by Mason Thomas
Strange that he would recall of all that now.
Violence was everywhere, he supposed. Regardless of the universe you were in.
With his hands behind his head, thinking of his own quiet apartment on his quiet tree-lined street, he eventually drifted off to sleep.
17
SOMETHING DREW Hunter out of a fragile sleep. He wasn’t alone.
He pried open his eyes and lifted his head. Yellow light from the corridor spilled in through the open doorway and brushed over a figure that sat on a cot, back to the wall. Hunter blinked and used the heel of his palm to wipe the wet from the corner of his eyes that blurred his vision. It took a moment for him to recognize the small stature and curve of his bare shoulder and arm.
“This is more than a little creepy,” Hunter said.
Dax lifted his head, jarred from some thought. “It’s quiet here. I was using the time to think.” There was uneasiness in his tone, a sense that something weighed on him. Or maybe he was only tired. His presence here wasn’t happenstance; that much was obvious. In this sprawling old labyrinth of tunnels, certainly there were plenty of other places he could hide for some quiet reflection time. He was here for a reason.
Hunter rolled to his side and propped his torso up on one elbow. “What time is it?”
“Late,” Dax said and fell quiet again. He turned toward the open doorway, but Hunter got the sense he wasn’t looking at anything.
Hunter was loath to admit it even to himself, but he was relieved to see him. After facing borderline hostility the entire day, Dax was the closest he had to a friendly face. He swung his bare legs off the cot, placing his feet on the cold floor. He remembered then he was naked, having stripped off the ripe, sweat-soaked clothes before turning in. Feeling exposed, he slid the thin blanket he had over his lap.
“Your boyfriend know you’re here?” he asked.
Dax rose and moved to the cot nearest to Hunter’s and sat on the edge, facing him. Even in the dark, Dax’s presence seemed to press in on him. His body was in silhouette from the light in the corridor. Hunter couldn’t read his face, but he thought he saw Dax’s lips tighten. “Do not antagonize Quinnar. It will bode ill for you.”
Me? Antagonize him?
“Can’t make any promises,” Hunter grumbled.
“He can be short tempered and intolerant of those who push him—”
“Same here.”
“—and he can make things quite difficult for you.”
“My life sucks pretty hard right now, so….”
“He will make it worse.”
Hunter made a noncommittal shrug. He wasn’t about to grovel to Quinnar or allow him to intimidate him. He didn’t do anything to deserve any of this, and he would walk straight out of the place if came to that, regardless of the consequences. He knew a way out now if need be.
“Is that why you’re here?” Hunter asked. “To warn me about him?”
Dax leaned in, elbows on his knees. He took a deep breath and exhaled slowly—and Hunter caught the acerbic burn of something potent on his breath.
Dax had been drinking. From the smell, possibly a lot. “In part.” His stoic veneer had been stripped back, but in the dark, Hunter couldn’t read what was beneath it. He sounded pensive. And sullen. “I came to check on your well-being. But you were already asleep.”
“My well-being,” Hunter repeated. Was he feeling guilty for the stunt he pulled?
The narrow distance between them felt oddly dangerous. Hunter kept his eye off the line of light that traced Dax’s bare shoulder and tricep. He leaned back, propping his torso up with locked arms behind him—mainly to put a little distance between them.
Dax’s chin lowered to his chest and silence settled over them. He was loitering. Stalling. But Hunter had no idea why. He was naked and cornered with no idea where this was going, and it made him want to squirm.
“It has taken some wrangling,” Dax said after a time, “but for the most part, the council has been pacified. With some promises made.”
What did that mean?
“I would counsel you, however,” Dax continued, “to remain low for a time. Try not to bring attention to yourself. Or give people a reason to be wary of you.”
Was this supposed to make him feel relieved? Grateful? “Sure. I’ll hide out here in the dark until things blow over.”
Dax’s head lifted. Hunter could feel his eyes drill into him. “Give people time.”
Time? That was something he didn’t have. Every day that ticked past here, he lost ten times more back home.
“The council can be vexing, I admit,” Dax went on. “Simultaneously willful and indecisive.” His voice in the dark hinted at something underneath that hard shell. Maybe it was the alcohol greasing his wheels, but Hunter glimpsed something unexpected. Something other than the hard-bitten solider. “But these are not lifelong radicals, hungry for unrest. They are merchants, artisans, a few nobles, all thrust into a conflict they did not foresee. They have lost much and stand to lose more. You can’t blame them for being afraid.”
A surprisingly generous defense of them. Hunter wouldn’t have expected it from Dax. “I don’t, I suppose. I am too.”
Dax’s head lifted a fraction. Hunter’s admission was clearly unexpected. He nodded after a moment, as if accepting it as truth. “Is there anything you require?”
Hunter bit back all the obvious snarky retorts and tried to wrestle his tongue into a more civil tone. Dax was obviously trying. He could make an attempt too. “A drink. A strong one. I’d like a strong drink.”
“You are entitled to one, I suppose.”
“Have one handy?”
Dax stood and crossed the room, back to where he was sitting when Hunter first woke. He returned, and this time sat down next to Hunter on the same cot and handed over a large steel flask encased in leather.
Dax’s new proximity made Hunter’s heart lurch. He was keenly aware of how close his own naked thigh was from Dax’s leg, and he itched to pull more blanket over his lap, but Dax was now sitting on the bulk of it. Only a small bit of the blanket covered his groin.
Was Dax so obtuse as to not realize how intimate this appeared?
Hunter kept his eyes forward as he pulled the cork stopper from the neck and tilted the opening to his mouth. The sharp liquid stung the back of his throat and ran a warm streak under his sternum. His throat constricted, and he fought the urge to cough. Dax had delivered—this was strong stuff.
“A few answers would be nice too,” he said. “Since you’re here.”
“You are entitled to that too.”
“Your boyfriend won’t complain I know too much now, will he?” He winced inwardly after the remark slid from his mouth. He couldn’t help but add a bit of snark, could he? Why was he always awkward and stupid in quiet moments like this? He was thankful Dax had come, but at the same time, he was uneasy. Anxious.
Dax had made the effort to come here—whatever his reason. Hunter could at least try to be cordial.
Thankfully, Dax ignored the comment. Instead, he leaned forward again, resting his elbows on his knees.
“All right,” Hunter said. “My mom’s broach. What’s so important about it?”
Dax began with a long, full breath. “A public gift from King Ruzad to his bride Queen Jenora on their wedding day. The jewel in the amulet was enchanted to glow when she wears it upon her breast.”
“Ah,” Hunter said. It took him only a moment to deduce this plan. “Get her to put it on, expose her as an imposter.”
Dax nodded. “Yes.”
“I never saw my mother wear it,” Hunter said. “Not once. She made sure I knew where it was, though. At all times. And always kept it locked away in that little box. I never understood why it was so damn important to her.” An image of the broken box on his bedroom floor, with its red velvet lining exposed, flashed into his mind. He took another swig from the flask. “Where is it now?”
“Safe. Until we figure out our next move.”
Hunter wasn’t nearly ready to even accept his mother was from this world. Trying to imagine her as the queen was going to break his brain. “This plan seems rather absurd, if you ask me. How do you get her to put on something that she knows will expose her as a fraud?”
Hunter expected Dax to defend it, but he didn’t respond. He continued to stare down at his hands. The cold silence said plenty—he thought the same thing.
“Can’t imagine doing what you did. Blindly leaping into another world? If you had doubts about this plan, why’d you do it?” Hunter held out the flask to him, but Dax rejected it with an outward palm. This was not his first flask of the evening, Hunter surmised.
Dax sighed and kneaded the center of his palm with his thumb. “There is growing dissonance between the members of the council. Spawned by fear. The palace has started using innocents to flush us out. Executing people they know are not involved. Loved ones targeted. No one can agree on how to combat this, so the coalition is spiraling off into factions. Quinnar is fighting to keep the resistance intact and focused. This mission was supposed to unite us again.”
“And you volunteered for it?”
Dax nodded.
“You’re insane,” Hunter replied. “You know that?”
Dax made a low grunt in his back of his throat. “No one else had the necessary skills. And I work better alone.”
The ever-faithful soldier, following orders. Doing what was expected of him for the cause.
Hunter took another swig from the flask, and as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, he studied Dax’s face. The light from the corridor dusted the contours of Dax’s profile. The sharp edge of his steely confidence seemed quietly blunted.
“How’d you even know where to look for it?”
“Sorcery,” Dax replied as if it were obvious. “We managed to pluck a viable witchstone from a connected nobleman.”
That again. Hunter held out his hand. “Hold on. What exactly is a witchstone?”
The corner of Dax’s mouth lifted in what might have been a smile. “I forget how different your world is. A rare crystal. Fyrollite, but most call it witchstone. It has a particular quality. It can absorb an ambient power that leaks into our world from another.”
“There’s an opening between two universes?”
“It’s a fissure of some kind, natural perhaps, but no one knows for certain.”
Hunter couldn’t help but wonder if such a connection existed between his own world and this one.
“Some believe,” Dax continued, “that it was caused by a portal stone, like the one I used. Only it never closed. The power seeps into our world slowly over time. Some are born sensitive to it. They can perceive it, manipulate it. However, in its ambient form, it is weak.”
“Is it common? To be able to use this power?”
“Among our kind, no. Rather rare, in fact. Henerans appear to have a more innate aptitude for it and can harness it more readily, but even they are limited in their ability to utilize the ambient source. To truly tap its full potential, you need fyrollite.”
“Witchstone,” Hunter said. “What does it do?”
“Over centuries, the ambient power is absorbed by the stone, and it becomes concentrated in it. Enough for sorcerers do more with it. Much more.”
“A magical battery,” Hunter said, more to himself.
“We were lucky to get our hands on it,” Dax said. “It’s highly controlled. The mine’s location in the Crags is a closely guarded secret.”
“Of course it is,” Hunter commented. Government 101. Anything that provides that much power is always strictly monitored and regulated. Everyone running around with magic stones would upset the balance of how things work.
But if he was going to find a way home, he needed to get his hands on a chunk of fyrollite.
“It took a bit of cajoling, but the council approved of Quinnar’s plan to use the witchstone to locate the amulet.”
“And you found it in my world,” Hunter said.
“As well as who was in possession of it—”
“Me.”
“The witchstone had enough power to create the two portal stones.”
“One to get you there. One back.” But not enough for a third. Quinnar made sure of that when he used it to find Dax.
“It was a huge gambit,” Dax added. “A desperate move. And the cost was too high. It drained our coffers. Sorcerers do not work for free.”
So, Hunter mused, he would need three things to get home. A chunk of fyrollite, access to that sorcerer, and the currency to pay him for it. No problem.
It felt like a brick had been dropped into his stomach.
He offered the flask to Dax once again. He hoped to keep him talking—as long as he was answering his questions Hunter was going to keep asking them. He expected Dax to reject it again, but this time, he took it and bent it to his lips.
“How did people figure out that the queen was an imposter?” he asked. The queen. Saying it out loud made his stomach sink. That woman had once been his mother. How would he ever get used to that?
“A cruelty that wasn’t there before. She became vindictive. Ruthless. Arrests were made against anyone who slighted her in some way. At first it was quietly done, but such things are hard to keep concealed forever. Eventually, she didn’t bother hiding it, and the executions became public. And more brutal. She made changes in laws without warning, ending centuries of custom. It all pointed to something.”
It didn’t surprise him people picked up on the change. His mother had a gentle way about her that seemed to affect everyone she came across. Including himself. He was a better person around her. When he saw the woman on the balcony, he recognized its absence even from that distance. “The king doesn’t seem to notice.”
“Enchanted as well, we presume. Perhaps into a dulled complacency.”
Hunter took the flask back from Dax and took another hearty slug from it. They were getting to the bottom of it. His forehead felt heavier, and it was harder to focus his thinking. The booze was taking hold.
His thoughts drifted to memories of his mother, moments that stood out like roadside flares in his mind, and he tried to picture her as a queen. It all made sense in an unexpected way. She had a dignity and strength about her that was unmatched. But the melancholy in her, residing just beneath the surface of her skin—well, that made sense now too.
“You have no idea who this imposter is?” he asked.
“Specifically? No. Her identity is hidden through sorcery. But we have a clear idea who is behind it.”
“Henerans.” Hunter had no idea how he knew that. Of course they were behind this. “What are they trying to accomplish?”
“What they have always hoped to accomplish. Claim back the lands we took from them one hundred years ago. The Crags.”
Ah. It was all piecing together. This was about power. The fyrollite mines and who controlled the witchstone.
“What they couldn’t reclaim through war,” Dax continued, “they now attempt through subterfuge and cunning.”
“Seems to be working.”
Dax didn’t comment.
“Why didn’t they just kill her?” Hunter asked.
“A simple enchantment could have located her here. Even dead. When suspicions arose, they didn’t want her found. They hoped sending her beyond the veil of our world would conceal their ploy. They didn’t anticipate us getting ahold of enough witchstone.”
He tried to imagine what it would be like if something like this happened back home. Tried to imagine how much courage it would take to risk execution to fight back, to resist a tyrant. “So, how did you get involved?”
Dax thought a moment. “I was a scout, responsible for keeping an eye on movements. In a secret meeting, I was told that the throne no longer considered the Henerans a target of reconnaissance. That I was no longer to cross over into their territory. In the interest of improved relations, they said.”
So, he was a spy. Just
as the kug’ra and Henerans had accused him. It explained how they knew who he was. And how he knew his way through their territory so well.
Dax scratched at his beard. “The reason smelled false to me. I started asking questions. Too many, it turns out. I was branded a traitor. Luckily, I was alerted that my arrest was imminent, so I fled. And sought others in hiding like me.”
Hunter was piecing it together. The weapons cache the kug’ra had in the camp. Dax telling Quinnar about the lack of guards at the border. The imposter queen was working from inside the palace to hide what they were up to.
Once again, the conversation stalled into a quiet intermission. Hunter fell into a booze-induced fog of convoluted thoughts. About his mother and her life here mainly. This was her world. Her home. And she was a fucking queen, ruling a kingdom alongside a man he knew nothing about until a day ago.
This was her world. The thought badgered his mind and refuse to relent. Her world, and by default, didn’t that make it his too? Half of him came from here.
Dual citizenship, he thought dourly.
Had his father known? Maybe that was why he left, why he took off in the middle of the night without a single word of goodbye. Not that Hunter cared. The rat bastard never brought anything but shit-ton of misery and pain to him and his mother anyway.
He was pulled out of it when Dax’s hand rested on his shoulder. The contact made Hunter’s skin tingle with energy.
“I’ve kept you enough,” Dax said. “I’ll leave you to get some rest.”
Hunter nodded, and Dax rose to his feet. He glided toward the doorway.
“One more question,” Hunter said and stood too, holding the blanket in front of him. “Why did you do all this for me, Dax?”
Dax looked out into the corridor, and for a moment, Hunter wondered if he would leave without answering it. “You are the son of our queen. Although you are not of royal blood, in my view that affords you some consideration.”
“And should Quinnar decide that I’m not worth the trouble?”