by Brandon Barr
“No, My Lady,” said Praseme, her expression one of utter shock. “No burden compared to this great honor. Thank you.” She bowed, then rushed from Meluscia’s room.
Meluscia turned to Heulan. “Task a reliable man with gathering our provisions. Have them given to Mica at the stables. Tell them we are leaving at noon. We won’t, of course, but it will allow us to leave well before nightfall.”
“Yes, My Lady,” said Heulan. “And if I may be so bold in private…I pray it is you, my dear, who is enthroned by your father, and not Valcere. It is your heart and disposition this mountain needs.”
Heulan bowed low then left the room.
Meluscia glanced up at the light that had shifted to shine against the wall over her bed. The two very different girls now living inside her stared across the rift in her heart, scrutinizing each other.
One told her she could put the past behind and take hold of the throne. This same girl inside told her she could go back to Jonakin for her strength. That her own imagination could satisfy the desire for companionship, and the growing physical hunger she must now forsake.
But the other girl inside reminded her of her burning needs. Of how much more satisfying it was to have that which was real, the possibility that Mica may realize the truth and want her. And this girl pressed her to imagine what else she might be capable of.
The girl’s voice was very familiar.
Just a taste. No one will know.
The inner battle of who she was becoming would have to be sorted out amidst the excitement of her new hope. She would take any surprises as they came, for she was ready to fight for what she unanimously desired: the rule of the Hold.
The power of Luminess.
_____
MELUSCIA
“Give King Feaor this,” said Trigon.
Meluscia took the parchment from her father’s weak grip. She noted the pleased smile he wore as he lay in his bed. His eyes now held signs of pride as Heulan’s had, but there was soberness there too. She could not understand why he distrusted King Feaor so strongly.
She read over the letter. It detailed her father’s proffered attempt at peace. Lowering the price of wood and ending the skirmishes between the woodcutters and the farmers. There was a plan to build a new road between their kingdoms, to ensure direct access to the quarry at the Knot of Amythar, where extracted metals could arrive in Soravell, the Verdlands’ Castle province, after only a two day ride.
Lastly, there was a condition upon which the above rested. King Feaor had to write down on paper every treacherous act and wrong he’d committed against the Hold and make adequate restitution for each crime, worthy of its magnitude. If her father was appeased, he would appoint Meluscia to rule as the next Luminess, and their kingdoms could live in peace. If not, Valcere would rule, and her father promised the vague threat of increased tension and enduring hostility.
Scrawled in her father’s own hand beneath his wax seal was one last sentence.
I promise to forgive even the darkest of wrongs committed against the Hold, but they must be written down. They must be repaid.
Meluscia looked up from the parchment. Her father’s eyes searched her face. “I will deliver your message, Father. I will do my best to impress King Feaor and help him choose peace.”
“Remember, if you become Luminess, hold him to every restitution he gives. Valcere can help you do this. He is my most cunning captain.”
Meluscia nodded. “I will crush Feaor if he does not live up to his word.”
Her father reached out and held her hand. “Mel, my beautiful daughter. Be cautious. Hurry back to me.”
She left her father lying confident in bed. She was not going to surrender this opportunity for anything. Her father had to believe in her. Even if her promises to him were mostly hollow. She would woo King Feaor to her side, and she would use her father’s letter, but not as he intended.
As she left the room, Heulan stopped her and spoke quietly into her ear. “Rivdon wants to meet secretly with you. Not all is right at the Hold.”
_____
MELUSCIA
Meluscia navigated the side of the boulder that held within it the Scriptorium. In the stout ancient tree overhanging the cliff, she found the squirrel hole and pulled the lever inside. The knotted wood door swung open and she ducked within the dim lit recess.
At the base of the stairs stood Rivdon and Katlel, both of their faces marked with concern.
Quickly, she descended the stairs.
“You wished to see me?” asked Meluscia.
Rivdon’s eyes grew tender, sorrowful. “My Lady, you must ride in haste for the Verdlands, so I’ll speak swiftly. I am not certain Valcere is in his right mind. Having tasted of your father’s throne, and having judged in his stead, Valcere is not ready to relinquish his power. He has been spying again, using the soldiers beneath him to keep their ears on you. One of his informants overheard what Heulan told you this morning. He knows of your father’s change of heart—that the Luminar is again undecided. You must know that Valcere is very-well liked amongst the soldiers, and this too has gone to his head. If your father should pass before making a decision, you are the rightful heir to the throne. But I believe Valcere will try to usurp the Kingdom should Trigon die while you are away.”
The heaviness of Rivdon’s warning pressed down upon her. Meluscia looked to Katlel. “What else can I do? I must go to the Verdlands. My father has given me a mission.”
“Pray he holds on until you return.” Katlel smiled at her. “If I must lose my beautiful young acolyte, I want to lose her to the throne, not because a usurper steals her away.” Katlel’s eyes squinted in anger. “I’d quit if he forced me to train one of his broodlings. They’d set the place on fire before they’d read a verse of scripture.”
Rivdon’s strong hand gripped Katlel’s shoulder, calming him. “I will beseech the Makers on your behalf,” he said to Meluscia. “But in the case that Valcere does seize the throne, know this: though I have been appointed Valcere’s councilor, I will remain faithful to you. You never need question who my allegiance rests upon.”
“Nor mine,” said Katlel.
“Thank You,” said Meluscia, reaching out and taking both men’s hands in hers. “Both of you have guided and encouraged me. If my father should pass, I will not be without fathers in my life. And if I am made Luminess, the two of you, and Savarah, shall be my councilors.” She put on a stern face. “And I will not take ‘no’ for an answer.”
“That is the privilege of Luminess. Not having to take ‘no’ for an answer.” Katlel grinned, his eyes squinting. Not in anger, but to hold back tears.
“Ride like an ocean wind,” said Rivdon. “Return before your father enters the life after life. Spare us from Valcere.”
BRIDGE
Chapter Seventeen
WINTER
Winter held Aven’s hand as she stood before the portal, which rested atop a small hill of volcanic rock. She watched as group after group disappeared into one side of the portal, while other groups materialized on the opposite side. Fourteen parties waited ahead of her, some accompanied by as many as five companions. Seven were solo travelers. Karience said some of them were probably Emissaries returning to their home world from a mission.
Arentiss stood next to Aven. Pike stood between Zoecara and Karience. Winter looked over and found Pike’s eyes were on her, a look of concern in them. She averted her gaze quickly.
“How are you holding up, Winter?” asked Pike.
The sincerity in his voice touched her heart, despite herself.
“I’m alive,” she said. She hid her face against Aven’s shoulder.
She wanted to tap a message to him, but she didn’t have the words to express her feelings. Her thoughts were filled to overflowing with what had happened and all she had learned.
She remembered Sanctuss Voyanta’s body lying on the floor, and the unusual expression on her face. It was profound, but impossible to interpret. Had it been t
he highest elation—or the deepest agony imaginable? How could such contradictory expressions appear so similar?
Winter hadn’t replied when her brother had first tried to comfort her, not even with her fingers. In those first moments, she’d only wanted to be alone with her thoughts.
Then more Consecrators had arrived and asked her if she had touched the Sanctuss. Winter had nodded, and they explained why she died. When an Oracle undergoes a deliverance, they disavow the Makers and their calling, and the Oracle’s power fades away. However, if that former Oracle ever comes in skin-to-skin contact with an undelivered Oracle, her life is taken by the Makers. The Consecrators called it ‘the burning vengeance.’
After that, Winter had started speaking again. “I want to go home,” she’d said. Repeatedly.
The Consecrators had resisted, but Karience came to her defense, and a compromise had been made. A Consecrator would come to Loam to finish the interview. Karience had also insisted that they wait a week before showing up, to give Winter time to rest and recover from her ordeal. When they initially refused, Karience had become fierce in her defense of Winter, and made it clear that this was not up for negotiation.
Winter hadn’t said anything while they argued. All she wanted was to leave this horrible world called Bridge. Nothing else mattered except to get away as quickly as she could.
Dicameron was there while it was happening, quietly watching the Consecrators as he oversaw the removal of Sanctuss Voyanta’s body. Winter looked up and noticed his eyes on her. When she did, she recognized something in them. Something like fear.
She didn’t blame him. What was she now? What did it mean that her touch could kill?
Her world felt profoundly shaken. It seemed to her that the Makers had silenced the kindly Sanctuss. But why would they do so? Was she killed because she dared question them? Were the Oracles supposed to blindly obey, and if they didn’t, were they to face the ultimate punishment?
She thought of her brother’s words.
Either way you look at it, it is ugly.
Was he right? What had she committed herself to?
The air on Bridge felt heavy in Winter’s lungs. She needed to get away. She needed to find some stability, before she fell so far that she could never get back up.
Making everything worse was the vision she’d experienced when she touched the Sanctuss’ face.
The vision that showed her brother dying.
She trembled and had to bite down on her lip to keep from crying out.
In this newest vision, birthed, as it were, from the death of the Sanctuss, she saw Aven’s face white with fear. Then something horrible swooped down on him, enveloping his head and chest in its huge, jagged mouth and crushing him between its jaws, just as the bird’s body was crushed in her vision of the toad.
In the face of what had happened today, how could her one treasured experience with Leaf sustain her? The once precious memory was now held captive by an army of unanswered questions.
Her life felt out of control, her purpose uncertain, her gift a frightening enigma.
Why would the Makers give her such a twisted vision of her brother dying? Unless…unless she could save him as she had saved the bird from the mouth of the toad. If this was its purpose, then yes, she would wield this gift as fiercely as a madwoman to do all she could to keep her brother alive.
Perhaps, after a week, she would welcome another Consecrator’s arrival. She had more questions, and they seemed willing to give her answers.
Answers.
She craved them. As Sanctuss Voyanta had explained, there were two sides of the mountain. Winter found her feet had slipped a good distance toward the opposite side. The bruises on her heart felt an awful lot like she’d been shoved over a cliff by someone she’d trusted.
She hoped desperately that there were answers. She hoped there was a reason for all this. Hopefully, once she got past this dark day, things would make sense again.
Aven squeezed her hand, drawing her back into the present. Together, they moved up to the portal.
“Let’s go home,” said Karience.
_____
GALTHESS
Galthess sat at an ancient wood table in the Scrivers’ Den, under a flickering candle. The Scrivers’ Den was a small orifice carved into the granite walls of the vast Consecrators’ Library on Bridge, and was the smallest book collection in the facility, far outnumbered by the shelves of philosophers and logicians, pneumalogians and socio-cognitists from both prim and upworlds.
Ninety-seven books and several hundred loose parchments comprised the entirety of the Scrivers’ writings recovered by the Consecrators, so far. Scrivers were not too rare, but they were the most difficult for a Sanctuss to bring to deliverance. And of all the Oracles, they were some of the most dangerous, for their destructive work lasted long after their lifetime. Of the few Scrivers’ writings the Consecrators had acquired, only a handful were given willingly.
Most had been retrieved with the help of men like Galthess. He and his kind had been around since the dawn of the Consecrators. In those early days, they had hunted the Oracles because they feared their ability to inspire blind devotion to the Makers. But time had passed, and the order had matured, gaining a greater understanding and a lessening of fear. The urgency to kill the Oracles outright had given way to a more patient approach, and the god-gifted were now offered the opportunity for deliverance. Most of them took it, eventually.
Which was why he was now the sole Oracle hunter.
In his ten years of service, in order to rescue worlds from the overzealous grip of Makers and Beasts alike, he had ended the lives of six Oracles.
Galthess rubbed his fingers over the parchment before him, but his eyes were blind to it, consumed as he was with his thoughts. He’d spent far too much time here in the Scrivers’ Den, poring over words penned by the hands of Scrivers. Especially the words of one Scriver, whose manuscript had caused a raging storm of controversy within the order since its discovery.
If the words on this parchment were true, and if the girl, Winter, was the one spoken of…
The door to the Scrivers’ Den groaned as the old hinges turned.
Galthess did not look up, knowing without looking who it was. A withered hand came out of the darkness and into the flickering light, coming to rest atop his right hand.
“You work so hard, Galthess,” said the frail voice of Sanctuss Exenia. “Must you always be so diligent?”
Galthess took Sanctuss Exenia’s hand gently in both of his. “I want to be sure, Sanctuss.”
The Magna Sanctuss removed her hand and stepped back. “Sanctuss Voyanta’s gentle spirit will be irreplaceable.”
“If only sincerity and kindness were more common traits,” said Galthess. “I will miss my talks with her. She had a healing wisdom.”
Sanctuss Exenia sighed. “I’ll never understand why she refused to cover herself. Now who will replace me when I pass?” She shook her head. Her hand came to rest softly on his shoulder. “At least I still have your sincere heart to turn to, my dear son.”
Galthess stroked her aged fingers. She spoke like this to him on occasion, in times of duress. He felt the same. If he could be said to love anyone, it was Exenia. He had devoted himself to her ever since she rescued him from a lifetime in prison. He was sixteen when Sanctuss Exenia had looked him in the eyes as he sat in his cell and asked him if he felt his vengeance killings were justified.
“If the Makers will not deliver justice, should not I?” he had replied.
Using her power as Magna Sanctuss, she had him released and brought him into the Consecrator’s order. And it was then that she began grooming him to be what he was now—an assassin.
In the flickering light, Galthess looked up into Sanctuss Exenia’s thin, bony face. Twenty years had passed. He was thirty-six, and she was nearing eighty.
“Is it Voyanta’s killer who I am to hunt?” asked Galthess, already knowing the answer.
“Yes,
the Oracle called Winter. I am sending you with Theurg. It is time for him to stand on his own feet. You shall act as his apprentice. The girl herself is not so much a threat—it is her location in the Huntress Constellation.”
“Yes,” said Galthess, “I was reading just now from Contagion’s Drowning. From the Canticle of Fire, Corvair’s visions of the Triangle.”
“You know the writings of Corvair better than anyone. Remind me of what the riddle says.”
“‘On one world, a Beast attains fire and flight. On another, a sun-eyed carrier stays not still. On a third, Makers sing the songs of all, inhabiting to cry and kill.’”
Sanctuss Exenia sighed. “If we know anything for certain about the Makers, it is their propensity for wastefulness. So many words to say so little. I truly think their cleverness has driven them mad.”
Galthess nodded. The Magnus Sanctuss referred to a commonly-believed theory that the Makers, the powerful spirits who’d brought the universe into existence, had at some point gone mad in their genius. Mad in the way that a psychopath could love his family and be an idyllic parent and spouse, while callously butchering strangers. Their work at times was extremely lovely, and at other times it seemed reckless, even monstrous, their petty plans appearing to go disastrously awry.
Galthess believed in the theory too. It fit with what he’d seen of the universe. And yet, he sensed there was more he had not yet grasped, some piece of the puzzle that eluded him.
Or too much time spent reading the Scrivers’ writings was slowly eating away at his mind. Too many questions and not enough answers.
“One thing seems sure,” said Sanctuss Exenia. “There are Beasts aware of the Triangle. And between them and the Oracles, we cannot afford to lose another prophesied constellation, like Heartbow or Deep Black.”
“Do you truly believe that this Oracle, Winter, is the Contagion Corvair writes of?”
“I don’t know. But, whether she is or not, she is in the Triangle. That means we can’t take a chance. Too much is at stake here. It saddens me that it is so. If circumstances were different, we could take as long as necessary to deliver her.”