He had gasped out to Meri, gripping her hand with a fevered strength and locking her eyes with an intense, heated gaze. “You must get us to Agricorinor. This is your greatest test. Even here, I feel it.”
“Feel what, Cryden?” she had asked. He hadn’t answered, though. In agony that rivaled a torture victim, he had prodded at his wound. He’d then closed his eyes, taking a deep, shuddering breath. And then, then… he’d screamed as if his heart was being wrenched from his body before again losing consciousness.
Two hours later, his wound had looked slightly better, and his fever had broken a bit. But, the reprieve from his illness had not lasted.
And so it had gone since they’d begun their journey. Cryden would wake from time to time, demanding to know what was happening with very few words. He would tell them to feed him, an almost beastial desperation behind the request. Then, he would probe and prod at his injury, and would howl in anguish before losing himself for two or more days. It was obvious that he was using his powers to burn away whatever parts of his infection were most susceptible, but that he was also exhausting himself and doing an incomplete job.
His moaning now meant either that he was awakening or the fever was worsening. Regardless, they needed to keep him quiet; they still had some ground to cover until they passed into the place on the map where, as Lisan put it, Sestria was fucking Rafón. She was, of course, referring to the chunk of land to which Sestria laid claim, though it should have properly been Rafón’s if one were limited by the unimaginative lines of real-world geography. It was one more step on their path to Agricorinor.
“Merigold…” wheezed Cryden, apparently awake and aware enough to notice her arrival. She took stock of his thinning body, weakly touching his pinched and drawn face. He could have been a corpse. “How…”
“The infection is again taking hold,” she said, anticipating his question. Cryden squeezed shut his eyes. “Ill’Nath has been treating it with a herbal poultice, but it doesn’t help.”
“Where…”
“We are south of Sestria’s grasp. We’ve still a ways to go,” Lisan said, her brow furrowing as she peered out into the darkness.
Was there an echo, metal striking metal in the distance? Some shouts or screams? Or was it just their paranoia?
“Stop interrupting me,” Cryden said. He sounded more coherent than he had since before his injury. “I’m just dying, not an invalid.”
“You aren’t dying,” Merigold told him, grasping his hand. “Ill’Nath says that the wound is recovering. If only we could get this infection under control, you would be whole again. If you could simply rest in a bed rather than be jolted about in a poorly-built cart…”
“You have been feeding me? I require as much as you can force down.”
“Yes, broth and soaked bread. You push up half of it, so we just keep shoving it back down,” Merigold said in a weak attempt at humor.
Cryden took a deep breath and shuddered. He clenched tight his eyes and Merigold noticed a tear passively tracking down his cheek. She gripped his hand a little tighter as Lisan considered the pair of them and then walked away. Cryden took another breath and picked his words carefully, as if there were only so many remaining in his body.
“I will need to continue to fight this. I will lose myself again. Merigold, Agricorinor is a suspicious place. You, and those with us, will not be welcomed with open arms. Like Ardia, there are factions and divisions. I do not know the state of things, as it has been years since I last set foot in those halls.”
“Why so long?” Merigold asked, adjusting herself to sit between Remy and Cryden. This was encouraging, him speaking so much, being so aware. She hoped it was a turning point.
“Let me talk, girl. I need to get something across. If I am still… unwell…. If I do not make it, you need to seek out Ellel Dietz. Speak to no one of what you have seen, save her. Refuse all others. They may threaten you. They may trick you. They may blackmail you. But speak… to… no… one… else.” His words were halting now, and his mouth was beginning to slacken. Each word was a drooling effort.
“You need to rest so that I don’t have to walk into this hornet’s nest alone,” Merigold said quietly.
He proceeded as if he hadn’t heard her.
“Do not trust Enit Boran. Speak to no one but Ellel. Tell her that I… that I had to leave, but it was not her.” The last word was slurred, and he stiffened, calling out as he summoned whatever powers he could muster to fight his infection. He slumped back into the cart. Merigold continued holding his hand for a moment, and then tucked the blankets back around him. She stood stiffly and looked to the north, toward that bastion of hope that was the seat of the pasnes alna on this side of the world.
They would be safe in Agricorinor.
Merigold knew it was a misplaced faith as much as her lifetime of belief in Yetra. Nonetheless, they plodded onward, their goal unchanged.
Interlogue: Envy
“Your nerring is beginning to decay more rapidly. I mustn’t even quest—it is evident from your eyes. They still shine with intelligence and your innate goodness, but also with pure animal aggression. If this were not such a common sight for me, sweetling, then I might be afraid. As it is, this has become all too common during my long life.
“I have been sapping maenen from others longer than you can imagine. If only I could stop…
“But, there is so much that can be done with the maenen of another. It is far more than just raw power. Far, far more. It can be molded, shaped, sculpted… with the greatest practitioners being more artist than pasnes alna. With maenen, I can create light on a spectrum that you could barely perceive. I can fertilize crops with power such that a harvest could be yielded in a day. I can reinforce great monuments, allowing them to be greater still. And, I can destroy.
“I was the Blood Maiden, so long ago. In Oagon, I cut through hundreds of soldiers. Mostly enemies, but some allies. Even with my killing Amorum’s people—my own people—they worshipped me. I was a god to them, a creature to be worshipped and feared. Even after I stripped myself of the blood-stained armor and began tending to the wounded, wrapping bandages around great cuts and tying tourniquets around severed limbs, men and women shrank back from my touch, refusing to meet my eyes. They gathered in small groups and whispered about my power.
“We had captured Oagon, though half of its population was killed in the attack and subsequent sacking. We had a town, again, to call our own. But it was not home. Home was gone.
“As people avoided me—the Blood Maiden—Amorum continued to operate as the brain and soul of the people, guiding them with his powerful voice and persuasive manner. He would have made a great king, and the people began hailing him as such.
“It is with great shame, sweetling, that I tell you how I was overcome with envy.
“At the time, it seemed utterly wrong. These people had flocked to our side because of me. I was the banner, the figurehead. I had largely developed the plan of attack on Oagon, and I was the one who’d brought us victory, brutal though it may have been. Amorum may have motivated the people with fancy words, but I… I forced things to happen! I created victory with my own two hands!
“How foolish it seems now, sweetling, to feel this way. If only I could have known the future at the time. If only I could have known of the love Amorum had for me, that might have been the difference. The world, today, may well be different if that had been the case.
“But, my envy twisted me; it wrung my mind into a gnarled mass of jealousy. It seemed so wrong, unnatural even, that I was feared and he was loved.
“I began to cultivate my own group of followers, devotees who answered only to me. They worshipped the Blood Maiden as an idol… hung on my every word as if it were prophecy or the words of the divine. Amorum and I rarely spoke; he was focused on rebuilding the city and integrating the old and new residents, while I was focused on building my own influence.
“My followers spent a good deal of time interrogati
ng prisoners, soldiers who fought for the Oagon and town leaders. Their methods were archaic and cruel, but they held such anger. I fueled that anger, sweetling, with my words and my very presence.
“That is when we found Intenu.
“Intenu was not an Oagon. She was from a country I had never heard of. Menoga, thousands of miles distant. My followers had begun to interrogate her and… it ended poorly. Like me, she was a metsika—a wild mage—though there wasn’t a word for it in those times.
“After she slaughtered my men, I went to see her myself, and not without great trepidation. I had little understanding or control over my powers, and I feared the possibility of a rival or an attack. But, I also had an insatiable curiosity, a thirst for learning more about my unique abilities.
“Thankfully, Intenu had no intention of harming me. She had been taken captive before we had even arrived in Oagon, left in the care of the Oagonans by her captors. Sold to them, actually, to be used as a weapon. You see, in my region of the world, use of this power was yet unknown, and at least so rare that the people of my army were unaware of it. However, in other far away areas of the warring world, this power—though still uncommon—was harnessed, controlled, and used for war.
“Intenu was a victim of this—a weapon. In her country, they had a method for detecting who was born with this power, and a method for controlling it. She wore an ring in her lip, a beautiful, sapphire jewel. Whomever wore the matching bit of jewelry could control her powers, and she could not remove her own ring without it killing her. She had learned that she could only access her powers unconsciously when under duress, which explained why the blood of my followers painted the walls of her cell.
“Her captor had fled in advance of when my army had attacked, so, she could not be controlled, and could not access her powers.
“But she knew so much. So very much about maenen and maen, yenas and pearen. More than any great sage, it seemed. Though she could only access her own maen, the miernes armas—magic weapons, as they called Intenu and her ilk—were enslaved from childhood. Though their imprisonment was often plush, their needs met by servants and slaves, it was nonetheless a prison.
“But I digress, yet again. Intenu learned much from the other miernes armas, about all forms of power. She began to teach me of the artistry involved in what you would call magic, sweetling. And, she was a fantastic teacher, a maestro. And a lovely woman, as well.
“She also had the incredibly rare ability to sense the use of miernes in the wider world… all kinds of miernes. I had thought these powers so rare. We all did. But, in those days, she taught me that the powers were simply more buried. So many people had the ability to access miernes, but had no idea. I was the same way. I don’t know if things are different, in these times, but people seem to be more readily able to embrace their powers.
“We helped awaken these powers. Most people had some idea that they were different, but were uncertain how. Intenu simply made them aware of their abilities, sweetling, and began to teach them, too. It was my own school of miernes, the only one for thousands of miles.
“While Amorum sought to integrate the peoples of Aquine, Oagon, and the many other small villages and towns that made up our army, and while he worked to forge peaceful alliances with nearby warring states and countries… I built my army of followers, my army of pasnes alna. I may have been feared, but at least I would be powerful. At least, I would be able to rival Amorum in influence.
“My envy, sweetling, was the beginning of the end of Amorum and me. It took years, though, for that schism to fully form. But the jealousy of the Blood Maiden was the origin of this split. He was a good man. Far too good a man for me.
“Just as you are, sweetling. This pains me, every time we meet.”
Chapter 23
“You… you are a monster,” Fenrir said to Darian, taking another gulp of Hunesian wine before emptying the bottle into his glass. His fourth glass, in fact. After Peribel’s torture, they had left the laboratory in silence, retreating to Darian’s office in the distribution center. Ingla stood silently in the corner, chin down and arms folded, while Darian and Fenrir spoke.
“If I be a monster, you fall into that same category. How many fingers did you take while in the employ of The House?”
“That was different,” Fenrir said over the hollow feeling in his stomach that had remained since Peribel’s death. Fenrir wasn’t exactly a Martyr, but what had happened below… it was indeed different.
“Of course, it was different. You were doing as ordered, and you were doing it for money. Someone, though, has to give the orders. At least I have the fortitude to both give the orders and execute the sentences. At least I am there to witness.” Darian took a sip of his wine, as well. His hand was steady, despite what had just happened in the caverns.
There was a sick logic to what Darian said. Tennyson never soiled his own hands on either the warnings or the assassinations, instead sending enforcers and eliminators on those jobs. Fenrir, himself, had carried out many such deeds, but been able to write his actions off as a part of “doing his job.” These people all would have lost their fingers regardless, and, though Fenrir had bungled some of these jobs, he’d simply been a tool. Tennyson, or whoever he’d partnered with, had been responsible.
“As always, you serve as an example to us all, my lord,” Fenrir said, carefully sarcastic.
“Usually, I would appreciate that you are hiding behind your sarcastic formalities. But, set that aside for once.” Darian put down his wine glass and leaned forward over steepled fingers. “Have a conversation with me, boy.”
Fenrir chuckled. “A conversation? I just witnessed you melt a woman with chemicals. It was as horrifying as being assfucked by Ultner in a Yetranian chapel. I’ll likely not sleep for a month. And, now, after all these years, you want to have a conversation?”
“You think I relish murder?” Darian raised a bushy eyebrow, deepening the creases on his forehead.
“I think you are good at it,” Fenrir retorted, leaning forward himself. He’d always known his father was capable of murder—there were enough rumors to that effect. But, now he had firsthand evidence.
“You know so little, boy, of how the world works. Success involves the protection of your assets. If you have something others want, very little will dissuade them from taking it. From the day that I began my work with herbs and chemicals, there were those seeking to steal from me. Those working to end me, in fact. Look at this.” Darian rolled up his sleeve, revealing a long, uneven scar, faded from age and spanning the length of his forearm. Fenrir had seen it before, but never cared to ask. “When I first discovered burning ice, assassins were sent to kill me and steal the formula. I was nothing back then. I had a small workshop, funded by translation work and some meager trading efforts. I’d foolishly tested burning ice on a small shipment of beef, and the results were fantastic. It would revolutionize trade, boy.” Darian’s dark eyes were distant, fixed on his past, with a hint of a smile showing on his face.
“But, it was too soon. A killer came for me, caught me working late in my little laboratory. She didn’t expect to find me awake, and I fought back. I caught her face with a gas lamp, but not before she gave me this scar.”
Fenrir had never known that about his father. The whole thing sounded far too… human for Darian.
“When she was down, a container of newly-formed cubes of burning ice fell onto her face. The extreme differences in temperature—the sweaty heat of her skin and the intense cold of the burning ice—caused the substance to stick to her face, burning away her skin. That was the first time that I realized the… potential of these chemicals for alternate uses,” Darian mused.
“Meldus,” Fenrir concluded, shivering at the all-too-recent memory.
“Meldus came much later. But, first, I needed to discover who’d betrayed me. One of the teamsters, who shipped the beef, had taken some of the burning ice to a major shipping company in an effort to get rich. I confronted him, and
he was penitent; did nothing but apologize. Boy, I was young and stupid. I forgave him. Then, more killers came for me. When I was at home, with your brothers and their mother. Before you were born.” Darian abruptly sat back in his chair.
“I was prepared and had protection by then, and they were unsuccessful. But I learned an important lesson. Forgiveness begets treachery, and generosity begets greed. The only way to protect myself and my discoveries was to make it… strongly undesirable to cross me.”
Eyeballs bulging and popping. Skin blistering and muscle melting.
“I found this teamster and made him pay for his actions. And, let it slip to my people the price of treachery. Just as Ingla will spread rumors about Peribel’s demise. There are few methods as effective in protecting secrets as the threat of a gruesome death.”
“You could have ended Peribel more easily than by using that fucking meldus. Why torture her? Why not end her more easily and tell others of a terrible death?” Fenrir rubbed at his temples.
“Because that would be a lie. Lies, of this nature, are always discovered. If Ingla were to lie when telling others of this tale, it would be detectable. In her body language, in her eyes. It must be a real threat to dissuade others.” Fenrir heard Ingla shift behind him, and felt her gaze on his neck. She had been watching him too closely since they’d left that terrible place below the Furnace.
“It is a clear threat.” Fenrir thought of Astora being strapped to that stool in the caverns, flesh withering at the touch of this chemical.
“Then it seems we have an understanding, boy.” Darian’s eyes glittered. Indeed, they had an understanding.
“Now that we are on the same side, it is time to talk about your task.”
“Destroying The House,” Fenrir muttered. The thought was ridiculous.
“Destroying The House,” Darian repeated. “The approach will have to be different, now. Undoubtedly, your time with my Adders has been reported back to Tennyson. Turning you back into a decent warrior had to be somewhat public, however, and not even I can prevent every spy from entering a compound this large.”
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