She heard you… that cultist had said. Did I call them here?
The dark thought stopped Whitney at the shore. Kazimir jumped onto the boat. Sigrid shouldered Whitney in the back and knocked him forward. He recovered in time to get over the rail and onto the boat in a move that he hoped looked smooth.
“You rowed last time,” Kazimir said as he grabbed the oar and plunged it into the water.
Whitney smiled rather smugly before lowering himself onto the bench. His rear felt something soft, and he hopped up, rocking the boat.
“Sorry,” he said, turning to find Sigrid already seated. Taking the bench across from her, staring into those rage-filled eyes, Whitney almost wished he was rowing.
“You’re pretty in the moonlight,” he said.
She hissed, a noise Whitney was becoming accustomed to hearing.
It was true, though. He wondered what she’d looked like before she’d taken on the pallid, pasty features of a bloodless upyr. Her stark white hair, though wild and unkempt, framed her heart-shaped face as well as any goddess. Earlier, when the muzzle had been removed, Whitney had seen her full lips… covered in dried blood, sure, but she was beautiful.
“You’ve got something familiar about you… in the eyes,” Whitney said.
“Does it please you, taunting a woman to speak who cannot?” Kazimir asked.
“Can’t you take that thing off her?”
“I’ve lived centuries, and the blood of your Sora drove me mad. This is her first time near mystics. A lesson that must be learned, but one I will not take lightly.”
“You’re strange people, you know that?” Whitney said. Kazimir grunted in response.
Whitney took the ensuing silence to study his surroundings. It wasn’t like what had happened in Dockside or Winde Port. Yaolin wasn’t burning, exactly, but hundreds were suffering from the cultists’ bout of chaos. He could hear the screams. The clanking of metal as soldiers put the uprising down.
When Whitney and the troupe had entered Yaolin, there’d been more ships posted guard. No doubt, they were keeping an eye out for a surprise Shesaitju attack from the water. The entire world was going to shog, and now, it seemed like they were all focused on the wrong thing. Glass ships throughout the lake came to shore to offer arms in assistance, leaving their path to the Red Tower unbelievably clear. The water ahead of them was still as ice, except in the distance where a large ship cut through the waterfall pass like a theater curtain.
“Was this my fault?” Whitney asked.
“Even you can’t be that vane,” Kazimir replied, pushing the oars. His inhuman strength had them gliding across the lake so fast, they’d look only like a blur from land or watchtowers.
“You. Her. Everyone said Lightmancery might bring unwanted attention,” Whitney said.
“You think a song summoned a hundred of Nesilia’s most dedicated followers to the streets?”
“I don’t… not think that.”
“You don’t write the fate of this world, Whitney Fierstown.”
Whitney brushed sweat from his brow and swept damp hair off his forehead. “She warned me.”
“Iam himself could have warned you, and still, you would have done the same. Mortals are simple creatures. They do simple things. Perhaps, your actions inspired Nesilia to send her followers after us. Perhaps they were always going to attack. Gods are at play now. It’s beyond anything we can predict.”
“And yet we have to kill her?” Whitney asked.
“Now, you see my dilemma.”
Sigrid’s crossbow clicked, and she let a bolt loose. A screech above was followed by a grimaur splashing down into the lake right next to them. Whitney’s heart skipped a beat as the water hit his cheek. He glanced back at Sigrid, whose eyebrows lifted like she was grinning.
They’d made it all the way to the island in the center of Lake Yaolin, the foundation of the Red Tower. Whitney didn’t experience the taunts of the Sea of Souls again, probably thanks to Kazimir’s rowing speed, or maybe the upyr, himself, had scared them away. Still, Whitney counted himself lucky, hopping out of the boat as soon as it reached dry land.
“Do not touch anything,” Kazimir warned, causing Whitney to freeze and hold up his palms. “Everything is magic. Enchanted to kill you. To the outside world, the tower is dead. It has been for a long time.”
“Sounds… delightful,” Whitney said. “I can’t imagine why King Liam would’ve wanted this place destroyed.”
Whitney peered up at a series of terraced layers made from smooth red stone. They looked like giant serving plates stacked upon one another. Carved bands of bas-reliefs depicting men and women in robes marked each landing, portions aged and worn by the weather. As high as he could see, bare plants and twisting vines grew, void of all color, lifeless as the tower itself appeared to be. No guards or posts were on the small isle either, as if there was nothing to protect against. Usually a good sign for a thief.
“Do not let appearances fool you,” Kazimir said as if reading Whitney’s mind. “This place is teeming with life and magic. By Elsewhere, I can almost taste it.” He turned to Sigrid. “Stay with me, child. If I knew it was this strong, I would have left you chained in the Citadel.”
Thunder boomed and a flash of lightning sprawled across the night sky like an elaborate root system. Maniacal laughter echoed across the open waters as more cultists filled the streets. Whitney fought the feeling of dread that swept over him. He stood on an unfamiliar island inhabited by mystics that, history told him, were evil. Alongside him, his allies, were two murderous, blood-drinking upyr.
Gods and yigging monsters…
Presently, Sigrid trained her crossbow over the bay, tracking what was either a stray grimaur or a giant bat.
“Don’t be wasteful,” Kazimir said, lowering her weapon. She hissed again in response.
Whitney put a little distance between himself and Sigrid, stopping at the edge of a still pool. Dead husks of tall trees rose up from within its depths. It was like this across the whole island, pools and lifeless trees at the base of the tower.
Out of the corner of his eye, Whitney spotted Kazimir approaching a bronze gate. A large gem was set in its center: red as blood. Kazimir slipped between two clay statues set before it, each depicting an armored Glass soldier holding a spear.
“What are you doing?” Whitney whispered.
Kazimir didn’t answer but put the palm of his hand against the red stone. When he pulled it away, the gem glowed, revealing a smear of blood on the upyr’s palm. The gate clicked and swung open ever so slightly.
“How did you—” Whitney began before Kazimir cut him off.
“As I said, the Order and my Citadel have a long and sordid history. Our magic may appear different, but it comes from the same place. The same gods. I have likely broken many of our ancient agreements just unlocking this.”
“Aren’t you afraid the Lords will cast you back into Elsewhere?” Whitney asked, stepping a few paces closer.
“It is not the ire of the Sanguine Lords which concerns me here. The blood pact must be rendered.”
“So, do we just stroll in like we own the place?” Whitney asked. He was used to having to break into places, but he certainly wasn’t opposed to the straightforward approach, considering his company.
“We will likely have to slaughter everyone inside,” Kazimir replied.
Sigrid let out a soft moan.
“You’re kidding, right?” Whitney asked, but Kazimir was already walking toward the front doors. “He’s kidding, right?”
Sigrid responded by nudging past him. He wasn’t sure what salivating sounded like through a muzzle, but now he thought he knew.
After passing through the gate, guarded by statues that looked as if they might come to life at any moment, they stopped at two wide, double doors. They were made of bronze inlaid with an elaborate filigree—leaves, swirls, and the like—easily three heads taller than Whitney. Despite the state of disrepair the tower stood in, the doors
were polished enough to see his reflection. He noted, his was the only reflection that could be seen and gulped.
A thin film of light shimmered in front of them like a blanket hung out on a line. As Kazimir reached for one of two rings, Whitney said, “Are you sure we should do this?”
Kazimir spun on Whitney, fast as the lightning still coruscating across the sky. “You made the blood pact—twice. Now, we must do whatever it takes to fulfill them both, or the balance will break. This is the only way. If you die in there, that only makes it easier for me.”
“You really are a peach, you know that, Kazzy?”
Kazimir bit into his wrist, drawing a bit of blood with his fangs. Then, he grasped a ring with his stained hand, and a wall of light seemed to shimmer, then break away. A deep tone resonated.
Sigrid stepped to him, tilting her head in confusion.
“Their wards can’t stop the fallen,” Kazimir said. He rubbed his hands together, smearing the dark blood, then grabbed the other ring. Again, the sound shook Whitney to his core.
“Are you doing it right?” he asked.
Without answering, Kazimir threw the doors open wide, breaking the locks. Light poured from the inside out, and Whitney immediately understood that the upyr spoke the truth: magic within this place was alive and well.
The floors, shiny gray marble, matched a staircase which bordered the wall in a wide spiral ascending toward the top of the tower and dipping below their current level as well. The center of the floor bore a strange symbol. From the angle, Whitney had trouble seeing it, but it appeared to be a large circle with wavy lines extending from it in all directions. Then, as he edged inside, he saw it with clarity.
“Wianu…” he whispered. The creature that nearly killed them for a second time in Elsewhere. The giant octopus-type beast with razors for fangs and whiplike tentacles.
“Yes… history,” Kazimir said without exposition.
The place was opulent, to say the very least. It was the opposite of Barty Darkings’ mansions, both of which had a gentle air of sophistication. Gilded handrails and picture frames, trinkets made from precious gems—Whitney couldn’t help but laugh.
“What is so funny, thief?” Kazimir asked.
“Their people are living in ghettos in Winde Port, yet there’s enough gold to house them all for a decade right here in this entryway.”
“The world is unfair. Get used to it,” Kazimir stated without emotion.
“Oh, trust me. I am.”
Sigrid stalked around the room like a wolfhound. In that moment, watching her, Whitney realized how bad an idea this all was. Somehow, in his obsession with finding Sora and releasing her from the Buried Goddess, he’d forgotten exactly how crazed mystic blood made the upyr.
“Maybe we should go—” Whitney started. He was abruptly cut off.
“Aihara Na!” It was as if Kazimir’s voice was magically amplified in some way, though perhaps, it was just how the tower carried sound.
“What are you doing?” Whitney whispered.
From above, a voice spoke.
“The Well predicted I should expect unwanted guests, but a Child of the Night is not what I’d have guessed.” The voice carried authority with it, reminding Whitney of the times Nesilia had spoken to him, only, this voice was older, less sultry.
Kazimir’s gaze snapped toward the stairs. Whitney followed it there. He couldn’t hear who he assumed to be Aihara Na descending, but he could see her. Her yellow robes dragged along the marble steps, but there was no clack from shoes, as if she were gliding. Her wrinkled face and thin, hard eyes spoke of a lifetime of experiences, but just as Whitney could see her, he could see through her, to the stone walls. She was ethereal, spirit-like.
“And, so, the witch shows herself,” Kazimir said, drawing two knives. He fell into a battle stance, keeping Sigrid behind him, and Whitney had his back against the wall without even realizing.
“Where are the others?” Kazimir asked.
“They showed a lack of…” She rubbed her thumb and forefinger, and electricity crackled around it. “Perspective.”
“A shame. I was hoping for a fight.”
“Don't let me disappoint you.” The old, spirit-woman smiled, the creases around her thin lips deepening. She turned to Sigrid and said, “You brought a pet, upyr?”
“A child.”
“Kazimir, what’s the move,” Whitney whispered.
“Kazimir?” Aihara Na spoke, somehow hearing him from across the room. “I’d have expected the eldest of you, Vikas, but your name precedes you. Not quite first generation to have known the thirst, but close enough.”
Kazimir grunted.
“With a reputation as such,” she went on, “I would not expect you to be so foolish as to come here.”
Kazimir spread his arms wide, as if wanting his cloak to spread and reveal the seemingly self-replenishing stock of knives he carried at all times. “We seek only to gaze into the Well,” Kazimir said. “It need not concern you. Allow us, and we’ll be on our way.”
“Allow an abomination—a half-life such as yourself to gaze into the holy waters? You must be losing your mind in your old age.”
“No,” Kazimir snarled. “I’ve merely gained perspective of when a fight could be avoided. We have no quarrel with you.”
“The fallen mystics made your kind in darkness,” she spat. “We always have a quarrel.”
“Not today. Our enemy is yours as well. The Buried Goddess returns, and she will devour all the magic in Pantego. That means you.”
“This one is Whitney Fierstown,” Aihara Na said, ignoring Kazimir. Whitney swallowed hard, and before he knew it, her ethereal body wound around him, taking stock. “Yes,” she spoke. So close now, the undertones of her voice sent a chill through him. “It is you. The one Sora could not reject. The one who made her weak when she should be a queen.”
Whitney’s eyes lit up. “You know Sora?”
“Of course, I do," Aihara Na said. “I trained her, helped her embrace who she was.”
“Was?” Whitney said.
“Well, she isn’t quite herself anymore, is she?” She started to cackle.
“How do you know that about her?” Whitney shouted, swinging at her but feeling his hands pass straight through her.
Before Aihara Na could respond to the attack, Kazimir pushed him out of the way. Whitney hit the marble floor and slid a meter before stopping.
“You would dare align with Nesilia?” Kazimir said, realizing the truth about a hair slower than Whitney had. At least, that’s what he told himself.
“Why wouldn’t I?” Aihara Na replied. She sees the worth of this Order when all the mortals have done is break it. You should see that, too. What love have you for them to travel here with this thieving whelp?”
“I’ll give you ‘thieving whelp,’” Whitney grumbled as he got back to his hands and knees.
“What, did she tell you, she’d restore your Order to its former glory?” Kazimir scoffed. “Are you too lonely here, old woman? She will break everything in the world, you along with it.”
Aihara Na drifted back across the room, near the stairs. Suddenly, other Panpingese men and women in yellow robes—at least twenty of them—slowly inched their way down the stairwell. These mystics were young, however, and completely physical, unlike Aihara Na.
Sigrid armed her crossbow, ravenous, panting through her muzzle, Whitney presumed due to the allure of mystic blood more than anything, judging by her eyes. He wondered if this ‘Aihara Na’ woman even had blood.
“Tell your people to leave,” Kazimir ordered, “or their blood will coat the floor like carpet. It’s obvious they haven’t refined their power. What a sad Order this has devolved into.”
“You’ll find that by my hand, they learn faster!” Aihara Na bellowed.
Kazimir whispered something almost imperceptible and waved his hand.
The next moment was a complete blur. Aihara Na raised her hands, then sent a bolt of elect
ricity at Kazimir. He moved with the grace Whitney had seen him use in Elsewhere when Fake Darkings and his thugs had attacked his parents’ home. Somehow, he drew two knives and crossed them to block her magic. The energy teemed around the metal, but still sent him sliding.
The muzzle dropped from Sigrid’s mouth, and she was unleashed. Bolts lashed out from her crossbow with impossible speed and precision.
Fire, lightning, and all manner of elements flashed from the hands of the mystics moving down the stairs. They all aimed at Sigrid. Unlike Sora’s blood magic, they all chanted in an ancient-sounding dialect to draw on the magic, though, none of their words matched. It was all enough to have Whitney’s ears ringing.
Immediately, he knew he was useless here. He backed away, slowly, to duck and take cover behind a large ornate statue of an animal—or a god—he wasn’t familiar with. His back bumped into someone—a yellow-robed mystic. He whipped around with a dagger, catching her thigh. She looked down, then glared up at him. Her arm twitched, ready to immolate him, but a blade burst through her sternum first, and she dropped.
Sigrid standing behind her, licking her lips.
Whitney barely saw it happen before she was gone, carving her way up the stairs. The elements struck her, burning and freezing and damaging her skin faster than it could heal, but it didn’t stop her. He’d never seen anything like it. She was blood drunk.
Whitney ran to the stairs, which led down deeper into the Tower and ducked down. From there, he watched Kazimir and Aihara Na in the center of the room. The former darted this way and that, running on walls, leaping. Where Sigrid was a tornado of rage, he was pure grace.
Aihara Na spun, too, casting spells at Kazimir in rapid succession, every element Whitney could imagine, even mixing them. Kazimir darted by her, slashing her ethereal body across the waist. Blood didn’t draw, answering Whitney’s question, but a wisp-like substance did, and her cries indicated that it, indeed, hurt.
“Foolish upyr!” she roared. “You cannot kill me.”
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