by Peter Newman
A woman dressed in the armour of an Empire soldier stands up from behind some rubble. She has a rifle in her hand but it points away from him. She is familiar, one of the ones brought to their side by Delta.
To his eyes, her essence is fascinating, corralled into an unnatural shape by broad lines, footprints left by Delta’s touch. Within them, she has freedom to think and act but she cannot ignore them, cannot cross them.
‘I’m on your side,’ she calls out. ‘My name is Mazar.’
‘Yes,’ he replies. ‘Why are you still here?’
She swings herself over the rubble and approaches him, slinging her rifle over a shoulder. ‘I didn’t want to stay, believe me … but I’d rather die than climb into one of those giant arsehole tubes.’
Samael pauses for a moment. ‘I hadn’t thought of them like that.’
Mazar just looks at him.
‘I’m here to find Vesper, do you know where she is?’
‘Yes. I can take you if you want but I should warn you, The Seven have her.’
‘I know.’
‘And you still want to go?’
‘I want to help Vesper.’
She doesn’t say anything else, guiding him through the palace. It is clear she does not know the route by heart but has made signs to guide them, little arrows made from bits of rubble or weapon fragments.
‘Is no one else here?’ asks Samael.
‘There are others taking shelter but they’re clustered over there,’ she gestures over her shoulder, ‘and I doubt they’re going to come out.’
‘Because of the storm?’
‘Because they failed.’
They continue walking through corridors that would normally be guarded. Empty, they seem too large, hollow.
Samael works his jaw a couple of times before deciding to speak. ‘This may sound hard to believe, but I know something of how you feel.’
Mazar glances at him but doesn’t reply.
‘I once tried to help someone from the Empire who was dying and she turned me down. Her soul was torn, I could see it bleeding away. By the time we met her condition was severe.’ He pauses. If he still needed to, he would sigh. ‘She said she would rather die than let me come near.’
‘What happened to her?’
‘She died.’
‘And what has this got to do with me? Are you saying I’m dying too?’
‘No. No, I didn’t … Forgive me, I’m not the best at this. I remembered the story because it was the last time I tried to reach out to someone from the Empire. I’m hoping it will go better this time.
‘But you’re not like her. You’re not sick and you’re not dying. The situation is different. I just want you to know that I understand.’
They reach a crossroads. An abandoned gauntlet lies on its back like a dying crab, the digits curling towards the palm. One finger has been straightened. Mazar attends to it, then follows it, turning left.
‘Do you understand?’ she asks. ‘Prove it.’
‘Many years ago, I was just a fisherman who worked at Six Circles. But when the commander of the Knights of Jade and Ash found me, he gave me some of his essence, turning me into this. He had need of my skills and to gain them, he imposed his will over mine. I was still myself. My thoughts were my own, but now I had some of his thoughts too. They were stronger than mine. I don’t know how to put it into words … but when I look at you and see what Delta has done, I cannot help but feel sympathy.’
Mazar’s answer comes through gritted teeth. ‘Are you trying to say that we’re the same? That what some demon does is the same as being touched by Delta of The Seven?’
‘No. It is not the same. What the infernals do is different, more complex. My desires were blurred with my creator’s, whereas Delta has pressed Her orders onto you in a way that leaves them distinct.’ He holds up his hands, apologetic. ‘I’ve made you angry, and that wasn’t my intent. We may not be the same but I think there is something common between us. We are both victims.’
‘What’s your point?’
‘Just that I think I understand what it’s like for you, better than most. But I’ll say no more. I probably shouldn’t have spoken at all.’
They walk a little further, then Mazar stops and shakes her head, swearing under her breath. She shakes her head a second time and looks away from Samael. ‘It’s like She’s in my head, watching me. I have to get Her forgiveness, do you understand? It’s there all the time. I need it! It doesn’t matter what I do, She’s there, waiting for me to do better. Even when I sleep! You said I’m not dying but it feels that way.’
Samael stops by her side, ‘I understand.’
‘Yeah, maybe you do. It doesn’t change what’s happening though.’
‘No.’
She curses again, quiet. ‘But I … I’m still glad I could say it out loud.’
‘Yes.’
‘So maybe, if I ever see you again after this, maybe it would be okay to do this again.’
Samael holds her gaze for a long moment, his half-breed eyes searching the depths behind her words. ‘Yes, I would like that.’
The worst of the winds do not touch the bottom of the valley, and fighting has dug new hollows in the earthy walls, making shelter for those small enough to take advantage.
The buck is small enough, backing inside so as to become invisible. Though protected, he remains wild eyed, terrified, screaming. Like a lighthouse in the dark, his bleats lure an-other through the churning, smoky air.
When the doe arrives, his mouth closes. She is a bedraggled figure, windswept, and nearly falls into the hole with him.
Panic draws them together, magnetic, until bodies press, necks touching, chins resting on each other’s shoulders.
Frantic heartbeats calm, finding a common rhythm. As trust builds and warmth spreads, they shut their eyes, letting the full weight of their heads be taken.
Somehow it seems as if the noise of the storm is less frightening than before. Thunder remains shockingly loud, the flashes of lightning turned a dark orange through closed lids, but they jump less, and do not cry out.
Despite the rage of the elements outside, the buck and the doe relax, safe in their pocket of peace.
Mazar comes to a stop in front of a large circular door. They are deep within the palace now, in the central keep that is dedicated to The Seven and their acolytes.
‘She’s in there.’
Samael looks for a handle or means of progress. ‘Can you open it?’
‘No.’
He lifts his hand to knock.
‘Wait!’ says Mazar. ‘You might make Them angry.’
Samael tries to laugh but it comes out as a wheeze. ‘My existence makes Them angry.’ His fist connects with the door three times. ‘You don’t have to wait with me,’ he adds.
Though her feet take a step backwards, she does not leave.
Samael waits while the echoes of his knocking settle, then knocks again, a second round of three, a pause, another.
Mazar moves a little further back.
The door spirals open, smooth and sudden, revealing a corridor, and in front of it, Obeisance. As ever, she is dressed in her cloak of feathers, unruffled. As she looks at them both, Mazar goes to her knees.
Samael does not. ‘Where is Vesper?’
‘She is within. The Seven are deciding her fate.’
‘Take me to her.’
Obeisance bristles. ‘Do not presume to order me, abom-ination.’
He considers this. The reaction does not surprise so much as depress. A part of him wishes to rip her bald head from her hairless body. Another, to corrupt her essence and drag her before The Seven. Let her experience life as a half-breed and then see if she retains her arrogance.
Instead he says, ‘You have surrendered. Unless you produce Vesper, it will be this abomination that decides your fate, and The Seven’s.’
It is Obeisance’s turn to consider. She does not need long. ‘This way,’ she says.
; Samael and Mazar follow her, the latter at some distance.
They come into a larger chamber, filled with display cases, all artfully edged with intricate letters, ugly history made beautiful through calligraphy, grand, looping. Several of these cases are open, their contents removed. Tools that once belonged to the creator, taken out and dusted off, put to work once more.
The sounds of industry have stopped now, and Samael sees five winged backs in a curved line, examining something he cannot see.
Alpha of The Seven stands to one side, his hands chained in front of him, his sword chained to his side, a muzzle of black iron clamped over his jaw.
Samael senses little emotion from him, the immortal still deep in shock. Obeisance lowers her head, respectful, as the other five turn.
He feels their eyes on him, then their revulsion hitting him like a wave. Four swords glare at him, itching to be drawn, while a fifth sits, inert, in Delta’s arms.
Beta notices Mazar then, and beckons her closer. He, like his brother Epsilon and his sisters appears excited about something, and nervous. He begins to speak, the others soon joining in.
‘Come, come and bear witness …’
‘Witness what we have wrought …’
‘Wrought iron to hold anger …’
‘Anger that caused such pain …’
‘Pain we have inflicted, and now regret …’
They point at Alpha, who flinches away.
‘Now he will listen …’
‘Listen while we promise …’
‘Promise to change …’
‘Change for the better …’
‘Better now that we are in balance.’
They part, allowing Samael to see a figure standing behind them. A naked statue, brushed from head to toe in silver, strange, yet familiar: Vesper. Her new skin does not erase her scars but it mutes them, grooves in the metal that snag the light. In her hand, she carries the Malice.
Though smaller and wingless, there is a likeness between her and the rest of The Seven that Samael cannot help but see.
‘Long have we waited …’
‘Waited and watched …’
‘Watched when we should have acted …’
‘Acted when we should have helped …’
‘Helped our people, our world …’
This time, five fingers point at Vesper.
‘For the first time, we have created …’
‘Created and healed …’
‘Healed Delta’s sword and Vesper’s body …’
‘Body and blade restored …’
‘Restored in form and number.’
Five hands open, and five faces beam with joy.
‘Two fragments join …’
‘Join to make one …’
‘One that joins six …’
‘Six that become Seven …’
‘Seven, as we were made to be.’
An eye opens and Vesper’s follow. Samael feels her smile, weary, before it reaches her face. She lifts her free hand, waves. ‘Hello.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Eventually, the storm passes. Winds clear and clouds disperse, leaving a bruised sky, and three suns where there were two, a gold and two red, a lesser and a greater.
A sky-ship takes Vesper back to Crucible. The journey is short. Vesper wishes it were longer.
‘How are you?’ asks Samael.
‘I’m going to miss my hair,’ she replies, making him wheeze, amused. ‘Honestly? I don’t know.’ She holds a silver hand up to the light. ‘This doesn’t look like mine anymore. But then, well, I haven’t really looked … right? Is that the word? Anyway, I haven’t felt myself since I was burned.’ She stops and looks at him. ‘I think it’s going to take a while.’
‘It gets easier,’ he says. ‘And if it helps, you can have some of my hair.’
She puts her arms around him, ignoring the clink as they connect with his armour. ‘I love you, Samael.’
The sky-ship touches down and she moves to the hatch. Though she does not need them, she is wearing boots, just as she is wearing clothes. Affectations to help her and her people adjust.
They have gathered outside to greet her, a strange mix. Even a glance tells her a lot. Very few West Rift faces can be seen, and the Thousand Nails no longer match their name. Grief and loss and injury mark many of the survivors, but the sword shows her other things too, a scattering of hope, and a rippling of awe at her arrival.
She catches a glimpse of Jem in the crowd and resolves to speak with him as soon as she can.
As she climbs out onto the wing of the sky-ship, they fall silent. ‘We did it. There are a lot of dead to mourn and a lot of injuries to heal but we did it. The fighting is over. Now we have to do the hard part.’ She pauses. ‘Now we have to find a way to live. Together. Better than before.
‘So I want you to think about what needs to be done, talk with your friends and family, and your leaders. I can’t do this on my own. Today we reflect, recover and take stock. Tomorrow, we plan and get to work.’
They cheer for her, a couple discharging weapons in her honour, but she can see divisions in the crowd already, new groups and agendas taking shape.
Tomorrow, she tells herself. I’ll worry about that tomorrow.
Cracks run the length of her room in the dome and it is colder than it should be. Vesper doesn’t notice for herself but deduces it from the goosebumps on Jem’s arms.
They stand an awkward distance apart. Too close to be formal, too distant for comfort.
‘Don’t be afraid,’ she says, and taps her chest. ‘It’s still me under here.’
He reaches partway across the gap. ‘Can I?’
‘Sure,’ she replies, trying to sound normal.
Fingers brush against her shoulder. ‘You’re warm!’
‘Yes.’
‘That’s a relief, I was worried you’d be …’ He glances down. ‘Look I have to ask, can you feel it when I touch you?’
‘Sort of. It’s not like before but I know that you’re touching me.’
‘So how is this going to work?’
‘What do you mean?’
Jem covers his mouth, awkward. ‘I mean, can you still … you know, get close?’
‘You’re asking if we can kiss?’
‘Yes. And other things.’
She sighs. ‘I don’t know. We’ll just have to find out.’ A little twinkle finds its way into her eyes. ‘Would you like to find out?’
‘Sure, yes.’
Vesper puckers her lips, waits. She frowns when Jem doesn’t come any closer. ‘What is it?’
‘Do you think maybe you could put the sword down first? I don’t like the way it’s looking at me.’
‘Oh, sorry.’ She doesn’t try to explain that, more than ever, the sword is a part of her. One thing at a time.
The sword is put down, and the two kiss.
Though she no longer touches the hilt, the essence link between them remains, stronger now. It reminds her of the thread that connects Samael and Scout.
An eye rolls at the comparison, indignant, and Vesper giggles.
Jem immediately pulls back. ‘What is it?’
‘Oh, nothing.’
He smiles at her. ‘No, it’s okay. It does feel funny, like I’m kissing you for the first time again.’
She puts aside the thought that she didn’t really register the kiss at all and focuses on the memory instead. ‘The first was good, wasn’t it?’
‘Yes, and the second. I think I bumped your teeth with the third.’
They both laugh.
‘Good times,’ murmurs Vesper. ‘It feels so long ago.’
‘A lifetime,’ adds Jem.
For a few moments, they stand, lost in memories.
Jem looks up at her. ‘What’s going to happen now?’
‘That’s a good question. I’m going to meet with the other delegates and try and thrash out a way forward. Crucible will finally be doing what it’s supposed to.
‘I want to make sure that the people not connected directly to any of the larger groups are looked after, and I want to make sure that we keep channels of communication open between all sides. If I can, I want to establish some basic rules in the way infernals and humans interact with each other. We managed to remove slavery from New Horizon, perhaps we can do the same in Slake.’ Her face twists as she considers the factory city’s leaders. ‘Maybe.’
Jem takes a step back from her. ‘Are you serious about all this?’
‘Of course I am.’
‘Then you have to apply those same rules to The Seven.’
An eye narrows, Vesper frowns. ‘That makes sense.’
‘And you have to help the people who have been brain-slaved.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean Mazar, and people like her. They can’t think for themselves anymore because Delta did something to their minds. It’s sick and it’s wrong, and you have to stop it! And if—’
She holds up her hands. ‘It’s alright, Jem. It’s alright. I agree with you. I’ll do what I can to help them.’
The sword shows her Jem’s anger, and the way it flickers over his essence. It points out the little hints of taint too, disapproving. She gives it a warning look and an eye looks back before showing her more, that Jem blames her as much as The Seven for their predicament, that there is revulsion too—
‘Enough!’ she says, her voice taking on a resonance.
Jem steps back, alarmed.
Silver wings shrug and an eye closes.
‘Don’t worry, Jem.’ She adds, ‘I wasn’t talking to you. It was the sword.’
Concern lingers on his face. ‘For a moment, when you spoke, you didn’t sound like you.’
‘No?’
‘You sounded like one of Them.’
‘I suppose I did.’
He looks at her as if studying a relic. ‘It’s more than just silver skin, isn’t it? They’ve changed you.’
‘Yes.’
‘What does it mean?’
‘Jem, I’m still getting my head round it as well. And The Seven are having to adapt just like we are.’ She points at the wall. ‘Out there, I have to look like I have all the answers. But in here, I just want to be me … I want to have some time to scratch my head and to feel like it’s okay that I don’t know what I’m doing. Maybe even to ask some questions myself.’