by Frank Morin
He’d fought the craving, but hadn’t managed to suppress it as well as he had in the past. Both Aifric and Ivor knew about it, but their badgering only made things worse.
They couldn’t help, and their repeated questions only reminded him that he was failing. That stoked his fears, which in turn magnified his problems. He needed to figure out how to control his desperate craving for more porphyry, or he was going to hurt someone.
Telling himself there was no more, no way to get any, no longer helped. It was like an angry voice in his head, whispering, begging, urging him to find a way to get more. His stomach ached and his head hurt almost constantly, but he hadn’t told his companions.
He felt ashamed that he couldn’t figure out how to beat it. He’d defeated Martys. Sure, his father had needed to hit him with his diorite hammer, quickened by Hamish, and blast him into the river to help him regain his senses, but he’d managed it.
Connor couldn’t count on his dad to show up with that hammer again. He was Blood of the Tallan, stone’s take it. He should be able to control himself.
As they entered the square, he forced himself to focus more on the moment. He would simply refuse to acknowledge the craving. Maybe it would give up. That tactic worked on his younger siblings sometimes.
The unusual emptiness of the square seemed all the more remarkably when compared to the rest of the busy city. The square was ringed by high-end shops and restaurants and even an inn that claimed accommodations fit for a high lord. The few patrons moved about nervously and made a point of not looking toward the speedcaravan station.
“Well, slipping inside ought to be easy,” Ivor commented dryly as he led Connor across the square.
“No one wants to get anywhere near it,” Connor agreed.
“Makes sense. If they go in there, they might end up on board, heading for Donleavy. Only fools or those unfortunate enough to have been summoned make that trip these days.”
Aifric waited for them in the shadow of the entry portico. She was dressed in a bright blue uniform, trimmed in gold. She wore a leather satchel over one shoulder, similar to the satchel Verena always wore. This one was new, with a gold-trimmed emblem of the royal house on the outer flap. Seeing it reminded Connor of Verena, and he suddenly wished he had not left her.
“Any troubles?” Ivor asked softly when they ascended the stairs to join her.
“No. You?” She was wearing her Mariora personality, who spoke with a cultured, refined accent of Obrioner nobility.
“Just a grumpy servant,” Ivor said with a smile.
Connor tried to smile too, but it felt more like a grimace. He interrupted Mariora before she could ask. “I’m fine.”
She glanced at Ivor, who shrugged. “Hopefully the ride will give him a chance to center himself.”
“I told you I’m fine,” Connor said more loudly than he intended.
“Then act like it,” Mariora said, raising one eyebrow as if inviting him to make another outburst. When he didn’t, she said, “I’ve gotten us passage already. We can ride all the way up to Donleavy, and I doubt anyone else will come aboard.”
Connor frowned. “I thought the plan was to disembark in Belmullet and either get horses or walk up Mount Raasay to Donleavy.”
“It was, but from what I’ve gleaned from the officers working inside, it’s highly unusual for anyone not going to Donlneavy to ride these days, so if we disembark early, we might attract the very attention we’re trying to avoid.”
“So should we just abandon this idea altogether?” Ivor asked. “We can take the Slide downriver to Belmullet easily enough.”
“Sounds good to me,” Connor agreed. He had introduced them to underwater Slide on the journey down from the upper Macantact, past Merkland, to the outskirts of Crann. Walking with water proved to be an excellent distraction. She seemed to enjoy his company, and her presence helped ease his ache for porphyry.
Mariora shook her head. “I’ve heard the roads are watched too. By taking the speedcaravan, we slip right through everyone and get to Donleavy fastest.”
“But we don’t actually want to meet the queen,” Ivor reminded her.
“We won’t. The terminal is in the lowest levels of the central palace. I’ve been there before. We can find Alyth and escape before anyone misses us, even if they note our arrival and expect us to present ourselves before the queen.”
“It seems risky,” Connor said. They weren’t in Obrion to fight the queen, but to start a secret revolution. They weren’t ready for open conflict.
Mariora chuckled. “Of course it’s risky. We’re trying to sneak into Donleavy, remember? Any way we do it will be risky, but I’m confident we can make this work.”
Ivor glanced at Connor, who hesitated before nodding. If they had to do it, he’d prefer getting it over as fast as possible. Maybe when he returned to Altkalen, visiting Verena would help him control his wild craving better. If not, he might have to confide in Kilian and seek his help.
But first, he would help Ivor save his fiance. He couldn’t imagine a better way to prove the queen wasn’t all-powerful. Then they would start freeing Guardians.
Those thoughts helped him center his mind, and he felt more clear-headed than he had all day. So he said with more confidence, “Let’s do it.”
“On to Donleavy, then,” Ivor said. He squared his shoulders and swept into the station, as if he owned it.
19
Assassin-Assisted Self-Delusion
The marvels of the speedcaravan helped keep Connor distracted as the amazing craft slid southeast along the western bank of the Macantact. The river widened to more than half a mile after they passed the junction with the Lower Macantact, which flowed from the northwest.
Boats of all shapes and sizes plied the frigid waters under a steel-gray sky, while long merchant caravans of mule-drawn wagons crowded the highways on both sides. Mariora explained that a huge percentage of all goods transported through Obrion moved along that stretch between Crann and Belmullet.
It turned out to be a good thing they did not plan to disembark at Belmullet. A company of soldiers were stationed there to prevent anyone from bolting from the speedcaravan at that last stop. The fact that they made no move to disembark meant no one gave them anything more than a single, pitying look.
No other passengers embarked either, so they enjoyed the plush foreward compartment by themselves. Of course Ivor took the central, padded chair with its panoramic views of the scenery. Connor and Mariora were relegated to much simpler chairs to either side.
As the speedcaravan smoothly accelerated up the first foothill toward Mount Raasay, Connor turned to Mariora. “You said that as long as things hadn’t completely changed, you were confident our plan would work. After Belmullet, I’m starting to think that maybe things have completely changed.”
“I still think this is our best chance,” Mariora said.
Ivor shrugged. “If I remember correctly, breaking things is your specialty. You broke the Carraig. I wonder if Donleavy will make as amazing a pile of rubble?”
The problem was, the Carraig had been destroyed fighting an elfonnel. Connor was not sure if it came to a fight that they would get the chance to break anything. So as the speedcaravan began to climb the mountain, he decided to spend some time planning out exactly what he would break first.
If he only had a moment, he’d have to make sure it counted.
The problem was, thinking of smashing things and remembering fighting that elfonnel brought his thoughts back around to porphyry and how amazing it felt to fight as a rampager. That unrivaled killing power was his, if he only dared take it again.
While Ivor and Mariora spent time discussing ways to avoid arousing suspicion when they arrived, Connor started to pace the plush compartment. He tried to fight down the craving, but this time he couldn’t seem to focus on anything else.
Suddenly he needed porphyry. The gnawing hunger swept through him with an intensity he’d never felt before. He gasped,
clutching at his stomach, forgetting where he stood and who he was, while a wave of rampager fury set his limbs quivering. He needed porphyry like he needed air or water or food. He began shuddering, his hands clenching without conscious control, and every joint ached with growing pain, as if trying to transform, but unable to do so.
Connor struggled to clear his thoughts, but his growing fear seemed to suck at his will. He couldn’t lose control like this, couldn’t fall to this addiction, couldn’t admit that he was losing the fight.
He didn’t have porphyry. That thought should help, but instead it triggered a low growl, deep in his throat. He began to feel panicked. He really was losing control. Was Martys right when he swore that taking porphyry would seal his fate too?
“Are you all right, Connor?” Mariora approached, her expression concerned as she shivered and changed back to Aifric, who placed a cool hand on his sweaty forehead.
“Not really,” he admitted through gritted teeth and dropped back into his seat.
A trickle of healing warmth flowed into him from her hand, but it did little to alleviate the pain and aching need. Her expression turned more serious. “You’re deteriorating faster than I expected.”
“What can we do?” Connor asked desperately. “Should I try using my pendant?”
She shook her head. “Healing addictions is psychological as much as physical. Usually the trick is using the addictive substance to slowly wean people off of their dependence, but we can’t do that with porphyry.”
“We still don’t have any,” Ivor reminded them, looking worried.
“I need it, though,” Connor panted, fighting a flash of rage at Ivor. Somehow he had to get his hands on some.
Then he got an idea. “Wait, Aifric, you said it’s psychological too.”
“Willpower and intent play a huge factor in successful recoveries.”
“Maybe I can fool myself into thinking I have a little. That might buy me some time.”
“How would you do that?” Ivor asked.
“You mean mirage,” Aifric guessed, frowning.
He nodded enthusiastically. “I practiced it on myself at the border. I managed to trick myself into seeing Verena. I could make myself see porphyry. Maybe that would help.”
Ivor shook his head. “Practicing self-delusion isn’t often something I would recommend.”
“It’s a higher form of limestone power,” Connor explained.
“Sounds like a higher form of idiocy,” Ivor chuckled.
“I’ll demonstrate it on you later.”
“It’s not a good idea, but it’s better than my next best alternative,” Aifric said after a moment’s hesitation.
“I’m doing it,” Connor told her.
“All right, but give me your other affinity stones first,” Ivor said.
“Why?”
Aifric said, “Connor, you’re suffering advanced addictive symptoms which often drive one to make rash decisions, and now you’re planning to try tricking yourself into thinking you have porphyry. That’s not exactly a recipe for peace and tranquility.”
Connor didn’t like the idea of giving up his affinity stones, but if handing them over got him closer to easing his suffering, it was a small price to pay. He tore the bag of stones off his belt and tossed it to Ivor, then removed his necklace, retaining only the limestone.
The other two watched closely as Connor focused on the limestone, trying to clear his mind and establish a strong connection with it. As soon as he felt it, he grabbed the light streaming past and twisted it. He didn’t need chert to figure out his mental state or what he’d see when the light twisted the world out of focus.
There! Sitting on a shelf below the nearest side window rested a tiny bowl of purplish powder. Laughing with relief, Connor rushed over and snatched it up.
That was so easy. Why had he waited so long to get it?
Connor squeezed the powder, willing it to absorb, nearly overwhelmed by an ecstatic sense of anticipation. Finally he could again feel the glorious, unrivaled sense of power porphyry alone offered.
Instead of the hard, gritty grains biting into his skin as he expected, the porphyry squished between his fingers just like. . . .
Pudding.
The mirage burst and Connor found himself exultantly holding aloft a squashed handful of pudding he’d brought back from the food compartment after the last meal.
At some level he knew he’d intentionally tricked himself, but in his porphyry-fevered mind he’d succeeded better than he’d anticipated. The moment of shocked realization that he’d been duped triggered a violent rage. Connor lunged for the nearest chair, planning to use it to smash everything to pieces and vent his rage.
Ivor intercepted him, seizing him with granite-hardened strength. “Take it easy, Connor.”
“Let me go!” Connor thrashed in his arms, helpless to break free, which only stoked his rage higher. He fought with all his might, but Ivor simply ducked his head a bit and held on.
“Connor!” Aifric shouted, stepping into his sight, one hand raised toward him.
Connor tried biting her fingers. She snatched them away with a yelp of surprise.
“I guess we proved self-delusion still isn’t a smart life strategy,” Ivor grunted as he fought to hold Connor back.
“Time for a different treatment,” Aifric said calmly.
She slapped Connor hard across the face.
The unexpected sting knocked him out of his rage. “Ow!”
Ivor said, “You’re lucky that’s all she did. Biting a girl is always a bad idea.”
“Not as bad as burning their hair.” The memory of torching Shona’s hair made Connor laugh. That helped him regain a measure of calm and he relaxed in Ivor’s grip, panting for breath and wild-eyed.
Aifric said, “We might have to make a detour at Donleavy to find someone who can help.”
Connor moaned, “There’s no one who can help. Only Dougal. . . .”
He cut off as his fevered mind seized hold of the idea.
Ivor shook his head. “Oh, no. We are not hunting down High Lord Dougal.”
“We can,” Connor insisted, not even caring how desperate he sounded. “He’s there. We’ll be there. He knows where I can get more.”
With a shiver of her features, Aifric shifted to the cultured tones of Mariora. “He’s the queen’s chief adviser.”
Ivor said, “Going after Dougal is suicidal.”
Connor wailed, “If I don’t get more porphyry, it’s going to kill me. Which would be worse?”
“Going after Dougal would get us and Alyth killed too.”
“So you care about her more than me?” Connor accused.
“I’m not marrying you, Connor,” Ivor said with a smile.
The attempt at humor only enraged Connor and he lunged against Ivor again, his vision coloring with a purple haze of impotent fury.
“This is not good,” Mariora muttered. She switched back to Aifric. “Connor’s condition is worse than I feared. We may need to secure him somewhere in the palace and go after Alyth alone.”
“Leaving Connor unsupervised in Donleavy is a really bad idea,” Ivor argued.
“We can’t succeed with him acting like this.”
“I’m fine,” Connor insisted between panting breaths.
Ivor barked a laugh. “Look at you. You look like a wild animal.”
“I’m fine!” he shouted, struggling uselessly again.
“We need to do something,” Aifric insisted.
Ivor asked, “Do you have any ideas? Preferably before we arrive.” She hesitated and Ivor said, “You do. Spit it out, Aifric.”
Her features shifted slightly as she slipped into her Student Eighteen persona. “Aifric and I have been monitoring Connor’s degradation. We hoped he wouldn’t slip so far so fast. He should have maintained enough control until we returned to Altkalen.”
“Deal with the now,” Ivor urged. “Do you have an idea?”
She nodded, regarding Co
nnor clinically, and he feared she’d suggest slicing his tendons to render him immobile and unable to cause much harm. Aifric could always heal him later, but the idea still terrified him. If Student Eighteen started slicing him with her knives, might she get a bit carried away?
She said, “It’s a rather desperate idea, though.”
Ivor chuckled. “Should fit the situation perfectly. The best I can come up with is throwing him out a window and leaving him out in the snow until we return. Is yours worse than that?”
“Well, when you put it that way, maybe we should consider it.”
Connor insisted, “I’m fine. Stop talking about me like I’m not here.”
“You’re really not. Student Eighteen, what’s your plan?”
“Simple. Connor in his current state is in no condition to infiltrate breakfast, let alone Donleavy.”
“Agreed.”
“So we need to give him another state.”
That was an unusual statement, but it sounded better than carving him to pieces. “What are you talking about?”
She tapped her head. “The secret to the many different variations of me. I’m not crazy. We keep ourselves distinct and yet together through a technique that Mister Five developed, but which I perfected.”
“You’re suggesting I create another personality?” Connor asked.
“Nothing so drastic. Creating an entirely new person takes weeks of preparation. I’m suggesting a partial application of the same principles, just enough to help you change your mental state to block out the porphyry until you can get treatment.”
“Self-delusion didn’t work earlier. So you propose upping the insanity to Assassin-assisted self-delusion?” Ivor demanded.
“It’s the best idea I’ve got,” she retorted.
It didn’t sound great to Connor either, but he needed something. “How do you create new people to share your head without snapping your mind?”