Knight Chosen

by Tammy Salyer

  “I don’t have time for troghopping schemes,” Aldinhuus growled.

  “Do you have time to consider the fate of the world?” Hyperbole rarely worked on rational people, of course, but the way it seemed to catch the Knight’s attention prompted Jaemus to run with it. “I mean, the people of Himmingaze need someone of your great wisdom,” and flattery, yes, flattery, always a good tactic, “to help us survive the stranglehold of the Glister Cloud.”

  And then it hit him, and he couldn’t believe he hadn’t realized it sooner. If Aldinhuus had appeared out of thin air, he might know something about off-world travel that even Jaemus’s studies in celestial transport hadn’t yet uncovered. And those hovering stones, which seemed to be mind-controlled, what advancements in material methods led to the invention of such a thing? Could it be that he needed Aldinhuus more than he’d initially realized? Maybe the foreigner was the answer to the Glister Cloud. Maybe he was in direct service to a Verity. And maybe, just maybe, the Creatress was real, and Jaemus, a man of science and technology, who laughed at the idea of magic and the arcane, a man who believed intellect trumped unchallenged belief, might truly be face-to-face with a chance to witness something . . . divine? A superstition that maybe wasn’t? He had to make a decision: to let go of reason and just believe, or to forever cling exclusively to what he could explain with logic and study.

  Or maybe he was just exhausted, hungry, and not thinking clearly. It was the obvious answer, and ninety-nine times out of one hundred, the correct one.

  He’d start with showing Aldinhuus the Scrylle and see what the foreigner knew, then take things from there. He was nowhere near ready to accept the many-Verities, multiple-realms business, and never would be. But this strange man believed in them, obviously, and between the two of them, only the stranger had ever defied the Great Cosmic laws governing how solid-state objects worked. Jaemus was willing to go along with what he said, at least until a better explanation could be found.

  As he deliberated, he watched Aldinhuus, waiting for the man to either take the bait or take Jaemus’s life. And finally, the Knight said, “Explain yourself, Bardgrim. Sharpish.”

  Chapter 22

  Mylla had sat silently in the common room as Eisa instructed her and Lock on the remainder of the mission plan, unable to mount any more protests after the Stallari Regent’s chilling statement: Be content knowing that neither you nor history will soon forget it.

  His name, Havelock Rekkr, her own Lock, of course she’d never forget it. That’s what gutted her. And she’d realized there was one thing worse than someday witnessing her beloved die. And that was not witnessing it—but knowing it had happened. If Lock failed to return from Asteryss and meet at the rendezvous point with the Vigilance, all aboard could and would assume he was dead. She didn’t have it in her to live with that uncertainty. She had to go with him.

  They stood now on the launch deck as Stave revealed one of the two dragørfly scouts—slightly modified Dragør Wing scouts—that the Knight kept on hand for emergencies, which Lock would be taking to Asteryss.

  Upon seeing it, Lock crowed, “I’d fly that into battle!”

  His enthusiasm was the precise opposite of the dread that had taken up full-time residence in Mylla’s gut. The Wing crafts were “scout” ships in the same way swords are good tools for buttering bread. Essentially winged cannons, the ships comprised a pilot’s seat wedged inside a fuselage and a rear cargo compartment that one could describe as big enough to hold a passenger—if the passenger in question was either a child or else comfortable being folded in half like a shirt—directly over an emberspark heavy gun, a diminished version of the Vigilance’s emberflare cannon. If you wanted something condensed to formless burnt rubble, and didn’t have the means to haul around a volcano, the emberflare and emberspark were your best solutions, and were far more powerful than the regular Dragør Wing petard launchers, which could damage an enemy’s craft but wasn’t powerful enough to obliterate one. With two thrusters per side and a comparatively massive engine in the aft, the scout was as fast and nimble as the dragørflies that were their namesake, and a flint glass coating rounded out their deadly design. Lock’s reaction to such a superior fighting ship was one part combat soldier, one part boy at his birthday celebration.

  The issue of Mylla’s dread, simply put, was the entire plan from this point forward. Initially, she’d assumed the Knights would fly the Vigilance as close to Asteryss as they could get before engaging the enemy’s ships and leave Lock to enter the city by foot or whatever other means of locomotion he could find. Yet, perhaps not unforeseeably, his flying mastery led to this outcome, which she would much have preferred to avoid. Lock was skilled enough to manage a dragørfly scout, so why not let him?

  It made the most sense. The scouts were quiet, lightweight, invisible, agile as insects, and could take him quickly and directly to the Conservatum’s inner courtyard with none the wiser. In theory, he could slip in, find the celestial stone, and slip back out without alerting even the most vigilant of sentries—provided he was as fleet of foot and stealthy of approach as Eisa credited him to be. But this meant Mylla would be riding in the cramped cargo space.

  Not that she’d been tasked with accompanying him on this mission . . . In fact, in the discussion, Eisa had made it clear he was to go to Asteryss alone. Mylla didn’t care. She would face the Stallari Regent’s wrath when, and if, the time came. It wouldn’t be the first time.

  Lost in these thoughts, she now stood in the hold while Stave acquainted Lock with the specifics of flying the dragørfly scout.

  “ . . . and of course, your engine is primed with this,” the ruddy Knight was saying as he stood atop the fuselage and pointed out the acceleration controls inside the cockpit. “Keep that pressed to the floor and you’ll go so fast even your thoughts will have to take another ship to keep up.”

  Lock’s legs dangled over the side of the fuselage while his upper half appeared to be caught in the cockpit mid-swallow. His muffled voice came from inside. “Not too different from my own ship. And this is the cannon trigger?”

  “Right, takes two fingers so you don’t accidentally fire it. But you won’t be needing it, you won’t. The name of your game is stealth for the foreseeable. You start plugging up the sky with crispy enemies, it won’t take them long to figure out that you are if not where you are. And that will compromise the mission, it will.”

  Lock retreated from the cockpit and stood on the deck. “It’ll be just as compromised if I can’t defend myself,” he argued. “I’m no help to anyone dead. Trust me, I’m capable of handling any ship and any weapon you give me.”

  Mylla, as always, marveled at his confidence. What she’d give for a fraction of it right now.

  “So you think you can take on the might of an entire hostile army, a Verity’s hostile army, do you?” Stave’s grizzly eyebrows steepled in mock appreciation. Then he snorted, rooted in his bandolier for one of his choice stubby cigars, lit it with a match, and puffed satisfyingly, giving Lock a penetrating stare through the thick blue smoke. He finally continued as if Lock had never spoken. “You won’t want to be diving too hard when you land. Gently ease the engine down while manipulating the thrusters to bump you into line. The wings will guide you, but don’t push them if they resist too much. These little dragørfly ships are sensitive. They know the skies as well as a bird; you just have to listen.” Stave spoke affectionately of the ships, having himself forged and worked most of the metal they were made of and crafted the finer controls by hand. To him, they were as much an art and symbol of his pride as they were a tool, a quality about him Mylla found ironic when contrasted with his coarse exterior.

  Lock seemed to understand the Knight’s attachment and said, “Don’t worry, Master Knight. I’ll bring your ship back safely.”

  With a smirk that was not unkind, Stave continued the end of the lesson, both men too absorbed to pay attention to Mylla nearby.

  Safran entered the launch bay with a sac
k and handed it up to Stave. Provisions. In case he needs to stay longer than a day, she sent. Stave shoved the sack unceremoniously into a space behind the pilot’s seat. And these to accompany your sword, she finished and passed a set of daggers to Lock, who couldn’t hear her but guessed her meaning.

  She looked to Mylla. He’ll be off soon. You two should say whatever you need to now. C’mon, love, she finished, gesturing at Stave.

  Stave jumped from the fuselage and landed beside Lock. He put his hand, cigar extending between his fingers, on the pilot’s shoulder and smiled. “I know a good combination when I see one, I do. I’ve a feeling you’ll do mighty fine, and I know Mylla’s confidence in you is deserved. They call you flying Marines Wings, right?”

  Lock nodded, waving smoke from his face.

  “Then fly like you’ve got some of your own, pilot. Like a bruhawk feather, you are. Remember.” He reached for Safran’s hand, and the two Knights exited.

  Lock fumbled the daggers for a moment, having no sheath of his own to place them in, then dropped them into the scout’s cockpit and turned back to regard Mylla, who’d walked up beside him. “I’ll be back soon. Shouldn’t take me—”

  She cut him off: “I’m not letting you go alone.”

  Surprise danced across his features. “But your duty . . . Knight Nazaria . . .”

  “I know. But she can’t stop me. Only Vaka Aster herself can release me from the Knights’ oath. I’m coming.”

  “Mylla if this is about thinking I can’t manage—”

  She reached for his hands. “I already told you, this isn’t your duty. And I know you can do it, but . . . I just don’t think you should have to. Not alone, at least. I’ll ride in the rear.”

  She supposed the incredulity in his expression was deserved. “After last time,” he said, “you’re sure you can handle it?”

  “I can. With extreme reluctance.”

  “This morning you were trying to get rid of me. Now you’re coming with me. What’s changed?”

  “I’ve had time to do some reflecting.”

  He eyed her with one part gratitude, one part suspicion. “Time to reflect? The daystar hasn’t passed through a quarter of the sky since we awoke.”

  “I was sprint reflecting. Do you want me to come or don’t you?”

  “Yes, of course I do.”

  The sound of the launch bay hatch opening alerted her, and she dropped his hands. “We have to go now.”

  Wait.

  Relieved, yet still wounded from Safran’s earlier willingness to leave her out of the planning, Mylla turned to her friend—and found that it was her turn to be surprised. “What’s that?”

  Safran held out a sheath for Lock in one hand—and in the other, another set of daggers for Mylla. What’s it look like? You may be a Knight, but you still need as many weapons as you can carry. Take them. She pressed the dagger hilts into Mylla’s palms. I’ll send the bruhawks to watch over you. If you need the Vigilance, we’ll come to your aid. There’s no need to lose more Knights, or allies. Not at a time like this.

  Mylla’s tongue needed coaxing before she could speak. “You knew I’d go with Lock?”

  The age wrinkles around Safran’s eyes—she’d been fifty-five turns before taking her oath—deepened as a shrewd smile spread across her lips. Of course. Mylla, you’re the sister I never had, like my twin. I know you as well as I know myself. You’re in love, and love will always be your first duty. Even if—she gave Lock a knowing look—you sometimes lose sight of it.

  Mute with gratitude, Mylla let Safran pull her into a short but solid embrace.

  Hurry. Eisa is on her way to see him off. Trust Havelock to get you there safely, but you know the Conservatum. You’ll find the Fenestros faster than he could. If you also find Irrick, tell him to head to the tower, and we’ll try to retrieve him if we can. Now go, and hasten back.

  Chapter 23

  Ulfric listened closely as Bardgrim explained how he’d acquired Lífs’s Scrylle and, as impossible as it sounded, a single Fenestros.

  Griggory Dondrin, you old wanderer, he thought, so now I finally know what became of you. Hard to believe you live still, after all of these turns.

  Yet the discovery of the long-lost Knight—missing from Vinnr for over seven hundred turns—only held his attention for a moment. Potentially everything he needed to secure his return to Vinnr lay nearly at his fingertips, and he could barely force himself to hear the Himmingazian out. He needed those artifacts.

  “So, if you could perhaps read me the Scrylle,” Bardgrim was saying, “and tell me what it says and if it is a map as I believe, maybe it can help me find the other four Verity stones, or Fenestrii—that’s what they’re called, right?”

  “Map?” Ulfric asked. Of course, this commoner of the Creatress’s realm had learned to open the Scrylle and found the Fenestros parchment tucked within. It seemed he thought the parchment was the Scrylle and not the metal scepter itself. It was clever of him to have learned how to open it, but he still had no idea, it seemed, what the Scrylle itself could do or what knowledge it contained. “Yes. Fenestrii. They’re spheres made from the elements of the Verities that hold a spark of power, an energy of a kind. They can be used by Knights for . . . many things.”

  “Exactly! When Griggory gave them to my gram—”

  “A Knight Corporealis,” Ulfric stated.

  Bardgrim looked almost startled, then continued, “Of course! He must be. Or was. Anyway, the sphere isn’t made of anything I recognized and it intrigued me, so I tested its components and came up with . . . well, you must know. Nothing I’ve ever seen before. And the energy it put off—remarkable.”

  “Where is Griggory now?”

  “No idea. Haven’t seen him.” Bardgrim, for as much as he talked—and talked, and talked—could not be diverted from his topic it seemed. “I built a power siphoning harness for the Fenestros and use it in the Octopod. If I can locate the rest of them, I may be able to use them to build the ship the Glisternauts need to explore beyond the Glister Cloud. We can find a new home, a place where the people of Himmingaze can relocate, before it’s swallowed up completely by the Never Sea.”

  “You intend to use the Fenestrii as fuel?” The question was rhetorical. The celestial spheres had incalculable uses, which is what made their bestowal to humans “remarkable,” as Bardgrim had just put it. The Himmingazian’s discovery of how to use one to power a ship was clever indeed. “What is this Glister Cloud?” he asked.

  “You don’t know what the Glister Cloud is? How is that even possible?”

  “We’ve nothing called that in Vinnr.”

  Ulfric sensed the Himmingazian now fought an internal struggle, and he guessed who knew over what. Was Ulfric crazy or lying? For his own part, the thread of his patience frayed more with each syllable the man uttered. Bardgrim struck him as intelligent, but no warrior. Even a bit like Acolyte Irrick, one of the few remaining scholars in the Resplendolent Conservatum still wholly devoted to Vaka Aster. But concealed beneath the craftiness ran a kind of cunning, as well. He could trust this Bardgrim to give him only enough information to string him along, the aim always to achieve a purpose he may not fully reveal. Perhaps he was more like a politician than an acolyte. For now, Ulfric’s restraint depended as much on what Bardgrim didn’t say as what he did, but of course, he couldn’t very well kill the man without first acquiring the Scrylle and Verity stone.

  Maiming him, on the other hand, was becoming more of an option moment by interminable moment.

  Bardgrim went on. “Well, in layman’s terms, the Cloud is the end of the world as we know it.” At the scowl Ulfric gave him, he cleared his throat, then carefully reworded his response. “Though you’re no layman, naturally, Master Knight. It’s an atmospheric anomaly that’s turned us Himmingazian into squatters in our own world. Exploration has uncovered a bit. It appears to be an envelope of Cosmos detritus: rocks, metals, gasses, and ice. It has a radiant rhythm and waxes and wanes to illuminate Hi
mmingaze—more or less. Are you familiar with a kaleidoscope?”

  He waited for Ulfric’s response, but Ulfric remained silent, likely appearing to Bardgrim to be waiting for the story’s end. In fact, he was calculating which finger to break first to speed up the man’s rambling.

  “Maybe?” Bardgrim continued. “Okay, basically, we’re inside one, a cosmic kaleidoscope. The Cloud has been closing us in for hundreds of cycles, like a noose cutting us off from the rest of the Great Cosmos as it tightens. As it gets bigger and closer, Himmingaze grows wetter, colder, more hostile to life. And we are not equipped to do much more than watch it come.”

  Ulfric could easily guess the cause of this world-ending “anomaly.” He didn’t have to guess, though, did he? The voice in his head had said: Lífs, my quin, is leading her creations to oblivion. He shook his head, confused by the thoughts that didn’t seem to be his own, the strangeness of the entire experience. But, he concluded, this wasn’t his world, and it wasn’t his duty to change its fate.

  “Take me to the Scrylle,” he pressed, “and I’ll . . . read you its contents.” He chose the word “read” to aid Bardgrim’s understanding, though reading wasn’t strictly how one gleaned the Scrylles’ content. He didn’t think this Himmingazian could grasp this, though, despite his cleverness. Untrained commoners could be quite dim, though it wasn’t their fault.

  Bardgrim’s tense expression spoke clearly of his uncertainty. He had no alternative, and he knew it. And it was likely dawning on him that Ulfric could take Lífs’s artifacts any moment he chose to, if he chose to. The Himmingazian obviously thought himself smart, but his self-assuredness had failed him this time.

  “You know, on second thought, let’s look at it in here. The Octopod isn’t terribly roomy, and the weather, well, it’s always blustery. No reason we should both get wet. Heh. We have more room in the temple to really give the moment its proper, er, I guess ‘ceremony’ is the right word. I’ll be back in just a moment.”