Maddox and Lyta glared at each other.
“I need you two to trust each other on this. Lyta can handle Daphne. She’s done it before.”
He locked eyes with Lyta. Her cold stare and subtle nod told him everything he wanted to know. She would choose justice over mercy. He led Maddox back to Shannon’s suite.
Maddox paced through the scorched and shattered wreck that was Lyta’s quarters. The leather-bound journal Heath had recovered from the Asylum hovered in front of the wizard. Pages flipped as he studied them, one hand under his chin, one resting under his other arm. His intense green scowl looked like it could have bored a hole in the parchment.
“Can you make yourself useful and find an unbroken bottle of wine?” Maddox asked. “I can’t focus with you staring at me with those creepy silver eyes.”
Heath looked at the broken lattices on the wine rack. It had been pretty well depleted before the chimera had hurled Lyta into it. A drink sounded tempting, but Heath needed to stay sharp. Every second was critical.
“Oh.” Maddox froze as he leaned in closer to the book.
“What does it say?” Heath came around behind Maddox.
The page was covered in an ancient language Heath guessed was early era Macerian, mixed with some modern Archean letters. He wasn’t fluent in either, but he trafficked in enough ancient artifacts to recognize it.
“Fuck…” Maddox said slowly as the page turned to another page filled with illegible scrawls.
“I can’t read that, Maddox.”
“It’s arcane formulas for ritual magic.” Maddox shook his head as he looked to another page. “Rituals aren’t really my area of study, but this looks like legit calculations for a massive storage and release of theurgy.
“The bodies themselves, a cow made with an udder out of dicks, are just theatrical props. There’s real magic going on here.” Maddox started pacing again.
“So… you’re saying the Dark Rite could actually work.”
Maddox nodded. “The math is insane and they’d need a shitload of energy, but whoever’s doing this is channeling fear and pain into a vessel. Not just the fear and pain of the victims, but the fear these grisly scenes instill in people here in the city.”
“The murders go in order of the Dark Ecliptic. I think we know who the twins are.” Heath ran through the scenarios in his mind. “What happens if the ritual completes?”
“Ever seen a Harrower in person?” Maddox asked.
Heath crossed his arms. “I have.”
It was a memory he tried to keep locked away. The warlock Riley had sent one to invade Heath’s mind back in Rivern. They say the creatures become your worst nightmares and the things they show you are so horrible it burns out your eyes. His vision had been that of his mother, healthy and glowing. The sound of her soft voice returned to him. Oh sweet baby, you are hurting. Let Mamma help you. This world is sick and full of pain. Please join me…
“Forgot about that. You’re the only man alive today to survive an attack,” Maddox said. “Based on what we know, you should be mostly immune to a second attempt.”
“Stormlords are also immune,” Heath added.
Maddox rolled his eyes. “Yeah, and they would never cover up any Harrowings to appear powerful, being the forthright honest people that they are.”
“We need to shut this down,” Heath insisted. “Give me something to work with. They have to harness the energy somehow, right? They would need a location to conduct the ritual. Does the book say anything about where?”
Maddox flipped to the front page. “No bookplate with a ‘return to’ address. Shocking how little the owner must care for his work.”
“Or her work. We can’t be blind to any possibility,” Heath added.
“You see this penmanship?” Maddox flipped the pages at him and pointed to a long line of scribbled words. “That is most definitely a man’s handwriting, a left-handed man at that. Look at the bar across those characters. The stroke starts on the right and ends on the left. No right-handed person does that.”
“They teach you all that in the Lyceum?” Heath was impressed.
“Before I even got to touch a stylus, I had to master penmanship and graphology. Any irregular or uncorrected motion of the hand can cause a seal to be mistranscribed. So yes, I know what I’m talking about.”
Heath stroked his chin. “I wish I’d known about that. I bet you’d be very good at forging documents. Could have used those talents back in Rivern.”
“Child’s play,” Maddox huffed. “That’s just as insulting as me asking you to assassinate a spider.”
Heath cocked a grin. “I would because I’m your friend.”
“No, you most definitely are not,” Maddox said.
“I know it doesn’t feel that way, but I am your friend even if you aren’t mine. I will continue to look out for you.”
“Guides preserve me,” Maddox grumbled and returned to the book. “You should go look for the Protean. She should have been back by now.”
Heath’s brow furrowed. It was unlikely Daphne had posed any challenge, so that left two possibilities. Either the chimera had returned or…
His question was answered quickly enough as Lyta burst in the room, panting heavily. “The Sword and the Abbess were gone when I got there.”
Heath frowned. “Was that before or after you looked for Shannon in the Asylum?”
“How did you?” Lyta gasped. Her eyes told him the whole story.
“It was a risk I took in sending you,” Heath said. “But at least now we’ve eliminated one location. We don’t have a vessel for the Sword anyway—Maddox has proven himself more valuable as he is. We’ve learned a lot since you’ve been out.”
“I thought you would be angry,” Lyta said.
Heath smiled. “I’m not your Patriarch. I choose to trust your judgment. Just because it didn’t pan out, doesn’t mean that you shouldn’t cultivate your instincts.”
Lyta blushed slightly at the praise. “The room was cleared out, completely. There was nothing left. Shannon’s somewhere else. We should have taken her blood the second we found her. I’m so stupid.” She hit the sides of her head.
“She’s alive,” Heath reassured her. “She hasn’t reached out which means she’s still unconscious. They need her to be awake to harvest her fear for the ritual.”
Maddox interrupted, his eyes wide with realization. “Holy shit… I know where they are!”
“Please tell us where,” Lyta implored.
“Diviner Quillian’s parlor,” Maddox said smugly.
“We should go. Now,” Lyta urged.
“Hold up,” Heath said. “How do you know this?”
Maddox grinned. “Because I’m a fucking genius.”
“Maddox, you are the smartest man I’ve ever met. But I’m going to need more to go on than your excitement,” Heath said.
“Well,” Maddox began, “while you were out assassinating and doing politics, Sword and I were working an investigation into these murders, and we turned up a number of clues that just now make sense. First, we learned that some of the bodies were killed in an octagonal room based on a drawing Coroner Isik showed us. Quillian’s parlor had eight sides.”
Heath nodded. “Eight-sided rooms are common for wizards.”
“But what gave it away was the white roses and the left hand,” Maddox said.
Lyta interjected, “What are white roses?”
Maddox clapped his hands. “Exactly! Inspector Collette didn’t know what they were either. They’re the official flower of Velrailles, but they have less alchemical value and weaker fragrance than red or yellow roses, so they don’t get exported. White rose petals were stuffed into Lawrence’s eye sockets. I smelled hints of white rose when I was in Quillian’s salon. I thought it was an undercurrent of the incense, but it could have been from fresh flowers.”
“Maddox has an extremely keen sense of smell,” Heath said to Lyta.
“So not only did Quillian have an oct
agonal salon, it smelled of white roses. He also had a maimed little finger on his left hand which would account for his sloppy penmanship.”
“So Quillian’s the killer?” Heath said.
“He’s officially dead,” Maddox countered.
“We don’t have time for games, wizard!” Lyta shouted.
Maddox shrugged. “Fine. Sword and I found his body, murdered and mutilated but… with the left hand missing. Why would that be?”
Heath reeled with the realization. “By Kondole. His missing finger. The killer wanted to hide it. That would mean…”
“Twins,” Maddox concluded. “Quillian killed his twin brother, or vice versa, but he couldn’t hide the missing little finger so he cut off the hand. It’s him, Heath. The Guides told me, ‘You stepped over the lover’s body when you sought the two-faced killer.’ I thought she meant ‘treacherous’ but it literally meant the killer had two identical faces, and Lawrence’s body was underfoot when I was in Quillian’s parlor.”
Heath chuckled. “Nice work. We need to come up with a strategy.”
Lyta sighed. “There’s… something else you need to see.”
She walked out onto the balcony and pointed up. The Archean sky ship was encased in a rotating sphere of crystalline force. “That happened while I was coming back from Baash.”
“A chrysalis,” Maddox whispered. “That’s Archean protection magic of the strongest caliber. They know something.”
“We better move,” Heath said. “We’ll come up with a plan on the way.”
THIRTY-THREE
Syzygy
SOREN
Ancient Patrea is often thought of as a patriarchal society because the ruling caste of wizards was called “Fathers.” This is not the case however. The original Patrean word for “father” would actually be more closely translated as the gender neutral “progenitor.” In fact, many of the “Fathers” were female.
The term “mother” implies birth and gestation. Just as the male Fathers, the female Fathers used surrogates or arcane contraptions for gestating their offspring. The title of “Father” (uppercase) was bestowed on any mage who created a human simulacrum. Very often, these simulacra bore some of the physical features of their Father, though not always.
Their creations were varied but tended to breed exact copies of one of their simulacra parents. Patrean society was of two distinct classes, translated as “dominant” and “recessive.” Again, contrary to modern linguistic sensibilities, the social standing of these distinctions is reversed. Dominant Patreans were so named because their traits were more common and thus suited to breeding large populations of laborers and soldiers.
The modern Patrean soldiers are an example of a dominant bloodline. No matter how many times they breed with common stock, the result is invariably a Patrean.
The Recessives, of which we know very little, tended to be unique or powerful in some way. Their offspring did not breed true with common stock or Dominant, so the bloodlines had to be carefully maintained. It is unclear if the Fathers were considered a variety of Recessive Patrean. Unfortunately they were destroyed during the Long Night when the mages succumbed to madness.
—A PRIMER ON OLD PATREAN LANGUAGE
FIVE HUNDRED YEARS AGO, ANCIENT PATREA
BITS OF ROCK and earth rained down as another blast shook the city above. Father Book rushed into the council chamber, clutching the scrolls she’d salvaged from the burning library. She was young for a Patrean Father, barely a century, but that proved to her advantage. While the rest of the Fathers had been pulled into the Nightmare’s madness, she remained sane… for now.
The council room was a cramped auditorium carved beneath the bedrock of the city. Ghostly scenes of terror and mayhem played across the walls as images from the eyes of scrying sentinels reported the destruction. The streets were swarmed with panicking citizens scurrying from the worst of the chaos, trampling the weak.
Book turned to her apprentice, Broderick. “Are male and female representatives of all the castes present?”
He nodded. “All except for the Watchers.”
Her lips formed a grim line. “That’s to be expected. Announce me and begin recording racial memory.”
“Already started, Father Book.”
Broderick approached the podium. He was little more than a child, although gifted with the blood of the Fathers. The nervous youth addressed the room, “May I present Father Alicia Book, daughter of Alaris Book, and Minister of Agriculture.”
The seats of the wedge-shaped chamber were arranged in pairs, with men and women from each of the bloodlines sitting side by side. Book looked out across their faces. The fearless Warriors were stoic and ready for action. They had been briefed separately. Next to them, the simple-minded Laborers glanced around, their gray eyes wide with fear. They were rarely called to council.
The Artisan couple, sensitive to a fault, wept and offered comfort to each other. Their tears smeared their face paint. Of all the simulacrums, they rankled most at their lack of uniqueness. The Sages calmly flipped through their books, their dour faces impassive. The Stewards, clad in their fine livery, gossiped.
The Oracle sat in her place, an elderly woman by herself. She had no male heritors of her bloodline, only daughters conceived by their mothers alone. The Courtesans, a paired brother and sister, snuggled, the male gently brushing the female’s blonde hair. They were physically perfect specimens.
Book took the podium. “Patrea has fallen.” She did not mince words. “The Fathers have succumbed to the madness, and our city, our way of life has come to an end. Your progenitors will not survive this catastrophe—but we created each of you to surpass our limitations. You are the Paragons of our Children. Now is the time our art will be tested.”
The Children nervously whispered among themselves.
“You should be afraid,” Book continued. “You were brought into this world because of the reckless sins of the Fathers. For every one of you who sits in this auditorium, thousands of lives had to be sacrificed, destroyed, and even put through torture to build a better version of humanity. And now we Fathers are paying the price for our ambitions.”
“We have told this day would come, Father,” the Oracle said.
“Yes.” Book slammed her hands on the podium. “For right or wrong, we are reaping the result of the atrocities we have committed. But you who were our creations are innocent of our crimes. You are our legacy, and that cannot be allowed to die.”
“Please, Father,” the male Laborer pleaded, “tell us what to do.”
The female Courtesan shot the burly laborer a nasty look. “Shut up and let her finish.”
Cowed, the man lowered his head and took his seat. “Apologies.”
Book sighed. Of all the Children, she pitied the Laborers the most. “A plan is in place. The Nightmare corrupts higher-order theurgy, but it does not affect all magic. I have the Vinculum, and with it, your racial knowledge and blood can survive in the genetics of one of the Dominant bloodlines.”
“Well, It’s clearly not us,” the female Steward quipped. Their personality had never quite been aligned with their function. Unlike the Laborers, they were too intelligent to take pride in caring for the needs of Patrea’s noble families.
The female Scholar said, “The Warriors have the best probability of survival. They were patterned without the ability to dream. They have immunity to the mad theurgies of the Nightmares and possess heightened physical resilience.”
Book nodded. “As always, Sage, you represent the wisdom of Patrea. Some of the Warriors will survive.”
The dark-haired male Steward said, “Fighters? They are hardly the best of us. Why should they live when those who have been most faithful in our duties—”
Another blast rocked the auditorium.
Book cleared her throat. “Each of the castes plays a vital role in our civilization, but our civilization is gone—along with Minas Craegoria, Maceria, Sarn, and every other empire. The Fathers will di
e, but you, our Children, can live through this chaos.”
Book held up the Vinculum, a circular disc with a hole in the center and thumb-sized depressions radiating around the edge. “Each of you will give a bit of your blood to store your knowledge and bloodline on this disc. It will be introduced into the Warrior caste as recessive information. If humanity survives at all, Patrea’s Children will be reborn one day.”
The Oracle answered, “Our time has ended, Father. There is no end to this darkness that your pride has brought upon us. If humanity is to flourish, then Achelon’s plan must succeed. I cannot be a part of this.” She stood and walked toward the door.
“Oracle. You cannot disobey a Father!” Book said sharply. Her authority was already crumbling like the city. She looked to the images on the wall as a hundred-armed battle hulk tore through the city.
“Patrea is dead. His slaves are free.” The Oracle’s blue eyes glowed in the dim light of the rocky chamber. She addressed the other Children. “You are free to do as you choose.” She did not look back as she left.
“Obviously the rest of us want to live,” the female Courtesan said.
Book placed her thumb on the Vinculum, willed her blood to activate it, and tossed it on the floor, to the shock and horror of the Children. “Then live. The Oracle speaks truth. You are no longer Children of Patrea—you will be our heirs and our legacy. If you survive, do better. The empire is yours.”
She turned and walked out the door, Broderick following behind her. She heard the chorus of voices, the questions, the pleas echo down the hall. Another tremor shook the tunnels.
“Father Book!” Broderick grabbed her arm. “You cannot abandon your people now. You’re the last Father.”
She smiled. “I lived a hundred years. That’s nothing by the standards of my peers, but it was a good, long life. That has to count for something. It has to.”
“What are you saying?”
She removed a vial from her pocket. “Be safe, Broderick. Get to the Maenmarth forest if you can. You are my proudest creation.” She touched his face and brushed away a tear.
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