Paragon

by Rowan Rook

  An unpleasant chuckle escaped from Blaker's cracked lips—he seemed to notice Anson's interest. "My dear father was a bit of a lonely soul, you see. He was married to the city itself, never had time for a family. But if there was one thing he had plenty of, it was Rune. He spent a shameful amount of it at one the Lower District's priciest brothels." He sighed. "Lyrum are pretty things. One of his favorite working girls happened to have a bit of secret. It's not as uncommon as one might think. She got pregnant; he got blackmailed. Can you imagine the uproar if rumors got out about the major fucking a Lyrum? He was forced to subtly release her sisters from this Hellhole and pay them a hefty sum of Rune."

  He paused to regain his voice as it started to slur. "I wasn't part of the bargain. My Lyrum mother dumped me on his doorstep after I was born. He didn't have to take me in. He could have gotten rid of me. Hell, he could have handed me over to the Academy as an anonymous donation. But, under the pretense of adoption, he raised me as a Human. I...didn't know anything different until I realized that having the ability to generate water wasn't normal. No one else was supposed to know any different, either. I inherited his positions when he passed, just like any other son. Despite everything else, my father was a good man."

  "I see..." Anson stammered, not knowing what else to say. How many more Humans out there weren't actually Human, at all? Perhaps he hadn't been quite as unique as he'd given himself credit for. After all, the exact populations of Lyrum and Otherlings remained unknown. Perhaps there were more people with Lyrum blood beyond the colonies—people just trying to survive the best they knew how—than either species liked to believe.

  "It must have been a week ago when I was met with a rather unpleasant surprise on my evening walk. I was almost always surrounded by bodyguards, but I liked to sneak off for some solitude. That night, I found myself surrounded by strangers in Scarlet Butterfly uniforms, instead."

  ...Butterflies?

  "I wasn't armed. Translation was all I had to hold them off. It worked, and they surrendered easily. But...that was because it turned out Ransmae Rickard had recorded the incident. My secret was out. I was stripped of my status and thrown in here. Some of the scientists were hesitant, of course, but there were many eager for their first Otherling specimen." Blaker smiled in a way that wasn't a smile, at all. "Guess who took over my positions as the head of the school and the city?"

  Anson said nothing, waiting for the answer he knew would come.

  "Rickard, of course." Blaker snorted, as if a particularly bad smell among the many had wafted his way. "I suppose it's safe to assume she had the incident planned from the start. I never imagined she was in cahoots with the Butterflies—I worked with her personally on so many different projects. It's still hard to believe..."

  "I'm sorry." Anson hung his head. "If it's any consolation, Rickard fooled me, too." Rickard, it seemed, collected titles the way he'd once collected Inkwells: Overseer, Head Scientist, headmaster, mayor. What a miserable thought. Verox's humiliation after the invasion had surely paved the way to her new positions. She always seemed one step ahead of both the Academy and the Butterfly, itself. Anger simmered in his queasy stomach. Had his arm not suddenly felt like mush, he might have slammed it into the bars.

  Blaker finally looked Anson over with similarly curious eyes. "What about you, boy? It seems you caused quite a ruckus out there! Have I seen you somewhere before? You look familiar."

  Anson offered him a sour smile. "Perhaps at school briefings. I was a scientist here—a Translation specialist, of all things. I was a Lyrum who masqueraded as Human and used his own people in his research. Well...until the Butterfly drew me in."

  Blaker's eyes lit up with interest of his own. He was clearly enjoying the company...or perhaps the simple ability to hold a conversation, at all. "I see. That's quite a tale, but it's still not as impressive as mine."

  Anson almost laughed. "Believe me, that's only the prologue." No matter how unusual Blaker's story was, there was no way in Hell it was stranger than his.

  Blaker actually chuckled.

  Anson shook his head, but managed a more genuine smile.

  "It's ironic, isn't it? I would've locked you up in here, you know, just like all the other Lyrum. I wouldn't have given it a second thought. And yet here we are, sharing a conversation behind bars."

  Anson's smile held. "I would have done the same—I would have been quite excited about an Otherling specimen, in fact."

  Blaker's thin belly bounced beneath his clinical rags. "Fate sure has a dark sense of humor, doesn't she?"

  "I...suppose that's right." Anson let himself chuckle, if mostly at how out of place Blaker's amusement seemed.

  Still, his smile didn't last long. He sensed the stares they were getting, and his chest tightened as his gaze wandered the terrible room. "But...this truly is evil, isn't it?" Evil. That was the correct word for it. No sterilized terms or justifications stripped away that truth. Shame gnawed at his stomach. "If I could take it all back, I would. It wasn't worth it. None of it."

  "I played a role in all of this, too." Blaker offered him another sympathetic gaze. "Hell, I'm the one who funded it! I supported the Academy despite the Lyrum blood in my veins. And so did my father even after the, erm...incident. Anyone who says wealth is the root of all evil is naive. Knowledge, power, glory...they make for terrible temptations. They can make people do despicable things."

  "Only if you possess a heart capable of it." Anson stared at his bare feet. They were already starting to sting on the filthy tiles. "Maybe I deserve this. I...think I knew I'd end up in here, one day."

  He'd dreamed about it so many times. Hell, this still felt like a bad dream. Maybe it was. Maybe he'd wake up soon and still be young, ready to study for his next semester and share lunch with Shakaya in the garden. If he could live those days again, he'd treasure them so much more. Maybe he'd even make different choices. Maybe he'd leave the Academy—find a better way to fight for a better world.

  Or maybe he was still lying to himself.

  A sad silence settled in. As time ticked on, Anson's body seemed heavier and his senses seemed slower, but his mind remained sharp. He almost wished it would dull alongside the rest of him. He was about to say so when the specimen hall door hissed open behind him. He shot Blaker a glare that begged him to keep quiet. Footsteps approached the cell door.

  Anson shuffled around to face Rickard, his vision spinning as he moved.

  The Academy's new headmaster kneeled down with a malevolent smile, waving a hand in front of his face.

  Anson didn't gratify Rickard with a response. ...Were his eyes glassing up already? She was rather out of focus.

  Rickard frowned. "Come now, m'boy, don't look at me like that. This isn't entirely my fault. After all, I only arrived home a little over a week ago. I simply planted some of your secrets in Lucillo's range while I was gone as a bit of...insurance, if you will. Had you been a good boy and remained with Mr. Fiddle, this could have been avoided. We couldn't risk allowing you to return to your old life at the Academy, you see. We need you to finish what you started."

  Anson said nothing, his lips set in a firm line. He took no surprise in her words.

  "If you agree to do so, I'll open up this door, myself. We'll call it a temporary lapse in security." Rickard's gaze glistened hungrily. "All you have to do is nod, and I'll let you go."

  Anson didn't move.

  "I don't know how much my Vice Overseer and the others told you, but our previous Editor was also a Lyrum, and just like you, she ended up here when she refused to do her part." Rickard's false sympathy morphed into a smirk. "She didn't last long."

  Anson's insides dried up. Bastards. The Butterflies had admitted his precursor's death, but they'd neglected to mention the more gruesome details of her fate.

  "This is becoming repetitive," Rickard whined, twirling her hair around her fingers like a bored child. "For both of our sakes, I hope you'll make a better choice than she did."

  Anson let hi
s glare speak for him.

  "Very well, then," Rickard sighed with exaggerated disappointment "It looks like you'll be in here a while. I'll check in with you later and see if you've changed your mind. I've gone ahead and administered the antidote to dear Shakaya's poison, and I'll conceal the details of the capital's suspect as much as I can within Elavadin, so you'll have time to toss the thought around. You should be thankful." Her smile returned. "Have fun with tomorrow's morning research!"

  Rickard turned her back to Anson and left the lonely room.

  Ƹ̴Ӂ̴Ʒ

  "What will we do if it doesn't surrender?"

  Rickard looked up at Shakaya over her tea, waiting for her daughter to ask a question worth answering.

  Shakaya's gaze lingered on her boots. So much of her confidence was gone after the Editor's escape and her subsequent defeat by the Lyrum Overseer. It was a bit embarrassing, Rickard had to admit. Aydel would take it as a sign that Rickard hadn't been able to raise a strong daughter, but really, wasn't that Verox's fault?

  Still...it was best not to think about what Aydel's victory over Shakaya meant when Rickard, herself, had been so spectacularly overcome by Shakaya on the ship.

  Rickard adjusted her collar, as if her thoughts would adjust along with it.

  It was fortunate that she had other ways of controlling her daughter.

  "I don't think it will," Shakaya pressed, her eyes lifting to catch Rickard's.

  Rickard took a sip of her tea. The flavors of warm, familiar jasmine and fresh, breezy lemon flowed over her tongue, as if washing away her worries. How lovely. "If it doesn't, we start again with the next Editor."

  Shakaya's gaze sharpened. "Won't it be too late for you?"

  Rickard's fingers tightened around the cup's handle. "Who can say?"

  "The Editor is also old. Even if it does agree to your terms, it may be too late for it to collect the last two Inkwells."

  Rickard let out a long sigh. "We'll perform the Draft with three Inkwells, if we must. At this point, any difference we can make is better than doing nothing."

  "And what of the Inkwells, themselves? Who will inherit them if the Editor dies here?"

  Rickard frowned. Why couldn't her daughter simmer down and enjoy her tea? "If his death is triggered, directly or indirectly, by one of our researchers, that unfortunate scientist would inherit them. If he manages to hang on until he dies of old age... The Inkwells would return to the people their programming determines most likely to become leaders of their species. Considering the state of the Council and the Monarchy, discovering their owners could prove challenging. Still, we will solve that puzzle if we must."

  Shakaya's hands formed fists atop her knees. "We should kill it. That way, we can control who inherits the Inkwells and force the Author to start searching for a new Editor immediately. We're wasting time."

  Rickard's eyes narrowed. You can talk tough all you want, but you wouldn't kill him. I doubt you'd even let me do it! You already had the chance.

  "Hmm," Rickard wondered with another sip of her tea. "Who would volunteer to bear the Inkwells when our next Editor would have to claim them?"

  Shakaya straightened. "I would."

  Rickard paused, unswallowed tea going cold in her mouth. It wasn't a terrible idea. If they were fortunate, the Author's recent taste of power might encourage it to find a new Editor quickly. They could then instruct the Editor to slay their sacrifice. Finding the next Editor may take awhile—they had no one poised to tempt the Author—but otherwise, the Butterfly could continue relatively unscathed.

  Her eyes fell on her daughter—a once-delicate thing so stained by sorrow and rage.

  Was there a chance Shakaya herself might become the Author's next vessel? If she could claim both the Inkwells and the entity, then...

  No. If Shakaya volunteered—if she truly did toughen up enough to execute the Editor—then Rickard's own plans would still lose one important piece. She needed her daughter. She couldn't lose her, not before the Draft.

  Not ever, some part of her screamed, but it wasn't the part that would win.

  "No, not ever," she lied. "You will do no such thing."

  Shakaya's face wrinkled with anger, tracing familiar lines. "But—"

  Rickard held up a hand. "No one will be volunteering. I'm not ready to give up on our Editor." She smiled. "I can break him."

  Shakaya bared her teeth. "I know at least enough about the Editor to know that you can't."

  Rickard chuckled. "You're not an unbiased source."

  "I'm an accurate one," Shakaya bristled. "That was part of my role."

  Yes, but you've already shown a remarkable ability to overlook details, Rickard didn't add. It would only make the tension between the two of them worse. You also underestimate me. The details you overlooked were precisely the ones I didn't want you to notice. Part of painting is knowing how to guide the gaze where I want it to go.

  Rickard savored another sip of her tea. "And this is part of mine. I understand why you're weary, but do try to trust me. We can still succeed."

  Shakaya made a sound like a snarl, but her gaze returned to her boots.

  "Drink your tea, dear." Rickard put on another smile. "You'll feel so much better if you let yourself rest for a while."

  Rickard fought to keep her smile from turning into a smirk when Shakaya took a tentative sip from her cup.

  Oh, how she would feel better!

  They sat in silence for a while, sipping silently at their tea. Rickard drank slowly, biding her time.

  Shakaya seemed to relax after finishing half of her cup. Her muscular arms melted against the couch. "I do wish you would have told me," she slurred.

  Rickard blinked, irritated by the break in the pleasant, easy hush. "About the Editor?" At least, she hoped that's what her daughter meant. She could only pray that no one else had been filling her head with other ideas. She couldn't know for sure with Aydel and her agenda around.

  Shakaya managed a groggy nod. "I would still have done my job. I would have done it better. And then I wouldn't—" She stopped, as if the words had tangled up on her tongue. A wet shimmer washed over her eyes before they closed. "It wouldn't have hurt like this."

  Rickard stiffened, fighting a laugh. Oh Lord! Her daughter actually talking about her feelings? Well, it seemed the drugs were doing their job, at least.

  She waited a while, taking her time with an answer. You wouldn't have done it. Not if you knew the Editor was a Lyrum. That you think so now shows you've already changed, at least a little. You haven't even realized it, have you? I'm glad you haven't changed too much.

  It turned out she didn't need to find an answer, at all.

  Shakaya was already asleep.

  Rickard smiled with a sigh.

  Ƹ̴Ӂ̴Ʒ

  The next two weeks dissolved into a hazy mess of horror.

  A great deal of it was spent unconscious. Researchers would come and haul Anson away, and after that, he wouldn't often remember much. He'd fall into a forced sleep, only to wake with new injuries that hadn't been there before. There had been a few experiments where he was heavily sedated but still conscious. Those were the worst. The only mercy was that many of his former colleagues still avoided him whenever possible, hanging their heads as they walked by his cell and leaving him out of their most gruesome tasks. Some, however, weren't so sympathetic.

  Life inside the cells was a misery he barely dared to comprehend. The food was hardly food—he knew the list of compounds it was made of—and his own body barely cooperated. His limbs dangled as if they were made of lead and sewed on with string. Even sipping from the cell's rusty water facet took all the strength he had. There were times he considered not eating or drinking, at all, but his dry tongue and aching belly didn't allow it. He merely passed the days in quiet agony, covered in filth and sweat and scabs as red stains slowly changed the color of his robe.

  The conversations he managed with Blaker were all that reminded him he was still alive. The man had
a remarkably enduring sense of humor. Blaker had told him he'd eventually get used to the drugs, that his body would stop feeling quite so sluggish, but he wasn't sure he believed that.

  They'd talked about plenty of other things, too. Anson had told his whole story, from how he'd discovered the Academy's old books as a boy to how he'd finally ended up in its cells. He'd also shared his abandoned dreams. Blaker hadn't seemed quite as impressed as Anson had imagined he would be. As much as they treasured each other's company, there was little on which the two of them agreed.

  "A part of me is proud to be Otherling," Blaker had insisted. "Difficult though it was, I wouldn't want a different life." He'd laughed. "Though I could do with a different ending."

  "It was never about changing who you are," Anson had argued, mirroring what he'd told Lyn so long ago. "It was about giving you the freedom to be whoever that is. Auratessa is too absorbed by its lifelong war. It sees us as Lyrum, Humans, Otherlings...not people."

  Blaker had shaken his head. "Even if those divisions were erased, it wouldn't matter. Auratessa would find new divisions to define us. You know as well as I do how much people adore their anger. Just think of that soldier you somehow called a friend!"

  Anson had sighed. "She was raised to think of Lyrum as monsters. She doesn't understand how alike we all are inside."

  "And people never would!" Blaker's voice had risen to dangerous volumes, "We're all alike, and yet we're all unique. People would find new ways to hold that against each other. They'd invent new ways to hate."

  Anson hadn't answered, but he'd felt the Author stir inside of him. Perhaps Blaker was right. Perhaps people weren't able to turn away from their wrath. Perhaps they'd incite new wars. He didn't want to believe that, but even inside of himself, he'd certainly seen more hate than love.