Reaper's Awakening

by Jacob Peppers

  “Count on it,” Nicks said, though Cameron didn’t much like the way the man swayed on his feet uncertainly as if he might topple at any moment. Still, there was no time. He shuffled toward where his sword laid, each step a trial. Whatever he’d done to the princess, his muscles ached, and a persistent cold filled his body. Mira stayed with him, close enough to catch him if he fell. “What do you think he’s planning?”

  “I don’t know,” Cameron said, bending and retrieving his sword, “but I don’t like it. We have to hurry.”

  They followed the trail of blood into a small circular chamber no more than twenty feet wide. The floors were of a rich white marble, its polished surface nearly painful to look upon and the bloody path seemed almost profane on its otherwise unblemished surface. The walls, too, were of a white marble so fine as to be nearly reflective. The only ornamentation in the room was a stone pedestal which stood at its center.

  Upon the pedestal sat a sphere that, despite the circumstances, Cameron found himself staring at in awe. Golden fog swirled and danced within its surface, brightening and darkening intermittently as if a constant storm raged within it. Even from across the room, it seemed to Cameron that he could hear voices coming from the sphere, but their words—if words they were—were just outside the edge of his hearing.

  “Cameron?” A voice, low and unremarkable, seeming to come from thousands of miles away as the storm of essences within the sphere grew louder in his mind until there was nothing else. Nothing but the swirling motes of light and the voices, them most of all. He took an uncertain step toward the sphere, wanting, needing to hear what it would tell him. Something brushed against him, tried to hold him back, and he lashed out with his free hand distractedly. Whatever it was released him, and he took another stumbling step forward, the sphere seeming to grow so that it filled his vision, leaving room for nothing else.

  He had heard of the Etherstone before, of course. Knew that it was the repository of the souls taken from the Drawing, knew that it was the conduit through which the Parsinian line manipulated the Ether, using the souls of the sacrificed to rid the Ether of the taint that always threatened to overcome it. What he had not known, what he had not been told, was how beautiful it was. Not beautiful, he thought, taking another lumbering, shuffling step, more than that. So much more. It didn’t seem to him as if he was walking at all, but that he was being drawn, being pulled to that storm, those voices.

  He grunted in surprise as something struck him in the face. He turned and saw Mira staring at him. Her mouth was moving but, at first, he heard nothing. Then, her voice began to drift to him, growing louder with each moment. “—to be in here somewhere. What’s wrong with you?”

  Cameron frowned and shook his head, feeling like a man waking from a deep sleep. He noticed that a trickle of blood leaked from the corner of Mira’s mouth, “Damn, did I do that?”

  She touched the corner of her mouth, saw the blood on her fingers and rubbed it away. “It’s nothing. Are you okay?”

  He nodded slowly, “I … think so. Sorry I don’t know what happened.”

  “A pretty thing, isn’t it?”

  They both turned as Marek emerged from behind the stone pedestal. He slumped against the pedestal, his expression pained and weary as he wiped an arm across his sweaty forehead. His skin had grown pale, and a rivulet of blood wound its way down his arm, dripping steadily from his fingertips onto the floor in crimson splashes. His other hand, still gripping his wounded arm, appeared to be covered in a crimson glove. He noted Cameron’s look and grunted, “Yeah, you got me pretty good, boy. I don’t guess I’ve much time left before I bleed out, but I believe it’ll prove long enough.”

  “Long enough?” Cameron asked, not liking the way that sounded at all and staring at the man who had nearly raised him, he found that the rage he’d carried since he’d learned the truth was a quiet, uncertain thing, mixed as it was with feelings of pity and sadness and—for reasons he didn’t fully understand himself—fear. “Marek, it’s over. Come with us.” He glanced at the man’s arm again, “it’s a bad one, but there might still be time, if we hurry.”

  Marek grunted a laugh, spitting a thick wad of blood on the ground. He grinned, displaying bloody teeth. “We both know that’s bullshit—I’ve lost too much blood. You’ve killed me, boy, you know it as well as I. We’ve both seen enough of it to know it when we see it. You—” he broke off into a fit of liquid, hacking coughs. When he got control of himself again, blood leaked from his mouth and chin. “It wasn’t all bad, was it, lad? I took care of you well enough. Shit, I even loved you, in my way.”

  “I know.” Cameron said, wishing he was closer, not liking the way Marek kept glancing at the Etherstone. “Just let it go, sir. It’s over. Let’s get that arm seen to.”

  Marek stared at him for several seconds and, for a moment, Cameron thought it could go either way. Then the older man’s face hardened, and he shook his head slowly. He turned to the Etherstone, a look of wonder mixed with determination on his face. “Such a little thing. Do you know, Cameron, that the Etherstone still holds all of the essences it ever received? Even onto the first man? Hundreds. Thousands of souls all together for so long. Do you think they want to be released? I bet they do.”

  He raised his hand, and Cameron rushed forward, calling on what little bit of strength he had left. Marek was slowed from his wound, grimacing at the effort, but Cameron saw immediately that he wouldn’t make it in time. “Stop him!” He shouted at Mira as he charged on, heedless of his pain and exhaustion.

  A knife flew past him, burying itself in Marek’s chest. The man stumbled and would have fallen if not for the pedestal. He gasped and blood poured from his mouth, then he grinned a macabre, crimson grin and time seemed to slow as his hand lashed out, striking the Etherstone.

  Cameron was still running, and he watched in disbelief as time seemed to stretch, the Etherstone wobbling drunkenly on its pedestal. Then time snapped back and the sphere fell to the ground, its glass surface shattering on the marble floor.

  A chorus of what sounded like a million screams filled the air and a blinding flash of golden light tore through the room. Cameron and Mira added their own screams to the chorus as a powerful force slammed into them and sent them hurtling through the air like leaves in a tornado. Cameron’s back slammed against the wall, and his breath left him in a gasping wheeze. Instead of falling, he stayed stuck to the wall, crushed against it, as he was buffeted by waves of invisible pressure. He knew he was screaming, but he couldn’t hear his own voice over the unearthly chorus of wailing voices.

  He couldn’t know how long he was stuck there, his body feeling as if it was being pulled apart, his ears ringing with wails of anger and pain, feeling as if he’d go blind from the impossibly bright light. Just when he was sure he could take no more, that he would die or go mad, the light, the screams, and the pressure all disappeared in an instant, and he collapsed to the ground.

  He lay there for a time, gasping in ragged, shallow breaths, his ears ringing. His heart thundered in his chest, and his lips were cracked and coated in blood. “Mira?” He gasped, the words tearing at a throat raw from screaming. She didn’t answer and panic seized him. He tried to rise, but his body felt as if it had been trampled by a herd of horses and, at first, it would not obey his commands.

  She could be hurt, he thought, cursing himself, she could be dying or dea—no. No, he wouldn’t think it. With a cry of rage and pain, he got one hand under him, then another, and forced himself to his feet. He immediately stumbled, gasping in pain and catching himself against the wall. Pieces of the room’s ceiling, knocked loose by the force that had been unleashed, showered around him. His gaze whipped around the room until he finally spotted Mira lying on her side against one of the other walls.

  Her dress had been torn and ripped, exposing long lengths of tanned skin, and she bled from a dozen different small wounds. Divines, please, no, he thought, lurching toward her and using the wall for support.
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br />   He made it to her side, gasping, his legs weak and watery beneath him. “Mira?” He asked again, his own voice sounding scratchy and strange to his ears.

  She didn’t answer or stir, and Cameron fell to his knees beside her, “No,” he said, hating the begging quality in his voice, “Please, no.” With the last of his strength, he grabbed her and tried to push her over onto her back. He grunted from the effort and something—a piece of the falling ceiling, perhaps—struck him in the back of the head, and the darkness that had been hovering on the edges of his vision rushed in, sweeping over him like a tidal wave.

  When he came to, rough hands were grabbing his shoulders, shaking him, “Cameron? Cameron, are you okay?”

  A rough voice, male. Familiar. The darkness of unconsciousness was reluctant to let him go, and he felt himself being pushed under again. Then he thought of Mira, of her lying unmoving on the floor, and he forced his eyes open. “I’m … awake,” he croaked. He looked up and through blurry eyes saw Nicks crouched over him. The older man’s face was bloody, his tunic stained crimson in several large patches. “Nicks? Is that you?”

  “Aye, lad,” the older man said, sitting back with relief, “It’s me.”

  “What happened?”

  Nicks shrugged, “You tell me. One minute, I’m workin’ on getting those damned guards to give the king enough room to breathe—you’d think them a bunch of mother hens fighting over a baby chick, the way they carry on—then, next thing I know, the whole damn castle starts shakin’ like the dice of some gambling-loving god. Pews flying across the room like they’d been launched out of fucking catapult—one of the damn things struck a guardsman—he lived, but the poor bastard’ll be shittin’ blood for a few months, I can promise you that. Another one of ‘em came flyin’ at my head. Managed to get mostly out of the way of it—if I hadn’t, we wouldn’t be havin’ this conversation—but the bastard gave me a knock on the shoulder hard enough to wake the dead.”

  Cameron blinked, struggling to process the man’s words. “Mira,” he said, forcing his way to a sitting position, wincing as his body protested. “I’ve got to find her. When it happened—”

  “Relax, lad, relax,” Nicks said, grabbing Cameron’s shoulder, “just take it easy, alright? She’s fine—a little banged up is all, but then, who ain’t after that shit show? Anyway, she’s being seen to, and the last thing I need is for you to up and rupture some damn thing or other. She’d damned well skin me alive.”

  “Ah thank the Divines for that,” Cameron breathed, relief flooding through him as he lay back.

  Nicks smiled sourly, “Oh, yeah, I’m fine too, just so you know.”

  Cameron laughed. It hurt, but he laughed anyway. Nicks stared at him as if he’d grown a second head then, in another minute, he was laughing two, the two of them sitting on the marble floor, laughing and leaning on each other for support.

  “Well, isn’t this something,” a woman’s voice came from above them, “here I am worried to death, and you two are over here telling jokes.”

  Cameron looked up and his heart leapt in his throat. Mira stood looking down at him. She had a crutch under one arm, and was covered in enough bandages to keep a healer in business for a week. He also noted that someone—a healer or a guard, perhaps—had draped a cloak over her shoulders, concealing most of what the torn dress revealed. Unfortunate that, but she was alive and that’s what mattered. “I’m so glad you’re okay,” he said.

  She smiled mischievously, and he felt his heart speed up in his chest. “I suppose these things are relative. They tell me that, when they found me, someone had laid on top of me, protecting me from pieces of ceiling falling down.”

  “I did?” Cameron asked, not remembering.

  She went on as if he hadn’t spoken, “Of course, I told them that they must be mistaken. Surely, no gentleman would be bold enough to lie on top of a woman without her express permission and certainly not without taking her to dinner first.”

  Cameron grunted and felt his face heat, “I … that is … the ceiling….”

  She watched him flounder for a minute then laughed, “Why, Cameron Shale, if I didn’t know better, I’d say you were embarrassed. I like you this way. I think maybe I’ll have to see more of it.” Then, before he could respond, she leaned down over him. Her long hair fell over his face, and her lips met his.

  Again, Cameron lost track of time—he seemed to be doing a lot of that lately—but then it was over, much too soon, and Mira leaned back, her eyes locked on his. He felt something stirring in him despite his injuries, and he met her eyes. “Well, if that’s what I get for it, you can embarrass me anytime.”

  They were both laughing when Nicks spoke. “Now, I ain’t tryin’ to come between young love—Divines know I’m not that crazy—but I suppose maybe you ought to let the man breathe. He’s had a tough time, I reckon, and I don’t guess we need to cap it off by smothering the poor lucky bastard.”

  Mira blushed, one hand rising to cover her mouth, and Cameron grinned. “I can think of worse ways to go.”

  “Cameron, you’re up!” The three of them turned at the yell. Cameron couldn’t see who it was past Mira, but he saw Nicks look and rub a weary hand over his face, though the gesture did little to hide his smile.

  Blinks rushed forward, and Cameron had just enough time to notice that, remarkably, the man still wore what was left of the cat’s mask. Then he was lifting Cameron off the ground as if he weighed no more than a child, wrapping him in a painfully tight hug. “You’re alive. I’m sure glad!”

  Cameron grunted, wincing at the man’s strength, “For the moment.”

  “Damnit, Blinks,” Nicks said, “I said we don’t want to smother him.”

  “Oh, right.” The big man let Cameron go, helping him to stand on wobbly legs, “I nearly forgot,” he said, reaching into his pocket. He withdrew a capped tube and a piece of paper and offered them to Cameron, “These are yours.”

  Cameron took them and read the note, fresh grief washing through him. “Perdeus. Is he—” he stopped, the big man’s expression telling him all he needed to know. He nodded soberly, “Thank you, Blinks.”

  The big man nodded in a subdued way that was totally at odds with his normal attitude, and Cameron stared at the tube in his hand. Thinking.

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

  They stood on the king’s private balcony, staring off at the city below and, for the first time he could remember, Cameron actually felt like a protector instead of a killer. Two days had passed since the Etherstone had been shattered. His physical wounds had healed quickly—as always—but the emotional ones were not so quickly forgotten. His father had been betrayed by his best friend, had been killed for trying to do the right thing. Cameron had been trying to speak to him in the past days, but if some part of his father still dwelt within him, it chose to remain silent.

  Mira, perhaps sensing the direction of his thoughts, put a gentle hand on his shoulder. “It’s almost time. I don’t know how it would look if a hero was late for his own award ceremony.”

  Cameron leaned in and kissed her. “It seems funny,” he said, “to be getting awards after all that’s happened.”

  Nicks grunted on the other side of him, “Well, it was a coin toss, I guess, whether to award us or execute us. I ain’t no hero and Divines know I ain’t got no hero’s face, but I’d just as soon keep what I got on my shoulders.”

  Mira laughed, “Oh, don’t be foolish, Nicks. You’re just a much of a hero as anyone, if not more. You’re the one, after all, that found the necklace.”

  The older man’s face turned bright red, and he wiped his hand over a couple of fresh cuts on his chin, “Well,” he grunted.

  “Do you think there’ll be another ball?” Blinks asked. “That was fun.”

  Cameron grinned and shrugged, “Who knows, but I think maybe I’ve had my share of balls for a time.”

  “Is that so?” Mira said, eyeing him, the mischievous glint back in her eyes, “because I’m prett
y sure you still owe me a dance.”

  Cameron winked, “I suppose I could be persuaded.”

  “Great,” Blinks yelled, “and I’ve got just the costume.” He reached a thick hand into his tunic and withdrew the cracked pink cat mask.

  Nicks sighed, “Damnit, Blinks, I thought for sure I threw that damned thing away.”

  “You did, Nicks, but don’t you worry I found it. I know you’ve got a lot on your mind lately, what with everything. I know you probably just weren’t paying no attention.”

  Nicks grunted, “Not enough damned attention anyway.”

  “He’s right, though,” Mira said, laughing, “I guess you’re busy most of the time, what with being the new captain of the king’s guard.”

  Nicks rubbed a hand over his red face, “Well. It’s mostly just a pain in the ass, anyhow,” he mumbled, but they could all see the grin on his face.

  “Did someone say something about a dance?” A new voice asked, and they all turned to look at the balcony’s entrance.

  “Maybe,” Cameron said with a resigned sigh, “some things can’t be helped.”

  Falen nodded, rubbing a hand down the expensive silk shirt he wore—Cameron’s shirt, in fact, a gift from the king. But, then, he’d never had much use for silks, and Falen had never had much use for propriety. “Anyway, I suppose I’d disappoint too many young ladies if I didn’t at least make an appearance.”

  Cameron nodded, “No doubt there’d be a lot of tears.”

  Mira grinned, “Of joy, maybe.”

  Falen laughed along with the rest of them then he shrugged, “Anyway, a man must do his duty. Though, there’s one thing I wanted to tell you, Cameron.”

  “Hmm?”

  “If it ever comes up again, and you just happen to be holding my soul in your hand, do me a favor and stick it in a tall muscled man, would you? Preferably one with hair.”

  Cameron grinned, “I can’t make any promises.”