Elder Shadow (The Reminiscent Exile Book 5)

by Joe Ducie

  Her tone was not one of forced kindness, it was speculative, and also without fear.

  Dusk laughed, a sound like wasp stings echoing across the vast chamber. Overhead, the stars seemed to dim against that laughter, the sound of nails on a chalkboard stretching across the cosmos.

  “Mother and Father are not here,” Dusk said. “I had hoped to barter something of value with them.”

  “Ah, there it is,” Chronos growled. He had sloshed brandy-port into his beard, already quite drunk. Lightweight. “You are not here to mourn our sisters, you are here at work. You and Oblivion both, ruthless, relentless, and thus pointless. Bah!”

  “Do not play the fool, brother,” Dusk said. “It suits you ill.”

  Hail bounced to her feet and gave Dusk a hug. The oldest of the Everlasting didn’t budge an inch on the marble tiles, but did lift the jug of wine out of Hail’s way so she could wrap her arms about him. It wasn’t about the hug, that was certain, but to ensure she didn’t spill his drink.

  Another mark of an alcoholic, and if I was right about what was under that hood, then it made a kind of twisted sense. I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

  Nor I, Oblivion muttered.

  I hated that we were on the same page. Of all the Everlasting, I despised Oblivion the most. For what he had taken from Tal.

  “Dusky,” Hail said. “I scoured the Story Thread for you! Where were you hiding? The worlds I had to overturn, looking and searching and not finding. I missed you.”

  “I did not wish to be found,” Dusk said and gulped wine. “I would have remained in seclusion, if not for this unpleasant business.” He grunted. “Countless ages we have existed, long before humanity crawled from the seas, and now they grow teeth? Hmm? No, there is more at work here than the machinations of Declan Hale. He is a knight, an effective piece on the board, to be sure, but his actions have been guided by someone… unseen.”

  The Everlasting exchanged looks, some of them at Oblivion and me.

  ‘Talking about me like I’m not even here…’

  “You suspect Father?” Oblivion asked. He suspected Father.

  Dusk shrugged a shoulder. “Far likelier than to think your vessel capable alone of what he has accomplished. The simplest answer, as it has been since the dawn of moment, is often the correct answer.”

  ‘I’m feeling a little underappreciated here.’

  “I would say he has been lucky,” Oblivion said. “Nothing more. The simplest answer is such, brother. Luck. Arrogance. An enviable resolve. But someone of power actually standing against us? That is where you lose me.”

  Dusk said nothing, but we all felt his grin. He had spoken to raise the hackles on Oblivion’s spine, and it had worked. Oblivion balked silently at being so well strung.

  The conversation ebbed again, away from me and my lucky strikes, toward matters of territory—Ash, in particular, had left a lot of worlds contested. According to tradition, I learned, the worlds would be bartered between the Everlasting in even shares, however the math with two Everlasting dead—and Emily had her fair share of worlds to bequeath as well, it seemed—knocked the sums out a bit. An Everlasting could will her territories to whomever they wished, whether they were living or dead, and seeing as how this funeral was the first such funeral for any Everlasting, the tradition had yet to be tested.

  Laws as old as creation were being discussed, laws I was assured by Oblivion they had thought themselves above.

  Immortal, he said. We never thought to die. For that, if nothing else, Declan Hale, you will be remembered in these halls. Congratulations, you managed what so few of your kind manage and lived a life of purpose.

  ‘I’m not dead and gone yet,’ I replied. In the brig, my prison, I noticed a crack in the ceiling. Just a small crack in the plaster and grey-metal walls. Water dripped through the crack. Curious.

  Half an hour later, as even the bar of the gods began to look a little dry, something in the air changed—a pressure, a… vacuum I hadn’t felt until just then, filled with energy. Light. In the centre of that vast chamber, a scar of tissue rent reality in half, split open into a doorway, and two figures of impossible stature and beauty stepped into the Citadel of the Everlasting.

  One of the figures, a woman I had met before, looking far less divine, though no less beautiful, in a bar of old Atlantis. She had auburn hair flowing to her shoulders, delicate porcelain-white skin, and eyes as blue as a tropical lagoon. Here, in this form, she was more severe, every inch the ageless and divine being I knew her to be.

  Saturnia—Mother of the Everlasting.

  Her hand rested on the forearm of a man, he was young and old, at least eight feet tall, his skin the colour of coffee crema, almost golden. His hair hung in a ponytail, shaved on the sides of his heads, and he wore a lattice crown of…

  …of celestial illusion.

  Had to be.

  Celestial illusion was the most volatile and powerful substance, alloy, in all creation. I had burnt a treasure trove of it only a day ago, back in the Atlas Lexicon. I had used the petal from the Infernal Clock, also celestial illusion, to kill Dread Ash. This man’s daughter.

  Behold, I thought. This is how I end.

  I didn’t know for certain what I was looking at, who I was looking at, but I believed Oblivion when he told me the Everlasting were the oldest beings in creation… so how old, how powerful, did that make their parents?

  They created your universe, Oblivion said, reading my unguarded thoughts.

  ‘I… I don’t believe you.’

  He cared not for my belief, or lack thereof.

  As one, the Everlasting kneeled before the man and woman bathed in eternal light, heads bowed, arms crossed over their chests. Even old Chronos, time’s last herald, managed to bend his ancient knees into place.

  Dusk was ice next to me and Oblivion, a force of relentless cold piercing the air and the marble beneath us. I glanced his way, with my mind’s eye, not with my actual eyes, which Oblivion kept focused on the floor, away from the radiance of his parents, less he blink and be annihilated.

  Dusk lowered his hood and grinned at me. As Hail had done, he looked at me, passed Lord Oblivion, and it was…

  It was like looking in a mirror—a mirror that showed me a week dead, pale and gaunt, but a mirror nonetheless. Lord Hallowed Dusk had possessed my other half, my piece of stolen soul, my dark twin borne of and corrupted by the Void.

  He wore my face.

  He wore the face of the Shadowman.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  THE EVERLASTING BORN

  ’Bury me with that bottle of fifty-year-old Glenfiddich’

  We remained kneeling for a good ten minutes, as mummy and daddy stood and stared at their daughters’ coffins. Saturnia even wept, though tears were cheap, easy. Her hand caressed the priceless crystal tomb, reaching for the clouds of liquid smoke within.

  In some times, some circumstances, most circumstances, death was final. This, borne on the wings of purposeful celestial illusion and lost grace, was certainly one of those times. Again, I was glad for it.

  Once the niceties had been observed, two thrones appeared—higher than the coffins, I noted—high-backed chairs, in keeping with the white marble theme, appeared twenty feet above the rest of us. Saturnia and her… partner? Husband? Whatever. The two of them shimmered and moved from the coffins to be seated atop of the thrones, every part of them suited in shape and purpose to being set so high above the rest of us.

  Only then, once their parents were at ease, did the seven living Everlasting rise to their feet.

  I had been out of my depth the moment Oblivion had brought me to the citadel, but now, now… I was afraid. Not fear mixed with my usual bravado, not fear to fight through, but just simply scared. I had no weapons, no plan, and was not even in control of my own body.

  If I’d had worse odds, I couldn’t remember them.

  “My children,” Saturnia said, her tone warm and cold at the same time, loving and frustrated, th
e tone of a parent. “We are gathered for our mourning. Such a gathering has not occurred since the stars were new, on the moment of your birth into this creation, when we remembered the creation-that-was, the creation that will come again.”

  “We remember our family,” the old and young man with the golden skin said. “We remember Astoria and Ashaya.”

  “We remember,” the Everlasting whispered.

  “An auspicious gathering, despite the purpose that drew us together after so long apart.” Saturnia laughed, and I was reminded that, mother she may be, alien and hostile she was—emotions that seemed human, oh yes, but transcended that. Grief turned on and off like a light switch, anger and hate and love all harnessed into energy and purpose.

  “And our daughter’s murderer has shown his face twice,” Saturnia said. She grinned at me. “An age since last I saw your face, Declan.”

  She raised her hand and inclined her index finger just an inch to point at me.

  I felt Oblivion snarl and then our roles reserved.

  I stumbled forward a few steps, hurled from the back of my mind and back into control. Oblivion scrambled against the change, fought for control, but his mother slapped him back with ease.

  I was in control of my own body again. I could still feel Oblivion, but he was trapped… for now. I didn’t know for how long, possibly only moments, but I was back in control.

  The chamber spun about my head, disorientating me, and I had stumbled out into the space between the coffins, between the Everlasting and their parents. I got a hold on my body, cracked my knuckles, and ran a hand back through my hair, an old habit I used to mask nerves and uncertainty.

  “Not so long for me,” I said, my throat raw. “I like that you’ve still got that tight red dress thing going on, Lady Saturnia. Nice.”

  Saturnia gave me a secret grin. Her husband, whose name still eluded me, laughed softly. His eyes were far less kind. Make your jokes, mortal, those eyes said. Your time draws short.

  “Mother,” Chronos whispered, his tone disgusted, even insulted, “the host should not be permitted—”

  “Be silent, my son,” she whispered, and Chronos was silent. Then, Saturnia found my eyes and said, “Well?”

  “Well, what?”

  Careful… Oblivion whispered. I’d hate to lose my new vessel so soon.

  “My dear wife,” the Father of the Everlasting said, “wishes your apology, son, for murdering our children.”

  I blinked. Oh. “Technically, I didn’t kill Astoria. It was Oblivion who drove the Creation Knife, Myth, into her heart.” He snarled in my mind. “As for Ashaya, well… For that, I offer my condolences at your loss, but I am sworn to protect True Earth. I am a Knight Infernal—the Knight Infernal.” I considered my situation, the hopelessness of it all, then nodded. “Ashaya threatened my sworn duty. She had to go. Indeed, my lord and lady, I would destroy every last one of your children, if I could, and sleep well that night.”

  Saturnia glanced at her husband with a small, soft grin, as if to say, ‘you see, he is quite mad’. The ancient being on his white throne nodded once.

  “I see now why Astoria chose you,” he said.

  That was dangerous territory. “Emily did what now?”

  “My name,” the Father of the Everlasting said, “is Quirinus. The Wielder of the Spear.”

  I didn’t see no stinkin’ spear.

  “Howdy, Quirinus,” I said. “I’d like to go home now, please.”

  Quirinus, possibly the oldest thing in this or any universe, held his chin on his fist and raised an eyebrow. “Oh? But you have only just arrived.”

  I clapped my hands together, summoned my Will, my magical power and intent, deciding to risk the Void over staying here even a moment longer. Arcs of blue lightning danced around my fingers, travelled up my arms, and then abruptly died. Cut off.

  I staggered.

  Saturnia tsked. “Such an impolite way to leave,” she said. “You are a guest here. The hospitality must work both ways, Declan.”

  I was still in control of my body, though Oblivion laughing in the back of my mind didn’t help matters. I swallowed, considered my options, then nodded. “I apologise,” I said, striving for diplomacy. “I was brought here against my will. Guest rights, the accords of hospitality, are stretched a bit thin in consideration of that, no?”

  Quirinus tilted his hand back and forth in the air. “Best to err on the side of caution, son. Displease us at your peril.”

  Threats. Ah. Threats I could work with.

  I waved at the two opulent coffins. “This didn’t displease you?”

  “My children will play their games, for dominion and territory, purpose and resolve. To think themselves above death, above love, was their mistake. I cannot fault you for standing against them.” Quirinus made a fist. “Hate you, yes, but the Everlasting are creatures of… honesty. If we cannot face ourselves, our failings, we deserve the crystal coffin.”

  “How introspective of you,” I muttered. “And Emily deserved better. The only decent one among you. Why are we talking? Is this just the calm before the storm? Playing with your food? Is it the dungeons for me after this?”

  Saturnia leaned forward and placed her wheat-pale hand on her husband’s arm. “You are here by design—and not just that of Oblivion’s,” she said. “You are here as sole beneficiary to Fair Astoria’s estate.”

  The Everlasting behind me erupted in angry protest, shouts and disdain, an echoing thunder that shook the chamber atop of the citadel. All facades of propriety and proper behaviour descended into scorn.

  Quirinus silenced them with a single, pointed look.

  I felt faint. Emily, what have you done now? I felt her grinning at me, her soft, knowing smile that spoke of a future we would never have. Life, love… our son. Thoughts for the vault in my mind, not for Oblivion. Oh dear, I was sad now.

  “You’re going to have to…” I hated the rasp in my voice. Hell, I felt tears sting my eyes. What the devil was that about? I cleared my throat and took a deep breath. “Forgive me, stupid mortal emotions, you know. Can you explain that to me, please? Emily… Astoria’s estate?”

  “It is relatively straight forward,” Saturnia said, and the laughter dancing in her eyes was damning. She was enjoying how this rankled, how this hurt me and how it set her children at my back, already my enemies, snarling at the bit.

  Oblivion had grown silent, strangely silent, speculative. He was plotting, planning, always.

  “Astoria’s last will and testament, held in celestial trust by the divine executor.” She nodded at her husband. “Her will name’s Declan Hale, Guardian of True Earth, King of the Knights Infernal, the Shadowless Arbiter, and father of her child, sole beneficiary to her possessions and territory.”

  Father of her child…

  My heart leapt into my throat, true fear squeezed the air from my lungs, and my mind froze. I was rumbled, well and truly. All cards on the table, and I was holding nothing. My bluff called. They knew about the child, my son—our son, Em—who I had hidden away via Detective Annie Brie, my friend and protector, somewhere on True Earth.

  “Nope,” I said and clapped my hands together.

  A deafening boom and wave of rippling energy erupted from between my palms, with me standing at its heart. The shockwave sent the buffet tables, the open bar, spinning and shattering across the floor of the vast chamber, and rattled the dead in their coffins.

  I turned to run and managed half a step before my foot refused to move.

  The Everlasting had been shocked by the energy blast, it had ruffled their funeral clothes and dishevelled their hair, but they hadn’t moved any further than me. They stared at me, offended, grim, and—here was the kick—curiously. An inquisitive glint in their eyes.

  I cursed, spat on the floor, and turned back to Quirinus and Saturnia atop of their godforsaken, in every forsook sense of the word, thrones and thrust an accusatory finger at them.

  “The boy is no part of this,” I whis
pered. “I swear on my soul, what tattered remnants remain of that piece of shit, that the boy is no part of this. He is outside of our business, aside from our conflict. For all that matters, he’s an orphan and will never know the truth of his birth. You are to leave him be. Do you hear me?”

  My voice nearly cracked at the end, but the venom won out.

  “You command that, do you?” Quirinus asked. He scoffed. “Where is the child now, hmm? Do you know?”

  “For this very reason, to keep him from his aunts and uncles,” I waved at the Everlasting, “and his grandparents, no. I haven’t a clue. You could torture me, fry my mind, I will fight you. I will die before giving you a glimpse of the boy. I do not know where to find him. I will never know. Torture if you will, if you have the stomach for what I can endure, but I will not break.”

  “Yes,” Saturnia said. “We know. Again, Astoria proves her choice of partner and lover wise, even in death.”

  The hell of it was, Astoria and I hadn’t actually done the deed yet, the necessary steps required to produce a bouncing baby boy. Our timelines were all kinds of fucked, and not in a good way. Did that mean I would survive what was to come? Possibly. I had met Astoria in her youth—well, ten thousand years younger than when I knew here as Emily—in Atlantis. The future was not set, was not certain. A swift flood of the Void could unmake it all.

  Everything, always, at all times, hung on the edge of a very sharp knife.

  “A grandson,” Quirinus mused. “Even in death, there is life. How extraordinary.”

  My shoulders slumped. I felt tired. Very tired. Only a day ago I’d fought and destroyed Dread Ash. The cost of that battle still weighed heavy on my body and mind. “You didn’t know the baby was a boy?”

  Quirinus and Saturnia shook their heads. “What else are you willing to share?” she asked.

  I shook my head, instantly wanting to say nothing. But… Hell, perhaps the emotion wasn’t just a sham. For beings as old as creation, true feeling would be hard to come by after all that time, would it not? I had taken their daughters—I felt as guilty for Astoria as I did for Ash, though my hand hadn’t guided the blade. Oblivion had the right of that. Just another friend, another love, I had failed to save.