Numenera

by Monte Cook

  He turned a corner. No, wrong way. He turned back and went the other direction. Only then did he notice the change. The corridor he’d been moving down for the last few minutes had been clear and bare, so he hadn’t noticed, but this new direction – the way he needed to go – had a dim quality. The walls and floors were grayer.

  His finger came away with an oily residue when he ran it along the right wall. The other way had been cleaned. Other-Kyre must have scraped whatever this was away in the passages he used. Which meant he never went this way, or at least didn’t do so frequently. But this was the way Kyre needed to go now. He was sure of it.

  Was that good? Bad? He didn’t know. He pressed further. Was the glowglobe dimmer here? No. Just his imagination.

  When he became conscious that his steps had slowed to a creep, he stopped and literally shook himself. Timing was important here. He checked the time tracker. Three more cycles. He had to get in place. He hurried.

  Quenn’s directions led him to a closed door. Just a bit more than two cycles left. Why wouldn’t it open? Skist.

  He breathed. Calm down, he told himself. Other-him had never opened this door. It still had its original seal. He didn’t have time for this. It was time for drastic measures. He pulled out the monoblade. Kyre had always imagined that he’d end up using this in a fight, probably with a destriatch or something equally horrible.

  But no, he was going to use it to kill this door. The tube hummed when he activated the switch. There was no visible change, but when he brought it up toward the door, a slice appeared across its surface. A blade he couldn’t see cut through it like a knife might cut through water. He hadn’t even felt any resistance. He loved it, but there was no time to love. A few dramatic gestures later and there was a hole more than half his size in the middle of the door.

  Less than two cycles. He squeezed through the hole, but kept the cypher active. Jagged metal edges of the crude hole tore his pantleg. As he watched, the tear grew dark red with his blood.

  “Skist!”

  Time to worry about that later. The room was simple enough. The controls he knew he had to look for were in the middle of the room, like a lectern. In the middle, a single brown stem. That had to be the one.

  One cycle. He tossed the blade away. He didn’t think about the warm trickle of blood running under his pantleg into his boots. He didn’t think about the bad experience he’d had with a device far too much like this back in the temple. Instead, he just grabbed the control.

  It was a little like playing a delicate instrument. It was simple and straightforward, but it was also complex, with a million – a billion? – different options. Just for a moment, he caught his breath and found himself swept away with the incredible power of the kubrics. They could do so much. He couldn’t do it all from here, not all in this moment, but if he had time – a quiet, simple lifetime – he could have used them to work wonders.

  But he didn’t have that life, and for that matter neither did other-Kyre. Not now, anyway. Besides, the power here, it could change someone. It could drive you mad.

  And he thought about that lock on the entrance. The one that he (other-he) had placed there. And it brought him back to the moment. Other-Kyre had known that no one should be using the kubrics. It was too much for anyone. And the last person – the very last person in the world – who should be using it was Rillent.

  That thought drove him. It was all easy then. Turned it all backward. Everything that faced up, he turned down. Everything that was right was now left. At least that’s how he visualized it. And then he was done.

  He looked at the time tracker. He’d done his part. And he’d done it on time. Please, he begged no one in particular, please let Aviend be safe as she does her part. Then, and only then, did it occur to him that if everything had gone according to plan with Aviend and Quenn, he likely stood in the very spot that she did right now. Only a world away. The room that she saw was some kind of version of the one that he looked at right now. He held up his hand, wondering if he was somehow touching her. Wondering if there was a way to be a ghost there with her, or see her as a ghost with him. If he just relaxed a bit, he could perhaps fade back into her world – their world – and be by her side.

  But no. No, no, no. That would ruin the entire plan. “It’s a good plan, Kyre,” she whispered in his head.

  “Good luck, Vi,” he whispered back.

  He pulled up his pantleg to check the cut in his leg. It was bleeding but not deep. He’d been hurt worse. He glanced around, but didn’t see the monoblade. He did, however, see a hole sliced through the floor where he’d tossed it. He stared at that a minute, and then shrugged. “What possible problem could that be?” he sighed. Well, he was confident that the blade’s power would fade pretty fast. Pretty confident. He took the time to wrap his leg. It took longer to staunch the bleeding than he expected.

  When he crawled back out of the room, he did so slowly and carefully this time. He didn’t want to be inside the kubric when he crossed back over to his world. He needed to be outside, and well away from this whole area. That was an important part of the plan.

  Getting home, he knew, would be a simple matter. He wasn’t supposed to be here. It would probably be harder to stay than to go back. Even now he could feel a sort of tug in every bit of his body. Thin as the walls between the worlds were at this point, it would be fast.

  Going outside meant one more look at this world that he could never have. And neither could the Kyre that belonged here. That made him feel the loss of… himself in a whole new way. He was about to close himself off from this beautiful place. This place that was everything he had always wanted the Stere to be. Neither of them could have it.

  No one asked him to stay. And no one asked him not to go. In fact, no one was there at all when he came up from the tunnel back into the woods.

  The only sign that someone else had been here was a single bouquet tied with a green-and-white striped ribbon. Heartblooms. Kyre left it where it sat, with just one longing look. He still had to hurry. There was more to do, and it all had to be done back on the other side.

  A safe distance away from the kubric, in a spot of the nearby woods that he recognized from his own world, he let out the breath he’d been holding. He forced himself to relax. It was easier than he had even thought. It wasn’t a matter of traveling at all. Just a matter of letting go.

  Rillent didn’t come for Aviend, but his people did. And that, really, was her goal. Bait the trap. She doesn’t think they have any idea that Quenn’s here, or what he’s doing. They were too busy chasing her, and the creature she’d let loose in the hallway. She needs a name for that creature too, she thinks. For all of these creatures that Delgha has made. They’re not horror hounds, not destriatch. They carry too much of their maker, just as the destriatch carry too much of theirs.

  She’s in Rillent’s room. Aviend doubts he will take long to show up, so she takes a moment to mentally sort through the situation. The room is lavishly furnished. The door is closed, but she doesn’t believe it’s locked. Still, she can hear voices on the other side.

  So, not a prisoner then. Not yet. But not free either. She doesn’t know what game this is. See if she’ll try to escape and then delight in taking her down? Not his style, she doesn’t think. More likely, it’s a test of her loyalty. Leave it to Rillent to be self-centered enough to believe that after all of this, he still has some kind of hold over her.

  Faleineir had searched her. It hadn’t found the hidden blades, but it had taken everything else, as she’d expected. The varjellen had taken the star pendant, without hesitation. Even now, it might already be in Rillent’s hands.

  The whole room is fabric and soft, ornate as she’s come to expect from Rillent’s taste. Purple curtains, woven in gold. A rug that her boots sink into, and dirty up. She’s all right with this.

  A little much, she thinks. Even for him. Anger flares up in her as she thinks of the rest of the people in the Stere, living in nothing. Le
ss than nothing. Not that fabrics and pretty patterns would help them.

  She sits on the overly plush chair. Sinks in. The fabric is soft as newborn yol wool. Her fingers touch it, and it feels like she imagines clouds might. It makes her feel weird and weightless. She stands up. Her instinct is to pace, but she halts it. Stands instead at the window. It’s not really a window. The glass is too thick to see through, but it lets in light. She imagines what’s out there. The Night Clave. The other kubrics. The star. Kyre.

  The door swings open behind her. She turns her body and there is Rillent. Purples and golds. Aged in the years since she’s seen him up close, but not as much as she might have expected. Or hoped.

  On his forehead, the dappled device that started all of this. Rillent is not wearing the gold wrap over it, and she sees it clear for the first time. A star. Six-sided. She feels hope in her chest, a lightening of her bones.

  The star glows softly. Rillent glows softly too. It’s an odd visage, as if his skin has a subtle light beneath it. A power that generates its own visions. But it turns him ghostly too. More like the stumblers in the woods than a living thing.

  He looks at her. Intent. Silent. His scrutiny is warm and welcoming.

  For one breath, she feels as she did as a child. Wonder. Light. Special.

  Exhale, and she sweeps those aside, as simple as wiping away a layer of dust.

  She bows her head slightly, as much to hide her face for a moment as to show any kind of reverence. Waits for Rillent to make his opening move.

  It doesn’t take long.

  He crosses the rug between them. His boots leave no marks that she can see.

  “Have you come back to me, then?” Rillent asks.

  “I was not yours before,” she says evenly. Even in this, she can’t agree to what he’s asking. But she can’t deny him either. It is a dance of small, careful steps.

  “And what of your Kyre?” He whirls a bit, purposefully, so that the ends of his purpled cloak swing in a perfect arc. Still trying to show off for her, she thinks. After all this time.

  “Do you practice that move?” she asks. “Or does pomp come naturally to those who would believe in nothing save their own power?”

  He says nothing, as she expects. But his face changes. He gives up the illusion of care and kindness.

  “I could just step in there and take everything,” he says, with a wave of his hand.

  “In there” means her mind, of course. That great expanse of space where Rillent could rule over her, once and for all.

  “You could,” she says. There is no challenge in her voice, only resignation. To challenge him would force his hand; he’d have to meet it, step in. Take over. She needs him to know that she believes he can. That she will not fight him, not because she believes in him, but because she is too exhausted, too beaten, to join him. Because where’s the fun in that for him?

  Rillent has never wanted the power he had to take. He wanted power given under the pretense of being given freely. By her mother. The Order of Truth. The Clave. Kyre. Quenn. Herself. Countless others.

  So she gives him everything. Her acquiescence. Her demureness. Her tacit agreement. She hopes in doing so she will become boring. It’s a stretch, and an unlikely one, but she sees it as her best bet.

  “What are you doing here?” he asks. “Another attempt to assassinate me?”

  Without taking his gaze from her, he pulls the pendant from his pocket. It’s clear watching him that the device doesn’t talk to him the way that it does her. His fingers can’t seem to find the rhythm. They fuss with it, as one might fuss with a child they don’t know what to do with. She looks at it for a long time, unwilling to drag her gaze away.

  “Why do you think I’m here?” She inhales through her whole body and finds the muscles inside her skin. She makes herself at home. Sits on the wide white chair that is soft as Ollie’s fur.

  “Because you know I’m getting close. And you want to stop it. All in the guise of coming to me for help. Or… whatever this is.”

  Never let it be said that Rillent is not smart. He’s always been a step ahead of her in the past. She chews her nail. Delgha painted her fingers and nails with some of her stains. They are bright green. A reminder of the Stere. Of Quenn’s pendant. Of Kyre’s eyes.

  “So you remember where you come from and why you’re doing this, even if he gets inside you,” Delgha had said. “You just lift your fingers to your face and you remember the green of the forest. The green of those eyes of that wild man you love. And you remember.”

  It was the most human thing Delgha had ever said to her. She had cried. Bawled, truly. Giant gulping rusty tears that Delgha had wiped away with the roughest piece of fabric Aviend had ever felt.

  No more tears now. Dry-eyed, she lifts her head.

  “Come closer,” she says. “And I’ll tell you why I’m really here.”

  He’s not stupid. He doesn’t take her bait. She didn’t expect him to.

  Instead, she takes a step onto the thickness of the rug. Her boots leave muddy marks on the pale. He sees it as an attack, as she thought he would.

  Instantly, his eyes enter the edges of her mind. Purpled. So strong, this close.

  She resists him. Makes it seem hard, impossible. A true feat of mental strength. Gives him space at the edges, so that he can think he’s getting a hold.

  Little one, he says.

  She reacts as though this means something to her. As though it matters. She has this. Looks at his purple eyes and thinks of green.

  He shows her the Stere, different. Alive. The people as he’d promised. It’s a beautiful thing. She wonders if this is what Kyre sees right now, in the other Stere, and then wipes it from her mind.

  Maybe it is she, after all, who is the monster. Maybe Rillent is right to gather this power…

  No. More manipulation. Another attack from Rillent, this one creeping along the edges of her brain like slow poison. Nearly invisible. Nearly getting in.

  Skist.

  She grits her teeth and turns her vision to something else. Her mother. The last time she saw her. Dressed in gold and white. She focuses in on the details. The swirl of the fabric as she moves. How it takes and leaves the light.

  The light of the sun is hot and high–

  No. Again, she turns back, grabs for the thread of her thought so that she may unweave it. Seeks her mother’s face. Can’t find it. It’s been too long. She can’t remember. Her mother’s hands instead then. The one that grips the long blade. The other holding Aviend’s hand. They are going to see the new clave member, and Aviend is afraid. She is scared, more than she’s ever been scared before and she doesn’t know why. She clings, pulls back. Her mother, ever torn between being a leader and a mother, falters but then continues on her path. Dragging her child toward fear.

  She didn’t love you.

  But this is Rillent’s mistake, trying that angle. Aviend bats it away as easy as batting away a falling leaf that brushes her face. Because of course her mother loved her. She does not doubt that. Never did. Never will.

  A surge of hope rises through her. Rillent is fumbling now, trying anything. He has lost his way and she’s going to–

  Your mother loved me, though. Just as much as you.

  Backstab while she was fending his forward blows and she momentarily hates herself for her overconfidence, her showing off. But it’s right, because he comes back forceful. Digs in.

  I must not tell him about the–

  She is thinking what he wants her to think. She stops herself before she gets to the word, but not before the vision of it comes creeping into her brain. A flash of forest-not-forest, a globe, a star in the sky that could give him all the power he wants.

  This is the moment where she tells Rillent everything.

  The world – the worlds – kept knocking Kyre for a loop. The other world, the other people, superimposing themselves over this one. Somehow, the time he’d spent there was having some kind of lingering effects. He wa
s neither wholly back nor wholly gone.

  Getting to the other Stere had been easy. Instantaneous. Getting back stretched like a dream, pushing everything before him. He could see the base, as if through water, but it seemed unreachable, no matter how he strived. It was as though he walked through a hundred Steres, each one different from the last, shuttering past him so quickly he could barely sense. Sugar. Snow. Falling flowers. A child’s laughter. Woods, silent. A burnt expanse. A place much like home.

  As he drew near, it seemed as though the weird fluctuations he was experiencing were lessening considerably, but then he heard the strange noises. Noises that didn’t slide through and disappear. Noises that stayed. Crashing. Clashing. Screeching.

  But they weren’t noises from the other worlds. They were very much noises of this one. It took him surprisingly long – too long – to recognize them.

  He was home. And the base – the place their band had used all these years to hide and work – was already under attack.

  She is following Rillent. Literally and figuratively. There is pain in that knowledge, in that admission of her choice. But it’s done, and so she follows where he will.

  Where he will go, of course, is to the base. And then to the temple. And then to the star. And there, he will destroy the barriers and suck all of the energy from that world to this one. He will become a god.

  Because she has told him everything. About Gavani. About the starroom. About the star itself. The barrier. The bridges. Everything.

  Each step is a reminder of a different thing she told him. She runs them through and through her mind. His eyes inside her. All the purple and purple and purple. She winces to think how he’d nearly left without her and she’d had to beg him to take her. Begged, like a child. Like the child she’d been when he’d first come to her.

  “I can help you,” she’d said. Because she could not stay behind.