Pearseus Bundle: The Complete Pearseus Sci-fi/Fantasy Series

by Nicholas C. Rossis

  Parad and his two companions reached the steps that separated her from the rest of the room and paused, unsure of how to proceed.

  Styx rose to her feet, a forced smile plastered on her face, and pressed her open palm against her chest in a sign of gratitude. “Thank you for your services.”

  They bowed their heads but stayed silent, having not yet been instructed to speak. Their respect made her smile turn real for a moment. Then she remembered her duty: to make sure none of them threatened the peace of the Capital. She chased the smile away from her face as if it were an annoying fly.

  “You have done a great service to our people,” Styx continued, “and for that, you have our undying gratitude.” She glanced at her clerk, who hurried to approach her with a velvet cushion in his hands. Styx motioned the three soldiers up the steps.

  They stood before her in attention, backs and arms straight, fists clenched. Parad’s eyes were weary, but Tang and Gella’s were filled with expectations. Expectations Styx had every intention of fuelling before crushing them. She picked up one of the insignia-decorated epaulets from the pillow and nodded at Gella, who took one step forward.

  Styx fastened the epaulet on the woman’s shoulder. “Lieutenant Gella, as recognition for your service, you are now a Captain of the Capital’s army. Congratulations.” Gella’s face lit up. Styx saluted her, then shook her hand. “Your new assignment is to help secure our mines in the North. You leave in the morning.”

  Styx ignored Gella’s stunned expression and turned to Tang. She fastened an epaulet on his shoulder. “Lieutenant Tang, as recognition for your service, you are now a Captain of the Capital’s army. Congratulations.” She scanned his face, but his expression was inscrutable. A man to watch out for. She flirted with the idea of sending him to prison for a moment, but eventually decided to proceed with her original plan. She saluted him, then shook his hand. “Your new assignment is to help with the reconstruction of New Capital. You leave in the morning.”

  Parad opened his mouth as if to speak. Styx felt her cheeks burn. Is that how cocky your success has made you, General? To speak unbidden? In that case, sending you to Anthea with a medal pinned upon your chest won’t be enough. She waved away the clerk, who glanced bug-eyed at the medal left on the cushion, but said nothing as he scurried away.

  Styx faced Parad. “As for you, my dear General, I can’t thank you enough for everything you have done for us. I can’t wait to reward you for your great service.”

  His eyebrows knitted together.

  “However, there have been complaints about your conduct in Petria. I believe you threatened the local citizens in order to force them into accepting refugees into their city? The leader of the Populars sent a rather scathing report.”

  Tang and Gella exchanged glances. Parad’s face turned red. He shifted his weight, looking unsure of whether to respond or not.

  She continued talking to stop him from making a mistake that would cost him his life. She needed him defanged, not dead. “There has to be an investigation. No one is above the law, not even Petria’s hero.” She forced a reassuring smile to her lips. “I’m sure you have nothing to worry about, though. Just a technicality, really. But I’m afraid your reward will have to wait until you’re formally cleared.”

  A dozen Guardians emerged from the alcoves to stand behind the three soldiers. They slammed their weapons on the floor.

  “Captains, you’re free to go. General, please follow my men. They’ll escort you to your temporary quarters.”

  Half the Guardians escorted the two Captains out while Parad stayed behind, studying the veins in the marble floor.

  “So, it’s exile for them and prison for me?” he asked as soon as Gella and Tang had left. His voice dripped with bitterness.

  She raised an eyebrow at his transgression but decided to answer him. Despite everything, she was rather fond of him. “Prison’s such an ugly word. But yes, that’s the gist of it.”

  “Why?” he asked, raising his gaze to meet hers. His shoulders were slumped in resignation even as his palms balled into fists.

  “For the same reason I killed your son,” she said in a measured voice. “Everything I do is for the good of the people.”

  Styx spun around and left through the heavy wooden door that led to her office. Behind her, Guardians placed heavy shackles around Parad’s hands and feet. The click of the locks and clang of the chains made her clench her teeth. You did what you had to, she reminded herself. For the people.

  Part Two

  “A man who has nothing which he is willing to fight for, nothing which he cares more about than he does about his personal safety, is a miserable creature who has no chance of being free, unless made and kept so by the exertions of better men than himself.

  As long as justice and injustice have not terminated their ever-renewing fight for ascendancy in the affairs of mankind, human beings must be willing, when need is, to do battle for the one against the other.”

  John Stuart Mill

  304 AL

  Chamber of Justice, the Capital

  February 5, Marta

  Marta waited patiently outside the Justice’s office, scrutinizing with unseeing eyes a crack on the old stone slates. Her thoughts lay with her husband, Parad. She was numb inside; could not even remember the last time she had smiled.

  Marta had already lost a son and now had to fight for her husband’s life as well. And yet, she felt nothing. She wished she could experience some of the anger, the rage, the hatred she had suffered on the night Cyrus had been dragged from her. Parad had never elaborated on what had happened during his meeting with the Justice. It was later that she’d heard the awful rumours of her son’s death, whispered in the dark by servants and friends who threw her pitiful glances that sliced through her heart. At first she had not wanted to believe them, but their pity had crept inside her, killing all emotion as it spread like bile throughout her soul.

  Next, she lost her husband—not once, but twice, if the rumours were true. First to the beautiful young soldier that seemed to follow him everywhere he went. Then, to jail.

  Now, Marta waited in the silent corridor to petition Styx for leniency. After several failed attempts at meeting her, she had nearly given in to despair. When the Justice had suddenly agreed to see her, Marta had no idea what it meant, or whether it was good or bad, but hope had abandoned her long ago and now she only wished for it all to end. She did not want to admit this, but hearing Parad was to be executed might be almost as comforting as hearing Styx say she would release him.

  The door across the hall opened quietly and a silent, black-clad Guardian in a flaming red cape motioned her in. Marta sat up, cringing. Her age weighed on her lately, and in the past few years her short hair had gone from black to silver, then white.

  She did not care about any of that, either. When she had first heard the rumours about Parad and his young aide, she had realised how little anything mattered to her anymore. When she had confronted him about it, he had not denied it. She had appreciated that, could even understand him. Having always been the strong one in their household, it seemed natural to her that he would turn to another strong woman for support. Unable to hate him, she could no longer remember her love for him either; a love once so strong, but now extinguished.

  Marta walked into the justice’s office, a large, elegant room with sparse decorations. Her eyes needed a little time to get used to the dark, as the curtains were drawn over the windows, allowing but a little light in. She remembered that Styx hated light; it caused her migraines, if the rumours were true. When Marta’s vision adjusted, she made out a small statue of Themis on an ornate table, a couple of leather chairs, and a tasteful—if somewhat grand—desk.

  The silhouette behind the desk motioned her with an absentminded wave of her hand towards one of the chairs.

  Marta sat down and waited.

  After a while, Styx raised her eyes from the e-lib she was reading and studied Marta for a moment, before s
tanding up to patter behind her. Marta noticed that the dreaded crystal around her neck was dark; a good sign. She was not being judged—at least for now. She remained silent, waiting for the Justice to speak first.

  “You’ve asked to see me.”

  Marta knitted her fingers together, as if in silent prayer. “Yes, your Honour.”

  “Quite a few times, too.”

  “Yes, your Honour.”

  “Well, here I am. What would you have of me?”

  Marta remained silent for a moment. She had played this conversation out so many times in her head, and yet now was unsure how to begin. She froze as she realized that her carefully prepared, elegant words had melted away. All that remained of the eloquent phrases was the core of her argument, the most basic truth she possessed.

  “My husband is a good man,” she blurted out.

  “I know.”

  Styx’s answer shocked her. Words escaped Marta’s lips in a string of incoherent questions. “Then, why did … Have you … What …?”

  A sad half-smile played on Styx’s lips. “Do you think it’s only evil people that commit evil deeds? Or perhaps that evil people alone should suffer?”

  “Isn’t that what justice is all about?”

  Styx shook her head and returned to her chair. “I have yet to judge someone who says, ‘Your Honour, I’m a bad man and deserve to be punished’. The worst person I’ve ever tried was a madman. He tortured and mutilated his victims, mainly children. It gave him pleasure. You know what he said when I condemned him? That the voices in his head made him do it; that he, in fact, was a good man. Do you think he was a good man?”

  “I … I don’t know.”

  “I do. I know those voices. There is true evil in the world. Humans are nothing like that. A person is capable of committing, at worst, accidental evil. People mistake it for true evil all the time. They tell you how evil it was of them to be unfaithful; how evil they were to steal that money. They mistake personal failings for the whispers in the dark. Sweet fools; I almost envy them, for it means they haven’t heard them yet. They’re still uncorrupted.”

  She’s making no sense. Marta wondered if Styx had gone crazy, as the rumours claimed.

  The Justice seemed lost in her own thoughts for a moment, ignoring the gaping woman in front of her. “Your husband’s not like that, I know. He’s a good man, a loyal man. Anyone else would’ve killed me long ago.”

  Marta’s eyes widened. “Your Honour—”

  Styx cut her off with a curt wave of her hand. “Still, sometimes we need to sacrifice those most precious to us for the greater good. My first priority is to the people. Who’ll look after them, if I’m gone? That’s why I had to sacrifice your son and your husband. For the people.”

  Marta had expected a monster, but now she did not know what to think. Styx seemed to read her mind, and a sad smile crept on her lips.

  “You don’t believe me, do you? Probably think I’m crazy. I don’t blame you, I might think the same if I were you. But no, I’m perfectly sane. Your son would someday kill me. I’m not afraid of dying, but I know that people would suffer. So, I had to do my duty, much as I hated it. As for your husband, he’s the greatest hero of our time. We owe him a debt of gratitude we can never hope to repay. After he’s executed, his statue will be erected among the Twelve. It’s the least I can do for him.”

  Executed? Her heart skipped a beat. “Then why … why kill him?”

  An involuntary twitch cracked the edges of Styx’s mouth. “How can I not? He’s too powerful. A magnet, attracting all those who’d destroy everything we’ve accomplished. He may be loyal, but not everyone is.” She rose from her chair again to pace around the room. “We live in dark times. The Loyalists may be defeated, but the realm is still suffering. Our victory was poisoned. We’ve bitten off more than we can chew. Our economy’s in ruins. People are fearful, confused. It’s hard enough to keep them together as it is. If I allow an adversary to appear, the whole realm will split up again. Last time, it took us three hundred years to repair the damage. How long would it take now?” Styx stopped pacing and spun around to face Marta. “I hope you understand; it’s nothing personal.”

  How can she say that? “It’s personal to me,” Marta cried out.

  Styx bit her lower lip. “I’m sorry. I really am. We must all make our sacrifices. I treasure your husband and I know he cares for you. I’ll make sure you’ll lack for nothing once he’s gone, you have my word.”

  She’s taken everything from me and now promises I’ll lack for nothing? “Except for a husband and a father,” Marta blurted before she could stop herself. She bit her tongue to stop herself from saying anything more, and straightened her dress with long, nervous strokes of her hands.

  Styx gave her an unexpectedly compassionate look. She opened her mouth to speak, but an electronic chirp interrupted her. Irritation flashed in her eyes. She walked behind her desk to frown at an e-lib’s blinking screen. After a moment, she looked up from the screen to throw Marta a surprised glance. “If it’s any consolation, your husband’s services may be needed yet, so he’s safe for now.” She returned her attention back to the device in her hands. “Now, if there’s nothing else …”

  Marta raised herself wearily to her feet. She had no idea what to say. She wanted to tell Styx that she was wrong. That her husband was a great man and a hero; that her son had been a good boy, who loved to play and hunt and ride; that people like Marta and her family should not have to suffer and die for people like Styx. She had so much she wanted to say, so many buried emotions bubbling to the surface, that she feared she would simply scream if she opened her mouth. So, she said nothing, walking out instead, as proudly as she could. She did not cry; had no more tears to shed.

  She heard Styx’s words to the guard as the door closed softly behind her:

  “Send Altman in.”

  The Marshes

  David

  The old shaman chanted in a hoarse voice, swaying his gaunt body in a gentle rocking motion.

  David was sitting on the dusty floor of the dark tent. He fed some incense into the fire, breathing in the aromatic smoke. “What’re you doing?” he whispered after a while, growing impatient.

  “Feel the planet,” the old man murmured. “Good. Evil.”

  “Huh?”

  The shaman ignored him for a while, then cracked his eyes open, now deep in his trance. His piercing eyes shone with intensity. “I’m in a forest.” He shifted the dust on the ground, as if it were soil and mulch. “A dark stain. Blood.” He whipped his head around. “An Orb. Someone’s been killed.” He gaped around him.

  David shook his hand in front of the old man’s unseeing eyes, then withdrew it again when it elicited no response.

  “The beach,” the old man continued. He recoiled as if in terror. “Stains. They grow … No more sand. Only blood.” He nodded, as if listening to someone.

  David leaned forward, gaping at the old man. “Are you talking to the Orb? What’s she saying?”

  “Where man slays man,” the shaman said in a gravely voice, “the blood can never be washed away.” He stayed silent for a time, then yawned deeply and stretched his limbs as he came out of his trance.

  David drummed his fingers on the ground while the shaman regained his consciousness. “What did you see?” he asked when he could no longer contain his curiosity.

  The old man shook his head. “A sign of things to come. The ancient enemy is in the Haunted Forest. Take the fight to him.”

  Even though David had never heard of such a place, the foreboding name told him all he needed to know. His shoulders dropped. “What should we look for? Is it Fallen?”

  “The Fallen are a symptom, not the disease. To cure the symptom, fight the disease.”

  “But where?”

  “Northeast. Prepare your friends. I’ll talk to the Elders.”

  David stepped out of the tent, blinking repeatedly as his eyes got used to the soft afternoon light. A group of bl
acksmiths on their way to the tavern motioned an invitation for a drink. He smiled, but waved a polite refusal. The blacksmiths left, disappointed. They’ll have to make do without their patron saint, he thought, amused.

  One of David’s set of skills that had proven notably popular with the First came straight from the knowledge crystal: metallurgy. David proved a worthy descendant of Lucas, although most of the materials described in the crystal either required components he had never heard of, or were too complicated to make outside a laboratory. In his first year with the First he had constructed a metal that was lighter, yet more durable than anything used so far by the First. The weapons and armour built with it had given the Wind Warriors and the Fire Clan a distinct advantage over the other tribes. Within a mere three years, the two clans had effectively ruled all of the First.

  As an unexpected side benefit, the two clans’ blacksmiths were enjoying an unprecedented popularity among women. So, they considered David somewhere between patron saint and blacksmith genius, competing for the privilege of his friendship, probably in the hope he would reveal some new knowledge while out drinking with them. David had not paid for a single drink in ages, despite his continuous efforts to make it clear that he would not show anyone preferential treatment.

  He shook the thoughts from his head as soon as he spotted his friends in the distance. His pace quickened. Since they had first met, Cyrus had grown into a tall, handsome young man, all trim and sinewy. He had a rich beard, in the fashion of the First, and could easily be mistaken for one of them, if not for his eloquence and cultivated manners. He had long since stopped his awkward advances on Moirah and had been known to break the hearts of quite a few First girls.

  Moirah, fierce and graceful as ever, stood next to Lehmor. Although her husband could no longer hold a shield or use a bow, his skill with the Sheimlek had grown legendary. Even Cyrus could not defeat him. The four of them had grown close, not because the Old Woman had asked them to do so, but because of mutual respect. The initial apprehension had faded away, and David now considered them his best friends—apart from the Voice, of course.