by D. P. Prior
“Does to me,” Shadrak said. “Now Sektis shogging Gandaw’s out of the picture, you have to go roll out a new nutjob.”
“To deflect attention from himself,” Rhiannon said. “If you want my opinion, he’s been the problem all along.”
“Well, we don’t,” Aristodeus said. “We are dealing with reality here, not the immature prattle of a—”
“A what?” Rhiannon said. She advanced on him, pressed her face up close. “A breeding cow? Is that what you were going to say?”
She cocked her head at Shader. “Oh, didn’t he tell you, Deacon? Remember what you did to Gaston after I told you what he’d done? Well,”—she stepped away from Aristodeus—“what this shogging pervert did was a whole lot worse. And it affects you, too.”
Dread and confusion took away Shader’s tongue. Not that he’d spoken much since leaving Blightey’s domain. He’d lacked the words. But Gaston… Gaston Rayn had raped Rhiannon. Was she saying that…?
Aristodeus blanched and started to stammer a response.
Shader knew the philosopher well enough to see he was weaving a lie. With a surge of white-hot rage, he strode across the floor between them and grabbed Aristodeus by the front of his toga. The time for tolerance, the time for niceties had passed when Blightey’s flaming skull had streamed from the cottage in Verusia, leaving a dead family in its wake, and Pete. Leaving the thin veneer of Shader’s purity exposed for what it really was, in all its ugliness.
When they came, his words were almost guttural. “What have you done?”
Aristodeus’s eyes met his, unblinking. The philosopher seemed to force himself to relax with a supreme act of will. Without glancing at Rhiannon, he asked her in slow, deliberate words, “Affects him how?”
“Don’t pretend you don’t know, you shogger,” Rhiannon said. “Don’t you dare. Not after what you’ve just put us through.”
Galen was watching intently now. So was Shadrak. And Nameless edged closer, following the exchange through the eye-slit of his great helm. Only Albert seemed unaffected. He was making an idle circuit of the control room, studying the consoles and screens.
“It’s the black sword making her act like this,” Aristodeus said to Shader with a roll of his eyes. “I have a nasty feeling about where that thing comes from. Don’t you, Nameless?”
“What I feel about it is beside the point,” Nameless said. “But Shader asked you a question, and I for one would like to hear the answer.”
“And what about my question?” Aristodeus said, though his newfound equanimity was starting to fray. “Affects him how? I asked.”
“Fine,” Rhiannon said. “You want to play it that way, I’ll tell you. You see, your little secret’s out, Baldy.” To Shader, she said, “Saphra’s his. That’s the first thing you should know.”
Shader’s grip slackened on Aristodeus’s toga. “Saphra? But…” He looked at Rhiannon, as if he might find clarity in her face. Instead, he saw only tightly controlled rage.
“No, it wasn’t a soldier,” she said. “Sorry to disappoint. But wait, there’s more. Tell him about the champagne,” she said to Aristodeus. “Go on. What was it, Demon Blue or some shit?”
“Diamant Bleu Cuvée”
“That’s the muck. Tell him where from. What year.”
“1907.”
“Know what that is?” Rhiannon asked Shader. “Ancient calendar, is what. Before the Reckoning.”
Shader shook his head. None of this made any sense. There was something missing. Something he just wasn’t grasping.
“You see,” Rhiannon said. “He travels a lot. Back in time.”
Aristodeus scowled, and his eyes flashed with suppressed violence.
“Not just to fetch champagne from a shipwreck,” Rhiannon said. “He shifts back to change things, to cover up his mistakes and failures. Isn’t that right, Baldy?”
He glared at her and said, “Who told you this? Mephesch? One of the others? Bezaleel?”
“Why don’t you shoot higher?” Rhiannon said. “Like Archon higher.”
At the same time, Shader, Aristodeus, and Shadrak said, “The Archon?”
Galen said, “The Archon told you to protect Ludo.” If it was meant to be an accusation, it didn’t sound like one. The same as Shader, the dragoon was trying to fit all the pieces together.
“She’s working for him,” Shadrak said.
“Hardly,” Rhiannon said. “Just jumping through hoops to get my daughter back.” Then she speared Shader with a look full of pity, pleading, and loathing all mingled together. “Your daughter.”
“No,” Aristodeus said. “Stop right there.”
Shader let go of the philosopher and implored Rhiannon for her meaning. “My daughter?” Was she delusional? He’d never—not even with Lallia that time in Sarum. Not even with Thecla Cawdor. Just the thought of what had happened in the cottage set his guts writhing. But certainly not with Rhiannon. Huntsman had made sure of that, and he’d only been doing the philosopher’s bidding.
“He’s you, Deacon. Don’t you see it?”
“I said enough!” Aristodeus snapped.
Nameless put himself between the philosopher and Rhiannon. Galen edged closer, too. Shadrak circled behind Aristodeus, fingering the daggers in his baldric. Even Albert was listening attentively now.
“Deacon, he’s you,” Rhiannon said again. She reached for his hand, but he snatched it away. “When he failed to stop Sektis Gandaw that first time, he was plunged into the Abyss. From there, he found a way out, a way to use its timelessness or something. I don’t understand it all, but I know enough from what the Archon told me, and the little scraps of information this bald bastard fed me to keep me onside.”
Aristodeus let out a world-weary sigh and said to Shader, “I had hoped it would not be necessary to tell you. This changes everything, puts the future in great jeopardy.”
“He changed the past, Deacon,” Rhiannon said. “His own past. Yours.”
Shader’s head felt ready to explode. He could hear the words, string them together, but they held no meaning. It was as if the world had been turned inside out.
“I traversed my own timeline,” Aristodeus said. “Back to my birth. I took the babe destined to be me and transplanted it from Graecia to Britannia, found new parents, Jarl and Gralia, and the rest you know.”
The transgressors of time.
Is that why Heredwin had revealed himself to Shader? Because he was a breaker of the natural law? An aberration to be kept an eye on?
Shader staggered with the enormity of what he was hearing. He’d always known there was something. Something about his upbringing, something about the philosopher. The niggling feelings that had plagued him for some time came into sharp focus. Aristodeus had chosen his parents: Jarl the warrior, Gralia the luminary. Had the philosopher deliberately introduced the conflict, the paradox at the heart of Shader’s life? Before he even formulated his next question, Rhiannon answered it.
“So he could wield the Sword of the Archon. So you could. You are the same person.”
“Not entirely,” Aristodeus said.
“You’re right there, laddie,” Nameless said. “Shader is a friend, a man of honor and courage.”
“Precisely,” Aristodeus said. “Unfortunately, the qualities needed to hold that blasted weapon. But the physical qualities, the intellect—in nature if not in nurture—are all my own.”
“And the seed,” Rhiannon said, as if she were swallowing vinegar. This time, she took hold of Shader’s hand, and he was too dazed to resist. “Saphra is yours.”
“Rubbish,” Aristodeus said. “In some loose genetic sense, maybe, but—”
Shader pushed Rhiannon away from him, and in the same motion drew the gladius. Aristodeus backed away, but Shader followed. The philosopher stumbled and dropped into his armchair.
Saphra? Rhiannon’s little girl? Shader had assumed she was Pete’s daughter, or Sandau’s. Or any one of a hundred soldiers. But Saphra was Aristodeus’s?
And Aristodeus was… No, it made no sense. But at the same time, he knew it was true, and it was a truth he needed to cut away like gangrene.
“Deacon,” Aristodeus said. “My boy. You’re not hearing the whole—”
Shader thrust with the sword. Aristodeus squealed, but the blade penetrated the fabric of the armchair beside his head.
“A weapon,” Shader growled to no one in particular. “Give him a weapon.”
“Shog off,” Shadrak said. “I ain’t giving him one of mine. Just stick the scut where he sits.”
“This any good?” Albert said, holding up a cheese-cutter.
“Take mine,” Galen said, drawing his saber and handing it to Aristodeus. If he was hoping the philosopher was going to make up for his humiliating defeat at Shader’s hands in the final of the tournament, he had another thing coming.
“Don’t do this, Deacon,” Aristodeus said, nevertheless making a couple of practice swipes to gauge the balance of Galen’s saber. “Don’t let anger rule you. It’s what the Demiurgos does. It’s what he wants.”
“No,” Shader said, stepping back and beckoning Aristodeus to stand. “It’s what I want.” He’d made his decision: to cut down evil wherever he found it, and there was nothing more evil than this; nothing worse than what Aristodeus had done. Not only had he abused Rhiannon, but he’d abused the very laws of nature, damning Shader in the process.
“Kill me,” Aristodeus said, “and you kill yourself.”
“So?” Shader said. Anger took away his ability to care about that, and besides, how did he know Aristodeus was telling the truth? It seemed more likely the philosopher had as little idea as anyone else what would happen if either one of them died. Just being here together in the same room shouldn’t have been possible, and yet Aristodeus had tutored him since childhood and been there every step of the way.
“Suit yourself,” Aristodeus said. “After all, you are no longer indispensable. The threat of the Unweaving has passed, and now Rhiannon has exposed my secrets, you are more likely to be an aid to the Demiurgos than a hindrance. All this rage, this anger: you are already under the sway of his deceptions.”
“The only deceptions I’ve fallen prey to,” Shader said, “are yours. Now, shut up and defend yourself.”
Aristodeus did the opposite: he lunged, but it was a feint, and Shader saw right through it. The philosopher immediately aimed a head-kick, but that was also a ruse. He corkscrewed his body over his striking leg and went for a hamstringing cut with the saber.
With the barest of pivots, a deft flick of his wrist, Shader blocked. Aristodeus spun on his heel as he landed, slung out an elbow. Shader swayed aside—right into the path of the saber as it sheered round. The gladius deflected it before his mind caught up, then he was parrying left, right, up, down as Aristodeus launched a blistering sequence of attacks.
The philosopher established a frantic rhythm that allowed Shader no opening to counter, and then he brought his legs into play, kicking low, driving with his knees. He was fast, and more skillful than when he’d been Shader’s tutor. There was something preternatural about his ability, as if he’d honed it over the course of many lifetimes.
Shader’s anger cooled the instant he recognized he was outclassed. Instead, he gave the gladius its head, let his sword arm respond as if it had a life of its own. He danced, around the kicks, absorbed the knees as best he could, accepted the pain with growls and grunts. And all the while, he watched the philosopher’s eyes, bored into their fierce concentration, studied each flick, each shift of focus.
Aristodeus would begin to wonder why his saber blows weren’t getting through; why Shader was parrying with such poise and calm. A good defense will only buy you time against a competent attack, the philosopher had never tired of telling him. Sooner or later, you’d mistime a block, and then it was all over.
But that was only if it was defense with no other purpose.
Aristodeus’s pupils dilated a fraction, and Shader knew he had him. Rather than blocking this time, he grabbed the philosopher’s sword arm, and flung the gladius at his unprotected face.
Aristodeus screamed, and his eyes bulged—
—And metal-clad fingers snatched the blade from the air a hair’s breadth from finding its mark.
Nameless turned and offered the Archon’s sword back to Shader.
Shader was momentarily stunned. Not so much by the speed with which the dwarf had caught the blade, but by the fact he was able to hold it at all. Everyone else who’d touched it had been burned. Even Shader had, after massacring the soldiers back in New Jerusalem, when the sword had rejected him. He started to wonder why Aristodeus hadn’t used Nameless all along, if he could wield the Archon’s sword, if he had the necessary purity of heart or purpose or whatever it was.
Aristodeus had said something before, hadn’t he? About Nameless being the perfect choice, but for his brush with the Demiurgos. The malignancy of the black axe had conflicted him, left shadows in its wake. Had that changed now? Had the corruption passed?
But then he realized: it was most likely the gauntlets protecting the dwarf. Gauntlets made by the son of Supernal beings.
“I understand your anger, my friend,” Nameless said. “I feel the same way myself. But don’t let Ludo’s death be for nothing. Or Bird’s, or the doggy-chap’s.”
“Ekyls,” Albert said.
Galen grunted agreement.
“Yes, Ekyls,” Nameless said. “Do this right, Shader. Do it for them. Do it for yourself. And if you can’t, then do it for me.”
Shader’s calm had left him. In its place, he trembled with anger, wanted nothing more than to put down the sword and beat Aristodeus to a pulp with his fists.
The philosopher, though, regained his poise in an instant. He held out the saber for Galen to take, and nodded sagely at Nameless, like he wanted to give the impression he’d planned this all along; that he’d not for a single moment been terrified.
“One more quest,” Aristodeus said.
Shader threw a punch, but Nameless caught his fist.
“I need you to try, laddie. Please.”
Shader’s rage swelled within him, but none of it fell on the dwarf. Slowly, inexorably, it drained away, as if absorbed by the scarolite of the great helm. He knew it was more than that. Knew he could never fight with Nameless. Even if he could win, he wouldn’t want to. Nameless was a true friend, honest even when it hurt. And he was the bravest person Shader had ever met; if ever there was, a true hero.
Nameless released Shader’s fist, watched him through the eye-slit of the great helm, and then sighed. “I can’t remove these gauntlets. We took them from the fire giant, Sartis. They give me unimaginable strength, but my own hands are buried beneath them. And now, I can’t remove the Liche Lord’s armor. I knew it while I was putting it on, but something made me wear it all the same.”
“Hope,” Aristodeus said. “Hope that if you reach the finish line—”
Nameless carried on speaking, as if Shader were the only other person in the room. “I’ve already come too far. I allowed myself to be persuaded to make the attempt. To find a way to remove this helm. But each step I take on this path, I grow more uncertain. More afraid. It’s as if I need the gauntlets, the armor to protect me, though I don’t know what from. A voice keeps telling me if I find one more thing—this Shield of Warding the Cynocephalus is said to cower beneath—all will be well. The black axe’s hold over me will be broken, the helm can be removed, and the armor and gauntlets will slough away like old skin. But I don’t know, laddie. I don’t know truth from illusion right now. I don’t know good from evil. But you do. You always have known, and I see it in you now, clearer than ever. Come with me, laddie, this one last time.”
Shader looked away from the eye-slit. Looked about at the others.
Albert was cleaning under his nails with the cheese-cutter.
Galen nodded encouragement, but there was a hollow look in his eyes. He appeared to Shader a man devoid of purpo
se now Ludo was gone. Or a man in need of one. In need of some way to expiate the guilt he felt at failing the man he was sworn to protect.
Shadrak’s arms were folded across his chest. He, too, was nodding, though he was watching Nameless, and the nods seemed to be for himself.
Rhiannon—
Rhiannon’s eyes were averted, like she was too ashamed to face Shader. Too ashamed, or too angry he hadn’t finished Aristodeus off. The black sword hung at her hip, as wrong as cancer. He wanted to rip it from her, but he had no right. The old Rhiannon was still in there somewhere, he was sure of it. Like Nameless, she had to make her own stand, cast out her own demons. Only if she didn’t, if she couldn’t, would he step in and do something.
“Saphra,” he said, turning a glare on Aristodeus. His daughter? Theirs?
“Go with Nameless first,” the philosopher said. “Help him, and then we’ll talk. We’ll all talk.”
Rhiannon opened her mouth to protest, but Nameless said, “You, too, lassie. I need you, too. And then,” he said to Aristodeus, “you’ll give the girl back.”
Aristodeus’s eyes hardened. “We’ll see. But first things first—”
“No, laddie,” Nameless said. “You will.”
“Fine,” Aristodeus said. “Whatever. But before you go, assuming you are all going, and not just planning to hang around here debating, there’s something I think you should take.” This he said to Shader.
He produced a stoppered glass vial from within his toga and held it out. Something black and misty swirled within.
“First, you’ll be heading back to Earth, to the Great West. There’s a facility in the city of… I forget what they call it now, but it used to be Chicago. My homunculi have repaired a huge piece of Ancient-tech there, a particle accelerator; focused it so that it opens up onto the Abyss.”
“Why not just take the plane ship?” Shadrak said.
“Because the Abyss is no mere location,” Aristodeus said. “It’s not one plane among others. It is a state, an extension of being, of the mind of the Demiurgos himself. Even the accelerator you will be using would not be enough on its own. But calibrated by the homunculi, beings begotten from the Deceiver himself, it can open a passage. Other than that, the only doorway is death.” He gave a withering look at Shader.