He flew like a bastard shadow from the dreams that sought to slay him; a phantom, a curse ghost at his heels. Through skies without dreams and terrors without making he moved, bird-like, until at last he came to a fair green country, where a great tower of black iron and grey marble rose alone and arrogant.

Before the door of that tower, a door that was no door, save to those who had eyes to see that which would not show itself, he alighted, his fists hammering on hard iron, his mind reaching back to the phantom that hungered and slavered for the taste of him.

“Let me in! Let me in, or the crows shall take your eyes and play marbles with them, so that they may win flesh and foulness!”

A noxious sprite essayed from a window that was no more than a twist of iron high above. “Thou tatterdemalion! Thou slumgullion!” it screeched down at him. “Why come thou here, with a hell-born wind at thy heels? What hast thou stolen that claws without rest clutch at thee?”

“No more and no less than the Carborundum Perfected,” cried he who stood between the impassive door and his own doom. “Run to thy master and tell him that what he has sought all his long years is within his reach, should he have the wit to grasp it.”

The sprite clutched tight to the walls of the tower, out of reach of the one it quizzed. “You have wrested the prime jewel from the clutches of the Hierophant Elect?” Its laugh was a desperate cackle, unbelieving and cruel. “As like to say that you have found yourself crafted of gold and wish to sell yourself to the highest bidder!”

“Noisome beast! Wretch of folly and depravity! Do as I bid and bring word to the archmagus. Let him judge what is above and beyond the likes of thee!”

The sprite spat foul insults that crackled and hissed in the atmosphere of the tower, but a moment later it was gone. Now came at last the moment of truth, in which a life of preparation would hang in the balance. The curse-ghost grew closer yet, and the door which was no door remained unmoved and unmoving.

A scream of frustration was rising in his throat and he had put his mind to flight once more when before him solid iron turned to something less substantial. Trusting to something other than his senses and not granting his own sight time to catch up to the change in his circumstances, he threw himself forward. Black, dark metal parted like water and admitted him. Outside, the curse-ghost howled its loss, and began an orbit around the tower that it would maintain until the Hierophant’s words no longer bound it and darkness took it.

He landed upon a floor of grey marble, veins pulsing blood-red within the stone. The floor drew himself to it, and thus he thrust himself away from it. He knew all too well the tricks of the archmagi and their towers. This was not a place where he would find a friend. Bargaining alone held hope for him.

As if to prove his point, the obscene laughter of the sprite echoed mockingly down from above. He trained his senses upon it and found that it hid another sound, less threatening but more worrying. Slippered feet were descending a broad stairway, the start and end of which lay no more than a few paces from where he had risen.

What words may best describe the first sight of an archmagus? Their natures are not those of men, from whom they were once descended. They have not hair, but rather a natural effulgence that obscures their sensoria, preventing more than a glimmering glimpse of eyes and the dark threat of a mouth every bit as capable as the Hierophant of casting curses that flay and scourge. In place of a body clad in robes and clothing, they possess a form mechanical and wondrous. Their beating hearts alone remain fleshed, driving an assemblage of clockwork gears and cogs, carved from forgotten stones and shaped from living alloys that give them a semblance of vitality not easily stolen away.

This strange confection of almost-life, then, descended the stairs clad in a rainbow cloud of sparks and shining motes of light and stood before its guest. “You are Effram, the thief schooled in shadows,” it announced, all too rightly, for so he was. “My servant tells me that you have brought to me something I have long desired.”

Effram brushed at his own robes, whose metallic threads reflected the exuberant light of the archmagus in a most appealing manner. “I have indeed your worship. Your servant, vile though he may be, relayed my words truly.”

The sprite made its reappearance at that moment, hissing and spitting near the shoulders of the archmagus, shadowed and protected by its light. “It is not to be trusted. It should be toyed with and tortured, and what it has taken from it. That right is yours, o my master.”

Effram and the archmagus both knew this of course. They stood for a long moment, facing one another. “I crave your hospitality, then,” Effram murmured. “Give to me bread and water and we may treat with one another as honourable gentlemen.”

The sprite made hissing and spitting noises, but it seemed unwilling to gainsay its master again, whose obscured features seemed to Effram to be working in a facsimile of human concern. “That which you have is valuable and fragile,” the archmagus said at last, its voice a tinkling of crystals in a fair wind. “I would not have it damaged, for I judge that one such as you would not come to this place undefended.”

Effram bowed, his gaze fixed upon the shifting features of the archmagus. “Your grace is wise. Indeed I am prepared, and though this be your place of power, to trap me and keep me might put at risk that which you desire.”

A low humming sound emanated from where the archmagus stood, and the sprite howled and gibbered, scampering back onto the walls and the roof, far from the duelling pair. Effram felt a wash of power flow over him and tensed. He had come to the place of power of this being, who was not to be trusted by any measure of means, and he had not come unprepared, but there was no hope for him of life if it came to conflict. All his hope lay in the fact that an archmagus, long-lived beyond the dreams of sphinxes and princes, would be by nature cautious.

“So be it,” said that archmagus at last. The mechanical contrivances which served as arms for the being raised themselves, and with them rose a section of the red-veined floor. From the stone rose the form of two bowls, one which swiftly filled with bread, the other with water. “Take and eat. Then we two shall parley.”

Effram looked doubtfully on the sorcerous repast. Who knew what its nature was, beyond its surface appearance? Yet he had come this far, risked this much. What was this save another small step? He took a bite from a loaf, finding it fresh and sweet, and washed it down with a half-mouthful of crystal water.

“There now,” the archmagus said to him. “The old forms have been observed and there is peace between us. Tell to me: what would you have from me for your prize?”

Effram felt somewhat more at ease now that he had gained the protections of hospitality, but that was to say that the ocean of concern and fear within him had been lessened by the measure of a few bowls full. Thus it was that he had chosen his words with care a long time before and spoke them just as carefully now.

“A thing which you have in your keeping, which came to you no more than a few years past. To me an heirloom, a thing of sentimental worth, to you no more than a trifle, a dusty relic amid the wonders which festoon your domain. In truth, it is a far from even bargain I seek to make, but such is my eagerness to make it and my respect for your good majesty that I could not by any means offer to you less than as much as I felt you deserved. Insofar as my coming here was an interruption and a chore, I do apologise, and—”

“You prattle,” the archmagus noted, not impatiently. “Speak to me of what you have come for and leave it to me to judge its worth and the nature of the bargain.”

Effram bowed again, once more cautiously. “As you say. The thing I seek is a tattered cloak, long in the keeping of my order, prior to its dissolution. For many years I tracked its passage from one seller to another, always arriving too late to retrieve it. When I heard it had come to your keeping, I deemed that it would be no wise thing to seek to steal it from you.”

“A wise judgement, even for the Thief Schooled in Shadows. I have heard of your deeds these last twenty years, Effram, and have noted the many proud noses you have tweaked with some amusement. It pleases me that you have come to bargain and not to filch, and it seems to me that I know already what you seek, but I would have you name it before our bargain is concluded.”

Effram’s heart leaped within him for hope, but he maintained the composure for which he was so famed. “It is the Cloak of Shivering, archmagus, the prime relic of the Order of Shadows, of whom I am the sole remaining personage.” He gazed deep into the shining orb that was the visage of a being whose nature he could not entirely comprehend. “I have sought it these long years, and in trade for it I have brought to you a prize greater by far than its worth.”

“Indeed you have,” agreed the archmagus, who turned away from Effram at that point and began to stride around the chamber at that moment, his shining head bowed as if in thought. Somewhere high above, the sprite chattered its curses and its hatred. “I had prized the Cloak of Shivering as a memorial of an order soon to disappear into dust, for such relics please me through the memories they carry. That you seek to retrieve it, though … tell me, what would do with this prize of yours?”

Once more Effram felt the wave of power wash over him as the archmagus’s gaze was directed his way. Once more he spoke the words he had long ago rehearsed. “The Cloak of Shivering is the prime memorial of my order, as you say, and I am the last of that august body. I seek to retrieve it for the prime reason that it is and should be mine, regardless of who currently possesses it. There is no future for the order itself: our houses have been burned and torn down, our treasures scattered and our conquerors enthroned. If any hope of revival exists, it lies far in the future.”

“And yet you are such a one as might accomplish that,” the archmagus mused. “To steal from beneath the nose of the Hierophant Elect his prime jewel is no small feat. In time, it will be marked as a tale to be recorded in the great books. You may yet be the rebirth of your order, Effram.”

Effram bowed. “As you say it.”

“Well then, if the order is to be restored one day, the Cloak of Shivering is not the museum-piece I had thought it. There is some small dishonesty in your words, but that is not unexpected. Show to me the Carborundum Perfected.”

From within the folds of the darkling shroud that wrapped his meagre frame, Effram withdrew the prize for which he had risked so much. It was a flat, circular stone, black to all appearances but imbued with an inner light that caused the reflections of the archmagus’s lambent glow to be magnified and enhanced. Those reflections that returned to it were likewise improved, enhanced and sent out once more. As Effram and the archmagus stood there, the stone between them, it began to glow ever brighter, casting even the strangeness of the tower’s inhabitant into the shade.

Effram felt no heat from the stone which he held, but even so the light it shed was a discomfort to him, and he began to wonder how long the archmagus would be able to stand the glare. Already, he was forced to turn his eyes away and veil them behind their lids. Even so, he could sense easily where the stone lay with his sight alone, not the touch of his hand.

“Enough, enough,” called the archmagus, when the light had grown so all-encompassing that Effram felt himself in danger of dissolving in it. “That is the prize indeed. There is no flaw to its making. Put it away within your cloak once more.”

Effram obliged, causing the sheen of light to vanish entirely and immediately. As his eyes recovered, he heard the archmagus speak to the sprite. “Fetch for me the Cloak of Shivering and the Cask of Seven Winters.”

Effram himself could barely glimpse the sprite unpeeling itself from the roof and disappearing into the upper reaches of the tower, so overwhelming were the lights that still danced in his vision. Nonetheless, he turned to face the archmagus and restored his calm demeanour. “We have a bargain, then? This prize pleases you enough that you will grant me what I seek?”

“Ah, hmmm. Tell me, Effram, do you know what nature the Carborundum Perfected has? Do you know the nature of that which you have carried from the Hierophant Elected’s realm to mine?”

Effram raised a brow. “I know as much as you have just seen — that it must be kept in darkness save for brief moments only. What the effect would be if this were not done, I cannot guess.”

“That is a greater falsehood than you have yet uttered,” the archmagus commented, and Effram tensed. “Surely one with your wit can guess at what would come to pass. The light which the Carborundum gathers to itself and returns tenfold would multiply and intensify until there was nothing save itself. Nothing of solid or spirit form can survive its assault. It is a most perfect weapon, in the hands of one who knows its worth, for it could destroy a realm entire.”

Effram digested this news quietly. In truth, he had guessed as much. He had heard of the dangers of smaller carborundums, and the naming of this one as ‘perfected’ suggested to him that it carried a greater danger yet. Still, to have carried upon his person the means to destroy a realm. Perhaps…

“Had you not put it away when I asked you, I would have slain you and been within my rights to do so, for you would have offered me a threat and thus broken the bonds of hospitality.”

The archmagus’s cool, clear voice brought Effram back from reveries of revenge. That very moment, the sprite returned, lolloping down the stairs, bent almost doubled under the burden of a mighty oaken chest, over which was draped a cape, the sight of which took away Effram’s breath.

Even thus disarrayed, it was impossible to misidentify the Cloak of Shivering. Too many masters of the Order of Shadows had worn it throughout its long and august history for it to have anything other than an aura of majesty. Effram himself had seen it but once as a boy, at his induction into the higher rites of the Order, and it was as he remembered it. Its colour was a glossy black, not so perfect as the Carborundum Perfected’s onyx hue, yet quite black enough that its shape was difficult to perceive. That shape was further obscured by a strange shifting of patterns beneath the darkness of the cloak, as though it possessed a depth greater than that of a simple piece of fabric. Effram knew the truth of it well enough. The Cloak contained more than worlds within itself.

The sprite deposited its baggage at the slippered feet of its master, lifting the Cloak of Shivering from the top of the chest and draping it across one arm. Effram’s spirit rebelled at seeing the noble garment thus manhandled by such a wretch, but he steeled himself to endure it. There were more important matters to attend to, and the cloak would soon be his.

The Archmagus bent to the chest before him and laid his facsimile arms upon either side of the lid. When he raised it, a chill wind blew throughout the chamber, dimming all lights and causing Effram to think of lonely nights in the winters of Barollian’s streets, hiding from the forces of the Twelve Tyrants beneath bridges crusted with ice.

“This is the Cask of Seven Winters,” the archmagus announced. “It will hold safe your prize until I am ready to study it. Place it within, but be careful not to allow your hand to touch any surface.

Effram glanced within the cask. The sides of it were lined with white cushions that seemed furred with frost. Their very shape was difficult to discern, for the air which surrounded them seemed to almost congeal and obscure any vision that strayed across it. He withdrew the Carborundum Perfected from his cloak and, keeping it wrapped within his fist, stepped forward.

The chill grew greater still, causing a sweat to break out on his brow. He glanced up at the archmagus’s obscured face, and then across at the sprite’s wicked grin. How far could he trust? Would he be betrayed at this last pass? It mattered not, surely. The Cloak was close enough to grasp, and that was all he required.

He reached forward and placed the gem within the boundaries of the cask. As he opened his fingers, a little light escaped from it, dazzling him, adding to the pain of the cold, which was at this point numbing his fingers. As swiftly and as carefully as he could — which was swifter and more careful than most people can even dream of — he placed the Carborundum within. His finger brushed the merest tip of an icy frond, and for that error, he suffered a painful burn, but so numb was he that he would not reckon it until much later.

He stepped back swiftly, as the chest began to glow from within. The archmagus cast down the lid and all was dark again. “I have shown my trust,” Effram announced. “Now I seek my prize. The Cloak, which is mine doubly by right.”

He liked not the evil grin on the face of the sprite or the half-hidden smile on the face of the archmagus, but the words when they came were not unpleasing. “Ah, Effram, it is a rare pleasure to see one unaccustomed to trust struggling to accommodate it in his world. You have treated justly with me, and I shall do so with you. Wretch? Give to him his cloak.”

The sprite had evidently been expecting another answer, for his grin became a scowl, and he snarled and muttered under his breath, but he brought the Cloak all the same, and it was soon in Effram’s benumbed hand. The sprite retreated all the way to the stairs, muttering vile imprecations as it went.

“You have been as fair as I could have hoped,” Effram said to the archmagus, unwilling to abandon his suspicions so readily. “Why, when it was within your power to keep all and slay me with none the wiser?”

“For the sake of a tale, Effram, Thief Schooled in Shadows. I am old and find tedium to be a constant companion. Yours has been a long and interesting story to this hour, and I would not have it end in a mean and petty manner.” He waved an ersatz hand. “Now go along your way, and know that I will be listening to hear of your exploits.”

The door that was not a door swung wide, and Effram knew that the time for talking and bargaining had come to an end. He bowed one last time to the archmagus and cut a mocking grin for the sprite, which hissed and spat in reply. Then he swept the Cloak of Shivering about his shoulders and fastened it with a silver clasp he had long saved for this very purpose and strode from the tower.

The Cloak of Shivering was still settling on his frame, billowing and shifting as though it were not accustomed to being cast about in such a manner, when Effram’s  attention was caught by a keening wail. The curse-ghost that had sought him fruitlessly had been circling the tower, shrieking and wailing unheard ever since Effram had entered. Now it paused in its flight, aware that its target was within its reach once more. Shrieking, it fell from the sky, directly towards Effram.

For his part, the Thief Schooled in Shadows stepped forward onto the grassy sward, paying no attention as the door behind him closed a final and certain time. His gaze was directed upwards at his foe as it dived towards him, and a slight smile played about his features. At the very last moment, as the curse-ghost was about to strike him, he swept his arms wide and captured it within the billowing folds of the Cloak.

The curse-ghost was a creature of darkness, forged and shaped in the depths of the Hierophant’s black soul, its purpose being to find the one who had dared to rob its progenitor and strip his soul from him so that the Hierophant himself might later consume it at his leisure. To accomplish this, it had been furnished with a fragment of the Hierophant’s own soul, oozing with corruption. This was now to prove its downfall, for the Cloak of Shivering ripped its form apart, first the soul from the scrap of substance it maintained and then the substance itself, rendered into nothingness.

This, then, was the nature of the dishonesty that Effram had presented to the archmagus: he had said that his prime reason for retrieving it was that it was his by right. So it was, in truth, but he had many other reasons for seeking it. Reasons of revenge and blood. There was still at large the one responsible for the destruction of the Order of Shadows, and Effram now had the means to find and destroy her, for the Cloak of Shadows was a mighty weapon indeed, beyond the imagining of the archmagus, and Effram alone knew the secrets of its making and its use.

He felt only the slightest trembling as the cloak took the howling curse-ghost and made it part of its substance. Well and good; now he had a fragment of the Hierophant’s soul. That might be a worthy thing to trade one day. For now, he stepped forward, the cloak wrapping around him and its myriad voices whispering in his ears. He told them what he proposed to do and what he needed from them, and they acquiesced, as he had known that they would. The cloak wrapped tighter yet, covering him from head to toe, and then it turned in upon itself. A moment later, he and it were gone from that place, pursuing a path not easily followed.

Zemphron-Alis, though called a city by those who inhabited it, was in truth more of a realm all of its own. It did not rest upon a river bank, as did Habbad-Dur of the hundred bridges, nor did it rise upon a hill as did Corrisant, City of the Golden Gates. No, Zemphron-Alis’s substance was carved into and upon a mountain that dangled in the air, suspended by mighty magics, ages old. So long had it hung there that no living inhabitant knew anything of the land over which it sailed, nor even if any land still existed there. All about it were clouds of steam, smoke and pollution, which obscured it wherever it went.

Effram had been a boy in Zemphron-Alis when he had been inducted into the Order of Shadows. It had been his delight to go exploring in the tunnels and warrens of the mountain city, to rise as high as he could, to where the towers of the potentates reached for the forgotten sun, and to descend as far as he might, to where the rookeries and brothels of the underfolk hung precariously to life above an unguessed abyss.

It was there that he had seen something he should not have witnessed, and where a choice had been put to him: leave his orphan’s life and become a member of the Order of Shadows, or to have his tongue wrenched from his mouth and his eyes put out with a hot poker. Effram, ever a sensible and pragmatic child, had chosen the former option and embarked upon the life that was to lead him to tragedy and fame.

It was to the ruined and blasted cavern that had once been a house of the Order of Shadows that the Cloak of Shivering took him, guided by a voice that had once been the master of the order here, long before Effram’s time. The chapterhouse in Zemphron-Alis was neither the oldest nor the largest such within the Order, but as Zemphron-Alis itself was a crossroads and a meeting place for many realms, so the chapterhouse there had gained a certain fame and renown. The head of the Order had so often chosen to have his seat there that it had become almost a tradition.

It was from Zemphron-Alis also that the contagion that had consumed the Order had come. Effram knew the contagion by name, and he knew that there was no better place for him to begin the final stage of his journey of vengeance.

The Cloak’s voices whispered to him excitedly, many of them recalling their own times in the now-ruined chapterhouse. Effram ignored them and fetched from a place of hiding a pack of items that had once been his. The pack had been his safeguard against dying upon his dangerous quest to retrieve the Cloak of Shivering. It contained his journal and several tokens that were absolute proof of what was written within. It would have been a paltry type of revenge to reveal the truth from beyond the grave, but it would have had to suffice. Now, with success, he could hope for more.

He enfolded the package within the Cloak, which held it for him gratefully, and strode from that place. Even ruined, it was as familiar to him as the halls and chambers of his own home. In fact, for many years, it had been his home, and he held back a growing sense of sorrow as he realised how much it had suffered in his absence.

His steps wound upwards and outwards, for the ruins of the Order’s house lay close to the heart of Zemphron-Alis, nigh to the great sorcerous engines that kept the city aloft. On occasion, the Order had accepted commissions from magi, whom they took into the dark places of the city, blindfolded of course, until they were brought before the engines themselves. There, no magic might be worked — for to tamper with the engines was to risk destruction for all — but the magi would be allowed to study the ancient writings and workings through such means as their natural senses allowed. Once the time for which their money had paid had elapsed, they were taken willing or otherwise — and it was often otherwise — and returned to whence they had come.

The Order had played this role of protector of the city’s heart for many years, and it was that, first and foremost, which had led to their destruction. Others, jealous of them, had spoken out against them and accused them of plotting and blackmailing the other residents of the city. Their name so slandered that they could offer no viable defence, the Order had retreated into their habitual silence and shadows. It had been then that their enemy had struck, that same enemy which had laid the slanders against them in the first place.

Above the darkness of the inner depths was a tavern, a meeting place for visitors and the inhabitants of Zemphron-Alis, and it was to this place that Effram turned his steps. He did not go in silence or in secret, and for those whom he passed, he seemed a very ghost out of the past, an image of the lords of the Order of Shadows, long gone to death and dust. Darkness lay ahead of him, and behind him whispers and rumours circulated like leaves tossed by a passing storm.

The tavern was the Crescent of the Forgetting Moon, a large and imposing edifice, richly decorated within and without. At its door stood a golem of clay and iron, enchanted long past by one with the art of an archmagus and set to keep out those who had no business in that place, or who in entering would seek to do harm. How the golem made these judgements, none knew, save that from time to time it would pluck from a crowd of revellers one unfortunate soul and toss them as far from the inn as it could, which was far indeed. The efficacy of this system could be seen in the fact that no one could remember a day on which death had come to the Crescent of the Forgetting Moon, a boast that no other hostelry of Zemphron-Alis could make.

For all that, the golem stepped aside when Effram approached, the Cloak of Shivering wrapped about his frame, and even bowed to him as he passed.

This and the very nature of his appearance were sufficient to cast a veil of silence across the bustling inn with his entry. Every eye turned towards him, and every eye then turned away again, the wisest and most alacritous first, for fear that the visage cast into shadows by that dread cloak should turn to them.

Effram modulated his stride and paced slowly into the centre of the common room. Ahead of him, near the complex of doors that gave entry to the kitchens of the tavern, a commotion was taking place, and from this morass soon appeared a figure with the authority and sternness of will needed to approach him.

“Lord Shadow,” said she, for a woman it was, though with eyes of pearl and skin of midnight blue. “What is your pleasure here?”

If Effram felt any pleasure at being addressed by the ancient title of his order, he stifled it swiftly. “To collect the due that has accumulated since last one of my order visited here. You are the proprietor?”

The blue skin flushed a darker shade and the pearl eyes were averted beneath a cascade of silver hair. “I am, lord.”

“Then you know that the rock upon which this establishment is fastened is the property of the Order of Shadows—” there was a muted hissing and muttering as that name was mentioned, which Effram ignored “—and that dues of residency appertain to my order. I would have them paid.”

The gasp was more audible this time, and the fear in the eyes of the proprietress plain to see. “My lord,” she stuttered, “there is not the coin here to pay the dues of all the years gone by. Your order was declared anathema by the lords of the city and all its property seized. The payment of which you speak is made to another now.”

Effram reached out a hand and touched the lady’s face, noting to his pleasure that she did not flinch or draw back from his caress. Her skin was smooth and lightly furred, and the voices of the cloak whispered to him of half a hundred erotic encounters with those of her race. “The Order of Shadows is older and grander by far than the high lords of Zemphron-Alis,” he told her, ignoring the thoughts that cascaded through him unbidden. His finger hooked beneath her chin and lifted her bowed face to confront his. “Tell me truly: who is it who has claimed the right of possession here and has taken what is rightfully mine?”

Perhaps she saw something hidden within the cowl. Perhaps her pearl eyes could pierce the veil of fear and misdirection that was a lesser gift of the Cloak of Shivering. Regardless of the reason, the fear left her face at that moment and she smiled a little. “‘Twas the Lady Verlayne,” she said boldly. “Of the House Evanescent.”

Effram nodded and smiled in return. All was as he had already known, but there was a need to have the story of his return spread, and the fear of the Order reinstilled in the hearts of the cityfolk. “Then to her I shall go and speak of restitution.” He produced from the folds of his cloak a golden coin, won years past in the tomb of an insectile god, and passed it to her.

“Hold this in token that I shall return.” He watched with satisfaction as she glanced with fear at the strange and blasphemous markings on the surface of the coin and quickly hid it within her own skirts. Then he turned and faced the rest of the room. No forward stride did he take. Rather, he gave rein to the howling voices of the Cloak, who wished him then and there to see to his revenge. The Cloak wrapped tight around him and carried him from their sight, to the next and last step upon his journey.

The lords of House Evanescent, as Effram well knew, were the highest and most noble — in their own estimation — of the great lords of Zemphron-Alis. Their great manse was a confection of crystal spires and bridges rising from the heights of the mountain city, so light in appearance that they seemed apt to drift away on the next breeze, being anchored only by the lightest of connections to the crude rock of the city itself.

It was a perfect dwelling place for the scions of the House Evanescent, and most perfect of all for the Lady Verlayne. The Lady of Light, some called her, or the Jewel of the Forgefires. Shadowbane some called her too, though that only in more recent years, for it was whispered far and wide that she had engineered the fall of the Order of Shadows. This rumour Effram had spent long and costly years turning into a truth and now, with the Cloak of Shivering, he had the means to exact recompense.

A room of rose quartz and polished silver greeted his eyes when the Cloak unfolded around him. It was an entry chamber, he realised, for beneath him the city of Zemphron-Alis could be seen through the translucent floor, but ahead was the confusing mirroring and shifting shades of a myriad crystals interposed between himself and his quarry. A voice from the cloak whispered to him of how the tricks of the eyes might be overcome, and thus he fought off the dizziness and nausea that often accompanied a first visit to the highest towers of Zemphron-Alis.

There was a door before him that was so sheer and substanceless that it was scarce more than a trick of the eyes in and of itself. Nonetheless, the Cloak rustled and whispered, and Effram was reminded of old lessons learned long ago. Of the lords of Zemphron-Alis and their love for traps hidden in a wisp of air and a breath of wind. The door, then, was a trap, but it was a trap that was meagre and lacking in comparison to the Cloak of Shivering.

The Cloak reached out, its corners caressing the edges of the door, which shuddered at the touch. There was a tinkling sound, as of thousands of diamond shards striking a single note, and the vision of the door that had been fell away. Beneath was yet another door, this one cloudy and opaque. Effram smiled and the cloak fell silent. The uncovered door swung wide before him and he stepped through.

Beyond was a room too large by far for the slender tower that contained it. Effram knew at once that much of this expanse was illusory, but he knew as well that he might walk from one side to the other and never find where the join was. Thus did the lords of Zemphron-Alis conceal their secrets. He passed in, surrounded by treasures and objets-d’art finer by far than any he had seen in the city below. Some of them were real, no doubt, but he had not the time to determine which, and in any case, for this one night he was something more than a thief: He was the hand of vengeance, poised to strike.

“So this is the bedchamber of the Lady Verlayne,” he murmured to himself, half surprised that it had been so easy. Where were the guards shouting and baring steel at him that the Cloak had expected and hungered for? Where were the shadows and spirits that the Lords of Zemphron-Alis were wont to surround themselves with? Where was the mighty array of traps that he had steeled himself to contend with these many lonely years?

Something akin to a feeling of disappointment came over him them, as he stalked through the crystal chamber. Was it right that he should be thus delayed in his vengeance, having passed through so much?

“The Lady Verlayne has no manners, to neglect a visitor so,” he muttered to himself.

“I have little enough time for those who come unannounced, it is true,” came a voice from a corner of the room where sat a bed shrouded by pink gauze. Effram’s eyes had passed over it before, deeming it to be empty. Now he cursed himself for a novice and sidestepped towards it, ensuring that the Cloak of Shivering draped well over his form.

“Unannounced or not, you should have anticipated me,” he replied, moving crabwise across the chamber. “Did you not call me here through your actions five years past?”

“Oh, I have expect you, shadow, both long and lately. That does not excuse your intrusion, however.” The voice was a woman’s truly, but there was a weakness in it and a lack of breath that caught Effram by surprise.

“I weigh my own impudence against yours and find it lacking,” he returned. “You have a debt to pay yet, I deem.” One hand reached out from the depths of the Cloak and twitched aside a corner of the drapery. It came away in his hand, the entire surround falling to the floor like a gentle rain, leaving the bed and its inhabitant exposed.

The Lady Verlayne was not what Effram had expected her to be. Nor was she fitting to the tales told of her in the city below. The Jewel of the Forgefires was a wrinkled ancient, frail and birdlike, her hands curled up upon her chest and her hair a shimmering cloud of white wisps. Only her eyes retained the flame of youth in them, and they were fixed on Effram in that moment.

“So you are the new Lord of Shadows — the Order of Shadows gathered in a single person,” she said, her gaze catching him like a fly within a drop of water.

“And you are my enemy,” he replied after a moment’s thought. Of all the defences he had thought to face, helplessness was the least expected. What gambit of his should he now employ?

“Am I then to be captured within your Cloak – the Cloak for which I sought so fruitlessly when I worked my vengeance upon your Order? There to be imprisoned and tortured by those who went before me?” Her wizened hands clasped one another, and her body writhed uncertainly beneath a coverlet as white, soft and light as a cloud.

“That is your fate,” Effram replied, as sternly as he could manage. Yet a treacherous part of him could not agree to the condemnation of an ancient. It was a small part, and easily outweighed by the knowledge of all that she had done in the past, but it troubled him nonetheless.

With difficulty, she pulled herself upright upon the bed, so that she was seated against a mountain of pillows of palest pink and ivory. She fixed Effram with another stare, and the look upon her face was disapproving. “You seem uncertain at the last. I cannot approve of that; you having come so far and done so much to reach this point. Do you think the remaining shreds of my life something which I have the strength to fight for?”

Effram shook his head. “I care not whether you fight. The end of the matter will be the same. Into the Cloak you shall go.”

Something like a smile crossed her dry lips. “That is more like it, Effram. Yes, I know your name, though I have not known your face until now. You have come here for vengeance because my stroke against your Order went awry those long years ago. It would ill behoove you to turn aside now.”

“I shall not turn aside,” Effram insisted. To prove the veracity of his words, he took a step towards her, his hands flicking the Cloak away from his sides. It billowed out as though weightless, appearing like a dark cloud in which he himself seemed half captured.

Verlayne’s face showed at last a trace of fear and she pressed herself back against her pillows. Encouraged, Effram spoke no more but stepped forwards. The Cloak of Shivering reached greedily past him, stroking and smoothing out the folds of the lady’s clothing as she started and shivered.

Effram believed at last that his moment had come; that the Order of the Shadows was at last revenged. The Cloak was hungry for that which it had long been denied, and it wrapped itself around the Lady Verlayne like a cloud of leeches, battening first on her soul before it moved on to the delicacy of her flesh. Yet in the midst of its joy, in which the voices raised themselves together in a single ecstatic moan, Effram sensed his danger.

From the darkness and overwhelming sensation of the Cloak came the vision of Verlayne’s face. As Effram watched, the years and lines fell away from it, until it was once more youthful and ripe with beauty. Gone too was the expression of fear: now it was haughty and laughed mockingly at his folly. Almost he had lost himself, but in that moment, he remembered and threw himself aside, casting himself upon the floor and dragging the Cloak and its complaining voices away from their prey.

He fell to the floor, his hands scrabbling for purchase on the slick surface, finding the writhing edges of the Cloak and clutching them. The voice were sick and fearful, still hungry but aware of a new danger and confused by it. The Lady Verlayne rose from her bed, the sheets falling away from her as she moved. Tall and commanding she was now, beautiful and terrible, truly the Jewel of the Forgefires. Her copper hair shone and glimmered as it floated about her face, and there was laughter in her clear, cold eyes.

Effram pushed himself back away from her, but still she walked on. “What are you?” he asked her, his voice a gasp. The Cloak had not the strength to take him away from this place, he knew, and he felt a fear seeping into his bones that his time had come to an end.

She laughed, a sound like tinkling glass. “Why, I am your enemy, Effram, Master of Shadows. Your enemy and the enemy of your Order. Have you not said so?”

Strength seeped slowly back into his limbs, and he found himself beside a wall, which he used to prop himself upright. “Then the destruction of the Order was your working in the entire. Why?”

“For the sake of that which is draped across your shoulders, Effram,” she replied. Now that he was standing again, she paused, but he could tell by the curving of the crystal walls that he was cornered. There was no way out save past her, and the voices of the Cloak were moaning and complaining once more, desirous of her yet terrified by that which she represented.

“And what would you have with the Cloak of Shivering?” he asked her. “What is it to you that you would go to such lengths to seize it?”

She stepped forward again and reached out. A long white finger with a nail painted in strange patterns traced the line of Effram’s chin. The voices of the Cloak whimpered. “How old would you say I am, Effram?”

That she was not seeking to make the most of his weakness was a relief to Effram, but a confusion as well. He resolved to be wary. “A moment ago, I would have said that you were aged beyond my ability to determine your birth. Now, I would guess you to be no more than a score of years and ten.” That was true enough, though there was in her eyes too much knowledge and pride to be so youthful.

She laughed again. “Such are the rewards I have drawn from your Cloak after the slightest of touches from it. A new lifetime, gained in an instant!” Her eyes fixed onto his. “Your first guess was the more correct. I am ancient beyond your ability to understand. It was my hand that laid the heartstone that grew to become Zemphron-Alis. It is I who have ruled it since the earliest days, who established alliances with all powers to safeguard that which is mine.”

“That is not what the tale-tellers say,” replied Effram warily. They speak highly of you, true, but there are other lords and powers of the city. You are but a single voice in a single house.”

“You are swifter than that, I think, Effram. You are well-acquainted with the nature of power concealed. The houses were founded by my children at my direction, to give me apparatuses through which I could wield the power and influence I held. There is not one of them that will not bend the knee to me when I ask it.” Her lips pursed, then parted, her tongue running over them and moistening them. “Your Order of Shadows too, they were a creation of mine, long ago, when I felt the need for such things.”

Effram shook his head. “I have read the Shadowed Histories. I know whence our Order came, and it was not from you, lady, fine and ancient though you may be.”

“Well, at least you are polite in your folly. You speak, no doubt, of Mathrid Who Was First, who created the first guildhouse amid the great machines beneath the city here, correct? Of the withered ancients whom he slew and drove out to create space for the Order of Shadows that was to be? Remember that any tale is only so true as the teller is willing to make it.

“Mathrid was my lover once, and he acted as I bid. The ‘withered ancients’ were a cabal of parasite scholars who had inveigled their way into my realm. I had need to be rid of them, before they toyed with the great machines through which Zemphron-Alis is made responsive to my whims. Mathrid accomplished this, and in the void that was left behind by their defeat, I established him as a power in his own right, with such arts and artifacts as could offer him the ability to serve me better. In his life, he was my man, and after his death, the rules and ordnances he laid down ensured that the Order of Shadows served my purposes.”

This was a tale far beyond anything Effram had expected to hear, and he recoiled before it, unwilling to accept it. “If the Order was yours, why destroy it? All for the sake of the Cloak? It makes no sense!”

She shook her head. “The Order had grown unwieldy and far beyond my control. The service which it did was far surpassed by the arrogance of its lords and masters. It seemed to me that I had little to lose by driving the Order from Zemphron-Alis and much to gain by reclaiming the Cloak which I had given Mathrid so long ago.”

The Cloak whimpered and whispered again. Voices long stilled whispered the truth of all that was said in Effram’s mind. A chill certainty began to fill his thoughts: he knew where his steps would lead him now. “Thus the Cloak could not take that which is you,” he murmured. “Your power being greater than its.”

She shook her head. “My power is no greater than the Cloak’s. It has grown bloated and potent through the years, whereas I have expended much to maintain my rule. No, the Cloak has no hold over me because I crafted it. With my own hands I wove its cloth and its enchantments, binding both to my purpose.” Her hand smoothed the fabric of the sheer dress she wore, demonstrating to Effram the seductive curves of the form that lay beneath. He swallowed hard, reminded of how long it was since he had been with a woman.

“You see me as I am now, but you also have seen me aged and weak. I am ancient beyond reckoning, and the Cloak was but the first tool I created to extend my days. It has other uses, true, but that was its first and foremost purpose in existing.”

Effram was no longer certain whether he should flee. In the telling of her tale, Verlayne seemed to be holding out an offer of some sort. He deemed it wise to pursue what that offer might be. “Then it is not the Cloak itself you want, but the long life that the Cloak can offer you.”

Her answering smile was dazzling. “You have determination and a quick wit, Effram. And you are not unhandsome. As I have said, the Cloak has become bloated and frayed from poor use by the masters of the Order. No more than a swift touch from it was enough to restore me to vitality. Give to me the rest that is tied up within its weave and I will be restored to power and full health. Then I will have a long life to restore to me those means of eternal youth which have lately failed me.”

The voices within the Cloak were a clamour of fear and despair, but Effram brushed them aside. “And were I to give you power and youth such as you desire, what then? Where would I go thereafter, having regained and lost the last treasure of my Order?”

“Oh Effram,” she breathed. “I would not have you go anywhere. There is more to the Cloak of Shivering than the masters of your Order knew. I would repair the damage of centuries and teach you all that Mathrid knew and more. I would have you create a new Order, shorn of centuries of corruption, and fill the void at the heart of Zemphron-Alis. I would have you take his place in all things, for I deem that you are him come to me again, across the centuries.”

There was no mistaking the form of the offer that was before him now. Yet there was still one matter to be dealt with. “You have youth once more, but how great is your power?” he asked. In his hand appeared a silvered blade, drawn from the depths of the Cloak, which he held to her breast. “Were this to find your heart, would your life of the ages be stolen away? For I have a moiety of vengeance to fulfill.”

She took his hand in her own and held the blade where it lay. “You could slay me here and now. The Cloak has no power over me, but you do, my Thief Schooled in Shadows. You could take my life and then flee, with the Cloak and the parlour tricks it offers you. Or—” and here she stepped closer, so that the point of the dagger pricked her pale skin “—you could be my lover and my champion. You could learn from me and craft a legend from yourself. I am generous in my good fortune, Effram, and I have waited long for you to complete the journey that brought you here.”

Effram licked his lips. He could drive forth the dagger, he knew, and end his quest. Or he could take her at her word and see if there was more to be made from his life than blood and pursuit. He was such a thief as to make all others wonder, but what more might he be, if time and circumstance allowed? It seemed to him that this was a thing well worth the finding out.

He raised the silver dagger until it stood between their faces and gazed at his reflection, and of the ageless eyes that lay beyond it. Then he turned it so that its edge was to him and all that he could see was the Lady Verlayne. She smiled, and he smiled, and with a flick of his wrist, the dagger disappeared into a fold of his sleeve.

The voices of the Cloak screamed and howled their disapproval and their fear, but as Verlayne and Effram embraced as lovers for the first time, they both found that those voices were nothing but weak echoes that soon disappeared. And then, in the silence that followed, there was a future as yet unspoken which they might craft together.