by Will Wight
He crossed his legs, arranging her shears in front of him. “I’m investing everything I can into your shears. I thought about Awakening them, but I’m not sure we have the time.”
“What will that do?”
“Give you a better chance. I do need to be alone for this next part. I wanted you to know…” he waved the words away. “It doesn’t matter. But I’m doing everything I can to make sure that if Nakothi herself rises tonight, you’ll be able to handle it.”
She thanked him, and tried to say something, though she wasn’t quite sure what.
In the end, she just left.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Let’s say you want to become a Soulbound.
First, you should get yourself something with power. And I mean real power, not a gardening can that your grandmother invested to grow daisies. I’m talking about a spear you used to kill a Duskwinder, or the eye of an Elder.
Second, you need to know this thing inside and out. Don’t take somebody else’s spear—use it to kill the Duskwinder yourself. Blind that Elder with your bare hands. If you can’t do that, at least carry it around for a few years. The more the object means to you, the better your chances of bonding with it.
Third, get a Reader to Awaken your object. This might take a while.
If you did it correctly, the object will become your Vessel. You’ll be a Soulbound. Congratulations.
If you didn’t, you’ll probably be dead. Awakening powerful artifacts isn’t a game.
-Unknown speaker
(From the Third Journal of Estyr Six, quoting an older source)
Calder Marten stayed outside Lucan’s cell for a long time, arguing with his wife. Lucan tried to write down most of it, but the stone wall did a surprisingly good job of muting sounds. Remnants of his own Intent, perhaps.
When Calder finally left, leaving Jyrine silent in her own cage, Lucan counted slowly to one hundred. Then, once he was certain that someone hadn’t lingered in the hallway, he pulled out Shera’s knife.
He had taken the glove from his right hand, so his senses were exposed to the raw nature of the world. Nakothi’s influence drifted in this cell like a stench, tingling his skin, drawing his thoughts to dark places.
I can rebuild you, it promised him. I can make you strong.
He placed his fingers to the surface of Shera’s blade, and instantly recognized that the malevolent, whispering voice wasn’t only coming from the Heart.
The knife is hungry. It has tasted the blood of Elders and of great men, and it thirsts for more. It needs not only their blood but their Intent, the power of significant death, for this weapon feeds on more than simple meat. It is a greedy thief, a covetous glutton, stealing the power of its victims for its own.
While the Dead Mother destroys bodies and builds them anew, this blade breaks down defenses, building them back up into its own weapons. The stronger the target, the greater the damage.
The blade is aware of Lucan, in its own rudimentary way, and it wants him. It can feel his strength, his willpower, his focused Intent. If only it were capable, it would lunge from the table and bury itself in his throat.
Lucan managed to tear his hand away from the knife, jerking it back while breathing as though he had run five miles. In addition to the weapon’s own long and significant history, the Emperor himself had laid a hand on it, he was sure. As had Lucan, multiple times, trying to give Shera a better weapon for her own protection.
Well, it seemed he and the Emperor had done their jobs too well. The Dead Mother’s power had soaked into the blade, corrupting its original purpose and its deep store of Intent.
It was easily significant enough to Awaken, now. The weapon was on the verge of Awakening itself.
But Lucan had to decide if he wanted to.
He jerked his glove on with more than necessary force, pacing the length of his cell. Five steps, turn. Five steps, turn. He had been in here so long that the process was subconscious.
Lucan rubbed his hands together, building up friction, staring at the battered bronze as he thought. Shera’s safety came first, of course. Now he regretted that he hadn’t taken her up on her offer to break him free; if he was out, he could help defend her on his own.
Defend her. In some ways, it was a ludicrous idea. In battle, having him standing in front of her would only slow her down. He had all the training of the Gardeners perfected by years studying under the strongest Reader in history, but Shera and Meia were deadly in a way he could never match. He thought too much, and it interfered with his instincts.
There was only one thing he could do for her: support her from behind. As he’d always tried to do, with his powers.
And now she needed him more than ever...but what did she need?
Did she need a more powerful weapon? This shear had always been powerful enough, but she couldn’t keep it under control. So she never drew it anymore. He could Awaken the blade, but that could easily make her control problems worse. More importantly, it could give Nakothi more influence. If Nakothi’s power had infested the knife to the core, corrupting its Intent entirely, then the Dead Mother would also corrupt any Awakening. Then, in addition to the Heart, they’d have another artifact of a Great Elder to deal with.
He glared at the knife as though blaming it for his problems.
So he could Awaken the knife and give Shera a more powerful weapon, but put her at greater risk. Or he could do nothing, and hope she didn’t need to fight anyone truly formidable.
Like a Champion. Or a Great Elder.
...both of which would be present, in one form or another, on the Gray Island today.
He had to resist the urge to kick the knife.
Okay, start over. He was thinking about this in the wrong way, turning over the problem in his mind again and again instead of searching for a solution.
What did she actually need?
She would need a second blade. One that could kill Elderspawn and alchemically enhanced Soulbound, preferably.
But she needed it to work with her, instead of distracting her. To do what she told it to do.
Struck by inspiration, Lucan seized the knife by the hilt, ignoring its delighted cries. He folded his legs and sat, placing the shear on his lap, peeling both his gloves off.
For a full minute he sat there, focusing his Intent, picturing clearly what he wanted.
I don’t want to change its purpose. I want to channel it. I will learn this blade, I will know its very nature, and when I finally understand it...that is when I will bring it to life.
Mind firm, vision clear, Lucan placed both hands on the knife and Read.
The weapon’s lifetime stretches back through the entire history of the Empire. There is no life it can’t take, no power it can’t steal, no defense it can’t break. And even among others of its kind, this blade is unique. It has harvested lives of unimaginable significance, unfathomable depth...and Lucan needs it to do so again. He begs for every shred of power the blade can offer him.
To protect Shera, he needs this knife to Awaken.
~~~
Guided by Kerian, Shera eventually made it out of the maze. She emerged into the blinding sun, but she threw herself out of the trap door and over a nearby boulder before she could get adjusted to the light.
The other Consultants had caught up.
She wasn’t sure how the crown’s orders affected them, exactly, but when one of the Shepherds reached her, he slashed at her legs with a knife. Clearly, it didn’t prevent them from giving her advice, but it must pressure them to use force when necessary.
She jumped over the knife, kicking the Shepherd’s face into the dirt. “Sorry,” he muttered into the ground, pushing himself up and renewing his attack.
Another Shepherd reached her, and she slammed the Heart’s box over his head. It broke his scalp, leaving a stain of blood on the corner of the box, but it was still better than using her shear. She didn’t want to kill anyone.
Then Kerian reached her, still wear
ing a purple dress instead of her blacks, and the situation got much more dangerous.
Kerian was probably twenty years older than Shera, so she should have been at least a little slower and weaker. But Shera was exhausted. She still hadn’t recovered from the fight on Nakothi’s island, her left shoulder was beginning to leak through its bandages, and she was fighting with one blade. Worse, she had to fight with the Heart’s box in one hand.
Her mentor had no such restrictions.
Kerian slashed with both shears, following up with a kick that almost took Shera in the gut. Meanwhile, the Shepherds that Calder had snared tried to sneak around, coming at her from all sides. They attacked with hands and feet whenever possible, trying not to use blades, but Shera could do nothing but evade and withdraw.
The field with the exit to the labyrinth was wide and scattered with boulders, like many of the spaces on the island, and Shera tried to use the elevation to her advantage. She leapt from one boulder to another, staying ahead of the crowd, forcing them to react to her. There was a ring of trees around the clearing, and she even trudged through the undergrowth, hoping that the bushes would slow her attackers.
But eventually, they would catch her.
She had no choice but to find help. Any Consultant who wasn’t commanded by the Emperor’s crown should help her, once she had a chance to explain the situation. Kerian might even be able to back up her story.
Of course, that was only if she managed to get away for that long.
Kerian dropped down beside her, driving a shear at her neck. Shera almost didn’t notice, but Kerian managed to choke out a whispered, “Dodge,” before she struck.
Shera raised the hand with the box and used it to stop Kerian’s wrist, but the Councilor’s other knife came around at Shera’s ribs.
She managed to knock the second strike aside with the box, but that freed the first shear to nick her shoulder. If she hadn’t lunged forward at the last second, it would have been worse than that.
The pain freed her anger. This wasn’t fair. She hadn’t asked for this. All she wanted was to go back to her room and sleep.
But she couldn’t leave the Heart of Nakothi free. It was her responsibility: the Emperor had seen to that. She could not let it go, no matter what she had to do.
With her pain and anger came the cold.
Shera dropped the box, letting a Shepherd dive for it. Even Kerian was distracted by it, the Heart drawing her attention for one instant.
Stay, stay, stay and be reborn, the Heart whispered. For a brief second Shera wondered what that meant. Did Nakothi want them to “stay” in one place? Stay close to the Heart? Stay on the island?
And then a second later it didn’t matter.
She kicked in the side of Kerian’s knee. There came the snap and tear of cartilage, but no other sound—the older Gardener remained absolutely silent. She slashed out with both shears, more instinct than skill, and Shera dodged one while seizing her left wrist. Then she twisted, releasing another painful sound, and Kerian’s left-hand knife dropped to the ground.
Her face was pale, set in an agonizing grimace, but she said nothing. She tried to attack with her second shear, but this time Shera could be merciful: she withdrew a non-lethal needle, sticking it into the base of Kerian’s neck.
With that, the Shepherds were on her.
She fought ruthlessly this time, standing over the box like a bear defending her cub. With her right hand, she slashed at limbs and joints, trying to remove her enemies without killing them. They were still fellow Consultants.
But she wasn’t too careful anymore. If they got themselves killed, they could blame Calder Marten.
One man lunged at her, and she cracked the hilt of her shear against his temple. His body fell limp on the ground, forcing her to kick the box out from under him like a ball lest he collapse on top of it. Head injuries were tricky; he might wake up in a few hours, and he might not wake up at all.
She knew what Lucan would have thought, but only one thing came to her mind: Good. He won’t be getting back up.
A dagger flashed in the air, and she struck it down with her bronze blade, meeting a lunging Shepherd a second later with a fist to his throat. But a third was behind him, and this one caught her in a tackle around the waist, knocking her off-balance.
As they rolled, her foot caught the tip of the box and sent it rolling into the clearing. The Heart didn’t tumble out, but the lid cracked.
Fear shocked Shera’s limbs into action, and she moved on instinct.
She stabbed the Shepherd in the chest.
It was a young woman behind the mask—younger, even, than Shera herself. Her brown hair spilled out over the ground, and her eyes widened in shock.
Shera didn’t hesitate, pulling her blade from the woman’s chest and wiping off the blood. A casualty. Oh, well. I tried.
She should have had some other reaction, she was sure, but she couldn’t quite bring herself to care.
The remaining Shepherds seemed to slow down. Either what she had done to their companion had shocked them into immobility, or the crown’s command was beginning to wear off, or both. No matter what the reason, she was grateful for it.
Because it allowed her to reach the box quickly.
...at least, it should have.
When she got to the gap between boulders where the Heart should have been, where she knew it had flown after she’d kicked it, she found nothing but disturbed grass.
“Who took it?” Shera asked flatly, looking around at the Shepherds. She raised her voice, “Who took the box?”
No one answered.
Finally, she raised her bronze shear, the symbol of a Gardener, over her head. “Find the box!” she ordered.
Slowly, they dispersed, the injured limping off and the healthy blending smoothly with the surrounding trees. She had hoped that would work: by playing off what remained of Calder Marten’s order, she was able to get them to listen to her own.
The Shepherds bled away, leaving only Shera and the crippled Kerian.
Shera regarded the woman who had adopted her into the Consultants and had no idea what to say. She didn’t feel quite as cold anymore, and when the ice retreated, it left only shame.
“I’ll find an Architect,” she said eventually.
Kerian’s face screwed up in confusion. “What? Go after the Heart!”
She was right, but Shera still felt like she needed to say something. “I’m sorry.”
Kerian shook her head, braids waving. “You did what you had to. I’ll take it out on Calder Marten, not you. But now you need to go.”
With nothing else to say, Shera ran away from the clearing, thinking as she moved. She had virtually no chance of tracking the Heart at this point, so she had to anticipate where it would end up.
Had one of the Shepherds taken it while she was distracted? In that case, they would likely hide it somewhere on the Island and listen to Nakothi’s song. If Calder’s crew had managed to take it, on the other hand, they would likely bring it back to their captain. He would give the Heart to Naberius Clayborn, who would bond with it for immortality.
The best bet, then, would be to find a member of Calder’s crew. Either Naberius would be with them, or they would know where to find him.
To do that, she could simply return to the docks and wait for them to board The Testament...
But there was another way. She knew where one of his crewmen had gone.
And it was a lot closer.
~~~
In an underground arena, unused for centuries, Meia fought an Izyrian gladiator.
Urzaia Woodsman’s scarred face was transported by focus and sheer enjoyment, his hair tied back, his mismatched armor creaking as he ran. His black hatchets remained dull in the light of distant quicklamps, as though they ate the light.
He ran at her like a charging stallion, feet kicking up sand, and brought one of his weapons down at her head.
She slipped aside with inhuman speed, and that
black blade hit a chest-high wooden crate. The arena was surrounded by rows of stone benches big enough to hold thousands of people, the floor wide enough to show off dozens of gladiators or fighting Kameira at once. But the men and women who once filled these seats were not interested in a plain spectacle. They wanted a game. So the floor was littered with not only sand, but devices and obstacles of every description.
Stone pillars, pits filled with nets, wooden blocks of various heights and sizes. One portion of the sand was even covered in inch-long spikes beneath the sand, as she learned when Urzaia walked over them without care, crushing them beneath his feet.
Most of those obstacles were now destroyed.
Meia returned the strike, swinging her shear with enough force to drive a nail through stone. He stepped back, grinning his gap-toothed grin, and then actually flipped all the way back, landing on his hands and kicking up.
The toe of his boot caught her wrist, sending up a flare of pain and knocking her blade wide. That much agony in the joint meant that her grip should loosen. Instead, she tightened it, forcing the power in her veins to bend to her will.
The Kameira inside her screamed. They demanded rage, fury, cowardice, stealth, hunger, deceit, and a thousand other childish, mewling desires.
She gave them only the iron bars of self-control.
Heal me, she demanded, and forced the Deepstrider blood to the surface.
The Deepstrider couldn’t understand why she wouldn’t attack with overwhelming force, sweeping him aside and devouring him in one bite. Protracted battles were foreign to it, and it was growing impatient.
But it wasn’t the Deepstrider’s body. It was Meia’s, and the Deepstrider’s power served her.
Her wrist sprouted a ring of blue scales as it began to heal.
She felt her eyes blaze as she launched forward, tracking every tiny motion of Urzaia’s muscles. She didn’t need to win in this arena today, but she needed to delay her opponent.