The masters tried to escape but most never made it outside. They were thrown into walls with magic, drowned, burned, and cut into pieces by dozens and dozens of swords.
The violent, brutal images came back with perfect clarity. The kind of mental echoes that would give even the bravest war veteran horrible nightmares years after combat. And for Antares, being in this place again, everything was so potent and palpable, even the death seemed to come alive. The same feelings he’d felt then poured through him now, and the terrible sounds bounced off the walls like a distant, bloodcurdling scream.
He continued on, walking through this old, tortured tower. Letting the memories flow inside him unrestrained. He reached another door and pushed it open.
It was the remnants of what had once been the disciplinarium. A torture chamber with all kinds of sickly creative means of breaking one’s spirit, body, and identity. There had been small cages here, just large enough for students to be hunched in, hanging from the ceiling. The nearest wall held a rack, above it were steel cuffs. Antares himself had been left hanging there overnight once, for accidentally tripping another student.
Most of the torture devices were missing. Various cutting and prodding tools, an electric shocking device, and perhaps most notorious of all, the post and stake for picquet.
Students had died at the academy, he was sure many of those deaths had been torture related. He had been fortunate, once apprenticed to Quintus, that his master never allowed him to be tortured again.
That protection wasn’t extended to others. And Rigil and Merak both told stories long into the night about how awful their time in the torture chamber had been. Its existence was only allowed because of the same sick reason that kept Quintus out of prison, the influence of the masters over the city government. A corruption that seemed as deep and old as time itself. And the public did not know the truth.
Antares left the room and went to another. It was a blank, empty room that had once boasted a dozen small magical torches. On the west wall was a series of runes and carvings. Some of the stones had been forcibly removed but most were intact, including the imprint of a hand. He stepped to it and pressed his own palm against it.
“I am champion-elect,” he said.
The wall became warm and part of it slid aside, revealing a small, elaborate room. It tingled with magical energy and was lit bright by magical fires that danced from their perches. Glowing lights cut through walls of unmeltable ice, like a prism, and a chilly wind flowed in a circular path, whispering. It was the sanctuary of elements. A place meant to represent every discipline of magic. In the center was a stone mat where the champion-elect was meant to sit and ponder. To unravel both mysteries as wide-stretching as the universe and those deeply buried within his own heart and soul.
Not even the masters had been allowed here. It was one of the last links to the old world and the ancient magics. There was a lot of speculation about it, about what a champion-elect might someday learn from this place. But so far none had been able to interpret the symbols or tap into much of its power. The only thing he recognized was a column of dark grey elderstones set in each corner. They carried an amazing property, the ability to negate the magic of everyone nearby. Allowing only the magic of the person they recognized as their master to exist. Everyone else’s magic would be suppressed and blocked. He glanced at his own hand and saw that no fire could spring forth. The elder stones did not recognize him.
He'd spent many hours here, kneeling on the mat and listening to the whispers in the wind. But he’d never been able to understand the voice, as if it had been another language. Very calmly, he silenced his thoughts and listened once again. He heard words, like a mumble, but they were breathy and indiscernible. The harder he listened the faster the message seemed to fade away.
He left and the entrance resealed itself. There was one more place he wanted to see. He arrived at the archive room. The door’s lock had been smashed and there were several cuts and other marks indicating that someone had tried to force the door, eventually succeeding. The damage looked recent.
As he was about to step inside he heard something. Footsteps? He looked behind him, down the long hall, and saw nothing but shadow. He increased his fire’s intensity, brightening the hall considerably, but still saw nothing.
He dismissed it as his imagination and entered the archive room. It was in total disarray. Shelves had been emptied, their contents spilled onto the floor, and various boxes and containers had been ransacked. Most curious of all was the disorder on the center table. One of the smaller boxes, labeled “Student Records, Copies, Number 27” was on its side, half-open. Several papers and photographs had spilled out onto the table. On top of them all were several copies of the same photograph. He recognized it.
The caption read, “From left to right: Miriam Ceteris, Caythis Ceteris, Sierra Ceteris, and Antares Ceteris.”
It showed four people smiling in front of the Andar beach. He recognized them now. Miriam, who had been Caythis’ wife, was somewhat plump and had a gentle smile. She had rosy cheeks and blond hair. Caythis, who’d been Antares’ cousin, looked in his early-twenties. His hair shimmered gold in the sun’s light. His pale skin somewhat washed out. Sierra and Antares were both fifteen and had midnight hair. Their smiles were similarly fake. He remembered when this picture was taken. Seven years ago. Caythis had somehow gotten it in his head that a trip together to the Andar beach would be a way for the cousins to bond. It hadn’t been a great success.
Antares didn’t need this final proof to know who he was, he didn’t need to recognize his own younger face attached to the name “Antares Ceteris” in cold black ink. But it lay before him anyway. And he couldn’t help but look at it, now remembering, and wonder why he hadn’t figured it out sooner. It was almost like something inside him had tried to force his memories to stay buried. He looked at Caythis. Saw a little of himself in the man. So similar and yet so different. Same family name. Same ambition. Same opportunities to be named champion-elect… And now, he thought, Caythis was most likely dead.
It was a sober realization, seeing the ghosts in this picture, knowing that every person in the photo had died—except for him, who deserved death the most.
Footsteps entered the room. Antares whirled to see Jaden in full uniform, weapon drawn.
“What are you doing here?” asked Antares.
“I followed you here, Antares.”
Antares looked at the photos on the table, there was no way Jaden could see it from where he stood. “So I take it you were the one digging through all the boxes in here.”
“That’s right, I was here today. I was hoping to find out more about Rigil. Something to leverage against him. Discover some weakness he has. Instead I found your secret.” He spat. “So I followed you here, to kill you.”
Antares’ heart accelerated. “Then why haven’t you fired?”
“Because I want you to tell me something first. Tell me why you did it. Why’d you try to fool us all into believing you were Caythis?”
“I was the puppet not the puppet master. You’ll have to ask Dr. Erikson.”
“I don’t believe you,” Jaden raised his firearm. “I believed you were Caythis for years. I was a fool all this time.”
“I tried to save your father,” said Antares. “I fought alongside you against Lucida and the enforcers. I fought to protect your city. Everything we’ve done, I’ve meant it. I may not have known my true name, but I’m still the same person.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of. That you’re still the same sick bastard who torched Andar. The same person who stormed this very academy and slaughtered all of its masters. The same one who, wherever he goes, death follows.”
“You don’t understand.”
“I don’t want to. Nothing can excuse what you’ve done.”
“Maybe not. But I mean you no harm. And know this, as long as I am alive, I am Rigil’s most dangerous enemy.”
Jaden seemed conflicted for a momen
t. His hand trembled slightly. Perhaps he didn’t have the guts to pull the trigger after all. “If you so much as look at Kira again,” he said menacingly, “I swear… I’ll put a bullet in your head.”
With that, Jaden left, cautiously keeping his weapon trained on Antares until he was out of sight.
Antares let him go. If he’d wanted to protect his identity, he could have gone after him. But that wasn’t important now. All he truly cared about was uncovering the whole truth.
And no one would stop him.
23
He camped the night in no-man’s land. Where no one could find him. Then took the bike to the outskirts of Silverwind the next day.
The sun beat down on the ruined city, which was in worse disrepair than he’d remembered. He didn’t know if another rocket attack had struck Silverwind, but many of the streets and buildings were still bombed out, and there were telltale signs of ongoing urban warfare. The Rigilians and other dissidents had a tight grip on the southern boroughs. One that, while slipping, was not going down easily. That would make it very difficult for Silverwind to find the troops to commit to an attack against Rigil. But that didn’t matter now. That wasn’t why he was here.
Because he wore his enforcer armor, which might mark him as a target for some of the dissidents, he avoided the more chaotic parts of the city and stuck to the A-roads.
The sun was hot, and worsened the putrid, rotting smells of decays and destruction. Smoke filled the air, in places, as some small fires burned throughout the city, and the sweet, wet scent of the river was gone. Overpowered by something dead. Trucks packed with troops, like sardines, moved from place to place. And Antares decided Silverwind was more of a battlefield than a city.
He blasted through the checkpoint guarding Manors Borough and eventually arrived at the bombed-out palace. Half of it was ruined, but the half that still stood had been propped up and put to use. A number of people, mostly in uniform, staffed the building and seemed very busy and overworked.
He parked the jetbike and entered the building, sword on his back, willing to turn the whole place upside down if he had to.
“Captain Ceteris?” asked an aide. A few other petty officials glanced his way.
“Where is Dr. Erikson?” he demanded.
“He’s been relocated to the underground.”
“Where?”
“It’s classified, I’m sorry I don’t know.”
Antares nodded. He knew exactly where Dr. Erikson was holed up. The Hiding Place must have been repaired and returned to service. He couldn’t think of a more perfect place to confront the District and get the answers he deserved.
He left the palace and sought out the secret entrance to the underground. He wandered through the poorly lit maze until he arrived at the Hiding Place’s door. No sentry stood outside watching. Clearly the District no longer believed itself to be in imminent danger, now that Lucida was dead.
He threw the door open and strode into the facility. It still showed wear and damage from the enforcers’ attack, but it had been gutted, cleaned out, refurnished, and returned to full service. Soldiers stood guard at every door and the main room was fully staffed with people coming and going.
No one objected to his presence. Doubtless his bronze armor identified him as Caythis. Little did they know who he really was. The most feared person in the world.
He threw the doors open leading to the conference room, believing this was the most likely place he’d find Dr. Erikson and the others. No one was there.
That didn’t matter. There were still answers to be found. He thought of the secret door that connected to this room, leading to a hidden passage. The same one a soldier had led him through after the enforcer attack. He found the hairline crack in the wall, copied the method the soldier had used, and forced it open.
Instead of going towards the tiny room with stone walls, which held the mysterious casket, Antares went straight for the steel security door. He knew cracking the code would be impossible so he drew his sword and ignited it. He carved the door free from the wall and it collapsed with a loud thud. He stepped over it.
Before him was a deceptively large storage room. Boxes and boxes were stacked on top of each other filling most of the space. Against the far wall was a computer. It wasn’t running but had its own generator plugged into it. He counted ten redundant hard drives wired together. Considering that, and the many stacks of crates and lockboxes, it was obvious this place held the answers to all kinds of important questions.
He turned over the closest box and let its contents spill onto the floor. Sifting through it, he realized there was nothing of value to him. Much of it was impossible to understand, written in shorthand or code, or referenced specific things he’d never heard of. He kicked it aside and stepped deeper into the room, noticing a dark, oily gleam in the far corner.
He unburied a large box. It contained several pieces of enforcer armor. The pieces had been red originally but coated on top was some kind of black tar. He recognized it. The same armor he’d been looking at when he’d first met Lucida. His armor. The Armor he wore the night he razed Andar and fought Caythis. It was so familiar now. A little too small, which made sense—he must have grown some in the past five years, but otherwise it felt as much a part of him as his hands and arms. This armor was his past. Looking at it was like seeing his younger, more tortured self. He wondered briefly how the District had come to possess it and decided they must have retrieved it when they raided the Elite Quarter.
He traced the burn mark on the cuirass. It, like everything else, had been a lie. A part of the great illusion. Antares hadn’t been stabbed that night, he hadn’t been slain by Caythis. This wasn’t a wound from battle. This had happened after the fact. This was by design.
He noticed the sword was there too and he picked it up. It, like the armor, was not a good fit for his present height. But it had been his then. He held it, felt its familiarity. Remembered wielding it against the masters at the academy. Remembered wielding it against Caythis…
He’d almost recognized it when Lucida had shown it to him before. He wondered why she’d let him near it. Surely she must have known that he was not Caythis. Perhaps it had been a test. To see how thoroughly brainwashed he was.
Among other materials presumably seized during the invasion of the Elite Quarter, was an alligator-green briefcase with several locks on it. They'd been pried open and the case couldn't fully close anymore. He dumped out its contents and sifted through the papers.
They were all written by hand and the penmanship was incredibly difficult to read. He skimmed through them, noting several recurring names. “Resurrection Project” stood out the most.
He read the entries connected to it.
“I will not be able to return to the District. They are starting to suspect me. Lucida is afraid they will move the Hiding Place before we are ready to strike. She has nothing to fear, though. They can’t pack up fast enough unless they want to abandon the Resurrection Project. And I don’t think Lukas Erikson is willing to terminate Patient One.”
Antares wondered if “Patient One” referred to him. Had he been their Resurrection Project? Their effort to take their greatest enemy and somehow distort him into becoming their greatest asset by convincing him he was someone else?
“The strike was a success in part. We managed to get Patient One away from the District, but he was conscious when we found him. He fought back and Almach failed to capture him. Now he’s escaped into the underground. From what I saw of him, I believe that the Resurrection Project was a success, at least in the short term. Patient One seems to genuinely accept his assigned identity for now. Making him all the more valuable. It is unlikely he has a way of contacting the District so he’s on his own. We’ve begun sweeping the underground but that’ll take time. It’s a colossal labyrinth and he could be anywhere. At least we know they don’t have him either.”
There were sketches of what the Hiding Place looked like. It was clearly a d
ifferent one than the Hiding Place he stood in now.
“We captured a criminal today. He’s one of the so-called vigilantes that are waging war against the other dissidents. This captive gave us information about the District and, more importantly, the location of Patient One. He wasn’t forthcoming at first but became much more so under torture. When we were finished, we cut off his head.”
Antares thought back to his last mission with Raven, working for the CTC, how he’d been surprised and disgusted to see Max’s severed head on the ground. He had trouble reading the next document. It detailed the capture of Patient One, including the detainment of several “compatriots” and the termination of one female ringleader, Raven. The photo of her melted remains was attached to the paper and shook him.
“Scans reveal only inconclusive results. Patient One seems not to have rejected the brain matter from Patient Two, but there is damage to some nerves and brain cells that could be permanent. There is evidence of some healing over the past few years, but it’s very difficult to tell how much. It seems more and more likely that total recall was never achieved because the operation is and will forever remain incomplete. Additional host matter from Patient Two has long been impossible to obtain. Unfortunately the core was never completely removed, just disconnected. So total recall is possible. The surgeries were never finished, probably because of our attack, so it’s anybody’s guess what Patient One’s state is. But the biggest question is… who does Patient One think he is?”
He turned the page over and read the final entry.
“Lucida doesn’t trust Rigil to keep his part of the bargain, so she’s accelerated the process. She is impatient and that may cause us to lose everything. At 0800 we are going to revive Patient One and begin study of his behavior. There will be continuous watch on him by at least three enforcers at all times. If he has achieved total recall, he will be terminated. Otherwise we can weaponize him.”
Secrets of Silverwind Page 23