by Daryl Banner
Ruena seems surprised by how quickly her aunt relented. She glances over her shoulder at Halves, then lets on a smile. “Well, then. That’s … That’s all that I ask.” She looks to her aunt. “So where may we find him, if not here where he lives?”
Kael gestures toward the tunnel. “He is upstairs, of course.”
Ruena blinks. “In the Queen’s Chambers? You allow him—?”
“Allow him?” Kael frowns. “He is allowed anything he pleases.”
With that, Kael Mirand-Thrin turns and heads back up the long and narrow tunnel. Ruena, after giving Halvesand another uncertain glance, then follows her aunt and beckons him to come.
They pass through the vast, dark chamber once more, and once more, Halves drinks in the distant sight of that pale-white brazier and the big circular door. What are you? he keeps asking of it, certain it has a story for him, for some reason ever-curious to know it.
But again, no question is answered, and no story is told.
They enter the White Hall, then pass through another door that leads up a curving ramp, which begins to see moonlight as long, thin windows pass them by. After so long in the underground tunnels and echoey chambers, Halves enjoys several deep breaths of fresh, aboveground air. No wonder this person wishes to come up here, he thinks to himself. I’d suffocate if I stayed in that tiny room beneath the earth for just three minutes.
They reach a landing not unlike the one before Ruena’s room, except this one is bookended by two white marble statues of naked men, both in the same relaxed pose, standing and staring ahead with an eerily lifelike glint to their eyes.
Halvesand fears they were not always statues.
Which two men got the eternal honor of standing guard at her door, never to move a muscle in their bodies again?
Kael Mirand-Thrin pushes open the doors and leads them into a circular room with nothing but a large bed against the wall, a large table against the other wall, and a stretch of a balcony ahead that overlooks a vast portion of the dark and misty twelfth. Except for a candle at each corner of the bed and one on the table, the only source of light comes from the bluish-white spill of moonlight through the large balcony. Eclipsing that light is a man whose thin shadow is cast clear across the wide, circular room, impossibly long, making him look a hundred feet tall.
The man turns, and his whole shadow twists upon the stone.
“I wish you to meet the Bodyguardian of my niece,” announces Queen Kael as she leads them across the room. “He comes to us from the ninth ward. He is trained in Guardian, provided directly and in trust by their Lead Officer Forrest.”
The closer Halves comes, the more hesitant his footsteps grow, until he finds himself stopped some distance from the man.
Ruena notices. “Don’t be afraid.”
Halves swallows, and his swallow stings.
The man is old, yet his face and eyes look young—impossibly young. He is what some might consider classically handsome, with a strong nose, chiseled jawline, and high cheekbones. But his posture is slouched like an old man’s, and his skin is strangely weathered and rough, cracked in some places. The craggy, greyish skin about the man’s neck reminds Halves of his own father, whose skin was made leathery by his hard, unforgiving work at the metalshops. Perhaps this man is a famous smith I ought to recognize. I feel as if I should know him somehow, yet I’ve never seen him before. The man wears a modest grey tunic that hangs off his body like it’s much too big for his thin physique, as well as his pants, nearly hiding the shape of his legs in the same way the tunic hides his arms.
And then, with a start, Halves realizes the man is missing one of each: an arm and a leg.
Ruena gives the man a short bow and a smile. “Halvesand is his name. Halvesand Lesser. He … cannot speak.”
“An injury,” clarifies Kael in a cool yet tempered tone.
“I am his Sworn Duty,” Ruena goes on. “He’s sworn to keep our secrecy. Even our Mentalists pick up nothing from him.”
Halves gives her a confused look. Mentalists?
The man has not once looked away from Halves since the three of them crossed the room. He takes a step toward him, then reaches out a weathered hand. “I am Aardgar,” says the man gently, his voice smooth and quiet, almost airless.
The name rings a bell, but Halves is lost to know what bell that is. He shakes his hand gently, afraid he might break it otherwise.
Aardgar squints at his neck. “Is that from the injury?”
“He wears it to protect his neck,” explains Ruena.
The man nods slowly, his eyes upon it. Then, with a lift of his eyebrow, he points at it. “May I?”
Halves, after a reluctant pause, gestures toward it as if to say go ahead. The man simply touches the outside of the metal contraption, slowly traces his finger along its edge at the front, then lets his hand drop. For a moment, the man’s eyes seem far away, as if he’s reading a book buried deep in his imagination.
Then he nods, takes a step back, and turns to Ruena. “He seems like a man with a great heart. Strong. And selfless.”
“I’ve come to learn that myself.” Ruena regards Halves with a brief smile before turning to her aunt. “May I show him the arm?”
Aardgar … Aardgar … Who is Aardgar? Where have I heard that bizarre name before …?
The man glances down at the arm Halvesand holds, as if only just now noticing it. “Ah, you’ve brought another attempt.”
“Another, yes,” admits Ruena. “I think this may be the final one. I have corrected all the issues from my last version, including the strange behavior with the thumb. Halvesand, hand it to me.”
He nearly forgot he was holding it all this time. He hands the thing carefully to Ruena, minding to keep away from the wiry end, as warned.
Grandly, she takes the creation and moves behind Aardgar, who merely stands there as calm as ever, trusting her entirely. She reaches into his tunic and slips the arm underneath it, positioning it toward his shoulder. “You may feel a bit of pressure,” she warns him.
“It wouldn’t be the worst thing I’ve felt,” remarks Aardgar, and Ruena chuckles lightly.
Queen Kael’s face remains perfectly flat, watching skeptically.
There is a sudden flash, and Aardgar lets out a grunt of pain and winces.
The Queen takes a step forward, eyes wide. “Are you alright, my King??” she asks at once, panicked.
Halvesand squints. King? … My King …?
Aardgar lifts a hand, stopping the Queen’s advance. “I am quite fine. Quite fine, indeed. Just a small—” Another flash of light from his tunic, another grunt of pain. “—bit of forewarned pressure.”
Queen Kael gives Ruena a strict, scolding look.
Ruena doesn’t seem to pay it any mind as she bites her lip and continues to work. There are clicking sounds, and then a few buzzes and sputters of noise coming from the shoulder of his tunic where Ruena’s hands are busy.
Then, at once, the hand of the metal arm clasps into a fist.
The Queen, Halvesand, Ruena, and Aardgar himself stare down at it, startled.
Then, very slowly, and very smoothly, the fingers open up. The wrist twists about, facing the palm upward. The fingers slowly close, then open again, then close.
“A-Are you doing that?” asks Ruena, wide-eyed.
Aardgar’s own eyes are unblinking, astonished. His lips part as he slowly lifts his new metal hand up to his face, opening and closing the fingers. “It’s …” He looks as if he might cry. “It’s … It’s …”
Ruena steps back and brings her hands to her mouth, emotional. Queen Kael merely stares at his new metal appendage as if it’s either the most amazing or the most deadly thing she’s ever known.
While Aardgar continues to observe his gently opening and closing fingers, Halves finds himself gazing at Ruena, drinking in the surprise on her face. What a brilliant woman. He can’t stop staring at her, amazed. What a brilliant, beautiful woman …
It’s right then
, inexplicably, that the name clicks in place.
Aardgar. King Aardgar.
He looks at the man again, the man beyond the metal fingers that open and close in front of his face, the man with the impossibly young eyes and the old, weathered skin.
The first King of Atlas, Halves remembers. He studied about that King in school. He and Lionis had a conversation once about the first King of Atlas, the King who ruled twice, the Twice King, the one it is said in the histories is immortal.
This cannot be that same King, he thinks instantly, disbelieving it at once. It’s all myth and legend and stories to glorify the bloody, dark, and twisted history of Atlas.
It isn’t true. It’s just a name.
This is a man with the same name, that’s all.
This is no Immortal King.
“Halvesand?” Ruena is looking upon him intently. “You seem as if you’ve seen a twelfth ward ghost.”
The Queen gives a knowing nod. “So he is as quick as you say.” She smirks. “He’s just realized who he’s standing before.”
Halves moves his eyes between the Queen and Ruena, then at the one called King Aardgar, who now studies Halves with a mild, faraway expression.
Ruena turns to Aardgar at once. “I will take my Bodyguardian back to my tower. It was a pleasure seeing you in the moonlight, and I do hope the arm continues to serve you. Please do take notes if it reveals any flaws to you. I shall continue to perfect the leg.”
Aardgar gives her a firm nod. “You are an inventor, Ruena. You have a gift beyond your Legacy, and it’s something few can boast of. Thank you.”
She gives him and her aunt a nod, then beckons Halves as she heads for the door. With a reluctant bend of his waist, Halves bows to the two, then follows Ruena out of the room.
Down the long stairs that grow darker as they go, Ruena speaks openly. “I was skeptical at first. Very skeptical. But Halves, there is no other explanation for what we’ve found. He was in pieces. Pieces that were buried all across Atlas. My aunt, she had to send out her Shadow Guards all over the city in search for him. I mean, think of it. The sheer … magnitude … of how many places one can bury the body parts of an ancient King? Not to mention how many centuries have passed. Centuries, Halvesand! Can you imagine being buried deep in the earth—alive—for that long? Centuries!”
Centuries … The word keeps echoing in his head, over and over, as they descend the stairs. Centuries … Centuries …
“He was half mad when my aunt and her people first disinterred his head. It was here in the Abandon that his parts were gathered. It was … It was so strange, like watching magic before your eyes, to witness his parts reunite, like living flesh pulling itself together. Once his head was found, he needed to work to regain his ability to speak.” She gives Halves a subtle glance over her shoulder. “Perhaps you will cross that bridge in time yourself.”
They push through the doors into the White Hall, and Ruena’s words echo down its great length as she goes on. “And when he was able to speak, he gave us clues of where the rest of his body was buried. He could feel himself, somehow, stretched across the city. But we could not find an arm, nor a leg. Hence my … alternative solution. My aunt scoffed at first, but Aardgar was rather interested, and … well, if I may be plain, I simply needed something to keep me busy. It’s been so long since I’ve been buried in my gadgets. Too long.”
Before they ascend the stairs, Halves finds himself peering at the dark archway leading into that vast chamber with the circular door at its end.
He stares after it a second too long, for Ruena stops on the fifth step up and turns. “What is it?”
Halves inclines his head as best as he can toward her, then says with his hands: What is that circular door in that room?
Ruena furrows her brow, confused. “Door?”
Halves feared it might not be a door. He gestures some more: There is a large metal circle in the far wall of that room. It is next to a white-flamed brazier.
The look of curiosity fades from Ruena’s face.
Halves slowly lowers his hands, worried at her reaction.
She comes down the steps, bringing herself level with him. “I’m quite certain it took a lot for my aunt to accept your meeting our King. But …” Her eyes drift bleakly to the archway. “I don’t think she would ever accept my revealing to you the nature of … that.”
Her words unsettle him worse than he already was. Halvesand swallows hard, wincing as his throat screams back at him in pain.
But he is nothing if not a stubborn Lesser, so he brings a single hand to his heart, his eyes imploring her: Please.
She flicks her soft, silver-grey eyes back to him, then sees the gesture he makes. She closes her eyes, lets out one long, meditative sigh, then opens them. “It’s something that can only be read of in the most guarded of Sanctum libraries. As such, only the past Kings and Queens know of it. No one else. The people of the Abandon have no clue what it is. But my aunt and I … we are the first blood of Kings and Queens who have stepped foot in this ward since the destruction of it, and hence recognize it with our learned eyes.” She lowers her voice. “It’s … It’s called the Oblivion Gate.”
Oblivion … He turns and stares with cold curiosity into that vast, dark chamber, lost in a whole new flood of questions. Built directly into the Wall … like Ruena’s Shadow Tower. Does that mean …?
“But I never told you about it,” Ruena snaps at once, causing Halves to turn back to her, startled. “You know absolutely nothing about it, okay? No matter who asks you. Even if it’s my aunt. I didn’t tell you a thing.” She lifts her chin. “Now, my silent, loyal Halvesand, you will strictly obey my command of keeping well away from that Gate—and never asking about it again.”
0334 Athan
Athan Broadmore cannot say for sure what brings him back to the shed with the statue of Anwick’s sister. Perhaps it’s how much he’s been thinking of his Wick lately. Or perhaps it’s because he has also been missing Lionis, and the both of them share a memory here, albeit not a very nice one.
Perhaps in keeping Wick’s sister company, he feels closer to his love. It’s like a transitive sort of love, when one pours their affection into something lateral to the person one’s lost.
“I really wish you could have known him,” Athan tells her. “And I mean as an adult. I think you’d come to love all of your brothers. Though, admittedly, I’ve only met two … and they’re both …” Athan shakes the thoughts away. “Sorry. I did promise I’d not be depressed or ugly today. We’ve had far too many depressing, ugly days.”
Right then, he hears a great big boom.
Thunder, he realizes.
“Well, so much for that promise.” Athan smiles at the statue. “I guess I’d better head back. The rain may be heavy, and this shed is not meant for heavy rain.”
He considers giving the girl a hug, then wonders if he oughtn’t. She can’t harm me, he decides, yet still isn’t sure. Some auto-borne behave differently. Perhaps her ability can only be drawn out of her by an external force, such as Wick’s Legacy. She might be totally safe to touch.
Athan suddenly finds he doesn’t care either way. Elle deserves the same comforts we are all afforded, even if she is not properly alive. And so, with no fear in his heart, Athan embraces the statue.
He does not turn to stone.
Somehow, he knew he wouldn’t.
When he leaves the shed, he’s surprised to find the sun shining and no rain clouds approaching. What was that thunder I heard? He starts down the street, headed for the Lesser house, a queer look on his face as he studies the sky.
Then there is a flash of red.
His heart stops.
And the flash is gone.
“What was that??” calls out a woman seated on her porch, a woman named Auna with a dancer for a daughter. “It was like—”
“Don’t even say it,” interrupts her husband at the window above her, glancing nervously into the sky.
Athan h
urries on, concern building up in his chest. Something is going on, he knows at once. It’s only a minute later that he is back in front of the Lessers’, and he finds both the Penling ladies standing in the street, staring at the sky. Iranda holds little Rip, bouncing him lightly in her arms.
“What was that?” asks Athan.
“Don’t know,” grunts Auleen as she spins around, searching for the source of the light. “A prank, perhaps. Some eighth ward fool we invited to live here, no doubt, throwing red sparks into the sky. No offense,” she adds suddenly, narrowing her eyes, “though I must say, I don’t think much of that Nickel fellow, I don’t.”
Just then, another flash of red light blazes across the sky. It lasts only a fraction of a second, gone as fast as it’d come.
“No, no, no, no!” cries a man across the street, dropping the rake he was using and rushing into his house. “It’s the Madness! No, I am not gonna be—” His door slams shut on the rest of his words.
Athan glances at the house. “Edrick,” he says calmly, knowing the pleasure boy will hear him, wherever he is. “Edrick, I’m out front with the Penlings. Do you hear anything? Come tell me.”
A few seconds later, the door opens, and Edrick steps out onto the Lesser porch, causing it to creak beneath him. “I can’t make sense of a damned thing I’m hearing,” the boy reports, annoyed. “Grunting. A cry out for help. Rumbling that sounds worse than a metalshop.”
“Make sense of it,” Athan tells him. “Make sense of it before—”
Another flash of red.
Everyone, by instinct, ducks and looks overhead, terrified.
Then the red is gone.
Athan stares at Edrick, beseeching him. “What is going on??”
Edrick hops off the porch, coming to Athan’s side. He looks up at the sky, and the expression on his face is oddly calm, unworried. “It’s … far away.” He glances off to the west, toward the Greens. “It’s really far away. I think …” He frowns suddenly and turns to Athan. “Isn’t the Slum King still out there working his powers on the dead and dying plants? I think I heard him say a thing about breakfast …”