(Plot)

Magic thrives on the common misconception that practicing the dark arts means being able to do whatever you want. It’s this allure that draws people in, and is contradicted by the very nature of the practice, the ritual, rote and spell that must be invoked in order to wield the power offered. It is this contradiction that makes magic possible, allows mortal creatures of matter and substance to shape the ethereal. Magic is bound by rules and laws as rigorous as the rest of creation, as inevitable as entropy and as unforgiving as gravity.

Some of these laws are followed by all magic makers, whether they are aware of them or not. Things like the rituals observed, or the costs that must be paid. Other laws are more esoteric and argued over, but stem from a base rule.

When two forces collide, there can be unpredictable results. The law is the destruction that can be wrought. The ritual is the attempt to mitigate it.

When a mage enters the territory of another, a Conclave must be offered. The host and guest meet, somewhere in public on the host’s domain, with no show of force or status. In secret and in the open at the same time, living in the contradiction. Combat, tests of loyalty or character and other confrontations are saved for later. The Conclave always comes first.

Akila sat in the booth of a small coffee house, staring out the window. It was a slightly dour day; not wet, but grey skied and with a slight chill in the air. Days like this made her miss the heat of India, or the dry expanse of the Outback. Even when it was gone for just a few days, she always felt the sun's absence.

Her cappuccino sat half drunk in front of her, the remains of a muffin resting on her plate amidst a pile of crumbs. She had already made short work of the biscotti that came with her drink and was eyeing a large, glistening cinnamon bun under a glass bell jar. Travelling in cities always put her sweet-tooth into overdrive.

The door jingled as it swung open and shut.

Akila had felt something coming three blocks away. A roiling snarl of cold energy and a hungry pull that set the fur on the back of her neck on end. By the time it had reached the front door, she had managed to get a grip on her instinctual panic and beat down the knot of unease in her gut. Something very wrong was happening, and it was coming to meet her. She glanced upward to track a pair of dark grey ears moving between the booths, until their owner came into view.

She was tall, lanky and composed of grim angles. The small fox instantly considered her malnourished.

Cold, red eyes met her soft brown ones, and an eyebrow arched. The newcomer seemed unimpressed.

“Thank you for your timely response.” Akila spoke. Calmly, steadily, trying to betray none of her turmoil. “This is a nice place. Did you want anything?”

Rica, the crime boss, the umbramancer, the night-club owner, the thaumaturgical abomination, sat across from the small fennec. She snapped her fingers at the mousy waitress, beckoning her over.

Akila tried to suppress the feeling that this woman’s aura gave off and focused on her surface details. The llama’s trim wave of pink hair stood in contrast to her shaggy, grey-black fur. There seemed to be a very faint pattern of lighter colour on her face. It looked like a faded tattoo that traced the lines of her own skull. The striped hoodie she wore complemented her hair. It was a very casual look, most likely a simple glamour to barely hint at what she was and what she was capable of.

The waitress quietly placed a hot chocolate in front of Rica, scuttling away.

“This is the only shop that makes them the way I like.” the llama held up her mug. “Real que rica. Thick and bitter, with good spice. Not that powdered mierda they make for kids.”

She took a deep sip.

“You know, used to be only jefe could drink this kind of thing. Now, I get it whenever I want.”

She smiled, looking smug and slightly vengeful. Some private little joke or victory.

“I like the coffee, too.” Akila offered, letting her host set the tone of the conversation. For now. “There was this little place in Cairo that got me hooked on the stuff.”

Silence drifted across the table. Rica stared at the much smaller fennec over the rim of her large mug as she took another sip.

“Good of you to come here.” Akila said, making another stab at courtesy. “To talk.” She took a hurried sip of her own drink. One of her feet threatened to start nervously tapping under the table.

“You wanted to meet me.” Rica held her gaze. “Understandable. I was interested in seeing for myself, you’re a curiosity. ” She leaned forward, lip twitching slightly at the obvious radiance of positive energy that the small mage wore around her like a halo. It was almost imperceptible to most, but someone with the sense could read it like facial features. Akila oozed with a positive aura. It was probably what kept her looking so bright and energetic. Rica rankled at the thought. Ordinary people would be tripping over themselves to trust someone shining as bright as her, not knowing that her aura was calming them, making them more peaceful and inclined towards a good mood.

Rica sniffed unpleasantly. Manipulative. A false grab at static power in something as banal as a conversation.

“I didn’t think any of your kind were left….” She finished her thought.

“And I didn’t think someone like you was even possible.” Akila responded tacitly. Rica cracked one of her knuckles. In spite of the flattering tone, she had the distinct suspicion she had been insulted.

“So, here we sit. A pair of curiosities.” Rica mused. A minute into the conversation, she decided that she had seen enough. “Let me lay down the rules. The city is mine. It’s people are mine to do with as I see fit. It’s treasures,and there are muchos, are mine as well. You show enough respeto while passing through to meet with me, so permito to leave with your skin. I’d demand tribute…” She looked over Akila like an appraiser would a cheap collectible. “But you have nothing of value. There. Nuestro negocio. Any arguments?”

Akila passively stirred her coffee while listening to Rica’s terms. She took a sip and mulled over the brief declaration. Then she reached into one of her many pockets.

Rica only slightly stiffened at the sight of Akila’s hand going to her coat. Fighting at a Conclave was technically forbidden, but far from impossible. She was absolute in her ability to snuff out the little novice sitting apart from her if the need arose, even though she had detected a few hard points sitting within the glow of her aura; defensive measures, charms and wards that she probably hoped would protect her. They wouldn't, and the little light-slinger would be a fool to initiate hostilities. On the other side of the table, Rica felt no immediacy to force a confrontation. Akila had bought her a drink, after all.

The fennec finally withdrew from her pocket, producing a simple, brass plumb-bob and setting it on the table with a subtle clack.

"Do you do much scrying?" Akila asked. "It might be something we have in common, considering our specialties are so...incompatible.” The fennec caught Rica mouthing that last word to herself. It seemed unfamiliar to her.

“I'm fond of scrying.” She continued “Nothing so intrusive as spying in on the preordained, or trying to witness things as they happen. I just like casting an eye over the areas I travel through, see if there are any...curiosities plucking at the weave. Sometimes it’s a little tremor passing through a place or time, other times there’s a rogue wave that needs to be defused or diverted….” She spun the plumb-bob on it’s rounded edge, it slowed to a stop pointing directly at Rica.

“As soon as I reached the States, something started pulling on my readings, like the moon drawing the tides. It got worse and worse the closer I got, and now in this city….your city, it’s like sitting in the middle of a black hole.”

Rica tapped her saucer, flashing Akila a smooth, simmering grin.

“Something is twisting and tearing at the thaumaturgical map of this entire continent….” Akila said, watching Rica carefully. “It’s not something I can turn my back on. I can’t leave until it’s remedied.”

“You have one?” the tall llama inquired, less intrigued and more bemused. “A remedy?”

“I’m good at thinking on my feet.” Akila responded, her jittering foot under the table growing still. “This is what I do.”

“What you do…” Rica repeated. “You seem like a clever girl. Why devote yourself to such a práctica that the rest of this grey little world seems to have forgotten?”

“It’s difficult not to walk through that door when it’s been opened to you.” Akila took another sip of her nearly emptied drink. “When I was a child, I had little means, and fewer options. Then that path was shown to me and I walked it willingly. It gave me purpose, even faith, if you want to use that word.”

 “Ah, they got you young, did they?” Rica flashed a mirthless grin. “I suppose they were in need of a fresh soldier.”

“It wasn’t like that.” Akila refuted. “The ones with the knowledge, who taught me how to harness it, I sought them out. All over the world if I had to.”

  “You wanted what they could give you.” Rica nodded. “Sabiduría, the vindication that all the things that you heard about were actually real. All that learning would give you clear access to what you were after.”

“Access?” Akila looked down the bridge of her snout. “To what?”

  “La magia est poder, Chica.” The llama growled. ``Power. The power to shape the world, to make it whatever you want. When you practice, you direct the winds of the nagual, you force your will into reality. It can give you everything, if you have la fuerza.”

Akila stirred the remaining coffee in her cup with her spoon. The bitterness of it was starting to dry her mouth out.  “That’s a school of thought…” She said, more to herself than Rica.

“It’s true.” Rica let out a bark of a chuckle. It was the first genuine laugh she had offered since sitting down, harsh and hateful. “You want to say something else? Engaño. You lie to yourself.”

  “Magic is a discipline.” Akila retorted. She hadn’t come to this Conclave expecting to argue her entire philosophy, but she was prepared to. “Understanding the universe in a way that allows us to reach out and touch it in a way that too many of us have forgotten. To seek and study it as a means of power is...petty vanity. What use is power without purpose?"

“To stand.” Rica stated flatly. The talk was exciting her, nearly putting her on her feet. Akila wasn’t worried about being overheard. Most people would just assume they were having a heated discussion about a fantasy novel.

“I am testament, I am poder. And I can make it known, and take what I want, any time I want.”

“You have to show it off, don’t you?” Akila kissed her own teeth to create a sound of disapproval. “What purpose is power if you can’t display it, terrify some people whenever you feel like it?”

  “And you keep it all to yourself. For safety.” Rica stated mockingly, then stabbed a thick finger towards the street. “You look out the window and tell me what purpose they have. You hide for el comun? Because you’re scared. Of yourself, of them, of the whole world outside your little manto de secretos. But all those people are is a blank slate to carve into.”

“You carve and you burn and you hew, but you don’t even know why you do it.” Akila centred herself, trying to remember the decorum of their ritual. “It’s all just for strength and greed and your own worth. You can throw a shroud over the moon, tear the earth apart, but you don’t know the meaning of it. You don’t know the truth behind the spells you weave or the source of the ritual. It isn’t important to you.” She slowed her tapping boot again. “You lack perspective. Context. That’s why you aren’t as strong as you think you are.”

Rica paused, processing this condemnation. Akila finished her coffee, keeping her warm, brown eyes fixed on the hateful red glare of the umbramancer.

“I know what it is to rely on the wisdom of others….” Rica spoke quietly now, even her aura tightening around her as if to prepare for some vicious attack. “To draw on their strength as well. You, pequeña estudiante , seem to think the only way of doing this is to be instructed, or aided by others. I’ve found a more….efficient way.”

The thick finger of one hoof reached up to tug at a thin chain around her neck, pulling the pendant it looped through out of her shirt. Akila felt her tail bristle involuntarily. The glimmering red crystal dangling from the simple chain necklace bore a similar shape to Akila’s plumb bob.

The mage instinctively sensed something was wrong with the artifact. It reeked of potential energy and bindings. Every facet on the jewel was like a steel bar containing what lay within. And past the surface there was something hazier, like a dreaming mind lost in imposed slumber.

“You like it?” Rica asked. “Hermosa, I know. Picked it up in Mexico City.” Her red eyes swivelled back to meet Akila. “She was a summoner, a tinkerer, like you, but much more raw strength at her disposal.”

Akila’s paw tightened into a fist on the table. Attempts at masking intention were pointless in the face of naked antagonism.

“She needed refining.” Rica mused, basking in Akila’s building reaction. “Smooth off the edges, making her more portable….but now, I can call on this power any time I like. Now it’s all mine.” She tucked the gem away, keeping her eyes on the small fennec’s trembling form. Whether from fear or rage, she could not tell.

“Not my only tesoro you know…” The llama continued. “There’s a demonologist I keep back at El Ziggurat. Sometimes I leaf through their pages when I’m looking for a new spell. They were clever, like you. And they serve me now.” She finished her hot chocolate and leaned forward, clapping her hooves together. Her gaze flickered to the corona of light that made up Akila’s aura. It was flaring with sparks and bursts, panic and terror and anger bubbling up past her composure. She was on the brink of doing something impulsive.

“I like this coleccionar, tracking down real power, and making it mine.” Rica was suppressing a wider smile, playing casual. “But you aren’t worth the effort. I think that making, say, a coronamancer such as yourself into a bit of joyería would be useless. You’re right to say that we’re….what was the word? Incompatible?” She worked her way through the unfamiliar word, her Mexican accent bubbling between the syllables. “But then, you aren’t the only hechicera here in Sterling City, are you?” Akila’s palms went flat against the table.

“You asked me earlier if I ever practised la adivinación” The llama mused. “And yes, I’ve been peeking as well. I saw you coming from miles away before you reached my city, nasty little sunspot, like a glare on water.” The llama tented her hoofs, resting them against her chin.  “And I know that there’s something new floating around, ever since that fracaso at the museum a few weeks ago...something with a tie to the elements? Someone who’s connected….to the winds?”

Rica fondled her necklace with one hand as she locked eyes with the fennec.

“A lot of untapped power there. I wonder if you know of them? I think they’d make a lovely bracelet.”

Akila’s aura flared, a rapidly building starburst that made Rica screw her eyes shut and throw up her hands. The shadows in the cafe responded to her call and moved towards her like pools of oil.

The fennec took in a breath, and exhaled.

The flare died down, the corona that had enveloped her body fading and withdrawing. Rica shook the haze of light from her head and prepared to swat away whatever the little mage was prepared to throw at her, but there was no attack to meet her, no ward or hex attempting to disrupt her next spell. Just a little fox cleaning the bottom of her cup with a spoon. It had been a harmless show of force, nothing more.  “Sorry” she offered as Rica’s own fists unclenched. “Instinct almost got the better of me. And that would be against the rules.” The umbramancer remained on guard, but paused. The wave of calm that had overtaken the coronamancer was unsettling.

Akila raised a hand for the check.  “You’re very good you know. But I told you, all that power makes you overconfident. Maybe strength was all you needed down where you’re from, but this is not Il-Hui-Catl Na-Natz-Cayan.”

Rica’s expression soured and a chill ran through her as Akila stumbled through the ancient, Aztec word. The umbramancer had not heard that name in centuries, and had not thought anyone alive knew it. Ilhuicatl Nanatzcayan. The darkness below hell.  “What do you know of Where Obsidian Knives are Creaking?” Rica said, still on her feet and words dripping with venom as she spoke the English translation.  “Less than a native resident” Akila accepted the receipt from a slightly unnerved waitress “But I like to learn.” She stood.

“Goodbye, Rica of The Ziggurat. I’ll be here as long as I have to.”

The fennec turned and made for the front door, exposing her back with a flick of her tail. Rica calculated her odds of success if she were to attempt to spear the little mage through the chest from behind. But something made her hesitate, the old word still ringing in her head. What else did that coronamancer know? What plans had she made? What was she expecting? Akila turned, offering the llama a sideways glance as she passed through the jangling door, and the opportunity was gone.  Rica’s hard red eyes followed the tips of her large ears as she integrated herself with the pedestrians outside, until she disappeared from view.

The Umbramancer remained in the small shop, alone. The most powerful creature in the city, the country, maybe the world, and that little mage had frozen her with a single word.

“Can I get you anything, ma’am?”

Rica almost spasmed as the waitress from earlier appeared at her shoulder, hands considerately folded in front of her across her small apron. Polite, helpful and tiny.

“I….need to leave.” Rica mumbled, talking for the sake of herself more than regarding the person next to her. She stormed outside and tried to track the diminutive silhouette of Akila, but she was gone in the crowd.

Rica remained motionless for an uncharacteristically long time. The conclave was concluded, sides had been chosen and declarations had been made.

The Shadow-Shaper’s body relaxed and her shoulder sank slightly. In spite of the situation, and her turmoil of rage, a faint smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. The little Light-Slinger had managed to surprise her after all. All the things Rica considered her; an irritant, an interloper, a curiosity, an amateur. All still held true.

Rica placed her hands in her pockets and stalked down the streets of her city, drinking in the sounds and smells that were hers to savour first, hers to claim. A single word clung to her mind; what Akila was now recognized as, above the rest:

A threat.