(or: a story of Sister Sthai d'Iasani, Petal of the Amaranth)

The pages are ivory and grey as they flutter from her fingers. A soft-breathed
syllable is all that is required, however, to turn them to falling stars and
ashes whisked away by the swift wind from the east. Skirls of silvery ashes
flutter from the high tower window, streamers on their way to graves in the Sea
of Despair.

High in the window, Sister Sthai d'Iasani, known as the Petal of the Amaranth
amongst the Fold of the Nihilists, watches with narrow-eyed satisfaction. The
wind takes even those embers that cling desperately to taloned fingers.

Revenge is ever so sweet.

***

It began some few days ago, a short span of time. Bats went awry often in the
city, losing themselves in catacombs and residences that shift as if alive.
Messengers went missing; scrolls intended to reach the librarian or her private
shelves vanished.

One such, however, appeared to have vanished in a swirl of grey novitiate
cloth, something surprising within the Tower of the Dark Fates. It scrabbled and
fled along the stairs of the Tower, and she, light-footed and irritated,
pursued, silent to the frightened ears of the Urth.

Ahead, it panted. She paused briefly, as if to murmur Yesod, before the ritual
chamber, and thought to glance within. Something familiar struck her ear, and
she turned her head to listen.

Within, Sister Aamatreya's hands were raised, as was her voice, chanting to the
Lady of the Amaranth. "Lady of the Crimson Veil, Lady of the Bloodied Needle,
Lady dark and bright..."

Sthai's eyes narrowed. What was this?

Yesod spilled from her lips, and she pressed herself against the darkened
archway. As she watched, the ritual wound on as it had beneath her quill, the
Sister performing for an Iconoclast and a group of Penitents. Aamatreya's robes
clung close, cut from fine brocaded silk of maroon; rings sparkled from her
fingers, and a circlet sat perched impudently on her brow.

The wealth of her Sister was clear to see, as was the sheer ego of the girl.
Aamatreya y'Ashan was nowhere near close to being a severe challenge. And yet,
here she was, speaking stolen phrases in worship, pursuing favour with Sthai's
own work.

Irritating. As the ritual came to a close, she pressed close to near the front
of the room, coming to stand almost opposite the Iconoclast, who murmured praise
as Aamatreya concluded.

"Yesod."

The shocked widening of Aamatreya's eyes was replaced by narrowed calculation
almost immediately. Sthai's own eyes flicked from the y'Ashan face to that of
the Iconoclast. With a glance, she noted the amused, sneering smile, the
challenging hint in his slitted regard. Behind her, the Penitent's tittered,
smelling blood, waiting for her to speak. A few hissed words of defense eddied
from behind her, the crackle of magic made manifest with them. Aamatreya's robes
rustled as if something stirred beneath.

So.

Her eyes narrowed, Sthai smiled sharply, displaying Viscanti teeth between two
thin lips. "A masterful performance, Sister." she offered.

Without allowing a response, she turned and swept from the room. A brief pause
in the doorway allowed for time to sketch the pentagram. Something impacted her
shields with a dull thud. There was a furious hiss from within.

Sthai sketched the sign of Yesod rapidly and was gone before they could stir
themselves further, fleeing into the shadows of the Tower.

***

A tome sat on the stack of papers beside her. Lifting it, Sthai caressed the
binding, fingers tracing the title graven into the leather. Gilded letters
declaimed author and title; an inscription on the interior claimed it as the
property of House y'Ashan.

It made a beautiful falling star for the ten seconds it took to fully ignite,
then a banner of fine ash as it rained down from the high tower into the streets
of the Engine.

She inhaled softly, consciously, catching a whiff of burnt preservatives and
aging paper before the wind swept it away entirely.

With a smile, she picked up the next work, a scroll bound in crimson wax.

***

Few knew of the shrine to the Voice, hidden as it was beneath the stairs of the
library betwixt two twisting passageways seldom used themselves. But past a fair
bit of rubble, and behind a rotting tapestry lay a simple black stone carved
with the images of dead Prophets and their Fallen House. Upon it, an
enterprising soul had wedged a dagger into a crack and offered up a dish of foul
poison to the Lord of Shadows and Lies.

Common knowledge placed Sthai d'Iasani as a follower of Lady Nifilhema, pacted
to her both in the preparatory and the final means, soul sworn to torment and
agony. Common knowledge, however, did not suit the Sister. While she was
pledged, in part, to the Lady of the Amaranth, she found a more subtle
discipline served one formerly of Celest.

A former merian does not survive long within the Tower without cunning. So it
was that she found herself as Penitent and Sister, pledging herself and seeking
her contemplation in the webs of the Prince.

The webs stirred briefly. Sthai did not glance upwards into the twisting forms.
Spiders shifted in the strands, hidden from impious searches by shrouds of silk
and scuttling limbs.

Treachery, thievery, threats. Lifting her hands, she poured a dram of calcise
into the black dish upon the altar, murmuring a soft prayer to the Voice. Within
the back of her mind, something stirred, brushing silken-smooth and cold against
the irritation rushing through her.

*Patience.* it advised, barely audible. *Patience, Sister d'Iasani.*

Patience. She raised her head to regard the wall, waiting. Above, the shadows
stirred.

"Show me." she breathed. From the strands, a single spider, silvered and
long-limbed, fell on a thread of silk.

Her bond hissed within her head, and ice filled her veins as she rose,
following the spider as it scurried along the wall. One hand lifted the skirt of
her robe as she pursued the insect along the edge of the forgotten hall and to a
doorway hidden beyond an iron lever. Up and up into the tower she rose,
following the silvery strand and the scuttling legs.

***

Wax ignited beautifully, be it upon the interior pages of the works or to seal
the heavy weight of vellum from prying eyes. Without breaking the thick gloss,
she threw the rolls into the air and ignited the wax first, allowing the paper
and treated leather to burn from the centre.

To the north, there was a commotion as black-robed figures poured through the
streets, led by a single figure clothed in cerise.

***

The stairway rose some three stories from the base of the Tower, climbing past
webs filled with beady eyes and waving limbs. The strands seems to part before
the spider, and she followed, coming at last to a mouldering wooden door perhaps
the size of a child. The spider halted above it, lingering above a rusting lock.

Sthai stroked the lock gently with taloned fingers. Fire flashed between thumb
and forefinger, melting the ancient mechanism. The door creaked open with a
faint, minimal noise.

Silk rising from its back, the spider rose, vanishing into the shadows as it
returned to the webs. Brushing the door open, Sthai edged through the doorway
into darkness and a cramped, wooden embrasure.

Fire kindled once more, dancing upon her finger. A bare coffin surrounded her,
seemingly: between the walls, a narrow cubbyhole pressed in on either side.
Another door rested at the opposite end.

Pressing her ear to the surface, she discerned nothing. Unlocked, it swung open
into a shadowy office, embers of a torch giving faint illumination to the office
of guild teachers... that of the Iconoclasts and the Seditionists.

She crept forwards, eying the desks. Stacks of papers stirred briefly at her
passing, fingered with the tips of talons only, leaving no impression on supple
leather or crisp vellum. At last, she came to the desk of the Iconoclast, piled
high with the work of Penitents and one Sister Aamatreya.

A small, vicious smile creased her lips. Crouching, she filled her arms with
scrolls and books. Onto the pile of the Sister's work went the scrolls of the
Penitents, the reports of the Iconoclast to the Mystagogue and Heresiarch. The
work of months and years joined the hoard.

The works went into the coffin. Closing the door to it, Sthai came to her feet
and peeked through the keyhole of the door into the main tower. A breath of
Yesod, and she slipped through the door, closing it carefully behind her. It was
day, now, she sensed, and all that had stirred within was sleeping. The sun
would be harsh even through her cloak as she returned to her garret over the
Inn.

She slipped silently along the stairway to the foyer of the Tower, moving to
the door into the blinding light of the sky. As she raised her hand to the knob,
a slipper scuffed silently against the stone. A throat was cleared.

Turning, she raised a hand to sketch the pentagram. Her fingers stilled as a
form clad in cerise lowered her cloak.

"Still yourself." the Mystagogue Nariah d'Iasani advised her protege.

Sthai curtsied swiftly, eyes cast upwards to elder Nihilist with some
trepidation as her teacher and mother swept a sharp gaze over the dust covering
her black robes.

Nariah smiled, slow and thin. "Clean yourself." she advised, turning to the
stairs. Over her shoulder: "Do come see the stars from the perch over the
Mystagogue's office. It is a view I daresay you shan't forget. I shall leave you
a key... and a lantern."

She set foot upon the stairs, shaking her head lightly. "And Sthai? Do leave
the reports on my desk. I will need them, come next weave when we appoint a new
Iconoclast."

With a soft cluck of her tongue, her mentrix ascended the stairs and was gone.

***

The city came awake at night beneath the light of the stars and torches, and
lanterns such as the gilded one left upon the high tower perch above the
Mystagogue's office. Ur'guard knights marched in formation, and the nexus flared
with sickly radiance throughout the night. At the northern gates, black-robed
figures assembled, circling the pillars.

Sthai smiled and cast the last of the thick tomes into the air. Motes of flames
took the pages, another murmured syllable took the heavy covers, consigning the
last works of Sister Aamatreya to ash.

A scream of agony echoed from the far northern reaches of the city, followed by
the gleeful howl of the archdemon. Lifting a watchglass to her eye, Sthai
watched the gathering at the gate thoughtfully. A last scream was ripped from
the throat of the Iconoclast, joined by the treble of Sister Aamatreya as her
own thrall began to feast upon her innards.

There was certainly, she considered, feasting her eyes on the spectacle,
something to be said for the execution of her adopted mother's punishments.

The last scroll became ashes and cinders in the night, arching over the city as
a banner of debris. Beneath, the city roared its appreciation as the hearts of
the Iconoclast and Sister Aamatreya y'Ashan were offered up to their lords.

Satisfied, Sthai lowered the glass, a faint smile on her lips. "You were right,
mother." she murmured. "I do so adore the view."