by Tim Akers
"What did you say about ruin? The ruin of what?" I asked.
"Of nothing. Of everything. You know our sins, child of Morgan. The blackness that we created, the destruction that we wrought. It gave birth to a form, a form that lives in this lake."
"What now?" Cassandra asked. "Some kind of monster?"
"Some kind of darkness," the Elemental answered. "We built our temples to try to purge it. It absorbed all our pain, all our vile terror, and fed it back to us. More with each sin, always more."
"Is it still here?" she asked.
"It must be. We did not purge it, but it no longer speaks to us. Your Alexander knows of it. We always thought ..." He paused, as if weighing us. "We always thought it was the burden of that sin that kept us from ascending completely. We may have been wrong. Alexander seemed to think it could ... sponge up divinity. Swallow the light of the holy."
"And hold it," Cassandra said. "Like a battery."
"But what about-" I started.
The Elemental raised a hand. "I'm sorry, but there is nothing more I can tell you, because there is nothing more I can know." He stood and ritually brushed off the knees of his robe. "I wish you well, scions of Morgan and Amon. It is quite a task you face."
"Wait! You didn't actually answer any real questions!"
"You did not ask any real questions. I can hardly be blamed for that."
He turned and stepped off the edge of the porch, to disappear among the mass of Feyr that surrounded us. They began milling about, until we lost sight of the Elemental.
"That's great," Cassandra said. "You think we could come back later?"
"Maybe we can make an appointment," I answered. We went back the way we came, past the wooden houses. The place looked abandoned now. "I get the feeling that he doesn't talk to a lot of people, though."
"Other than the gods, that is. And neither of us is Alexander."
"No," I said. "We certainly aren't. Nor Amon, nor Morgan. And we don't know what Alexander knows, or what he's doing to maintain the cycle. If he's using that damned Ruin." I looked up at the bricklined ceiling and grimaced. "Not yet, anyway."
he old part of Ash is nice, especially in the early fall. The worst of summer is past, the worst of winter far away. The air is clean, probably the only clean breath you'll get in the whole city. Distant winds come down from the Crow's Teeth Mountains, wash across the vast plains of the collar, and break over the lake, right into the Brothers' Spear. That air carries the smell of the harvest and the cold promise of snow.
There are a lot of old buildings on the lakeshore, stones that were raised under Amon's watchful eye. Picturesque arches cross canals that once fed the mercantile heart of the Fraterdom, but now serve nothing more than pleasure rafts and private boats. This district has been spared the modern touch. No monotrains, no glass towers, no waterway access to speak of. Just glorious old architecture and cobblestone streets, and the kind of boutiques that sell things no one really needs.
Which is why I hadn't been back since my acceptance into the Paladin. Passing through doesn't count, and the bit of sneaking I did on the edges of this district, following Simeon to his unfortunate meeting with Elector Nathaniel, doesn't either. No, for all my dedication to the old ways of my Cult, I had left this district to other pedestrians.
"The parade," I said, much to the surprise of my companion. "I suppose the parade comes through here. I'm usually too tired at that point from walking in formation to really notice."
"Notice what?" she asked.
"Oh. The buildings. The shops. It's really a nice area."
Cassandra looked around at the picture windows and colored awnings. I couldn't help but note how different this was from the Library Desolate. I wondered how long she had been in there, anyway. I asked.
"Five years, more or less. I've been visiting since I was a kid." I snorted at that. Still a kid, kid. "My parents didn't like it, but they supported my decision to dedicate."
"They still alive?"
"I don't know. I guess." She folded her arms into her sleeves and squinted out over the water. "I guess when I say `support,' I mean they didn't physically stop me."
"Mm. Well. You ever been to this part of town before?"
"No. No reason."
"Yeah."
We had walked most of the way here, which in itself was unusual. Lots of pedigears here, rumbling down the street. Even at this hour. Easy enough to pass unseen, though. That lack of the modern touch also meant the street lighting was archaic. We were standing in an alleyway, not two blocks from the Spear of the Brothers. I could see the underlights splashing off the white stone and bathing the surrounding buildings in its pale reflection. We were in the worst part of the nice part of town, the sort of dark alleys that elected officials skulked down to find mistresses and vices and the like. Not a lot of that business going on tonight, though. The city was in upheaval. Even the vice making was in chaos.
"Let's assume that you know where the archive is," Cassandra said. "How do you propose we get in there?"
"That's assuming a lot. Specifically, it assumes something that's untrue." I leaned against the wall and sighed. "The good thing is that we don't have to worry about sneaking in. Not until we know where we're sneaking to, I suppose."
"I suppose," Cassandra echoed.
We had decided that we didn't know enough. That should have been obvious, but it took us a while to accept it. Cassandra thought the evidence from our little archive was more than enough to exonerate Amon and nail Alexander to a wall. Any wall. The girl wasn't picky. I wasn't ready to give up on Amon as the Betrayer, at least not on the scant findings we had in hand. I think I was just putting it off, really. Even if we had absolute proof that Alexander killed Morgan, what good would it do? Who would believe an escaped Amonite and the last of the Paladins of Morgan?
It didn't matter. We had to know. So we decided to seek out the theoretical hidden archive. If Alexander was keeping a body of knowledge to himself, grooming his own personal cadre of Amonites to care for it, and using that knowledge to prevent this "turning of the sky" that the Feyr Elemental had talked about ... well, I wanted to know about it. If we found out some other truth about Morgan's death, that was fine. We would deal with that on discovery.
Thing was, this other archive was just a story. We didn't know it really existed. We certainly didn't know where it was. Just made sense to start at the Spear, close to the godking's throne.
I was done with waiting. The Spear was a simple building, surrounded by other administrative chambers that served as the seat of government in Ash. We would start in one of those other buildings and work our way to the center, or down, or whatever path felt right. I trusted the Hunter.
One thing bugged me most. Infiltration, spying, sneaking in ... this was Betrayer work. And Cassandra was better at it than I was comfortable with. She had gotten us uniforms, even disguised the archive as some kind of street-sweeping gear. My sword and holster were hidden in an enormously complicated staff of office that I almost had to drag along. Administrators liked their relics of office, even if they held no noetic power. Mine at least had a revolver and a sword stuffed inside. The articulated sheath stayed on my back, retracted under the robes of state Cassandra had produced. She had gone out without me and returned with her gifts.
"These are good," I said when she handed them to me. "You practice this stuff?"
"Just a matter of hijacking an automated loom, tuning it up a bit. The owner will actually thank me, when he figures it out."
"You didn't steal anything, did you?"
"You're kidding, right? We're talking about breaking into the holiest house in the city, which will undoubtedly involve armed opposition, and you're worried about me stealing things?"
I shrugged. "I've got plenty of blood on my hands, but none of it was innocent."
"I seriously doubt that. But whatever you believe." She flipped a hand dismissively. "Just put on the robe."
I did, and so when we shushed our w
ay across the last road and into the light of the Spear, we didn't look completely out of place.
The administration buildings were dull gray boxes against the Spear's white brilliance. Probably a psychological thing. Even though it was night, there were plenty of lights on in the various windows that looked down on the plaza. We moved purposefully, straight to the nearest door. No guards that I could see, so I put my hand on the knob and pulled.
Locked. I rattled the door and peered inside. Empty hallway. Cassandra was humming nervously behind me.
"I'm going to have to break it down," I said.
"You are not. We're administrators of the throne of god. We don't break down doors. We have keys, and permission to be wherever we are." She pushed me away from the door and knelt in front of the lock. "You break this door down and someone sees it, that's our cover blown. I'll pick it."
"You have a tool for that?"
"I can make one. Just give me a-People coming."
She was right. I could hear voices from around the corner of the building, approaching fast. There was a vehicle too. Moving slowly for a vehicle, but faster than was convenient.
"Open it now," I hissed.
"Can't." She stood. "Not enough time. Look natural."
"Not bloody likely." I turned away from the voices and hurried along the side of the building, toward the far corner. Cassandra was quick behind me. It was too much distance, and too little time.
The party that came around the corner got quiet when they saw us. I dared a glance back and saw an open-bed carriage, big knobbly wheels, with something huge on the bed. It was covered by a tarp and tied down with heavy rope. The carriage strained under its weight. Around it walked a circle of officials, carrying the familiar staffs and wearing half-masks over their faces. I turned around.
"Chanters," I said, and quickened my pace. They hailed us. Not much to do now. Run, or fight, or turn and be civil. Never my strength.
"Sire and lady!" the lead Chanter called, then stopped when I turned. "Ladies of the Throne! Can you give us a hand, perhaps?"
"What business have you at the Spear?" Cassandra called back. By the time they answered, they were upon us. The carriage smelled like bilge water.
"God's business, of course." The lead Chanter was a big man, heavy in the jowl and sweating profusely under his mask. He jerked it off, wiped his mouth, then returned the binding to his mouth. "We're delivering something, for his honor's collection."
"Alexander?" I asked. Of course Alexander, I thought to myself. Don't be an idiot. They were thinking the same, judging by the way they looked at me. "His collection. Of course."
"Yes. We were to meet an official, but he wasn't at the door as declared. So we thought we'd bring ... this." He turned nervously to the carriage, then winced and turned back to us. "We thought we'd bring it around to the front. Perhaps you can lead us inside?"
"Are you late, or are you early?" A voice called from the corner, back where the carriage had come from. "Or do you simply not know when to stay put and follow orders?"
We all looked back. A man in a long gray robe was coming around the corner. He wore no sign of office and carried no elaborate staff. His clothes were plain, but his form was full of authority. The Chanters turned gratefully to him. Cassandra and I shrank behind the carriage.
"Someone told you to haul this abomination around front, did they?"
"No, your ... sir. No. But we thought it would be best to get it inside."
"Yes, yes. You were wrong. Admirable thought, but utterly wrong. Come on, turn it around. Don't just stand there."
With a great deal of noise and drama, the Chanters got their automated carriage turned around and rumbling back toward the corner. We tagged along. The gray man noticed us and scowled.
"You brought your own administrators? They won't be necessary."
"Sorry, lord. They asked us the best way in, and we were about to direct them back to you. Your arrival was fortuitous," Cassandra purred. Again, too good for my comfort.
"Hm. Well, it's best you come along. Don't lag. No telling which Betrayers' eyes are watching, on a night like this."
Together we all made our way around the corner. When the man's attention was diverted, Cassandra tugged at my robe and leaned in.
"His wrists," she whispered. I turned and looked. Bracelets, one on each wrist, and matching rings. He even had a tight collar around his throat, made of thin chain. Very odd. Cassandra tugged at my elbow again. She had something in her hand. The light was bad so I leaned in to get a look.
It was her soul-chain, from her time in the Library Desolate. One of the links was snipped in half, the cut so clean it appeared to have been forged that way. I looked back at the man in gray.
Amonite.
"The Special Collections Agency is around the corner," the gray Amonite was saying. "Here." He led us to a nondescript loading door in a nondescript wall. It took some time for the door to open, time we spent listening to the lift chains rattle, loud in the silence of the street. The Chanters looked around nervously. Once the door was open they hurried inside as fast as the automated carriage would chug. The door closed behind us.
We were in a plain brick room, the walls and floor painted white. Another gray man stood just inside the door, his hands still on the mechanism that opened the door. The Chanters looked much more comfortable now that they were out of the open air. I was getting nervous. Cassandra felt it, and so did the neutered sheath on my back. Sheath without a sword can't do much but twitch.
"My dear brothers and sisters of the Song. I want to thank you for performing this duty for our lord Alexander." The Amonite put a hand on the tarp and smiled thinly. "Your god is pleased with you."
"We were lucky to save it from the drowning, your sir," the fat one said. "It seemed those bloody dead were coming right for it."
"And through your great works, we were able to prevent that most unfortunate event. We would hate for all the Chanters' work to have been lost in that tragedy."
"Aye. Many hours have gone into this. Though I was surprised his godship put an interest in this, rather than, say, the Song itself."
The Amonite shrugged. "Alexander will always have the Song in his heart. And you?" he asked, turning to us. "What was your part in this retrieval?"
"As we said, my lord," Cassandra answered. "Happenstance. We were leading them inside."
"Ah, well. Unfortunate."
The Amonite before us drew first. My guess was the guy by the door was already aiming, because three of the Chanters fell before this guy got iron clear of leather. Good shooting, for a Scholar. And they were putting the Chanters down, because they were the obvious threats. Couple pencil pushers weren't any kind of dangerous.
Cassandra unmade the weapon behind as the fourth bullet went into the chest of one of the Chanters. I heard the jigsaw tumble of metal parts, familiar from my previous fight with her. The guy in front of us had loosed one shot, killing the fat man. That guy had gotten off a couple notes, his mask rattling open, his chin wobbling as he incanted pure notes of destruction. Just enough to singe the air and leave us all feeling a little like we had met the sun. Not enough to kill.
I fractured my staff of office, the quick-fall shaft and flanges butterflying apart to present the blade and the bully. I took the sword and invoked hard, splintering the air with light as I vaulted across the room and opened the lead gray from teeth to ribs. He stumbled back, grinning at me from two sides of a bloody gash, his revolver snapping shots into the brick at my feet. Two quick revolutions and he stopped shooting. Clean.
Turning, I saw the other guy in a stance of meditation. He and Cassandra were in a battle of noetic will. Waves of force lashed between them, making and unmaking the bricks, the walls, the very stuff of the air and earth and time. The cadence of their voices was a wall of tectonic force. They seemed to be channeling the purest of power, forming energy out of nothing, and nothingness out of the bare rock. Both stood in perfect meditation, an invisible wind an
imating their robes and hair, the barest of auras pulsing from their closed eyes.
I wheeled my blade to the ground and snatched the bully out of the staff where it had come to rest when I dropped it, propped against the carriage. I walked around the circumference of their little disturbance, my feet buckling on the shifting plane of brick. When I was as close as I dared get, I put the barrel in line with the Amonite's head and pulled the trigger.
The bullet punched through the shimmering waves of their fight, slowing like a stone in water. As it slowed it peeled like an onion, the layers of lead spiraling outward until there was nothing left but a cloud of potential violence. Even that disappeared.
"Godsdamn Scholars," I spat, then emptied the cylinder.
Each shot followed the first, corkscrewing out of existence, each cloud wafting closer to the bastard. Waves of shock traveled out from their flight, cones of force that disturbed the balance of Cassandra's battle. Five bullets, five arcs of energy washing over each other, building and disturbing the patterns of energy that had accumulated between the two Scholars. An ever growing wave of shattered lead flowered out into the room.
The last bullet struck him. Just a glancing blow, and only the barest core of lead left from the aura of Unmaking. It was enough. He flinched as blood touched his cheek. Cassandra moved against him, viciously, with enlightened power.
The bricks of the floor roared up, stacking into a tower, the hollow core of which enveloped the man. He stumbled back, slapping his hands against the jigsaw horror that was swallowing him. There was no room for retreat. She built a tower around him. When she closed the cylinder, the shuffling whirlwind of bricks slid into place, clenching into the center, leaving no room for the man. One scream, and he was gone.
Cassandra collapsed to the floor. Her whole body was shaking, and a thin trail of blood leaked from her mouth. I put a hand on her shoulder.
"You alright?"
"I hope there aren't too many more like him. I hope he was their best."
"The doorman?" I stood up and started thumbing bullets into the bully's cylinder. "Probably not."