by Scott Rhine
The Viper leapt up. “That’d be too powerful, sire. She could use that to settle her own imagined slights.”
The panther man mocked him from behind, shaking his finger and making the seeress giggle. “Viper, your fate has already been foretold. By the sundown today, you shall be torn to pieces by wild beasts in the heart of your own stronghold.”
“Ridiculous!” scoffed the spymaster. “Unless,” she shouted dramatically, “you cut out your own tongue and feed it, still warm, to the beast.”
Hisbet stomped toward the podium, fuming. Sandarac bellowed, “Sit down! Cease your childish bickering. What is the meaning of this threat, Z . . . unnamed priestess?”
“It is part of my gift to you, sire. You need a Mute card to ascend. Your old one is dead. I’ve found a way for you to acquire a new one,” she reasoned. The panther’s tongue lolled in his mouth with mirth.
When the spy started to object, she stopped the rant with, “Beware, the weird is out of my hands. Whatever you threaten shall come back upon your own head. The ones I serve are more powerful . . .”
“Than I can imagine, yeah, yeah,” mocked the spy. “You’re powerless, witch. These hypothetical gods can just kiss my . . .” He shrieked as Bagieron’s nose hit him in the butt.
Sarajah put a finger to her lips. “Show respect for the emperor’s reading. The cards will not be ridiculed.”
Hisbet had his dagger drawn and was poking the air at random. Bagierog had already jumped atop a nearby monument. He was enjoying himself far too much.
The emperor said, “Hisbet, depart. You’re too disruptive.”
“As you wish, m-majesty,” said the spymaster, slinking away to the safety of many guards. The panther followed, waving a cheerful goodbye.
“I give you a writ of non-aggression. No one in the empire will attack you, upon pain of death,” Sandarac promised. After a moment, she nodded her agreement. He used Humi’s paper and pen to write a letter of his own. He sealed both with his ring.
“Now, your final proclamation for each of us,” he commanded.
The priestess stepped down from the podium to accept the proffered letters. “In the north is a tower of invisible light, of exceeding power. Armies gather at its feet. This place is the crux, the axle about which your future turns. The energies cloud my sight, but I glimpsed thieves sneaking northward to do you harm. Catch them if you wish to avoid disaster.”
Sandarac wanted to stand up and grab her as she stepped back. “Wait. This is too vague. How will I find my path without your counsel?”
“As I have said, you have another High Priestess now. Listen to her,” said the seeress. This made Humi smirk. “With her, you can survive anything. But your strength is not that of iron; rather, you’re like the wheat that bends before the storm. Remember you are at all times a politician. Practice diplomacy.”
The lame man looked puzzled as the green-eyed woman turned to Humi. “Lady, untold riches flow to you. The child of your womb shall serve you well. When you ask aught from our goddess, always phrase it as a plea for the protection of your child. This is your point of sympathy with her.”
Humi bowed in acceptance of the advice. “You are gracious, sister.”
Leaning close to the other woman, Sarajah whispered the lie she had been shaping for days. “The tattooed man is no more. The man who destroyed my temple followed this body to the river, gave me his armor, and begged to be held under the water. I ripped out his heart and tasted his sufferis until he lay motionless at my feet.”
Lady Kragen shivered with pleasure at the pronouncement. She removed the expensive sesterina and sapphire necklace from her neck and placed it around the seeress’s neck. “I must see his body.”
Sarajah shook her head. “Only his bloody kalura remains, and that I ordered the gravediggers to bury. Forget he ever existed. Be the great woman you were always meant to be.” Tears streamed down Humi’s cheeks again. As the seeress backed away toward the brazier, Sarajah shouted one last warning, “But do not trust the Hungry Ghost. He lusts for you even now. He’s learned the secret dark arts too fast and would rip your soul from your screaming body.”
When she reached the brazier, the emperor called out, “What about the Viper?”
“Sometimes the rabbit runs so hard, his heart explodes,” Sarajah repeated. Then, she tossed the pouch of dust into the fire, causing a dark-gray smoke to billow out. Grabbing a wheelbarrow full of garbage picked up from the graveyard and approaching avenue, she willed the cloak to become sooty, patched clothing and walked out of the cemetery by the side exit. No one questioned her.
The emperor told his betrothed, “Everything is still in play. Together, we can still win.”
Their guards, drawn by the smoke, returned. Humi ordered her head guard, “Check on Tumberlin personally. Meet us at the pre-wedding feast to report.”
****
Tumberlin had crawled to the edge of the circle, his leg chain taut. When the maid came in to clean the spilled chamber pot, he paralyzed her vocal cords with a touch to the neck. Then, he fed as she kicked and writhed. Her eyes begged for mercy. Once his hunger was sated, he decided to have fun, and dominated the maid’s mind to have her fetch the key.
They found the dead girl dressed in Lady Kragen’s clothing, lying facedown on the Lady’s bed. The dagger, belonging to the traitor Drasnir, had been left in her back. Horrible things had been done to her before the final thrust. As Tumberlin was clearly still chained in his cell, he couldn’t be the culprit. “It was horrible,” wailed the prisoner. “That guard took her in front of me, teasing me. Then he ate pudding to torment me further.”
When they found pudding stains on poor Drasnir’s lapels, the sergeant at arms beheaded him on the spot. Experts cleaned up the mess and the emperor was never informed. It was considered a bad omen for the wedding.
Tumberlin was still cackling with glee when the Lady returned. She described Zariah’s new body and the necklace she was wearing. “People will notice it, even if she passes unseen. She was headed toward the eastern river.”
“I don’t need a necklace to locate people I know well. But why are you so wroth, milady?” He was picturing Humi in the clothes that the maid had died in.
“That witch just killed Hisbet in front of two hundred witnesses. Something with claws dragged him under a banquet table,” she announced. Tumberlin couldn’t help but snicker. “Find her.”
Chapter 32 – The Thirteenth Guest
Everyone at the architect’s mansion ate breakfast and lunch at different times, but the evening dinner was communal. By the
final day, most of the guests were gone. Remaining in the manor were the eight leaving on the journey, two students, and an artisan from the small town below. Sitting in the dining hall with the large, circular window, they enjoyed their final feast.
Jolia admired the river view by the light of the setting sun, framed by polished, golden wood.
Brent raved about their previous meal. “I don’t know how we’d ever top it.”
Simon smiled. “In good company, you can talk about anything and have it be memorable.” When Brent looked skeptical, the architect said, “As a lark, let’s try the direct opposite of the last topic.”
“What’s the opposite of writing?” asked the boy.
“Sleep,” answered a tired Jotham. People chuckled politely. He had dozed in his chair that night. The Book of Dominion was taking more effort than anticipated. The passages on vows and diplomacy might be vital to freeing the Traveler. He couldn’t race through the detailed drawings and rules.
“Censorship,” suggested one of the students.
Simon waved the topic away, as if erasing a chalkboard. “Too pat. We said it was a multidimensional seed for storing thoughts. What would be the obverse?”
“Action?” suggested another student.
The artisan cleared his throat, glancing at Jolia as she leaned over the table with a tray. “Well, the physical seed often makes thoughts evaporate.”
The courtesan harrumphed. “The circus and the two-bit operas are flat things that suck the thoughts out of people, keep them from wondering about important things.”
Simon prompted, “Brent, what do you think the opposite could be?”
The boy mused. “Something that destroys, cuts through many dimensions.”
“The One True Sword,” Tashi observed.
Sophia made an ‘o’ with her mouth. Simon nodded, “You surprise us daily, sir.”
Tashi sneered, “Only, it wasn’t true. The sword snapped off in my hand.”
Jotham said, “Then it wasn’t the Defender.”
“You gave it to me!” accused the sheriff, standing.
“I was wrong,” admitted Jotham. “And the last abbot was wrong.”
Tashi sat back down in a pout.
“Why’s he so upset?” asked Jolia.
Owl put a finger over his lips and whispered, “The seeress sort of left him.”
“The question is: where is the sword?” Jotham wondered out loud. Brent looked wordlessly at Sophia, who shook her head. “The abbot rescued it from the inner islands and left it in the fortress of Tor Mardun for safe-keeping. That’s where I found it. However, the blade had been switched efore he traded it from that fool Myron.”
“You knew this?” asked Tashi. “You sent me out as a stalking horse?”
“No,” Jotham said calmly in his reedy voice. “I only found out when you shared his memories with me. Someone stole it and hid it.”
“Why can’t the true sword break?” asked the boy. “Because the Traveler made it?”
“Because of what it represents,” said Jotham. “The sword is a physical manifestation of a divine principle—the Council vote of Osos.”
Tashi said with awe, “It can’t be countermanded.”
“What if it encounters something irresistible?” asked Simon.
“The more force you channel into it,” explained the priest, “the hotter it grows.”
“Until reality melts around it,” Tashi spat. For some reason, his dinner wine now tasted like vinegar.
“There are limits described in the Book of Dominion,” said Jotham. “Each wielder can only use its true power for a single day.”
“Because it heats up so much?” asked Brent.
“No, to protect the world from abuse,” Jotham insisted.
“Then what good was it for Myron’s bodyguard?” asked the artisan.
Jotham shrugged. “It’s still a very sharp piece of metal. But the special aspects only work for the true bearer. For the chosen, it moves heaven and earth. No army carrying it has ever lost; although the emperor always backs it with overwhelming force. Probabilities bend around it. It folds reality like a paper crane. His will is law.”
“This thing sounds dangerous,” commented Simon.
“That’s why we couldn’t risk Myron the Seventh getting his hands on it,” Tashi said.
“We?” spelled Sophia.
“A trick of memory,” said Jotham. “We’ve both worn the amulet of the abbot, and examined his account. In the hands of the high priest of Osos, however, it has more powers.”
“In the gods’ names, why?” asked the architect.
“A gift–penance, protection against the lesser Dawn folk as it can harm them,” the priest supposed. “The Fallen of the Dawn race cannot touch it. Perhaps they conspired to hide it.”
Sophia signed and Simon repeated aloud, “Go back. What did the last Abbot of Souls do when he visited the Center?”
Brent answered the question. “Emperor Myron was too dangerous. The abbot traded the One True Sword for the spell that the Traveler taught Osos—the gathering of power through difference. He had to know Myron would explode the same way Osos did.”
“Why allow this?” asked Simon, horrified.
Jotham spread his hands, in a half-shrug. “I think he was hoping to crack the glass bowl.”
“What?” asked the artisan.
Tashi grabbed the etched-glass fruit bowl. He held the single remaining orange above it. “This bowl is the Inner Sea, formed when Osos transfigured. The orange is his sun, still pouring energy into our realm. But as Abbot of the Spirit Temple, he knew that about a third of the energy from the Compass Star was being channeled into that bowl.”
“Why is that bad?” asked the artisan.
“Because that energy powers the demons that hunt the sea and its shores,” explained Tashi. People stopped eating.
“So if he cracked the bowl, it would dispel the spirits and stop the necromancers?” guessed Brent.
“The volcanoes cracked the crust in several places,” Simon asserted. “The demons remain. His plan didn’t work.”
“Probably because he didn’t have the real sword,” said Jotham.
“Is this what you want to try?” asked Simon.
“No, he was misguided. I believe the glass is insulation that protects us all. Without it, the circuit might complete, releasing even more power,” Jotham speculated. “Certainly the result would be . . . unsettling for the living. Fortunately, that’s not where the clues led me.”
“How would you use the sword?” asked Brent, completing the thought Sophia had begun to spell. Jolia watched as Simon moved his gaze back and forth between them, uncertain what the boy and his wife were sharing. There was a twinge of jealousy in the architect, as he was accustomed to being the only one who shared her secrets.
“For the purpose for which the Traveler designed it,” Jotham said, avoiding the question.
“Which was?” Simon pressed.
Jotham struggled with what he was permitted to say. “Where was I when I found the mysteries, Brent? What’s one of his names?”
“The god of prisoners,” answered the boy.
“Why?”
Sarajah had returned to the house in secret. She’d stopped at the kitchen door to listen when she overheard Tashi’s foul mood. When no one at the table could answer the last question, she walked into the dining room and slipped behind his chair with predatory grace. She was uneasy, and her eyes roved the room. “Because I shared for decades with one of the Dawn folk, I know this. Though it was not recorded in the holy tomes or the legends, the Traveler was punished, first for the death of his mother, and then for the death of Osos.”
The boy continued, following the logic. “He’s a prisoner himself.”
“And only one of his high priests, one of us, can free a member of the Dawn race from such punishment,” Jotham finished.
Brent sighed with relief. “In that case, I can tell you where the sword is. I saw it in . . .”
“Stop!” shouted Sarajah. No one else had noticed, but in the twilight, they had a thirteenth member at their table.
The Shadow of Kragen floated toward the boy. “Finish your sentence, child.”
Sophia popped up so fast that she knocked over her chair, and then she stepped between the horror and Brent. Simon raced to get his halberd from the hall.
Jotham and Owl began slow chants. Even Tatters joined in by lighting incense from his pouch with the dinner candles. But the monster could feed and escape before they finished. Sarajah reached down Tashi’s shirt, ignoring the sharp pain as her wrist made contact with the dark chainmail. The sheriff made the decision to trust her, putting his arms up in surrender. She found the large, sesterina-covered tuning fork and removed it from his neck with the speed of a cobra strike. Even so, he could’ve seized her arm on the way out. He chose to watch. She could’ve been pulling his dagger, and he’d have let her.
Striking the fork on the table, she caused it to sing with the same tone it made on the Holy Mountain. The students, artisan, architect, and courtesan all covered their ears at the noise. The glass bowl shattered, and the orange rolled out and bounced to the floor.
Aiming the tines at the Shadow, Sarajah shouted a harsh and guttural five-syllable word. The tuning fork picked up the word and amplified it. The air rippled, the chandelier rocked, and a bolt of unseen energy l
anced into Tumberlin. His scream of pain shattered the picture window. Chill air swirled through the room. Though injured, the Shadow had fed much in recent days, and this gave him the reserves to resist. He began stalking toward the High Priestess of Archanon.
Seeing this threat to Alana, Tashi roared and leapt on the Shadow. Tumberlin didn’t dodge because no one had ever touched him before. Then again, no one else had worn armor of pure Eog. Tashi pinned the enemy to the ground, getting some of the blast himself before Sarajah stuck her left hand between the tines to stop the ringing. She dislocated two fingers doing so.
The sheriff and the Shadow rolled on the floor, both grunting in pain. The wooden floor smoked where they touched it. Still chanting, Jotham circled toward the pair. The students fled in panic. Only Sophia remained immobile at the center of the drama. This was her house. Simon pointed his halberd at the abomination. The tip of the pole had a pointed cap made of spirit metal. He didn’t dare poke at the pair with it for fear of chopping an ear off the sheriff, but if the abomination got free, he could hold it at bay.
The Eog began to pulsate with Jotham’s words. The Shadow cursed. “The Viper’s men know where you are now, all of you! Surrender and only the sheriff and priest need to die.” When that failed, Tumberlin switched to pleading, “Zariah, you said you’d teach me. Help me and my Mistress will reward you . . . restore your glory.”
Sarajah placed the tuning fork on the table, knelt beside the pair, and said, “Be still, and I will give thee what thou needs.”