by Daryl Banner
Arrow’s eyes narrow, annoyed all over again.
His gaze drifts up to the front window, where he finds Athan sitting in his usual spot wearing nothing but his underwear. He has his knees hugged up to his body as he stares out the window at nothing in particular, forlorn.
You and me both, buddy.
Arrow turns away and sits himself on the cracked, uneven curb of the street, waiting. He watches a few kids playing on the lawn across the way, chasing one another in circles and laughing. Children are so easily, so quickly amused. Set them in the dreariest stretch of grass, they’ll find a way to entertain themselves until they’re pink in the cheeks from laughter …
He wonders if he ever had that time to be a proper child. He can’t remember ever chasing anyone in circles.
I ought to find my mother and sister, he suddenly realizes, a pinch of hurt entering his eyes. I’ve been a horrible son and brother. Father would be so upset with me, for the way I’ve so easily abandoned them.
And it all comes back to Ivy. The Caldrons. The cruelty and the indifference of the rich.
Which comes back to the Madness. The nihilistic burn of a bolt of sky-fire upon a house that couldn’t be more deserving of it, a house run by a Privileged, cruel man with evil in his heart.
Which comes back to Ivy, the one exception to that household.
Beautiful, maybe-haunting, maybe-innocent Ivy.
Madness. Ivy. Evil. Good.
Love.
Six bullets.
Five lives.
Ivy’s life.
It’s all one and the same.
Lora is in front of him at once. Arrow lifts his gaze to her. “You wanted to take me somewhere?” she asks somewhat suspiciously. “I was just told by that strange Edrick and the woman from dinner.”
He glances to his immediate left. Indeed, Edrick and Arcana stand there already, patiently waiting.
Arrow gives Lora a microscopic smile. “Would you like to take a little journey with me to a Noodle Shop on 1200 and First Block?”
0274 Link
The plan is perfect.
While Emery and Terrabeth are busy upstairs having what Link can only assume is make-up sex for their recent fighting, Link and Kid get to work in the back garden. With the vial in his grasp, Link goes about the flowers creating a certain pattern of glowing. He has to let go the vial and step back so as to ensure the message is clear—and perfectly visible from the upstairs bedroom. When the work is done, Link stows away the vial, and the two of them hide in the back den of the manse and wait for their plan to unfold.
Make-up sex, as it turns out, takes a lot longer than Link was anticipating. Neither Emery nor Terrabeth seem to be looking out their back bedroom window, as is evidenced by their very lack of a reaction to Link’s work.
He grows downright bored as the pair of them wait, drumming his fingers along his folded arms. Kid smacks him in his shoulder and puts a finger to her lips to shush him. Link just shrugs and sighs, sinking deeper into the couch like a sulking child.
Three knocks at the front door stir them both.
Link and Kid exchange a look. This is not part of the plan.
They rush to the dining room, which gives a direct view of the front door and staircase, unseen. Terrabeth is first to appear, hugging herself as she descends the stairs. She cautiously peers through a tall front window. Her face drains of color, then she hurries for a mirror in the hallway where she haphazardly begins to groom herself. She peers down at her clothes in horror—a t-shirt and loose silk pants—then rushes to the nearest closet to don a body-length jacket.
Knock, knock, knock at the door again.
“Why won’t you answer?” asks Emery tersely as she comes down the stairs in her gown.
“It’s them!” hisses Terrabeth as she fusses with her jacket and her mess of short hair in the mirror.
“Who?” Emery peers out the front window. “Oh …”
“I’ll handle it, I’ll handle it,” Terrabeth hisses as she fastens her jacket shut, cinching it at the waist with a white, braided cord. She has to redo the cinch three times before deciding it looks proper. “Go, go, get yourself done, a jacket or a robe or something decent. You cannot be dressed that way for the To-Be-Queen.”
Link and Kid steal another look at one another.
The To-Be-Queen?
“It is near middle-night,” protests Emery defensively. “We look just as appropriate as any other for this time of night!”
“Bring down your voice!” hisses Terrabeth.
Emery, after a fierce rolling of her eyes, goes for the front door and swings it open.
The incredibly tall and regal figure of Kael Mirand-Thrin steps into the house wearing a long white dress that glistens with pearls and diamond shards that all look otherworldly and white. A circlet is about her forehead that sparkles from no apparent source of light, and her hair is long and colorless and straight, coming down to the small of her back where it is then twisted and clamped into a single, decorated knot.
“Lady Kael,” greets Emery with courtesy and a tiny bowing of her head.
“Emery Wise, and Terrabeth Wise,” returns Kael Mirand-Thrin, the To-Be-Queen of Atlas. Her words are as cold as ice and steel, and her eyes, even colder and steelier. Her gaze is so sharp, Link feels as if she could see the pair of them if she turned their way, despite them being perfectly invisible. “Good middle-night.”
“Good middle-night,” agrees Emery with an annoyed glance at her wife, who is standing nervously in the hallway, too far away to not be deemed an awkward thing. “What brings you to our home at this late hour, Lady Kael?”
The To-Be-Queen slowly strolls through the entryway, her eyes upon each thing in sight like she worries the women don’t keep a clean enough house and can’t dare to touch anything. Kael’s eyes are cold as they survey, and it is too long a while before she even deigns Emery with a proper answer.
“I have come on account of your work.”
Emery and Terrabeth share a look.
“Yes, of course I know of your secret works,” Lady Kael states, a hint of iron-cold amusement in her words. “The King is my father. June was my sister. Of course I know of your secret King’s work.”
Emery and Terrabeth, yet again, share a meaningful look. One’s eyes beseech the others’, as if both are mentally stammering about how to handle this news.
“Stop carrying on like a pair of silly conspirators,” demands Lady Kael, her voice turning hard. “The very first thing you will learn—and you will learn it swiftly—is that you keep nothing from your Queen. Even if she is not yet sitting the throne, she is still your Queen, and you must trust her with your life.”
“Yes, Lady Kael,” say both Emery and Terrabeth in unison.
The tall, regal woman gives them a long, cool, hard look before finally relenting with a, “Fine,” then stepping farther into the room, her glassy shoes clacking along the tiles. “Now you may’ve noticed I did not bring in my Sky Guard. That is because their ears cannot hear what I have come to say. Only those directly affiliated with Facility and with proper clearance can know. You’re my fifth and final stop tonight before I report to my father.”
Both the ladies seem too intimidated to speak. While Terrabeth cannot even move, Emery at least gives the To-Be-Queen a nod.
Lady Kael settles near the foot of the stairs and rests her hands upon her hips, appearing like a giant before the woman, nearly seven feet tall without her heels.
And then she speaks: “All studies on Outliers, on the extraction and manipulation and elimination of Legacies, is hereby suspended.”
“Suspended?” breathes out Emery, like the very statement was a blow to her gut.
“All the Nether will be removed from Facility henceforth,” the To-Be-Queen goes on. “Their full power will be slum-bound at the rise of the sun and onward, by order of the King.”
“What is our purpose then?” asks Emery. Terrabeth, aghast at her wife’s brazenness, puts a hand on
her arm, which is swiftly batted away. “We have made so much progress over the years. We are so close to a breakthrough.”
Lady Kael regards her outburst not at all. “Until the Nether have retrieved appropriate subjects from the Lower City to be studied, there will be no further tasks for Facility. The subjects apprehended will be released or appropriately handled, as per your training and guidelines. All personnel from Facility, including the both of you, are now reassigned to your former posts.”
“I can’t go back to the Eastly Clinic,” states Emery, her posture straightening right up in defiance. “No. I was assigned to work in Facility. I was chosen to work in Facility. I am meant for a greater purpose than … than … than treating paper cuts and sniffles!”
Lady Kael turns two cold eyes upon the woman. “Mind your tongue, doctor.”
For once, Emery reconsiders her tone of voice, then relents, settling down and breathing evenly. “My apologies, Lady Kael Mir—”
“That is all I’ve come to say,” interrupts the To-Be-Queen. She moves to the front door, then turns to address the women one last time. “Both of you will be adequately compensated for your time at Facility. Should your services be needed again, you will be called upon posthaste to return to your stations at Facility. It may be next week. It may be next month. It may be next year.”
Emery’s eyes detach with a flicker of indignance. She is clearly not happy about the news. Terrabeth only gives a mild nod, rethinks her reaction, then says, “Th-Thank you, Lady Kael Mirand-Thrin. You are most gracious to have delivered this news directly.”
“As opposed to sending an errand boy whom I must then order the execution of afterwards?” Lady Kael offers a cold gaze. “You will have a position available at the East Clinic starting in two days’ time. Take these days to reflect on your work, comprise a final report, and submit it directly to Cloud Keep by the week’s end.” The To-Be-Queen gives them both one stiff, curt nod. “Good middle-night.”
Before the women can return the words, Kael Mirand-Thrin has departed the manse.
Emery and Terrabeth are speechless, staring at one another. At first, Emery makes to say something, then can’t, turning away from her wife. Terrabeth goes to soothe her with a back rub, thinks the better of it, then sighs and slowly heads up the stairs, still wearing the formal body-length jacket she’d thrown on. Soon after, Emery slowly strolls to the kitchen to fix herself a cup of something, all her movements slowed, her face forlorn and resentful.
Link gives a tug to Kid’s hand, then nods at the front door. The pair of them hurry, unseen, and let themselves out.
It isn’t long before they’ve caught up to Lady Kael, who is now boarding a chrome caravan.
“Quickly,” breathes Kid, and the pair of them hurry toward the large opened door, which swiftly slides shut the moment they’ve boarded the craft.
Inside, everything is a muted greyish color, smooth chrome and glass making up the most of everything Link sees. One long stripe of window runs along the entire inside, bulging out and widening at the front for the driver to see through. Lady Kael has taken a seat in a chair, alone, opposite three Sky Guard, whose faces and bodies are entirely covered in armor, not even their gender or hair color visible. At the front is the one driver, also armored head to toe. No words are spoken, but the vehicle begins to move, nearly undetected, carrying them away from the house of the two doctors.
Link’s whole body immediately floods with misgiving. What am I thinking? he chides himself. We’ve been so careful over the years. So fucking careful. And now we’ve leapt onto a chrome caravan carrying the To-Be-Queen of Atlas, headed straight for—
“Cloud Keep,” says Lady Kael suddenly and unprompted, giving a stiff-necked glance at the driver. “No need to stop at the Palace. Ruena will be fine to spend the early morning hours with her books and her funny gadgets, poor lonely thing, and if I’m late returning, the chefs will make her a lovely breakfast.”
The driver nods, and the vehicle carries them on through the shining streets of the Lifted City, lit by pockets of light that seem to spill from the ground like water, painting everything in a silvery, beautiful pale light. With the speed of the vehicle, the passing lights almost seem like a pulse, throbbing with its steady, cool-tempered glow all around them.
Link feels the squeeze of Kid’s sweaty hand. He squeezes it back reassuringly, despite all the fear tightening his throat.
The vehicle soars over a long narrow bridge without pause or seeming caution, which nearly makes Link fall away from the long window of the vehicle, if it weren’t for Kid holding on to him. The slums are far, far, far below them out the window, and the bridge is much too narrow for logic. It must be a caravan-only path. Link has to reassure himself so as not to panic. There’s magnetism involved, or a mechanical hook keeping the vehicle safely affixed to the road, or—
Is it possible this is the Sky Rail? Or isn’t the Sky Rail a train?
Then they arrive at the other side of the bridge, and Link can breathe again. Tall, smooth buildings now surround them, looking as if they’re constructed from polished metal, polished so thoroughly that he can see a reflection of their vehicle in several of the rounded walls, the reflection bent and warped here and there. A heart-stirring fascination fills Link as he stares out the window, astonished.
Then the prettiness is abruptly ended by a thick, tall wall made of white rock and steel ribbons and crystal, and soon, the vehicle turns and passes through a gate, and it’s with a drop of heavy dread that Link realizes they just passed through the walls of Cloud Keep.
This is happening so fast, Link worries, not even realizing how tightly he’s clenching Kid’s hand. This is all happening far too fast, miserably fast.
He may vomit the scraps they stole from Terrabeth and Emery’s kitchen. It’d be invisible vomit, but it’d be there.
Link clenches his stomach with his free hand as he watches the stark, iron buildings of Cloud Keep pass by the window. Unlike the glorious, rich spectacle of the City, Cloud Keep boasts of strength and intimidation. The buildings are overwhelmingly tall, or short and mean-looking, like fortresses crouching and ready for battle.
Then they reach the main courtyard leading to Cloud Tower, which stands all alone, taller than any of the buildings in sight, like a needle of glass and chrome poking into the sky itself. Though there are gardens spread about the tower, even the flowers look peculiarly militant, each planted equidistantly, in perfect lines and rows, almost as if each flower is an exact copy of its neighbor. The look inspires less beauty and more fear, as if even nature itself is intimidated into submission by the Cloud Tower around which they were born.
The vehicle comes to a gentle stop, and then the door at Link and Kid’s back slides open. The pair of them quickly step off and hurry out of the way as Lady Kael descends from the caravan, flanked by her loyal Sky Guard, who escort her to the shockingly tall and mighty doors of Cloud Tower. Cloud Tower, despite being very tall, is not a narrow building by any means. It is massive and squatty at its base, and needles its way upward, tapering ever slightly. Yet even at this angle, the top looks to still be the width of a whole slum warehouse, in Link’s opinion.
No, still too soon to think of food, Link gripes, clutching his belly.
In goes the To-Be-Queen and her Guard.
And in goes Link and Kid just before the great doors shut with a bang at their back.
They follow Lady Kael and her entourage of armored mysteries up a tiresomely infinite amount of steps. Kid, twice, feels a cramp in her leg, which she quickly rectifies as they struggle to keep up (and to keep absolutely quiet). Link worries even the labor of his breath is too loud and could attract attention, the lack of which soon makes his head dizzy.
Ages later, the group arrives at a landing, and from that landing, they are permitted through another door, down a long hall that lines the outside of Cloud Tower with tall windows that seem to overlook the entire world, and then at last they arrive at their destination.
The throne room of Atlas.
The doors open with a groaning yawn, and the To-Be-Queen now escorts herself, alone, inside.
Almost alone.
Link and Kid hurry behind her, ditching the Sky Guard in the hall as Lady Kael Mirand-Thrin strolls ahead, unknowingly leading the way. The throne room is impossibly long and ghastly bright, the tiles beneath them mirror-polished and glassy, and the ceiling up above so high above them that just one glance upward makes the head spin and the eyes go cross-eyed.
But it is not the sights above that have Link’s attention now. Ahead of them on a great big throne of crystal and chrome sits a man in a long grey robe with a matching long, tangled grey beard, the tip of it resting in his lap. His crown is tall and, to Link’s surprise, unsightly, looking more like a twisted steel tube with spikes than a glorious, kingly thing. At his side, in three smaller thrones, sit his loyal Marshals: the wise and handsome Janlord Weathric, Marshal of Peace, who seems buried in conversation with the boy at his side, Marshal of Order Taylon Redbrade, who always looks quite annoyed about something.
In the third seat sits Impis Lockfyre, who is staring directly up, as if transfixed by some imaginary thing flying about the glassy needle of a ceiling high above him. He is, as expected, dressed in a splash of colored silks, all varying shades of orange, red, and yellow, and his face is powdered white with a circle of blue color on his lips, but not filling his lips. His hair is a mess of ponytails, braids, and odd tufts of unruly strands that look to have no purpose to them at all. Every finger on both hands have a flashy gem or ring upon them.
To his side stands the tall, terrible figure of Metal Hand, whose whole body is encased in armor, shielding even any sign of a face behind a thick metal visor. The block of armored muscle and silence is so still, Link nearly mistakes Metal Hand for a statue.
It is so strange, to see these people in the flesh, right before him. Figures pulled straight off the broadcast, turned into reality.