Paragon

by Rowan Rook

  Anson met Blaker's eyes. A light shone in them—a memory of what must have been before he'd been captured and drugged by the school he'd once owned.

  "Forget what the Butterfly wants or what the Author wants. You don't want this, do you?"

  Anson said nothing, but didn't look away.

  Blaker held out a hopeful hand. "Come on, then. We can make it out, but we need to hurry."

  After a final moment of hesitation, Anson twined his fingers with Blaker's. Blaker grinned and pulled him closer. The Author's relief washed through him and he let out a sigh that turned into a cough, instead, smoke sticking to his throat. Blaker was right. They needed to hurry.

  Anson's legs threatened to give out from under him as he stood for the first time in weeks. A single, unsteady step sapped his energy and burned his scabbed feet. He and Blaker leaned on each other's shoulders as they stumbled into the research hall.

  The two of them, however, had lingered too long. The devastation made the prior invasion look like a practice run. Fire had devoured the east end of the lab corridor, blocking one exit, while flames too wrathful to pass climbed up the western stairwell.

  Shit. Anson's fingers pressed weakly into his palms. This wasn't good. There was no other way out, and if the fire grew, it would reach the flammable chemicals stored inside the labs. The story he'd told the Monarchy would be more than fiction, soon.

  Blaker's lips formed a stern frown. "Take out my Translation inhibitor."

  Anson blinked.

  "You know how, don't you?" Blaker coughed, doubling over and nearly dragging them both to the floor. "Remove it! I can get us out of here."

  Anson bit his lip and glanced around. He couldn't remove it without a surgical knife.

  Remember, your old lab is only one door down.

  Ah! Accepting the Author's advice, Anson whirled to face the familiar doorway of Lab 2, a place where he'd spent countless hours. ...Were his tools still in there?

  Without stopping to register who it was, he reached down and snatched an ID card from the pocket of a collapsed scientist and stumbled toward the lab. He nearly made it to the door before his legs tangled up beneath him. The world spun as he reached out for the wall, allowing himself only a few seconds to balance his body and breath before scanning the card and forcing himself inside.

  Anson could hardly believe his good fortune. Amaranth's old storage box was there, waiting for him on the top shelf, just where he'd left it in a different lifetime. Careful not to drop it with his uncooperative fingers, he dragged the box down, input the code still stored in his memory, and peeked inside. There were singed research files, surgical knives, sterile gloves, syringes and bottles of common compounds, bandages...and an extra copy of the Not.

  Perfect.

  He fumbled his way back to Blaker, the box tucked under one arm and a surgical knife in his shaky grip. ...Lord, his hands were filthy. How had he managed not to notice before? Even if he managed to put on the gloves, he would need to clean the wound he was about to inflict as soon as he could or it would wind up infected.

  He kneeled on the floor in front of Blaker. It was challenging enough to squeeze his trembling fingers into the gloves. Thank goodness this wasn't a major procedure. Just a rather...painful one. He folded up a few more gloves and put them in Blaker's mouth as a makeshift rag to keep him from biting his tongue. "This is going to hurt...and more than a bit, I'm afraid."

  Before either of them could hesitate, Anson cut an incision below Blaker's neck. Latex muted Blaker's scream. Anson tried to convince himself he didn't hear it, fighting to stay focused through the drugs and the smoke. The tip of the knife plied out a small chip. He tossed the thing aside. "It's gone."

  Blaker clutched the wound, hissing through his teeth, but he braved a nod as he spat out the gloves. "Get me to the stairs."

  Anson's muscles screamed as he helped pull the larger man to his feet. They staggered toward the western stairwell. The deepening smoke clogged their voices as well as any inhibitor.

  Blaker gestured toward the flames sealing their escape. Water gushed out in front of him like a dam torn open in the air, roaring down the stairs. The flames died in screams of steam.

  Blaker shot Anson a smirk.

  Anson returned the smile.

  The two of them navigated the slippery steps as quickly as they dared, shoulder to shoulder. Blaker stopped only to extinguish more flames enroute to the exit, carving out paths where there were none. Smoke stung Anson's eyes and lungs, but he kept moving, clinging to his companion. They were going to make it.

  Ƹ̴Ӂ̴Ʒ

  Anson heated a knife until it smoldered, then pressed it against his skin. His teeth dug into his lips with a stifled scream as he cauterized the gash below his own neck.

  He and Blaker had stopped to rest in the wooded area just beyond the Lower District's boundaries. After cleaning the other man's wound with a makeshift sterilization compound, Anson had decided to get the removal of his own inhibitor over with. It hurt like Hell, but the clean air and the sight of the expansive, starry sky outdid it. He tilted his gaze toward the Heavens and savored another deep breath, his senses tingling at the taste of fresh oak and damp leaves.

  Yet smoke still tainted the breeze. He looked back at Elavadin City. Savage flames still billowed above the tops of the trees, casting soot into the clouds. He closed his eyes and let his body lean limply into the trunk he lay against.

  This time, the Academy was finished. Whether or not it would be rebuilt, he had no idea, but there had to be very little left of the once-proud institution. He and Blaker had heard the explosions shortly after making their escape. Indeed, it was just as in the tale he'd spun for the Monarchs—the flammable chemicals stored inside the labs had sealed the school's fate.

  Even after the horrors the Academy had put him through, he found his throat tightening while he watched the smoke rise. The amount of casualties had to be staggering. He'd glimpsed the school's army on the way out of the city—a frantic mass of soldiers forcing back the Lyrum intruders who were surely responsible for the blaze. The cobbled streets of Elavadin City were as red as the flames, cradling the bodies of both species. ...He could only hope that Shakaya's was not among them.

  His thoughts raced over so many more of the Academy's familiar faces. He may not have been fond of many of them, but he'd still shared much of his life with the people who'd lived inside those crumbling walls. Ryn and his other roommates, his instructors, even Lucillo. And what of Rickard? Had the Butterfly's Overseer made it out? She'd made a life for herself in the privacy of her own isolated office.

  Anson let out a long sigh and closed his eyes. The Butterflies... Would they realize that he had escaped? Would they hunt him down again?

  So many questions...and no way of finding any answers.

  "We should keep moving," Blaker interrupted, already back on his feet.

  The drugs still dampened Anson's muscles, but the sights and scents of the outside world had woken up a part of him that had been asleep. He'd already made it quite a ways beyond the city borders, but he'd only been following Blaker. His companion seemed to have a destination in mind. "Where is it we're going, exactly?"

  You already know what you should do. Go back to the Butterflies. Or work with me on your own, at least. All you need is one more Inkwell to be able to do this world a whole lot of good. Don't waste this new opportunity. Please, I'm pleading with you now.

  Anson swallowed the taste of bile.

  "Ah, did you forget that I used to be mayor?" Blaker grinned. "I had more Rune than a man knows what to do with. There were times when I needed an escape from everything, and I tried to use my wealth to buy the solitude I craved. I have a cabin out in these woods. It'll be a good place for us to rest and recover, at least."

  Anson smiled. "That sounds wonderful."

  He clumsily pushed his heavy body to its feet.

  Ƹ̴Ӂ̴Ʒ

  "What now, Verox? Where are we supposed to go?"

 
; Shakaya listened silently.

  The Head General, standing amongst his soldiers, released a long, ragged breath. "I don't know. All I do know is that we're going to keep fighting. We must fight, now more than ever."

  The Academy's army had pursued the Lyrum rebels as they'd fled the city. In the end, over half of the intruders had slipped away into the shadows of the neighboring woods, still alive. Rita, unfortunately, was among the escapees. A shame. Too many Academy soldiers had also fallen, and that wasn't accounting for those who remained missing after the fire.

  Shakaya seethed internally, licking blood off her fingers.

  "But where will we live? Where will we meet?" The soldiers around her clamored like scared, barking dogs. "Where—"

  "For now, what's most important is that we stay together," Edgard assured. "We must talk with the scientists and students, too. We'll figure this out. We always do." His voice didn't carry the conviction of his words, "We'll always be soldiers."

  Elavadin Academy was gone.

  The fire had finally wilted away, leaving nothing behind but the school's charred bones. The once-prestigious Elavadin Academy of Science and Arms was no better off than her childhood home or the Anwell house. This wasn't like the invasion that had left a letter behind for the Editor—the only intention these intruders had brought with them was death.

  Survivors sobbed nearby. Shakaya recognized two of the scientists. One was Lucillo, of all people. The other was Ryn, another man from the Editor's old dorm. Lucillo was on his knees, screeching like a child. Ryn's arm was on his roommate's shoulder, steadying him. Several of their colleagues crowded around them, watching the embers with teary eyes.

  She supposed the scene made sense. Soldiers were taught not to cry. Emotion showed weakness. Learning to control the heart was simply a subject in their curriculum. Scientists didn't undergo such training, and while the soldiers could regroup anywhere, the scientists must have lost year's upon year's worth of research. The Lyrum in their specimen room had surely perished, as well.

  The memory of a familiar face invaded her mind before she could push it away. Wistful brown eyes, framed by strands of black hair, looked up at the sky, the way they so often had. Shakaya's gaze sank as her anger deflated into a colder emotion.

  "Glad to see you in one piece, dear."

  A familiar hand clasped her shoulder. So...Rickard had survived.

  Shakaya hid her sorrow from her face before she turned to face Rickard. "What about the Medium? Did you save it?" She swallowed. "And what of the Editor, itself?"

  "Have a little more faith in me! Of course I saved it." Rickard patted a bag hanging from her belt, but then her face darkened. Shakaya's heart panged. "As for the Editor... I'm afraid I don't know."

  Shakaya forced her lips to stay in their stoic line. "I see."

  Rickard offered her a smile. "It would be a shame, but if he's dead, we can save the Medium for the next one. The prognosis was already beginning to look rather grim. Although... No one has given me a name, but a few of my scientists tell me that a colleague confessed to opening the specimen cell doors. It's hard to say whether any Lyrum could have made it out with that cocktail we give them, but it's possible." Her eyes brightened. "And I happen to have an idea of where the Editor might be, if he's still alive. Will you be a dear and take a look for me?"

  Shakaya stared at her soot-stained boots for a second longer before answering with a silent nod.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine: Reunion

  The cabin was exactly where Blaker said it would be. It stood several miles into the woods—safely secluded—yet close enough to the city for the two escapees to manage the trek. Only a few hours remained of the night by the time they glimpsed its unlit windows through the trees.

  "There she is. Haven't seen her in months. I don't have the key, so we might have to go in through a window." Blaker hobbled up to the porch, grinning from ear to ear. He twisted the knob, just to be sure it was locked, and hesitated when it wasn't. "That's odd..."

  Anson staggered after him. "Are you sure you locked it when you last left?"

  "Of course I did!" Confusion creased Blaker's brow. "Well, I thought so..."

  A tense minute ticked by before Blaker shook his head, pulled open the door, and stepped inside. A shout bellowed out from the cabin before everything went silent.

  "Blaker!" Anson took the steps as fast as his tired legs would let him, fire already forming in his palm.

  A certain soldier stood waiting for him inside. She held Blaker with one arm, a dagger to his neck. His throat bobbed against the blade as he breathed.

  "Shakaya!" Anson almost stumbled backward over the stairs.

  Shakaya's blue eyes narrowed on him, and she brushed tan strands of hair away from her sweaty brow. "So you are alive. You kept me waiting for so long I was starting to believe you were dead."

  Anson's heart sunk, his fire fizzling out. "How...did you...?"

  "As mayor, Rickard owns Blaker's old office. She found this inside," Shakaya retrieved a rusty key from her pocket, "and a map with this location circled."

  Rickard. Anson grit his teeth. Rickard was all Shakaya ever talked about, these days. His eyes searched the shadows of the cabin. What could he do? He couldn't leave Blaker, but he couldn't confront Shakaya, not again. He found himself looking back at the stairs as he hovered uncertainly in the entryway.

  "Come in," Shakaya ordered. "Come in and close the door behind you, or I'll slit the disgraced mayor's throat."

  Anson shot her a disgusted glare before doing as he was told.

  "Good." Shakaya nodded, satisfied. "This is where we'll stay until the rest of the Butterflies arrive. We're going to attempt the Draft with three Inkwells."

  "So I don't get a choice?" Anson hissed. "I'll die if I perform the Draft. What if I don't want to sacrifice my life for something that may not make much difference?"

  No surprise registered on Shakaya's face. Even if Jeriko had lied about the Editor's fate, someone must have told her. "It's not like you have much life left to sacrifice," she scoffed. "If you hadn't run, you might well have had more Inkwells. Now it's too late. We're on the cusp of all-out war. If you won't do it, then I'll claim your Inkwells, myself." She smirked. "I know you can hear me, Author. Remember this: I'd be more than happy to work with you as the next Editor."

  The Author laughed inside of Anson. Sometimes, I can understand what you see in her. I prefer not to select vessels who are already aware of what it means to be an Editor—they tend to have too many other ideas and expectations in their heads—but she truly is a delight. Please, listen to her. Be reasonable. Performing the ritual with three Inkwells isn't ideal, but I'll take it. She's giving you another chance.

  Anson let her threats wash off of him. She wasn't going to kill him. "What happened to the Academy?" He wanted to know, but mostly, he didn't want to hear anymore about the Butterfly's plans for him.

  "There was a rebellion," Shakaya answered simply, as if unbothered by what Anson was sure was one of her nightmares. "Sylan Rita and his upstarts." Spite passed across her face. "No matter what happens during the Draft, the rebels will be dealt with in time. The Academy will be rebuilt. Don't get your hopes up, Lyrum."

  Anson arched his brow, indignant. He'd wanted the war to end. Not...

  The cobbled streets of Elavadin City were as red as the flames, cradling the bodies of both species.

  He blinked back the image. "Don't be ridiculous! You know I never wanted—"

  "It doesn't matter what you want anymore." Shakaya's grip tightened around her knife. "The Butterfly will make your decisions for you. You've wandered too close to the end to be allowed to walk away." She smiled in a way that was anything but an actual smile. "If you make this harder than it needs to be, your new ally here will die. I'm not as patient as your sister, as Rickard. I'm not going to wait for you to change your mind."

  Anson's nails dug into his palms. If it were anyone else, he may have hoped the threat was a bluff and took his ch
ances...but it was Shakaya. She may have told so many lies, but her anger was honest. She wouldn't kill him, but if he didn't cooperate, she would kill Blaker.

  "So, will you be staying?" Shakaya's voice was as sharp as the edge of her dagger.

  Anson sucked in a sigh before surrendering with a nod. He stepped farther inside.

  Had he resisted the Butterfly, through so much suffering, just for this?

  Shakaya threw Blaker to the floor and brushed passed Anson, positioning herself in front of the door. "Don't try anything. You won't escape this time."

  Anson glowered back with defeated defiance.

  Shakaya frowned. "Go shower. I can't take the smell."

  Ƹ̴Ӂ̴Ʒ

  Anson looked himself over in the steamy bathroom mirror as he dressed in the clothes Blaker had laid out. They were a bit too big, but anything was better than that bag they called a robe at the Academy. A smile spread across his lips while he fastened the last few buttons. He looked like a person again. He was slowly beginning to feel like one, too.

  The soap and water had stung his scabbed legs, but finally, he was clean. The grime forming horrid, sticky layers on his skin was gone. Greasy hair no longer clung to a sweaty brow. The residual effects of the sedatives were wearing off. He stretched his arms without struggle and spun his gaze around, enjoying the sensation of the room's stillness.

  Blaker's cabin was actually much grander than it had looked from the outside—even though it was beyond Elavadin's borders, it shared the city's luxuries. Fresh running water, a proper toilet, clean razors, laundered towels, warm electric lighting, and most spectacularly, a working shower!

  Anson chuckled, caught in a moment of bliss. He'd never realized how truly wonderful these things were until he'd been deprived of them.

  Perhaps Blaker had been right. Even if he were to die in his sleep tonight, the effort of escape had been worth it. At least he had the opportunity to feel like himself again.

  Anson savored a last deep breath of the clean, damp air before opening the bathroom door and stepping out into the main room. The atmosphere chilled his warmed body, but each window was closed and locked. Shakaya leaned against the front door while an already bathed Blaker sat directly across from her. The Butterfly had insisted on having at least one of them in her line of sight at all times. Judging from the receiver next to her, she'd already contacted the Butterflies.