to leave it alone and watch closely and hope — pray — that there isn't more, that investigations aren't already moving out of sight. He tries frantically to think of any oversights he may have made, any small traces he may have left. He has been careful, so careful, but all it takes is one loose thread and one determined investigator to pull its end.
An hourglass turns in his mind, the sand beginning to run through it. No evil is so dark that the Light cannot illumine it. His mother. She meant it as reassurance at the time but now it leaves him cold. She always wanted him to follow her path and he might already be halfway down the branch that leads to his death, like hers.
Essek puts his head in his hands and tries to steady his breathing. Not yet, not yet. Don't panic. Panic makes fools and a fool you cannot afford to be.
But he isn't safe. That much is clear. He thought perhaps it was over, that he could breathe, that the only sword over his head was the Mighty Nein and he is fairly sure, at least, that if they change their minds they will come for him themselves. If they deliver him to Dynasty justice, it will be personally. Within the Dynasty, everything was supposed to be neatly tied up, handled, finished. A nightmare to be left behind.
He should have known better.
He lets his hands fall and takes a deep breath. Focus, focus, focus. This has always been a possibility. He has plans and he can make others. The Lens aren't on his doorstep yet. He has time. He has time.
(You are so fucked. Sooner or later they'll catch up.)
And what if, he thinks wildly, he asked for help? Reached out to the Mighty Nein and said hello, I know I betrayed your trust and have done horrible things but the consequences are catching up with me, help me escape justice?
He'd be lucky if they laughed. No. He's on his own. (As you always wanted.)
Enough. Self-pity will accomplish nothing. If he wants to stay alive — and he does, oh, very much so, whatever he deserves Essek very much does not want to die — then there are things he needs to do.
At least, he thinks, just a little bitterly, it gives him something else to think about other than the fact that he very nearly had friends for the first time in his life and now he doesn't. It's always good to have a distraction.
The Lens indicates that the Empire has begun to make inroads on Eiselcross. Not military, at least not at this point — the scouting parties and research groups are still plausibly unaffiliated, so far, Balenpost maintaining at least a veneer of independence. But with the end of the war, the Empire seeks new frontiers for exploitation, and just as the Dynasty is they are looking north. The Dynasty has been conducting research on the continent for some time, though largely scattershot and unfruitful. The recent, tentative identification of a more concrete location of fallen Aeor, however, has changed the calculus.
Nobody knows for certain what's there, but everyone knows it will be both dangerous and powerful, and that finders are keepers. It's remote, both physically and politically, and the research promises to be interesting. It is the opportunity Essek needs.
There is nothing substantial tying him to Rosohna. There will be some confusion, perhaps, about why such a promising young talent would go so far from the center of power, maybe even rumors of disgrace or disfavor, but hopefully the lure of knowledge alone will seem strong enough to account for it without too much comment.
He has spent his whole life trying to be noticed. Now he is doing his best to ensure nothing he does is worthy of remark. The irony does not escape him.
It's a good thing your mother isn't here to see your nearly inevitable disgrace, comes the murmuring thought, touched with venom. It's not inevitable, he tries to tell himself. It's not. Nothing is. Likely, probable, certainly, but inevitable? Accepting that would be a kind of surrender he will not countenance.
(Not yet.)
Essek submits his request to be transferred to the Vermus outpost. He goes through his tower and begins the careful process of sorting his belongings into the irreplaceable, the replaceable, and the critical while concealing the fact that he's doing so. He takes the parasol Jester made out of the chest where he'd hidden it and puts it on his desk, only to tuck it away again a day later when it occurs to him that linking the Mighty Nein to him has now become a liability.
To them.
If (when) his treason is realized, there will be questions about who knew, and if the Bright Queen has an inkling that the Nein were aware and said nothing, her anger will be swift and unforgiving. They will not survive it.
There, one clear thing in the muddy water his life has become: if (when) he falls, there must be no question of the Mighty Nein's involvement. To that end it is a good thing that they haven't visited or even sent word. If their — association — can be seen as a strictly utilitarian one, then no one will consider the possibility that the Nein possessed knowledge it would have been their duty to share.
It's doubly selfish, then, that he's been wishing they would visit again. Not only because he has no right to claim even their interest, let alone more than that, but because it would place them actively at risk. Perhaps he should even tell them as much. Let them know that further association with him may be dangerous in the long run.
Maybe if he were a better man than he is. But then, if he were a better man than he is, he wouldn't be in this situation to begin with.
Of course, isn't he supposed to be trying to be better? Isn't that the whole point of this — this parole, that he can improve and change and, perhaps, atone? He has that impression though it is hard to remember everything that was said that night. At this distance it all feels — oh, a little unreal.
He tells himself it doesn't matter. The Nein have left him behind (watch your self-pity, pathetic fool, like a stray cat pawing at the door of the person who fed it once) and it will not be relevant. He does determine that if he is taken he will say nothing of the Nein.
He spends an indulgent moment once imagining himself bravely enduring torment, but too quickly he begins to feel ill and frightened, and unbidden thoughts of rescue creep even into those fantasies.
Essek's request for transfer is approved, of course. He is the Shadowhand, Essek of Den Thelyss, magical prodigy and gifted, loyal servant of the Bright Queen. They will be glad to have him on what promises to be the cutting edge of arcane research. But of course he will be available, yes? Ready to return if he is needed.
Yes, he says. Yes, I will go where my duty takes me.
"Be careful," Trilka says. "I hear things are weird up there. Don't get blown up by some ancient magic something-or-other." He's been trying to see her more often, mostly because he feels vaguely as though Jester would approve. She's easier to lie to than Uraya, who he's been seeing less.
"I don't appreciate your assessment of my caution," Essek says.
"You're a wizard," Trilka says. "You see shiny new arcane shit and lose your mind. It's what you're all like." He frowns at her, and she laughs.
"I will be fine," he says stiffly.
"Hope so," Trilka says. Then, abruptly, "I'll miss you."
He blinks. "Pardon?"
Her cheeks turn a little brown. "Oh, well," she says. "I've been enjoying these little get-togethers. And I don't have to worry about you trying to poach credit for my research."
Essek stares at her, taken aback, though he is well-trained enough to say, "it's been a pleasure," even before he's quite recovered. "As far as poaching your research," he adds, "I'm sure no one in the Archives has ever done such a thing."
Trilka's mouth twists. "Oh, yeah," she says. "Never." There's bitterness in her voice, briefly, before she wrenches her mouth back into a smile. "Anyway. It's been nice, is all I'm saying. Spending a little more time with you." She sounds hopelessly awkward. And a little nervous. "Hit me up when you're back in Rosohna, yeah?"
Oh, Essek thinks with a lurch. She thinks they're friends. Proper friends, people who share emotions and personal things about each other and—
—sit in hot tubs and eat dinner together and tease each other and offer parasols with no strings attached, who look at you and see you, yourself, and say you don't have to float with us—
"Ah," he says, swallowing, but still, always, well-trained. "Yes, of course. I will have to tell you about the ancient magic something-or-others."
Her laugh this time sounds a little strange, her smile falling. But it's for the best. They aren't friends, and never will be, and he is likely never coming back.
But she has been kind.
"Thank you," he says abruptly. Now it's Trilka's turn to look confused.
"For what?"
"For your company," he says. "I wish you…all success. You do good work."
The way she brightens shames him.
The north is cold.
Obviously. He knew that it would be, but knowing is somewhat different than the experience of it, nipping at exposed skin, numbing ungloved fingers in minutes, wind that strips away breath and hurts in the throat and lungs. The air is so dry it seems to suck the moisture out of his skin, leaving him with chapped lips for the first week before he learns to compensate for the change. Essek is grateful he doesn't have to deal with walking in snow, since it at least means that he doesn't end up with it in his shoes.
It is not, in other words, a comfortable environment. Essek did not fully appreciate until his arrival just how uncomfortable a place can be, and he has the luxuries of his station to rely on. He thinks of when he took the Mighty Nein nearly to mouth of a dragon's lair and tries to imagine sleeping outdoors in such conditions for nights on end. It sounds like a nightmare.
Another message he doesn't send: Caleb, it's Essek. I've decided I dislike cold weather. Perhaps I should ask for one of your fire spells?
The team now under his supervision — scouts, soldiers, researchers — initially seem anxious about his arrival, very nearly jumpy. He is distracted enough by his own concerns that it takes him a bit to realize that they are intimidated, and perhaps a little suspicious that he is here for some sort of covert inspection, to judge and report. They are polite, deferential, and conversations cease when he comes near.
It's fitting, of course. He is their superior, both by blood and in rank. Still, he finds the experience lonelier than he would have expected. He is not here to make friends, he reminds himself sternly, even if he had the first interest in doing so (or the capability, sneers a new voice that is becoming increasingly familiar).
He tries to be a good superior, though. To be conscientious about their needs, and liberal with due encouragement, and to offer what rewards he can for exceptional work. He briefly tries to think how the Nein would handle his position, but he struggles imagining most of them in a position of true authority. Not that they couldn't bear it, just that for most of them it feels like they don't belong in a structured hierarchy, but exist somehow outside it.
A wistful part of Essek wonders what that would be like. He doesn't think he would even begin to know how to survive.
You'll have to figure it out, when you go on the run.
He isn't running yet. It might be years, decades, before he has to — if he does at all. He has never accepted inevitability. Why does it keep feeling like he's going to start now? It's as though his deeds are hanging over him, dangling like a sword held up by a hair, ready at any moment to fall and pierce him through.
Maybe this is what guilt feels like. Though it seems just as likely it is merely fear. Essek isn't sure he was built with a conscience. He is a hollow thing of ambition and hunger for knowledge. Sometimes he wonders if even his supposed motive — to save his mother's life! — was a manufactured excuse to provide him the opportunity to slake his curiosity. It's one reason he didn't mention it to the Mighty Nein when perhaps he could have.
The others — he was already naked enough. He didn't want pity. He didn't want to say and in the end she chose to die, she chose to make me her killer. He didn't know how to begin to speak something he'd never said to anyone: I didn't want to lose her.
Another thing that is irrelevant now.
At least the work is interesting. There is magic here, rich and strange and old. Sometimes Essek can even enjoy himself, lose himself in the joy of a puzzle, the sense of knowledge just out of reach if only he can wrangle it into a shape he can understand.
Of course then he will find himself stuck and think what would Caleb Widogast make of this, or in a moment of giddy discovery will think what would Caleb's face look like if he were here, and it is a kick in the chest.
It is Caleb he thinks of most often, even though it makes him flinch. He knew, of course, that Caleb was half-flirting with him from early on, and marked it as strategic. He still isn't sure that's not true. He is quite sure it is a dead end now, if it was ever anything else. But he thinks about it, thinks about him, like pressing on a bruise. He is a fool. Worse, he is a lovesick fool.
The only thing all your work has gotten you is a lifetime alone.
One evening in a fit of odd recklessness Essek breaks out two crates of fine wine supposedly reserved for his use. He shares it out and hovers on the fringes of the — not revelry, precisely, but cheer. He keeps a bottle for himself and drinks most of it before Norca pries it out of his hand, though he only vaguely remembers her doing so.
"Careful, Thelyss," he thinks she says, "you'll make yourself puke."
For a wild moment he imagines vomiting into the snow. It will come out black and filthy, tar from the inside of his soul. He will retch himself inside out.
He hears himself giggle. It is, even in his haze, an embarrassing sound.
Thankfully he makes it back to his quarters unaided (or at least, he is pretty sure it's unaided). He looks at himself in the mirror and finds his eyes glassy and his cheeks flushed lilac. He looks like a lush. He raises a hand in the gesture for Sending.
"Dear Caleb," he says, as clearly as he can manage. "I would like — I am very drunk. I would like you to kiss me again, but on the mouth. Very drunk. I think this was a mistake. I think I am going to die soon. I would like to see you again before it happens. That is maudlin, ignore it. Tell me something. Tell me where you are. Tell me what it felt like when you completed the spell without me."
Far too many words. It's a good thing he didn't actually cast. For more than one reason. He imagines Sending to Verin: you were right.
He weaves his way over to the bed — feet on the ground — and collapses onto it, his head spinning in slow irregular ellipses, Ruidus orbiting the Exandria of his body. He stares at his own hands and feels for a moment as though they belong to someone else.
He should trance. Essek goes to sleep instead.
He wakes up hungover and feeling monumentally stupid besides.
The certainty of his doom comes and goes in waves. Some days he feels as though he might yet escape. Might yet manage to slip out of this trap of his own making unscathed, and be able, someday, to resume his life as it was, more or less.
(Not as it was. It will never be that again. You are changed. You are altered, mutated, and there is no going back.)
Other days it feels as though any moment the cry will go up around him for his arrest and he will be captured, chained, tortured, killed, his contingency plans evaporating in a spasm of panic. He thinks it would be easier if it was consistent.
He does reach out to Uraya to ask her to let him know if the Mighty Nein return to Rosohna. "Should I tell them to contact you?" she asks.
"No," Essek says after a moment. "That isn't necessary. I would just like to know. Thank you." If they want to talk to him, they'll say. He won't ask.
It occurs to him at one point soon after that they could be dead. Killed in some misadventure half a world away, and he'll never know. It could have already happened. They do reckless, insane, dangerous things all the time. It seems a miracle they've survived some of the things they have. They're fairly strong, yes, but power does not guarantee safety, particularly in the sort of madhouses the Nein seem to end up in.
Essek fixates on this for a whole day. Imagines ways it might have happened. Thinks I could Send, just once, just to find out if any of them are alive, no expectation of answer but as long as the spell works—
Caleb himself has proof against Scrying. Do the others? He asks Uraya to find out and paces back and forth until he hears back from her that she managed to successfully Scry on 'the barbarian woman.'
"Yasha," Essek corrects, almost absently. Then recovers himself. "And? What did you see?"
"Little of interest," she says. "It was night, where she was. She was awake, likely keeping watch. The other human woman was with her. I cannot be certain how many others, but I believe I could make out at least two or three other bodies."
Which ones, Essek wants to ask. Describe them. Yasha and Beauregard are alive, then, and at least two or three others, but which others? Is that all? Where are they? Keeping a watch, so not safe, but is it an active sort of 'not safe' or simply the normal journeying-on-the-road 'not safe'? He doesn't know. He can't know, without asking. He is already feeling self-conscious about what he's revealed to Uraya.
"Thank you," he says. "I appreciate the information. Let me know if you need anything from me."
"Hm," Uraya says, to his surprise. He didn't think she would use another spell. "If you are concerned about your friends, Essek, I believe you are as able to speak to them as you are to me."
Essek does not respond. His stomach curdles. They are not my friends. Or at least I am not theirs.
At least some of them are alive. For now. If he is not going to ask them for more than that himself, he will have to let that be enough.
He is trancing when a familiar voice bursts into his mind like the sun rising on Rosohna on one of the days of light.
"Hi! We're heading to Aeor. The Nonagon is here. Can you help us? We're looking for threshold crests. Do you have any knowledge? Huh?"
Essek shudders into full awareness. It feels like being struck by lightning. It feels like burning. Jester sounds — like herself, though not quite as he remembers her; more subdued, tired, worried. He has no idea what a Nonagon is, or a threshold crest. For a moment he can't care. He hasn't been forgotten. He hasn't been — oh, don't be hysterical — abandoned. She is speaking to him just the same as ever, as though nothing has changed.
We're heading to Aeor. They're here. In the north. Asking for his help.
There is some part of Essek that says you are meant to be lying low. You are meant to be inconspicuous. The Mighty Nein are the very antithesis of inconspicuousness.
But the magic is there, waiting for an answer he only has a few moments to give. He takes a deep breath. He will not say thank you. He will not say I have missed you. They need him. He is useful again. He will not presume it more than that.
Useful is something. Useful, he knows how to be.
Still, there is a smile at the corners of his mouth. "Jester," he says. "It has been a bit."