Transcribed by Mouse Writ, Seeker to the Old King

Skyclipse Dive, Age 5.8 U.C.

My Most Noble King,

It is with a heavy heart I write to you. By now, you will have heard of the Calamity that befell Skyclipse Dive, and learned the fate of your Inaugural Listener. Montclay was a good man, from a good family. I hear Morganridge stonemasonry rivals the Talented and adorns walls as far north as Inlay. A tragedy indeed.

It was Montclay who welcomed me into the Dive. Townsfolk near the base of the Skyclipse mountains refer to them simply as “white wall”, and the name speaks for itself. Jagged, black-tipped peaks which from afar seem likely to skewer a star, widen into a seamless horizon of snow upon approach to the city. It is true what they say—a man would need to climb higher than the clouds before he found a pass to the other side. Certainly, it cannot be done. I spent my final day on the open road trudging through a knee-deep wasteland of slush, and I can say with certainty, no one in their right mind would attempt to cross Skyclipse by any means other than the low road around the cape. It is shocking to me that Montclay was willing to live here so long when even the thinnest sliver of ice would have sent him sliding into a broken neck, the way he hobbled around. But the fellow was resilient; I found the old Listener waiting for me at the city limits, though he was bundled in a cloak that made him look three times larger than he was, and he’d fallen asleep leaning on his cane.

I stayed with Montclay in the Listener apartments at the Dive. They’re large enough to host an entire family of nobility, but Montclay’s wife died many years before, and had no interest in remarrying. The love he had left, he dedicated to his work, and his King. You will find it hard procuring a replacement so devoted.

Still, it would have been nice to at least have a few servants running around. With just the two of us, Montclay’s portion of the fortress echoed with cold, no matter that he ignited every hearth (of which there were six) each evening.

It is strange, this city without walls. The lights of homes below the Dive outline a saddle sloping from the mountain’s base to the frozen tip of the cape, completely exposed. One evening Montclay and I took tea in his library, overlooking the city though storm-sanded windows, and he explained to me the beauty of Skyclipse; a land made neutral by nature. With solid icy shores facing out, the white wall at its back, and slippery, narrow roads the only means of entry on either side of the cape, Skyclipse could rebuff anything short of an attack from all sides at once.

I did not add my own suspicions, which are that no King or Queen would ever seek ownership of such a bleak land, with ground too frozen to till and winds to rip the flesh from one’s bones. Despite having the high ground, without any walls, I still cannot purge the image of a strong breeze peeling it all up and sending it tumbling into the sea.

Not to say that one would ever feel at risk in Skyclipse Dive. Never in my time on the Sledge have I bumped into so many guards and watchmen while trying to navigate such slippery streets in so many layers. I hope you do not take offense, but even His Majesty would have been waddling.

I will admit, I might have over-delayed my departure to Badgerpool. But I wagered a few extra nights spent soaking old bones in a hot bath would only ease me to the journey. As you will now have heard, it’s only through this good chance that I was able to escape the Calamity which befell Badgerpool, and nearly took Skyclipse, along with several of its beloved citizens, to Calma.

Two days into my stay at the Dive and it had not stopped snowing. I caught Listeners after Council (the Volcanawan Listener is an old friend from my mercantile days; I recommend never taking him for a round of snaps) and insisted to them that it was the height of summer—it was too early for it to be snowing!

Even Montclay and the Capellen Listener—a man who Montclay mourned never seeing eye to eye with—agreed; snow is common at Skyclipse, regardless which time of year.

The city watch, however, is not known for taking chances. That evening I saw them swinging from ropes and dangling in front of the Dive’s upper casements. They swung like spiders, methodically pausing at intervals on the snow shield—the inverted V of stone and metal crowning Skyclipse Dive.

“They’re checking for cracks,” Montclay said. The old fellow was frightfully silent in those slippers of his; I nearly dropped my tea! He pointed a crooked finger up the mountain side, which had been rounding out with each passing hour. “Making sure it will hold should the snow loosen.”

I was skeptical why Skyclipse should need a shield taller than that of the Samwhin Interior (which is taller than the one in Capelle, you’ll be pleased to hear) when the only snow I had encountered was powdery as a dandelion, if a biting one.

Until that night, when I was jostled awake, and my bed creaked in the roll of what I thought was thunder. But thunder doesn’t roll through ground, so I hurried down to the library and joined Montclay in staring openmouthed out the apartment’s sweeping windows.

A rockslide of snow was spilling over the shield and down onto Skyclipse. The slurry carried with it solid chunks of ice the size of small hills, which it sent launching beyond the Dive, arcing into the air, and speeding towards buildings in the center of the saddle. They landed with a boom and the flagstones vibrated beneath our feet. We could do nothing but watch as these bergs exploded against the ground, flattening buildings and consuming people fleeing from the square below.

I spent the next day on the edge of my seat in the library, watching as two women with a Talent for fire and water each (water is a Talent I’ve not seen in Samwhin. Apparently, they wear leather in rainstorms, but perhaps Montclay was prodding my fancy) attempted to melt the remainder of the larger ice chunks, so a chain of shovelers could haul it away. Others in the black uniforms of the watch strapped wicker frames to their feet and fanned into a line. They crawled along the drift, prodding into the snow with long sticks, pulling empty sledges behind them.

The captain of the watch arrived at the Dive just after lunch to give a report to the Listener’s Council. Montclay was able to sit me in the back of the council chamber to learn what had happened: the largest snow slide on record, the captain said, nearly large enough to qualify as a True Calamity. The snow shield did not crack. It was overtopped.

Only fifty-six more years Until Calamity. Us wizened folk are lucky, Your Highness, as we won’t be around to see just how much the world will change in the ages to come.

Despite my position at the back wall and my exceptional inability to fidget, the captain spotted me. “The roads are currently inaccessible,” he told me, in front of everyone. “The Speaker’s guild is issuing requests across the Sledge to send people with elemental Talents to clear the snow and assist in extending the snow shield. Until that time, you’ll have to remain with us.”

I did attempt to find a solution, My King, as I knew how insistent you were I reach Badgerpool with haste. But the captain had been right—there were no ways out until someone arrived to clear the roads. The ice sheet just off the shore was not solid enough to walk around the cape in summer, the shores surrounding Badgerpool’s beaches were studded with rocks sharp enough to pierce any ship’s hull, and I expect not even you would suggest I climb the ‘white wall’.

As night approached, the figures with the long poles stopped, having pulled nearly a dozen unmoving forms from the snow on sledges, and they hadn’t even made it halfway across the mound. Their faces flashed to the sky, and they tucked their poles under their arms and hurried away. A mandate was issued from the watch: seal our doors, windows, and chimneys tight, and do not go outside for any reason. Another storm was coming.

When I asked Montclay how bad a storm must be for no one to be allowed outside their home, he pointed to the snowdrift below, its mass burying a quarter of Skyclipse Dive.

“Ah, see? There’s no need to fret. They’re taking care of it now.”

Figures in black appeared once more, this time covered so entirely in furs they might have been coal in a snowman’s smile. Again, they fanned into a line and proceed across the snow, moving faster now that they weren’t stopping every few paces to check for a body. To either side of them, they shook a green liquid from watering cans, turning the paths behind them the color of vomit after a meal of onion stew (I also recommend never trying my Volcanawan friend’s onion stew).

“What is it they’re spraying?” I asked.

Montclay’s fingers tangled in his beard. “They say they use it to kill bugs. Although I’ve never heard of an insect that can thrive in snow, and I’ve never seen one in all my years here. But perhaps that means it’s working. Ask me what the substance is? Hardly a clue. They order it in from some specialist in unclaimed east. Can you believe? He’s a poisoner. If I were Captain Sinclair, I’d be more weary dealing with those. The only person who can trust a poisoner is himself. Sneaky, very sneaky.”

I settled in for a long night’s rest, having not been able to find sleep after the monstrous night previous. Despite not entirely seeing the captain’s point, I checked the windows to my chamber before pulling the covers around me. I noted there was a crack in one of the crosshatched panes but paid it no mind when the heavy latch slid closed.

I had not even counted my last sheep when my door rattled. I braced my legs for the chill and dashed to my robe before wandering over to see what Montclay was doing banging on my door so late in the evening. But after rubbing the sleep from my eyes, I saw that it wasn’t my door handle rattling, but my entire door, jostling in it’s frame as though being assaulted by rocks.

Something tinged at my window and I spun around to see what it could have been—the apartment was easily one hundred feet above the nearest building. The night was black, and it was snowing outside.

The door shook. A shout echoed somewhere further into the house, a short yelp as though surprised. I couldn’t bring myself to approach the door, so I called out, hoping to hear from Montclay, or a guard that could explain what in calma was going on.

Two more tings at my window and I whirled back around. The thin crack had thickened. The snow was moving oddly; turning sharply, seeming to drift upwards at times. I shuffled closer to inspect it but kept one eye on the door’s hinges, which were seeming flimsier by the moment.

Should you acquire a new generation of Seekers, Your Majesty, I recommend training them in the sword. It will feel a worthwhile lesson once out in the corners of Sledgegrass.

I stared into the snow and studied its hypnotic trajectories, when a snowflake paused in midair, then flew upwards. I stared after it. Ting! I lurched backwards, crashing into the stone floor, jamming my back for what I expect will be days to come. Ting! Ting!

The snow was cracking into my window. Only it wasn’t snow. It had wings.

Another silver edge split across the windowpane. Then another.

I called out for Montclay one more time but didn’t wait to hear the answer as one last bug flung against my window, and the glass shattered inwards.

I sprung to my feet (or the nearest equivalent these knees will allow) and flung myself towards my wardrobe. Despite the size of the apartment, its bedrooms are cozy, and the wardrobe was only three steps away. Still, I was not fast enough. Three stings, as though from a hornet, bit into the back of my knee. I crashed face first into wooden back of the wardrobe and flailed to pull its doors closed.

Not a second after I closed myself into darkness did the swarm barrage into the doors. I held the latches closed, gritting my teeth and trying to ignore the single bug that had made it inside the wardrobe with me. It stung my shoulder, then my stomach, then my cheek, each pinch more painful than the last. A slip of the scarf I’d hung on the wardrobe’s handles outside was trapped in the door, so I grabbed it and was able to tie it so the doors stayed shut.

I swatted at the bug in the wardrobe with me, and eventually crushed it against the wall with my traveler’s hat. It fell into my hat, and I held it under the shaking sliver of moonlight escaping through the cracks in the door. My mind must have been rattled in the assault, because at first glance, I mistook the creature for a miniature woman.

In my hand, was a white insect, with wings translucent as the ice over a pond. Two long arms, which folded back into bloodied pincers, grew from a plated chest. And two tails sprouted from the bottom of its abdomen, both ending in stingers.

I checked the sting on my arm, praying the creature wasn’t venomous. Only, I hadn’t been stung, I had been bitten. My calves, neck, face, arms, everywhere the frightful bug stung me, was covered in craters the size of a knuckle and streaming blood. Calma, the things were planning to eat me alive.

I crouched in the closet, my heart pounding every time the rattling at the wardrobe doors picked up again. Finally, after however many countless hours with my knees bent and my back sore, my skin sticky with blood, waiting to see if the bugs would return once more, footsteps charged into my chamber. I swung the doors open to see the captain of the watch.

He helped me from the wardrobe to the bed but left to let me change into more appropriate clothing. An astute man, Captain Sinclair.

When I emerged, it was to find Montclay’s apartments in shambles; statues toppled, tea sets overturned, inkwells spilled over fine Samwhin rugs. The captain told me they suspected the bugs got into the rest of the apartment through a chimney flue. I confirmed the apartments were always nearly as cold as the night outside.

The captain took me to Montclay’s rooms. There was something piled in the middle of the floor, like dirty snow. Or a skeleton, with wet tendrils of sinew holding its expression in an agonized scream.

The short cry from the night before came back to me. The bugs must have eaten through Montclay’s vocal cords before he could finish dying properly.

With all exits out of Skyclipse still blocked, I spent the rest of the day with my friend from Volcanawa, rushing around his stone house lower in the city, boarding the windows. I was not the only one who had seen a corpse that morning. Where the town square sat, still buried, red welts had appeared in the otherwise clean snow. The watch dug into them and pulled out corpses as chewed clean as Montclay’s.

They came again that night with the snow—the bugs—and we did not sleep. But no one died.

The next night the snow fell, but the bugs did not come. Or the night after. Or the night after.

And finally, the ships came, and the Talented set to clearing the roads. Teams of dogs pulled sleds over the ice and men in spotted seal furs rolled barrels into the watch’s sheds. I knew it must be the same potion they had been spraying the first night after the snow slide.

I asked a large man with a shaved head of tattoos who was pointing directions, if he knew the identity of the potion’s manufacturer, and what it was supposed to do if not kill bugs, since it hadn’t been effective that wicked first night.

The large man looked down his nose at me—an easy thing to do, My King, I took no offense—and smirked. “It does kill bugs,” he said and spit something vile and globular near my feet. “And it kills things that attract bugs.” He kicked a barrel as someone rolled it past and nodded to the bloody mountain of snow still engulfing the square. “You get a slide like that, lots of people get trapped under there, warm and moving around, trying to climb out?” He shruged. “If the manti came down on you it’s because you left your dead for alive, and they got the scent of all that heat in their waters. Up north, we know how to salt our ground properly.”

“North, you said? There’s no chance you’re from Badgerpool.” I had to ask.

The man shook his head, no. “Farther north.”

He would not tell me the name of the poisoner.

And still, I received more dire news. As the road to Badgerpool had given way, the watch got a clearer view of the white wall. They saw that a large shelf of snow had been chiseled away right above the little town.

I am afraid there is no way to retrieve your good story from that iced-in community any longer, for there is no way it would have survived what Skyclipse Dive nearly didn’t. Badgerpool is gone Your Majesty.

But I will continue my quest.

I flashed a bit of gold to my tattooed friend and begged passage on his ship. I have left this letter with the Listeners to send for delivery once passage opens. I would have contacted you through a Speaker, but I remembered your rules to take cautions when delivering these stories.

As you read this, I suspect I will already be on Inlay. With no immediate direction, I wagered the island would be ripe for stories.

I suppose you may be able to reach me through Songsparrow, for I do not yet know an address for my lodgings. She has been sending me sketches of places she’s visited on the island since you sent her there, but they’re all of libraries!

It’s for the best I’m there with her, My King, she hasn’t yet learned to see past her research, and stories live in places unexpected.

In Your Unyielding Servitude,

Mouse Writ

P.S. My King, you will also find attached a small sample of the concoction the eastern poisoner made for Skyclipse Watch. Montclay was right—no one can trust a poisoner unless they’re kept in hand. And even then, only the master holding the leash. There’s more than one reason why a poisoner on the continent selling magic should not be ignored.

I will interject once more, only to note that Badgerpool is very much still intact.

Signed,

Mercurial Lascar, Age 1.5 Until Calamity