by Monte Cook
The whole interior of the crater was lit with blue, almost as daylight. It was so bright he could see the dirt and drit, the pieces of rubble, sharp and blackened, that stuck out at odd angles in the downward slope. Too bright. As it was, there was no way he could make it down without being seen. Thankfully, Rillent was a man of strict ritual and grand gestures. Precise, even. That’s what they were counting on.
He glanced back at Aviend. She was crouched low, setting up the final bits of the dispatcher, twisting together a series of thin wires into a delicate and complicated pattern and threading them through a small black box. It was such a tiny device for what it could do, sending the two of them far out of reach of Rillent and his men.
Although he considered himself somewhat tech savvy, the dispatcher was one device that he couldn’t quite wrap his head around. He understood what parts went where and how to operate it, but didn’t understand how it worked. But sending people instantly through time and space was one concept that he was all right with not grasping. In fact, if he thought about the idea too much, it made him feel nauseous. So he mostly didn’t think about it, other than as their way home once all of this was over.
When the yellow light on the side of the box blinked twice, Aviend gave him a nod. Ready.
Now they just had to wait and hope that nothing would fall. One tiny piece, cracking, and everything they’d worked for would come tumbling down.
Below them, Rillent reached the end of the walkway. He lifted his weaponless hand. Kyre couldn’t see the crowd at the base of the kubric – human-sized shadows shifting in the dark – but he could hear them respond to Rillent’s actions. A rising murmur of voices. Part chant, part song, part prayer. To these people, Rillent was a savior, a leader. The one who had rescued them from their lives. Listening, Kyre felt a pang of anguish for what he was about to take away from them, and then pushed it away. The security, the promises, they weren’t real, no matter what the people of the Stere might think.
The rise of voices was overridden by Rillent’s deep bass tone as he began to speak. Rillent had a voice built for persuasion, a soft timbre that made you feel as though you had chosen to step off the ledge for him, that made you feel good for having done it. Kyre couldn’t make out the words, but he’d heard them enough times that he could tell what they were just by Rillent’s hand gestures. The intonation of the welcoming, the repetition of promises, the empty words of an Aeon Priest who’d ripped everything from them and left them with nothing but their own shadowed grief to eat.
When Rillent lifted the hand in which he held his weapon – loose grip, soft hold, so that it seemed as if it might fall down among the worshippers at his feet – Kyre felt his breath hollow out inside his chest.
The blue light blinked, and darkness overtook the crater faster than any living thing. The black came without a sound, hushing everything in its wake.
Now.
As soon as the sky blacked, Kyre took hold of the rope and began to lower himself down the inside of the crater. Closer to Rillent. Closer to the light, which would return as planned – he hoped – just as he planted his feet on the ledge. Going down, his body moved without his mind, the practice of muscles and timing. His mind went on without his body, thinking of the ledge below, the launcher, scope to eye, Rillent zooming toward him through the lens.
He’d made it the length of three hand-over-hands, barely halfway in his descent, his feet finding their first of many touch points, when he thought he heard Aviend say something from above him.
It might have been her. It might have been his own nervous mind. It might have been the Stere’s ghosts, although he’d only heard them speak half a dozen times, and never in Aviend’s voice. Having slipped back from the ledge to protect herself from Rillent’s eyes, Aviend was out of his sightline. He couldn’t stop, not now, not when the blackout would only last a few seconds, and so he kept going, hand over hand, finding his way through the dark until he felt the ledge beneath his foot. He’d barely stepped onto the small outcropping of stronglass when the lights came back up.
Everything in his body wanted to exhale, a great last release, but there was no time for such luxuries. Rillent was already rising into the air in the wash of new light, arms raised. If you were down below, watching your god rise, it seemed a magical thing. Your savior flying above you with nothing more than the power of his mind. But Kyre had touched the box beneath the man, had inadvertently laid the foundation for that great rising, and he knew it for what it was – nothing more than a device like any other, projecting false power. Just like the one he held in his hands. Like the one around his neck.
As Rillent rose, Kyre leaned back into the side of the crater, letting the shadows of the hollow fold over him like a cloak. If Rillent looked up, he’d see Kyre, the launcher, the rope. But there was no reason for Rillent to look up. Rillent only ever looked down.
From his floating vantage point, Rillent again began to address the crowd below him. Kyre pulled the corrosive projectile from its container, grateful to see his hands unshaken. First try, he loaded the tiny synth cylinder into the launcher. He had mere seconds before the corrosion would eat away at the barrel and render both objects useless.
He lifted the launcher to his shoulder. Through the scope, he could see everything. Every fold of fabric. Every wrinkle of skin. The shape of the hidden implant at his forehead. Every seed of a lie that left Rillent’s lips to fall and spread over the crowd below. A man. A monster. And what would Kyre become when he pulled the trigger, put a bullet into the brain of another human being? He would know soon enough.
Kyre put his finger to the trigger, exhaled slow and steady, a great long breath. And then he heard Aviend call his name.
Devices never talk to Aviend. She knows they talk to Delgha, whispering secrets of efficiency and repair, suggestions, even alternate uses. But she and devices have a more… cantankerous relationship. They don’t tell her anything. In fact, she’s pretty sure they fight her, cog and wire, out of nothing more than spite. She blames them fully for the number of times she’s had to take one of their number out of the base and throw it into the woods, swearing and irate. They always work it out eventually, her and the device. But it’s almost never pleasant. It’s always her asking and then threatening and finally getting in there with her hands and tools and forcing.
So she fully expects the dispatcher to fight her. It has on every single trial run, so why not now, when it really matters?
But by some miracle of mechanics, it doesn’t. She glides the wires through their twists and turns. Intricate. Delicate. More song than sync, and maybe that’s why it works this time.
It’s up and running so fast she’s sure she’s forgotten something, but no. Light’s blinking and everything’s settled. Her job’s done until Kyre returns. Then she’ll use the dispatcher to carry the two of them to safety.
Ready.
Blackout.
Go, she thinks.
So dark she can’t see Kyre start down the rope, only hear him. He barely makes a sound but she knows his breathing, the slip of his gloves. Each soft touch of his boots to the side of the crater.
In the darkness, she lowers herself flat to the ground and pushes herself forward. When the lights come up, she wants to be able to see. Aviend had never wished ill will upon another person until Rillent entered her life. This fierce desire for a man’s death is a dark retching hole in her stomach. She won’t look away. But she can’t watch the death. Not because of the hole, but because of Rillent’s hold on her. She can’t risk that. After all, that’s the reason Kyre is down in the hole instead of her.
Instead, she plans to watch Kyre lift the launcher, close the gap between them. Close down Rillent.
Everything inside her spreads anger at the thought of Rillent, at the thought of his name, at the thought of what he’s doing, what he will do if they don’t stop him. The wolflilies they saw on their way here; not native to the Stere, spreading far and wide in the soil of Rillent’s dead
. She tries not to work from anger, not ever, but it’s always there underneath the other parts of her, wiggling cava worms beneath a rotting log. She closes her eyes. Deep breath. In. Out. Opens her eyes again.
The light returns, spreads up the side of the cavern. Kyre’s already touched down. Back to the slope, loading the launcher. She feels her breath leaving her. Acrid and damp. Like being punched in the gut by someone you love so you can throw up whatever’s poisoning you.
A human-shaped shadow shifts at the bottom of the crater.
Aviend says Kyre’s name out loud and regrets it before her mouth is even closed. More regret when she sees the rope still for a microsecond, as if Kyre heard her and has paused.
When the rope shivers again, showing Kyre is still on the move, she turns her attention back to what she’d seen below him. She takes a risk – ghostfell, what is she doing? – and pushes herself forward a bit more to get a better view.
Halfway up the slope, maybe not quite, below and to the right of Kyre, the shadow inches upward, momentarily hidden from the light.
At first, she’d thought it was a ghost, lost and trapped away from its home by the crater’s angled slope. The ghosts of the Steremoss weren’t stupid, but they had trouble navigating the world. As if their senses lived in a world where everything was just a bit different. She’d seen them bump into trees and fall into rivers. Not like they couldn’t see the thing in front of them. More that they believed so strongly that it was an illusion that it wouldn’t or couldn’t affect them.
But this thing is no ghost. It’s human. Or close enough. She wasn’t sure until the lights shifted a bit, spreading their grey cast farther along the sides of the crater. Kyre talks of the lights as if they are blue, and she believes him, but to her, they are always grey. Not sky and water, but metal and stone. She’s told Kyre they don’t affect her, but they do. They make the edges of her head squeeze together in a dull throb that travels across her temples to the backs of her eyes and blurs her vision. It’s part of the reason she’d been momentarily sure she was seeing a ghost. They’re not awful for her, not as bad as for Kyre, but what she’d do to never have to look at those lights again… If someone shows up right now and makes a bargain with her, she will take it. No questions asked.
No one shows up, so she squints against the light and watches the figure. Young and scared. The way it moves is quick and light, its body made of long bones and reach. But something is holding it back, too, a lean to the side that seems to be slowing it down. Injury? Maybe. And a new one at that. This is a body still figuring out how to adjust to a broken form of movement.
So not one of Rillent’s men coming for them. Which is good, but also bad. If it isn’t one of Rillent’s men, then what is it? And, most important, just how dangerous is its presence going to be to their plan? All it has to do is move in a way that draws the gaze of Rillent or his men, and it’s no far leap for them to look a little higher and see Kyre making his way down the side of the slope. Just her luck, for a shadow to botch up eons of hard-laid plans.
For a moment, everything in her stills. Out breath. Think. Should she call Kyre back? Everything they’d worked for, broken. It’s possible that he’ll have time to take his shot before anyone notices him, but if not, every moment of her hesitation puts them both at risk. What were the chances that Rillent would look up and see Kyre and not know exactly who he was and what he’d come for? Less than zero, she thinks.
A sudden thought slips to her. Maybe Rillent already has looked up. Maybe he’s already sending his glaives. She won’t look at the Aeon Priest, can’t look at him, and so she doesn’t know. Flying blind.
No. She has to believe in the plan.
On the other hand… the thought isn’t one she likes, but it’s there, unbidden and unrelenting… the boy – she is pretty certain that it’s a boy down there, based on that reckless fling of limbs and life – could be useful. It’s clear he’s running. How long until someone notices he’s gone? If Kyre can be quick – and she knows he can, knows he is – then they can be out before anyone notices. Rillent will have the boy hunted down. Kill him, as sure as she’s pressed to this dirt. But she and Kyre will be free.
Aviend, are you willing to kill another human for this? Her mother, always, in her head. Aviend doesn’t mind. It is better to have her there, questioning judgment, than to never hear her at all. And this time, her answer is easy: Yes. Yes, she is. Rillent is at stake. Everything is at stake. And she knows, in a way that she’s never known before, down to bones and marrow, down to blood and breath, that they will never have another chance.
As far as she can tell, neither the boy nor Kyre have seen each other yet. Maybe they’ll just pass each other by in the darkness and everything will go – almost – as planned.
Please don’t screw this up, kid. She doesn’t know where the kid part comes from, but there it is and it seems right so she runs with it. Don’t look up. Go wherever you’re going and pass us by. Dark to dark. No harm done. Mostly.
The shadow form reaches a hand, shifts upward and a little to the right. Yes. That’s it, kid. Kyre will go down, and the kid will come up. Kyre will take his shot. Rillent will be dead. She doesn’t let herself think any more about what will happen at the point where the kid reaches the top, because she and Kyre will be long gone by then.
Kyre’s still hidden in the hollow of the ledge, not touched by it. Which is good. Which is the plan. He’s closer to the edges of the lightplay than she would like, but safe. For now.
The shadow form, though, is another matter. The kid’s lit up like he didn’t even know there was such a thing as lights. Which is impossible, considering where he’s coming from. Almost like he positioned himself dead center of the beam. Wanting to be seen. Wanting to be caught. Or just inexperienced and afraid. It’s taken their team all their time and resources to put this plan in motion. What chance does a kid have, running from Rillent, without resources or a team?
She can see so much about the kid in the glare. So much she doesn’t want to know. Dark outfit, complete with the hood that’s pulled up tight. Sleeves and shoulders flecked with silver dust. She bets there’s a black metal loop around his neck. A heatsear behind his left ear.
This kid’s high-reaching hand is purple in the shine. Which means it’s actually red under all the grey she sees. She pulls the zoom screen from her hood down over her eyes. Winces at what shows up in the lenses. Too close. Blood and marrow. Grisly like he pulled it from the mouth of some beast. Blood pools fast in his knuckles until it drips down the dark purpled skin to his elbow. And still he holds tight, gored fingers glued to the shifty debris. He stops, right in a spot of light so bright it blinds her to look at, even after she slips the zoom screen away.
She doesn’t realize she’s thinking about rooting for him until she already is.
Climb, you brehmbrained little shadow. Climb. Or you’re going to get us all dead.
The kid doesn’t. He stays, frozen in the light.
She would have sworn they’d covered every contingency. Light patterns. Rillent’s schedule. Faleineir and the rest of his glaives. Their equipment. Her ability to get them to safety. Even Kyre’s ability to actually kill a man.
But some kid pulling an escape attempt with – she’s sure – any number of Rillent’s men on his heels? Who could have planned for that?
A glance at Kyre shows he’s got the launcher up, poised. He’s on perfect time. He’s not looking down. Why would he? The shadow below his feet shouldn’t be there, and he has other things to focus on.
Rillent must be rising on his platform. His god box, he calls it. God, my ass, she thinks. It takes a certain kind of person to claim godhood from what is given to them by machines. And a certain kind of person to believe it. Of course, Rillent has a little help in that department, doesn’t he? More of what he claims as god powers, but which are nothing of the sort.
The boy starts moving again, that lopsided lilt of a climb, and she can breathe again. All right. A
ll right. That’s a start. Now–
A guttural scream. The sound rakes the back of her neck like claws brought back from a nightmare. Her ears pulse with pain, reverberate the sound again and again into the soft spaces in her head.
Destriatch.
What are they doing here, at the kubric? Rillent always keeps them stationed along the borders of the Stere. Under Rillent’s eye, the destriatch stalk the edges of the forest, claim its boundaries as theirs. As Rillent’s. What could have made him call them back here, leave his borders unprotected? They don’t have a plan for this, because it is an impossibility. Beyond impossibility.
Skist, kid. You really are going to get us all killed.
Another howl, to join the first. The sound makes her want to throw up and push herself off the edge at the same time. She wants to claw her ears off. And that’s even before the howls rise, turn. Become song. Not song. Nothing like song. The malignity.
She’s heard it before, once, but never close like this. Only from far, far off. Rillent was here, and her mother was still alive. The fearsong had made her fall to her knees. She was no small child, but her mother had scooped her up as if she was and run, so fast the branches had whipped their face and her ears. Aviend cried out, once, and her mother had nearly smothered her against her coat. It was the only time she remembered being afraid of her.
Inside the shape of the crater, the malignity resonates and grows. Amplified, the sound shatters the stab in her head and forms it anew. She can’t imagine what it’s like for Kyre and the boy, caught inside that hollow of sound.
Through the pain in her head, she sees a new movement. The first of the crourhounds pushes from the shadow of the kubric like it’s being freshborn. The front all teeth and claws and spider eyes, wet fur oil-slicked. The middle all black metal and smoke. The tail end disappearing into nothingness. It’s that empty place where the hindquarters should be that makes her feel most queasy. How can such a beast exist? Live? Hunt and murder? She doesn’t know, but that’s what it does. That’s what it is.