by Aleks Canard
Trix sighed. Leaned on the balcony railing. There was no great rush. After giving Valentine his explanation they’d go and find Altayr.
‘If you’re born on Earth, for example, like you were, then you say you’re from Earth.’
‘It’s only logical.’
‘Traditionally, saying you were “of” a place meant that you were nobility, or a knight. Sometimes knighthoods were indicated with a capital “O” on official documents. The practice died out since most planets’ monarchies are only for show now. I only know of it because we were fed Earth’s history every second we weren’t learning how to kill people on Mair Ultima. We were likened to knights to show that we were valiant protectors, not just ordinary soldiers. The way the machinists spoke made us think that people all over the galaxy would kiss the ground we walked on. Something about that particular piece of propaganda must’ve stuck. It seemed more appropriate than faking a family name. And it makes people think we have real homes.’
‘Not a bad strategy. However, I always did think “Trix ex Zilvia” would be more fitting. After all, the machina name is derived from the ancient phrase, deus ex machina.’
‘Bloody poets.’
‘If you read the reviews, I’m actually not a poet. Just an asshole that learned to form crude sentences with all the rhyming brilliance of sequential farts.’
Trix shook her head. Chuckled. Walked back inside with one last forlorn look at the mountains. Valentine stayed on the balcony. Trix eyed her battle-armour. Decided it was time to suit up. Spending one night in hospital was enough for her.
She took off her hospital gown. Clean underwear had been put in a drawer for her. Trix didn’t need a bra thanks to her 2nd Skin One-Piece. She didn’t care that Valentine was around. They’d both seen each other naked before. Neither of them saw any point in being coy.
‘I’ve got half a mind to give you my vest so you’ll put a shirt on,’ Trix said as she slipped into her exo-armour, then attached all her mag panels.
‘It’s important to let the wounds breathe.’
‘You’re just hoping one of the female staff will like what they see and give you an oral examination.’
‘There’s no need for such lewdness, darling.’
‘That wasn’t nearly lewd enough when talking about your mind.’
‘I’ll have you know I’ve been approached by a few younger ladies. One was in their fifties, I think.’
‘And you resisted. Good for you.’
‘I wouldn’t want to open my wounds again,’ Valentine said, a pang of melancholy in his voice indicating he was speaking about more than just his physical ailments.
‘I’m going to stop this conversation before I hear something indelible.’
Valentine laughed. It sounded a little hollow. Trix checked that she hadn’t left anything behind. Putting her hair in a ponytail, she and Valentine exited the hospital room. Their first port of call was to discover what had become of Altayr. From there, Trix had to inform Nadira of the mirror situation, lest Dark’s Hide’s Duchess let her dogs off their leashes.
Of course, knowing Nadira Vega, she was probably aware of everything already.
2
Valentine’s room had a view on par with Trix’s.
The only difference was the amenities’ quality. Sumptuous up-lighting, elegant wooden trimmings, plush carpet, and antique wallpaper made the machina feel like she’d stepped into a hotel room.
‘Money isn’t everything, but I’d rather be injected with needles in a room like this than some fluorescent lit, clinical white room reeking of disinfectant.’
‘I’m guessing you paid extra.’
‘I don’t pay for much besides maintaining my ship.’
‘I think you’re forgetting about the amount you spend on alcohol.’
‘Undoubtedly because of all the alcohol.’
Valentine dressed in his armour, holstered his guns, then slipped his jacket over the top. He took his beanie from his back pocket. Put it on.
‘Let’s go find Big Red.’
A nurse entered Valentine’s room at that moment. She spoke Earthen.
‘Brigadier Valentine, you’re supposed to be in bed.’
‘You’re making the staff address you by rank?’ Trix raised an eyebrow.
‘My medical records are on file with the UNSC. They would’ve seen it there,’ Valentine said, before turning to the nurse. ‘I was in bed a moment ago. I promise I’m only going for a stroll in the garden. Isn’t that right, Trix?’
‘Hmm.’
‘Brigadier Valentine I—’ the nurse said.
‘Never fear. I don’t expect this stroll will be particularly stressful. And Valentine will do just fine. It’s been a long time since I was a military man,’ said the author.
It was at that point Valentine’s doctor entered the room. She was less than happy to see her patient up and about. And dressed in battle-armour to boot.
‘Where do you think you’re going?
‘As I was telling the nurse, I’m going for a stroll. I need to stretch my legs.’
‘Your legs are bionic. They have no need to be stretched.’
‘Astute observation, doctor. However, as I’m the one with bionic limbs, forgive me for not taking your advice. I like to think I’m an authority on the subject after over half a century of wearing them.’
Trix rolled her eyes. Walked outside the room while Valentine bickered with the hospital staff. She had to actively stop listening due to her sharp hearing or she’d unwillingly eavesdrop on the rest of the conversation.
The hospital halls were empty. Trix leaned against the wall to wait for Valentine. She’d hoped to ask a passing staff member about Altayr. Only there weren’t any. Most hospitals were relatively empty in this day and age. Medicine was so advanced that the majority of illnesses could be cured quickly, or prevented altogether. Extended hospital stays were reserved for the worst wounds and debilitating diseases.
A shape appeared in Trix’s peripheral vision. It was black. Huge. It scraped the high ceilings typical in zirean architecture. She turned. A ceirlo with black fur and antlers of charred bone stood ominously at the end of the corridor. A shattered crown adorned the top of its antlers. There’d been two the first time Trix had seen it. Degrading flora wrapped around in ornate patterns causing a compost stench.
‘You…’ Trix said, only semi-aware she was speaking to an apparition. This was the same creature she had seen on Xardiassant. And she hadn’t been the only one to see it. A worker in the palace grounds had seen it too.
Ceirlos were revered in zirean culture. Ones with black fur were supposedly omens of death. Though it was not possible to tell whose. They were also native to Xardiassant. Trix knew that none existed on Zilvia.
The machina’s Uldarian prism vibrated, yet her medallion remained still. She began walking towards the ceirlo. Its muscles bulged underneath short, greasy fur.
‘Do you still seek to know? And What?’ the ceirlo said.
Trix knew those words. They came from an ancient poem compilation called the Poetic Edda that referenced — among many other events — Ragnarök.
Trix reached out to brush the ceirlo’s fur. Its lupine face regarded her hungrily. The rest of the world grew silent, like frost had covered everything. Snap freezing time itself. Cold wound its way through the machina’s bones. Her face ached. The fresh scar above her breast and wounds on her forearm howled like a ceirlo would at the moon.
She brushed the ceirlo’s neck softly. Had to stand on her toes to reach it. It was real. The machina gasped. There was no way. This had to be an illusion, like the one the dryads used during her final test. But her ring wasn’t warm. It was cold like everything else.
While ceirlos could be ridden, that didn’t mean they allowed it as easily as horses. According to Coën Vesemir and Fiona Calanthe — as well as countless zirean zoologists — ceirlos would only allow someone to ride them if they bowed.
And that was what the black ceir
lo did. Though it didn’t let Trix hop on. It brought its eyes level with hers. They showed destruction reaching across the Milky Way, as if some titanic being had dunked the stars in whiskey then lit a match and walked away.
Planets were obliterated by unseen forces. Others were hurled out of orbit and crashed into suns, causing even more explosions.
‘No man will have mercy on another,’ said the ceirlo. ‘Do you still seek to know? And what?’
Trix found that she couldn’t speak. Whatever she was seeing was greater than any force that could be fought. It was as if the galaxy was committing suicide. Slashing its celestial wrists.
‘I do,’ Trix said.
The ceirlo grinned, revealing its razor teeth.
Someone grabbed her shoulder. Shook. She turned. Valentine stood behind her.
‘Trix, what’re you doing holding your arm out like that?’
‘I’m—’ she snapped back to the corridor. No ceirlo could be seen. The world was pleasantly heated again. Cold fled her bones. Chased by reality’s harsh pitchforks and torches. Back into the deep, dark woods, where all nightmares lurked. Where all fears were real.
‘Did you see something? Are you under a spell?’
‘No. It must’ve just been my imagination.’
‘For a moment I thought the ruckus from my room drove you insane. That fulmination could’ve awoken the dead.’
‘How’d you convince them to let you leave?’ Trix said, looking over her shoulder, speaking like someone whose head still rested on a pillow as morning breath wafted from her mouth.
‘At first I tried flirting. Why not, it’s worked for me before. When that failed, I decided to remind them that I was the paying customer, and that I would be absolutely certain to not undo all their hard work. I’m truthfully too sore to do much fighting at all. And for my sake, don’t slap me on the shoulders. I’m more tender than slow roasted meat.’
Trix was still distracted by what had happened with the ceirlo. It’d warned Trix that many more would die because of Iglessia Vialle when it had first appeared. Was it now saying that Iglessia sitting on the throne would bring about the end of the galaxy? She made a mental note to look into zirean prophecies.
Many zirean nobles throughout the ages had possessed varying clairvoyant powers, ranging from soothsayers to prophetesses alike. These powers were always indicated by heterochromia, and Iglessia Vialle was no different.
A trickle of blood came from Trix’s nose. There had to be something special about Iglessia. Something to provoke her visions of the ceirlo. She wiped her nose. Held her finger up to her eyes. Iglessia’s bloodline held the answers. In that moment she was sure. Doubt would inevitably come later, when the brilliance from her inspiration had gone. Not only would she have to check zirean prophecies, she’d have to look for references in Garth Roche’s notes that spoke of royal blood, possibly a seer sitting on the throne, heralding the end of days.
When Trix finally returned to Valentine’s face, he was ashen. His tone had changed from jovial nonchalance to brusque.
‘Whatever it was you saw, I’m not sure I want to know, and I won’t press you. I know that look of yours, machina.’
‘And what look is that, old friend?’
‘The look you have when you feel the weight of the world on your shoulders and wish it was gone.’
‘I’ll explain everything when this is over.’
The author cracked a weary smile. ‘I shall have to get comfortable then. Explaining everything may take longer than I have. Perhaps you could wait until I’m nestled in a coffin to begin.’
‘I don’t suppose, in all your arguing, you ascertained Altayr’s whereabouts, did you?’
‘No.’
‘We’ll ask reception on the ground floor. Someone has to know where he is.’
‘Vagueness always guarantees an element of truth.’
‘You’re too much of a smartass for your own good.’
‘Serena always tells me my mouth will get me into trouble.’
‘Will? It already does. I know. I’ve bailed you out of said trouble more times than I can count.’
The friends stepped into an elevator. They reached the bottom floor in under ten seconds.
‘We don’t need to ask anyone where Altayr is.’
‘Why? Did you have a premonition?’
‘I can smell him.’
‘I’ll be damned if I can smell anything but this lobby. What I wouldn’t give to have your abilities for just one day.’
‘What I wouldn’t give to stop that from happening.’
‘Why’s that?’
‘You’d be strong enough to raze a pub, as well as knockout everyone inside.’
Valentine was going to reply when Altayr Van Eldric strode up courtyard stairs and into the lobby. His head bore a strip of pink skin, where his wound had been. He would use magic to make sure it didn’t leave a permanent scar.
‘Trix, Valentine, you should both be in bed.’
‘Not this fucking conversation again,’ said the author.
‘We’re fine. Well, I am. He’s still sore.’ Trix went to slap Valentine on the back. He flinched. ‘Where’ve you been?’
‘With Faedra. Gauthier paid her a visit after I left. He convinced her that I was going to double-cross her. Which I was. Until I realised that we would most likely need her help to vanquish the demon. Gauthier didn’t curse her. Nor did he perform a hex. There was no lingering magical evidence of which to speak.’
‘So why did she lash out? She was nearly as fast as a spectre machina when I fought her last night. And she wielded her staff with expert precision. Either she enhanced herself with spells or potions before facing me, or she pretended to be unskilled when you two fought in the Vault. If she had fought you like she fought me, you’d be dead.’
‘I did find traces of elixirs in her bloodstream made to increase muscle elasticity and reflexes. That may be what you experienced.’
‘Hmm.’
Altayr looked around the lobby. His brow furrowed.
‘We’ll discuss this, but not here. You need to speak with Faedra. Tell her your plan for besting Gauthier.’
‘I believe a plan has to be longer than a couple of words for that term to apply,’ said Sif.
Trix: ‘It’s not all that complicated.’
‘Nevertheless, she needs to see that you’re not her enemy. From what I’ve learned, last night’s onslaught was the end of her mercenaries. She has no one left.’
‘And you believe her?’ Trix said, walking with Altayr into the courtyard. Valentine followed. He opened his box of cigarillos. There was only one left. Better to save it for later. He listened to Trix’s conversation with Altayr, though he kept his eyes on the world around him.
Unlike Estreser’s palace there were no statues, only trees. Breeze created a pleasant rustling through the leaves. They were part of a select few species on Zilvia that did lose their leaves in autumn. Though instead of turning orange, the leaves became different shades of pink.
Trix’s attention was captured by them too. Their hues reminded her of Djiemlur’s waterways. The wraiths’ marriage already felt distant.
‘I gave her a truth serum. One of my own creation. Especially potent, though notoriously difficult to procure the ingredients. It’s also devilishly hard to brew. I used it all on her and she just repeated her initial statements.’
‘Your excessive use of adverbs stabs my ear drums worse than the woman who mistook my back for a pincushion last night. We understand, sorcerer. You’re good at what you do,’ Valentine said, still admiring the courtyard. He believed that a place hadn’t been experienced properly until it was seen in all seasons, and at all times of day and night. He reckoned places were like people.
For example, winter typically made them harsher — save for corrachs who became bursting with mirth at the sign of first snowfall — and the night made them mysterious. At times, more playful too.
Altayr ignored Valentine. This was
no longer a battle. It was diplomacy. Moreover, it was strategy. And despite Valentine attaining the highest field rank possible in the military during his few years of service, Altayr didn’t care about recognising his point of view at that moment. Magic was not the author’s forte.
Trix: ‘Alright, so Faedra’s telling the truth. Why did she attack me like I’d killed her family?’
Altayr swallowed. Smoothed his clothes. Adjusted the way his poncho fell across his back.
They saw death in every shadow. Edges glistened like razors, thirsty for blood and hungry for gore
‘The demon… Gauthier, gave her nightmares from his presence alone. Nightmares that convinced her she had to act, or face a horrible death.’
‘No demons are as persuasive as those that lie within,’ the author said, plunging his hands deep into his jacket pockets. He’d paid to have it mended while he was being patched up.
‘Glad to see we’re now in agreement, poet.’
Valentine grunted to affirm he’d heard, though he offered no further commentary.
‘Uh, Trix?’ Sif said.
‘Yeah.’
‘Nadira Vega’s calling you.’
‘Shit.’
Trix activated her helmet in tactical mode then signalled Valentine that she wanted quiet. He nodded, lost in thought about their current predicament.
‘Greetings, Nadira.’
‘Machina,’ the Duchess of Dark’s Hide said with a sly smile. ‘Some of my little birds told me that you have procured the mirror which lay within Xifaw.’
Trix saw no point in lying. Nadira seldom bluffed when it came to possessing information. The thought that she could be fishing crossed Trix’s mind for a moment. She watched it go. If Nadira had managed the impossible task of discovering that one of the mirrors was located in Xifaw, she would still have spies in Blor’daeyn.
‘I have.’
‘Your talents never cease to amaze me. I’ve come to think thunderclaps are the sound of gods’ jaws dropping at your accomplishments.’
‘Why are you calling if you know we have the mirrors?’
‘That’s precisely why I’m calling. You have them. Not me.’
‘We’ll deliver them to you soon.’
‘Well you do always keep your word, dear machina. Though “soon” is relative. I want a timeframe.’