Mallory made a show of clearing her throat and then began a poem she called The Taste of Young Love:

“When my menstruating snatch repels your kiss,

It’s always my ass that draws your lips.

Tonight my mouth is not enough,

You need it raw, you need it rough.

Bent over, up in my guts,

If I blink, I know you’ll nut.

You don’t unload inside or on my rack,

Instead, you pull out and cum on my back.

I clean your shaft with a single lick,

And taste my ass on your dick.”

Roland had no idea what he had just listened to. He had heard a fair amount of bad poetry from not-so-clever scribes at Sages’ Keep, but nothing approached this level of awfulness.

“Wowee!” yelled the lord who had been sitting in the shadows of the chamber. “What a hoot!” He walked into the light, clapping his hands and whistling. “That’s poetry, man! That’s poetry!”

“Yes, bravo,” said Louisia, as her feet returned to the ground. “You’ve truly composed a kitsch masterpiece.”

“Right fuckin’ on,” added the lord.

Louisia nodded. “A profound meditation on carnal delights. Let us reflect: Certainly, an ass is an ass. However, it’s also much more, depending on your perspective. Your words captured that. The mysterious is soothing, even when solutions will never be apparent. And what greater unknown is there than having someone ejaculate on your back?”

She turned to the lord. “Any further thoughts, dear?”

“Hunters hunt. Poets fuck.”

“Succinct as always.” Louisia turned back to Mallory. “Perhaps it’s hyperbole to compare you to Fabery. Obviously, he didn’t have any poems about anal penetration, but I feel that — despite the differences in subject matter — you share an emotional kinship with his work. Your words, like his, could bring Rukdar, the Celestial of Stoicism, to tears.

“Your art reminds us that we are vulnerable gorgeous beings that struggle against the boundaries of particularization leaving only a wake of eager, industrious, unkempt activity.”

“Yeah, I was definitely going for all that art nerd shit that you just said,” replied Mallory.

“Impresario, who is this brilliant girl?”

The impresario flipped through a small notebook. “Yes, she’s Marigold Gadabout. A young painter. She wants to show her work at the upcoming exhibition.” He looked over at Mallory. “Correct?”

“Bang on,” said Mallory.

Louisia smirked. “Granted.”

Mallory smiled and licked her teeth as she returned to her seat.

“And her young partner?” Louisia asked, looking at the impresario.

“Our agents don’t have any information on her.”

Louisia stared at Roland. If she recognized that it was Eliza’s face behind the mask he was wearing, she gave no indication.

“Little miss, why are you here?”

As he had done when he spoke to the Hero of Relmgard, Roland disguised his voice with a cantrip. Some of the other guests had heard him talk earlier but speaking to Louisia in Eliza’s voice was far more riskier than the very low chance of being exposed by them.

“I came to support my good friend, Marigold,” said Roland.

There was silence.

For the first time since she had descended from above, Louisia seemed to be lost. She then started to move her fingers like she did before when she was casting spells. Roland had no idea what she was doing, but he doubted it would be to his benefit. He decided to play a simpleton.

“Also, I wanted to hear live poetry. I enjoy words.”

“You enjoy words?” repeated Louisia slowly. She stopped moving her fingers and laughed. “In that case, we definitely don’t need to hear from you. Let us continue with another guest.” Her gaze turned towards another member of the audience.

***

Now relaxed, and no longer preoccupied with the identity of the lady, Roland could focus on a second mystery: Louisia’s apparent ability to use actual magic. One possibility seemed plausible: the sensation he felt when the entire room began to move was the Magicka Flux. From what he understood about the nature of the Flux, it could be created by putting magicka charge into motion. The walls of this chamber must be built with a material that contained such charge. When it moved, this room became a hotspot for the Flux. This explanation didn’t seem that far-fetched to Roland. Louisia’s husband, Edwin, was a ‘Master Inventor’ and likely understood how the Magicka Flux worked. Constructing this room with that knowledge would have been feasible for him.

As he was convincing himself that this explanation made sense, another boy was finishing a sappy, melancholy poem. Roland had largely tuned out his words, but the lord once again walked towards the stage to offer his opinion on the work.

“Aww, sad rich boy,” he said in a mocking voice. “Goodness, y’all are a complainer, huh? Shit, son, you know I’m gonna keep it material with you. Chicks dig brooding, but no one likes sustained bitching. Your name ain’t gonna be on anyone’s dance card with that trash.”

“The line between being a whiner and genuinely sensitive is slight,” added Louisia. “Easily crossed by youth where nothing mediates emotional bleed.”

Louisia drew a card. It contained a picture of a leaf on it.

“You must water the plants in Fielmont using only rainwater. A humiliating punishment, but that is the fortune that you were dealt.”

“Sorry, what?” said the confused young man.

The impresario spoke up. “Fielmont is the name of this edifice. Tomorrow morning you will return here. You will wait until it rains. When it does, you will take the houseplants outside so that they can be doused with rainwater. Clear?”

The boy shrugged and returned to his seat.

Whatever odd levity this exchange created ended quickly. The couple that presented after the young man had prepared a pair of earnest love poems.

“…Whenever the night sky brings me down,

I will remember these times and happiness will be found.”

Like earlier, the lord said nothing while Louisia interrupted with indignant criticism. When she was finished scolding the two of them, she drew a card that had a picture of what looked like a person with large breasts and long hair but also male genitalia. Louisia then commanded the couple to take to the stage and disrobe. She then began moving her hands. The motion of her fingers seemed to pull on the threads of reality. Before everyone’s eyes, the genders of the couple were changed. The couple said nothing. They just stared at the floor as if ashamed to be alive.

Louisia then signalled the impresario. He brought a potion over to the young woman that had been transformed to a man.

“Drink it. Even if this wasn’t your first time with that new body, the stage freight alone would leave you soft.”

During the awkward, emotionless sex act that followed, Roland noticed that the orb beside Louisia’s throne was emitting a faint blue light. Is that with this evening was really about? Recording smut? This seemed incomprehensible to Roland.

Once the girl had finally climaxed, the embarrassed couple returned to their seats. Louisia did nothing to undo the spell she had cast. This intrigued Roland. Would the transformation be permanent? If so, perhaps he could find a way to use it. Alas, it didn’t take long until they slowly reverted to their original genders. Magic only serves the needs of depraved tricksters, Roland thought. Maybe Relmgard really is better off without it.

***

As the evening continued, more individuals and couples gave unsuccessful poetry readings. Their fates were mostly crude, magically enhanced sexual acts but a few also received benign esoteric punishments.

This changed near the end. There was a middle-aged man who said nothing when called upon by Louisia. Instead, he walked to the centre of the stage, opened his robe and urinated. This lasted about thirty seconds. When he was done, he returned to his seat.

“That’s a real artist!” shouted the lord as he pounded his chest.

“Impresario, who is this exceptional talent?” asked Louisia.

“Lank Drycum.”

“Lank Drycum?” repeated Louisia.

“I gotcha big boy,” said the lord as he pointed at Lank. “You’re here to fuck.”

“Certainly,” said Louisia. “A slick stage name, a fine-tuned go-for-broke approach, anti-verbosity — all held in balance by an unusually large penis — this decisiveness creates unforgettably daring wonder.” She nodded. “Impresario?”

“Funny, like the girl from earlier, he also wants to show his work at the upcoming exhibition.”

“An odd coincidence, but not an issue. Lank can present next month and Marigold can present at the exhibition in four years.”

“Excellent and noted,” said the impresario.

Lank, who still hadn’t spoken this entire time, was now smirking.

“Are you fucking serious?” said Mallory as she rose from her seat. “I have to wait four years? How about I one-up that twerp’s performance by walking over there and taking a shit on the stage? Will that change your mind again?”

“Don’t be juvenile,” replied Louisia. “I haven’t changed my mind. You’ll still present your work.”

“Yeah, just not before I hit menopause.”

Louisia leaned back with her hands steepled. “A month, a year, a century. Timing is important for fashion, not transformative art. Only imitators are concerned with style.”

“Don’t you fucking give me that finger-tent rhetoric.”

“If my words aren’t convincing, I could draw a card for you. Would you like a more tactile demonstration of this specific point?”

Mallory sat back down. She had already pressed her luck further than she should have. There was nothing more that she could do now.

***

Although initially amused by ‘Lank Drycum,’ Roland soon felt a creeping despair. It was hard to understand why. Was he actually disappointed that Mallory’s plan had failed? No, but obviously she was. It was subtle, but this must be how the tethering spell worked. He took a deep breath. If the Magicka Flux in here really was as strong as he thought, there was no need for hopelessness.

He put his hand on Mallory’s.

“Mal, can you hear me?”

She was looking at him out of the corner of her eye and could see his lips weren’t moving. She responded with a subtle nod ‘yes.’

“You should also be able to communicate with me using your internal monologue.”

Mallory audibly sighed before playing along. “Not more of this psychic-linking crap. I hope you understand what you’re doing this time.”

“Yes. I have detailed memories of this telepathy spell from the orb. It’s very primal and so it’s also dead simple. Before there was the spoken word, early magic users communicated with others using this spell. Even after the development of language, it was used to transmit ideas between people who spoke different languages.”

“Thanks for the history lesson. Very relevant.”

“Look — I wasn’t absolutely sure that magic worked in here or that I could use it, but now I am. I also believe that the motion of this room is creating an incredibly strong Magicka Flux, so I should be able to cast powerful spells. There’s a few that I have an intuitive understanding of from my new memories. So, I have a plan.”

“Don’t get carried away and try to zap Louisia with a high-level spell like CinderMost. Even if it takes her out — which it won’t — Edwin over there will kill both of us before you can incinerate him.”

“That lord is Edwin? Are you sure? He seems like a moron.”

“Louisia literally called him ‘dear’ and treats him like her partner. It’s him.”

“I can't believe that man was the first to achieve lighter than air travel.”

“Yeah, it’s hard to imagine him folding a paper plane, let alone building an airship, but that has to be the ‘master arcanist’ or whatever dumb class name he made up for himself. That halfwit persona is an act.”

“Attacking Louisia with magic is not what I had in mind. Just sit back and trust me.”

“Fine. But if you piss her off and she makes us do one of those sex card games, you’re the bottom.”

After the last pair of guests had presented their work — and received their punishment — Louisia began to wind down the poetry part of the evening.

“Before you conclude,” interrupted Roland as he rose from his seat. “I would like to share a poem.”

“No,” said Louisia without any further explanation.

“Is it fair that every other guest had the opportunity to present except for me?”

“Fair?!” exclaimed Louisia. “When has that ever mattered? Besides, you had your chance and passed. Now be quiet.”

Louisia moved her hands like she was sewing a hem. Roland could no longer open his mouth.

Roland touched Mallory’s hand again. “You need to tell her that you don’t want to show your painting at anymore. Your new request is that I be allowed to perform a poem right now. Quick.”

Mallory rolled her eyes as she stood up. “You know what, I changed my mind. I don’t want to exhibit my art. My only desire is that my good friend Alys here presents a poem. Right now, tonight.”

“A persistent artist who seeks an audience despite enormous peril,” said Louisia. “So much risk for seemingly no gain. By itself, that type of irrationality does not guarantee good art, but it is a prerequisite. Let’s see if it’s more than a spark.” She then made a cutting motion with two fingers. The strain on Roland’s lips vanished and he could open his mouth again.

“The floor is yours,” said Louisia. “Impress us.”

Roland stood up and began to walk around the stage. When he did this, his gait had no rhythm and he made almost spastic motions with his arms. He continued this awkward spectacle as he began his poem.

“The Magicka Flux is a wind.

Howling between worlds,

A secret song, that’s always played on,

Silence is not absence.

Mysterious but never lost,

A voice with no face,

Hidden and near, a phantom to fear,

A growl louder than sound.

Do the grim rulers hear it now?

Busy wallowing in their own vices,

With ears maimed, they believe it tamed,

Its truth is not muted.

The Magicka Flux is vengeance.

Cutting down fools who silence it,

The apparition of joy and desolation,

Its voice is laughter and knows only victory.”

After a few more steps and gestures with his arms, Roland returned to his seat.

Louisia picked up a single card and floated away from her throne.

“That strange jig that you did was an unusual flourish to your performance. I was wondering if you were having a seizure. As for the topic of your poem, if you thought that I’d be shocked by it, I wasn’t.

“You were fixated on my pin earlier. I suppose you were trying to discern my identity. Well, you should have paid more attention to my earrings. Perhaps you would have noticed that they were composed of meteoroid silver. A metal prized for its ability to hold an enchantment. This pair was put to good use. They are blessed with the spell True Sight. However, that spell name is a bit of a misnomer. While it does allow me to see through magical illusions — as one would expect — it also enables much more. Any distortion designed to fool the senses is pierced.

“From the moment you spoke to me in that magically disguised voice I knew who you were.”

She pointed at him and drew a large circle in the air with one of her fingers. Roland could feel something like a rope pulled around his neck. It tightened. Louisia raised her hand above her head and Roland was pulled off his feet by the invisible noose. He could no longer breath.

“There’s only one card for you, Queen Eliza.”

She revealed it to the audience. It had a picture of a woman with no eyes on it.

“Death.”