Fury Convergence

by Chrysoula Tzavelas

  “No, I— Yes. Of course.” Branwyn trailed along behind him, telling herself she couldn’t let him distract her. But she had to keep talking to him. She thought, then activated the reminder charm she had from long ago: I am here to rescue children.

  The workshop was a machine shop in one of the stable-adjacent buildings, and it hadn’t been used much recently. There was a fine dusting of snow over the threshold and on some bigger tools. The Saint went right past the machinery to a desk in the corner that was slightly less cluttered than the one in his study, where he began to dig around.

  Branwyn wiped snow dust from the chill machines absently. Except for the snow, this place would be paradise for her. Meanwhile, the real world was full of hate, selfishness, bigotry, wanton destruction… everything she’d dedicated herself to fighting. Everything she’d been raised to fight. A world primarily focused on stepping on others, pushing them down, and it was her duty to rise up and knock the world on its ass so it could listen. So it could learn. So it could be better.

  Well, she’d learned to make the things of the world listen, but she was no closer to fixing what was wrong with people than she had been at twelve years old. She didn’t think about that much because what was the use? But the journey of the past few days had shown her exactly what she was. She was just as bad as everything she pretended to scorn: weak, arrogant, selfish, deceptive. And why shouldn’t she be? She was only human, a product of a world irredeemably bad.

  I am here to rescue children, whispered her reminder charm, and she laughed out loud because it hurt so much.

  “That’s a bitter laugh if ever I heard one,” said the Saint. “Here. Take a look at this.” He unrolled a diagram on the desk.

  “Sure. Why not,” said Branwyn. Lines covered the paper, each drawn twice in black ink and colored ink. The lines made patterns, even though all the patterns connected. It was pretty but meaningless to Branwyn.

  The Saint unrolled another sheet. It had some of the same patterns, differently arranged. Then he unrolled a final sheet, this one clear. He laid it over the second one, and she recognized it as a turnaround diagram of one of his automatons. She compared the two diagrams, saw how the symbols were positioned, then said slowly, “It’s a vocabulary.”

  It was a vocabulary. It was writing, writing that captured what she saw as an Artificer, and what none of Corbin’s wizardry books had come close to understanding.

  “Aha! You see it,” said the Saint, beaming at her. “I hoped you would.”

  Branwyn looked between the two diagrams again. Then she sat down on the cold floor and burst into tears.

  19

  Devoured

  “Ah,” said the Saint. “You are tired.” He patted Branwyn’s head as she tried to control herself, frantically wiping tears away. “We can talk about it more later.”

  Branwyn struggled to her feet again. “Will you please let the children go back to Earth?”

  The Saint’s friendly expression faded into something neutral. “You should get some rest. And while you do so, I’d like you to think about why exactly you’re asking that, and what it will cost those kids just so you can get what you want.”

  Branwyn felt like a spike had been rammed into her gut. She couldn’t say a word. When the Saint flicked his fingers at her in a ‘get along’ way, she finally managed enough command of herself to turn and flee the workshop. She went out into the snow, away from the lodge and the cottages, and crouched down to hug herself.

  This was very bad. She was moving further and further from the right answers, and time was getting shorter and shorter. And the Saint seemed to know her too well.

  Severin touched the back of her neck and whispered in her ear. Red is down for a little while. How was your chat?

  “Go away,” whispered Branwyn, and the touch faded. She took a deep breath once it was gone and started thinking about whether she could betray Rhianna to save her.

  But would it save her? Or was the damage done, permanent, irrevocable? Was rescuing these kids her last legacy, one her treacherous, selfish sister would ruin?

  Branwyn knew she didn’t care. She’d leave the kids in Sainthome forever, or turn them over to foster care, whatever would give her Rhianna back. Right now, that meant abandoning the rest of the kids while a monster took a traumatized little girl back into a horror story. And Branwyn would sacrifice any future chance to learn from an ancient master of her craft, the only other Artificer she’d ever met.

  That should have been an easy choice. Her own enjoyment versus her sister’s life. Who could think twice? But when she didn’t know if it would matter or if it was right; when no matter what she reached for, she was choosing herself over her sister…

  And then everything became so much worse.

  Her hammer sang in her mind: a warning, a shout, and suddenly it was releasing the third charge, far too fast.

  Far too fast, and much too early, because, after all, time was different here.

  As soon as the black bolt leaped away from the hammer, she cried out and ran after it. Not to catch it, and not to see what was left, but because she’d realized as it sang that the Saint was wrong. When he’d suggested she’d have to choose between a living woman and a dead one, he’d implied letting the Wild Hunt eat Imani would save Rhianna.

  But the Wild Hunt wouldn’t merely eat Imani. It’d eat all the other souls bound into the haunt. Imani was the keystone, but she wasn’t the structure, and Rhianna had become bound to the whole damn thing through the roses. Imani had to be redeemed, or Rhianna would be destroyed with her.

  She ran to the bedroom, wrenched the door open, and found Charlie standing, terrified, beside what looked at first like an empty bed.

  “This night lightning came through the window and hit her!” cried Charlie, but Branwyn barely heard her, leaping toward the bed.

  Rhianna was still there, still bundled under the covers. Her chest was moving up and down in sleep. She was completely translucent. Ghostlike.

  “It went into her and it’s like it sucked part of her away, I didn’t know what I was supposed to do!”

  Branwyn gathered Rhianna into her arms, but she didn’t awaken. And she was light, lighter than she had been hours ago when she’d stood on Branwyn’s hip.

  “Is she okay?” asked Charlie anxiously. Branwyn shook her head and rocked her sister.

  “Severin,” she said flatly. He brushed across her neck. She knew he was there because Charlie looked at him instead of her. She’d send them back to Imani—

  That was when Rhianna opened her eyes. “Bran?”

  Branwyn’s heart stopped. “I’m here,” she said quietly.

  “You’re warm…” said Rhianna. “That was pretty weird, Bran.” She reached up to touch Branwyn’s face with icy fingers, and Branwyn felt the cold rather than the pressure. “But don’t worry. That was only three. You’ve got plenty of time. You just have to remember…”

  Branwyn’s grip tightened. “If you have some tricky idea, tell me.”

  “Ouch, Bran… don’t squeeze me. You’ll figure it out. I don’t know this time.” Rhianna smiled. “I don’t think my reason will convince him.” She tugged a stray strand of Branwyn’s hair. “I’m going to sleep a little more. I’m still here, though. Don’t do anything stupid. I called dibs, remember?”

  Branwyn let Rhianna pull away and snuggle under the quilts once more. After a minute, she turned around and was dully surprised to see both Charlie and Severin still there. They both looked at her, Charlie biting her lower lip, while Severin’s black eyes reflected everything she hated about herself.

  “Thanks, Charlie. I’m glad you were here. I’m sorry that frightened you. I’d like to get some rest now myself.” Branwyn said the words mechanically, because they were the right words, the words to send Charlie away as quickly as possible.

  Charlie looked at her, then up at Severin. Branwyn made herself say more words. “You should go with her. I’m just going to think for a while. She needs you more.
”

  Severin kept looking at Branwyn. She looked back, waiting in case he had something to say. But he didn’t. After a long moment, he took Charlie’s hand and walked out of the room.

  Branwyn shut the door gently behind them, and closed the curtains, casting the room into a deep gloom. After that, she curled up on the other twin bed, watching the tiny shadowed movement of Rhianna’s shoulder as she slept.

  At first Branwyn’s mind was numb. She’d buried everything so she could listen to Rhianna and send Charlie away without frightening her. That meant it was Rhianna’s remarks that bounced around her head, and the lies Branwyn had told Severin and Charlie followed. Eventually, all her other lies drifted out to join them.

  All those lies about herself: who she was, what she valued. About what she believed in.

  All those lies the Saint had seen right through. She believed in so much until it it was inconvenient. Until it cost her more than she wanted to pay.

  When the first sob ripped out of her, she rolled over and pressed her face into the pillow. She couldn’t solve this. No matter what she did, she was going to fail, and the only right way to fail came with too high a price. She’d do it anyhow, if she didn’t die first, but she’d have to live forever with the knowledge that when push came to shove, she was a hypocrite. She couldn’t fight for anything good in the world when she was, herself, so untrustworthy. She’d always been her own moral guide, always trusted her own sense of right and… it was, in the end, based around selfishness. There was nothing worth trusting there at all. She was as hollow as Rhianna looked.

  It crashed over her that this was later. This was it. She’d been running from this nearly the whole journey but now here she was, failing, useless, treacherous, selfish, and breaking. She’d tried to put it off because it was inconvenient, but she was selfish, in the end. And now it was time to scream at the walls and throw things and collapse to the floor and wait for death.

  But no. Rhianna slept in the next bed.

  No melodrama, then: cry herself dessicate, get up wrecked, fail, fail again, lose what she loved and what she believed in, and go on to die slowly, day by day, year by year, just like the rest of the darkening world.

  She realized there was another way. She knew his name. She probably wouldn’t even have to use it.

  When she rolled over, he stood at the foot of the bed, a shadow in the dimness watching her. Staring up at him, one arm across her abdomen and the other flung to one side, she called up every awful thought about herself. It was very easy to do. If she could just make herself appetizing enough, he’d devour her: eat up all her pain and wickedness until there was nothing of her left. She’d seen him kill before. She was sure he could do this.

  He’d said he’d enjoy it.

  When he moved alongside the bed and sat on the mattress, another sob escaped her, because she hurt so much and she didn’t want to hurt anymore. Selfish, self-indulgent, and no matter which way she turned, everything was a betrayal of herself. Everything hurt.

  She gasped convulsively. Silently, his dark aura tightly bound and her own chest creaking, his thumb traced the trail of her tears all the way down to her throat. His fingers brushed over the mark on her collarbone. Then he slid his hand under her neck and effortlessly pulled her to him, shifting her so she was in his lap once again. But this time he neither restrained her hands, nor caressed her. He simply wrapped his arms around her, his head lowered to press against her own. His breath stirred her hair and his hands were gentle against her back.

  She remembered that he couldn’t eat her, not really, because they were still connected. She cried harder, until she was breathless and hiccuping, remembering every time she’d used that connection, with or without a second thought. She was such a hypocrite.

  He didn’t say a word. His embrace didn’t waver, even when she gagged on her own snot and wiped her nose on his shirt. Of course he was being kind. His current free will was debatable. But he didn’t say anything, and she very much wished he would. Maybe if he did, if he teased her or mocked her or pushed her, she could be angry at him instead, and pull herself together. If he mocked her, she could kick this awful can down the road another few hours or days or years. Keep living the lie.

  She wanted to live that lie, she realized, pressing her nose against his chest, inhaling the blood-tinged smoky-sweet scent that infused his shirt. His hand moved lightly, rhythmically, against her hair. Even if she wasn’t good and just and brave and strong, even if she wasn’t what she imagined she was, she wanted to be.

  Did that mean anything?

  It had to, she realized. It had to matter that she wanted to be better than she was. If people didn’t reach for what they didn’t have, if they didn’t dream of a better world, how would a better world ever come to be? She took a breath without crying, contemplating that.

  She’d been focusing on how she had to be better than she was, without remembering that the reason she had to be was that she wanted to be. Because she wasn’t. Because she had limits. And bumping into them now didn’t mean she couldn’t reach beyond them later.

  She drew a deep breath, let it out, and pushed herself away from Severin’s chest. He looked at her, his face still shadowed. After a moment, he tucked a strand of her loose hair behind her ear. Then he shook his head, stood up and vanished from the room.

  Branwyn pulled her legs up to her chest and fell over onto her side. She blinked in the dimness and realized a bottle of water and her hair tie were on the little night stand beside the twin bed. They hadn’t been before. She stared at the water for a moment before rolling onto her back. She was worn out, thirsty, and red-nosed, but she wasn’t dessicated. She wasn’t broken. In a minute, she’d get the water, fix her hair, and figure something productive out.

  But she wanted to lay quietly a moment first and reflect on what had just happened. Selfish, self-indulgent. Human. It was okay. She let herself have the moment. She let herself be everything she actually was.

  She’d never really denied her attraction to Severin. Not really, not that it existed. She’d blamed biology, blamed hormones, dismissed it as something physical like cramps. She’d tried to accept that it was there and move away from it. She tried not to think about it more than she had to.

  She’d always told herself she hated him. Hell, she did hate him, often.

  But she didn’t only hate him.

  She’d called it weakness. But she was weak. And in his arms, as he’d kissed her earlier, she’d been ready to give into her yearnings anyhow, until she’d realized the catch.

  Well, the catch was still there. But her feelings weren’t only physical like cramps. And the catch didn’t matter for the emotional part. Even before Shatiel had done his wicked work, she’d secretly, shamefully, liked Severin. He’d frightened her so much. He did awful things. He hurt people and enjoyed it. He was a terrible stain on the world. She couldn’t forgive him, no matter how many crying girls he hugged.

  But, at least for a few moments, in the deepest part of her mind, she forgave herself for liking him anyhow. He was perceptive and fearless. He was practically the definition of defiant. He didn’t give a shit about the way other people expected things to be done. She liked him. She didn’t have to be consistent.

  And, hey, maybe she’d forgive herself for more than a few minutes. What Shatiel had done had changed things whether or not Severin admitted it. The passion, the catch… and this.

  But if she did let herself keep liking him, she couldn’t let him know about it. The jerk would only let it go to his head, and she had standards to maintain. Well. Standards to reach for. And she ought to reach for them even harder if she was going to relax her vigilance over her own emotions. He’d probably love to drag her down.

  “Asshole,” she muttered out loud.

  Rhianna laughed softly from the other bed. “Oh, Branwyn.”

  Branwyn sat up. “Rhianna? I thought you were sleeping.”

  In a soft, sleepy voice, Rhianna said, “Great-gran
was just saying how if you couldn’t find somebody else to fight, you’d fight yourself. I think you’d bleed out if you didn’t have somebody who loved you to spar with. How long did it take? Five minutes?”

  “I’m so sorry I woke you,” said Branwyn gently, choosing to ignore everything she’d actually said. She reached for the water, drank some, and lay back down again, looking at her sister’s form.

  “The creative process at work,” Rhianna whispered. “I’ve been thinking, too.” After a moment, she said, “Do you remember when you helped me go to that clinic when I was in high school?” She moved her head. “Of course you do. You’ve never forgiven me for it.”

  Branwyn lifted her head, staring at Rhianna incredulously. She remembered. “Forgiven you? What did I have to forgive?”

  “Being a bad girl, maybe…?”

  “You weren’t a bad girl,” said Branwyn firmly.

  “Wasn’t I? I had access to all the birth control I wanted, and I still ended up pregnant.”

  Despite her sister’s illness, a scowl slid onto Branwyn’s face. “Did I yell at you? Did I say anything other than ‘okay’?”

  Rhianna moved her head again. “No. You were really great then. But I think it must have been the first time you started… distrusting me. Believing I couldn’t take care of myself.”

  “You’re my sister,” Branwyn said first, and then listened, and then considered. “I don’t know. Maybe. If so, I’m sorry. You did take care of yourself then, and you didn’t do anything wrong.” She hesitated. “…Do you really believe I distrusted you after that?”

  “You said it yourself back in Tucker… That I never did think about anything beyond my immediate gratification.”

  Guiltily, Branwyn said, “Oh. Well…” and then, because she was Branwyn, and they were sisters, she said, “Do you?”

  “Oh, Branwyn. Of course I do. So does Sev. We just have our own priorities, so we make different choices than you would. And you love us, so that worries you.”