The Far Far Better Thing

by Auston Habershaw

  Artus, though, had a choice. One little push and the problem would be solved by gravity. Voth was tiny—it would be so easy.

  But then Artus would find himself behind her as they struggled up a steep slope, her ankle easily in reach, and . . . he’d hesitate. He’d do nothing. Even worse, once he even helped her up when she slipped down a rock face. He told himself that he didn’t do anything because, after he attacked her like that, the ring would allow her to defend herself, and he knew for a fact that the woman was positively dripping with nasty little blades.

  But that wasn’t it. Artus didn’t kill Voth because he didn’t have it in him to try. It wasn’t even cowardice—it was sympathy. The woman was in pain, surrounded by her enemies, being forced through the terrible ordeal. Would he act any different than her, were their situations reversed? He guessed not.

  But that didn’t mean he had to like it.

  He tried to pass the time thinking of Michelle. He imagined her waiting for him, praying for her rescue. He imagined what he might say when he at last kicked down that door in that tower and took her into his arms. He could never manage to come up with something pithy enough. He almost wanted to ask Tyvian about it, but decided that would be dishonest. A hero couldn’t get his noble phrases from somebody else! That was cheating.

  The idea was that thinking of Michelle would keep him going—give him a goal to shoot for. Knowing she was about to be forced into marriage with that monster Sahand was supposed to keep a spring in his step and his sword sharp. But it didn’t work, exactly. He felt a bottomless unease at the fact that he was tired all the time, not driven by heroic passions. He was afraid he would fail, but he was also afraid he would succeed. If he saved Michelle, well, that was it, wasn’t it? They were destined to be together. He was destined to be prince of Eretheria.

  And that was for life.

  His brooding was interrupted when they paused for a rest and Tyvian referred to Carlo’s map. “According to this, we just need to crest that pass.” He pointed up the ridge they were hiking, which led to a narrow path that wound its way up the face of a mountain with its top frosted with snow. “After that, it should be downhill for a few days.”

  “How long before we’re in Dellor?” Artus asked. “We’ve been at this for over a week. Rations are getting low. The wedding could have happened already.”

  Eddereon sat on a boulder. “The boy’s right—we can’t keep this pace forever. We’re going to have to come down into a valley at some point to forage, at the least.”

  Tyvian looked at Voth. “Anything to add?”

  “Other than I hate the mountains and I think all of you are fools? No, I can’t think of anything.”

  “Feel free to stay behind—it’s not like you’re good company, anyway,” Artus said.

  Voth waved her ring hand at him. “I’ve got this on my finger—what’s your excuse, your highness? Maybe you should leave—trot down a mountainside and find some country wench to screw that bony noble girl right out of your head.”

  Artus clenched his fists. “You shut up about her!”

  Voth came close enough to look up into his face. “Or you’ll what? Lay hands on me? Beat up a one-eyed woman? You haven’t got the balls, you jumped-up farmboy.”

  “Will you two stop it?” Tyvian said. “It’s bad enough I’m outdoors—do I have to listen to this nonsense, too?”

  Eddereon raised his hands in a placating gesture. “Tempers are high, Tyvian. We need a rest. Does that map have anywhere we can go to find decent food or fresh water?”

  “Unsurprisingly, the map of the bloody Dragonspine reveals a notable lack of good restaurants,” Tyvian sneered.

  Eddereon’s lips vanished beneath his beard as he scowled. “You know what I meant.”

  Tyvian patted the map, which he had slipped back up his sleeve. “As I said—through that pass and then downhill for a few days. There’s your rest. Forgive me—I thought we were in a rush.”

  “How long until we get to Dellor?” Artus asked again.

  Tyvian paused, exasperated. “It will take a while, all right?”

  Artus frowned at the dodge. “How long?”

  “The map doesn’t say.”

  “It tells you how long we’ll be going downhill, but it doesn’t tell you how long until we get where we’re going?” Artus yelled. “What’s going on, Tyvian? Where are we really going?”

  Eddereon frowned. “Really going? What do you mean?”

  Artus pointed at Tyvian. “I’ve been with this guy long enough to know when he’s conning me, and that’s what I’m getting off him right now—I’ve been saying this for days.”

  Tyvian winced. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “There!” Artus said. “A-ha! The ring is giving him a hard time, which means he’s lying, see?”

  Voth straightened. “Gods, the boy’s right! Been at this a week and I never noticed. Clever, Reldamar—very clever. Lying by omission, not really lying—it all keeps the pain down, doesn’t it?”

  “Tyvian,” Eddereon said, folding his big arms. “Is this true?”

  Artus could see Tyvian struggling with the ring for a moment. He lost. “Dammit all—fine! We aren’t going to Dellor. Not directly, anyway.”

  Artus advanced on him. He wanted to hit him, but instead he simply yelled. “Where?”

  Tyvian rubbed his temples. “The Oracle of the Vale. That’s where.”

  Voth laughed. “That place isn’t even real.”

  “I’ve got a map that says otherwise.”

  “That fat goblin was just taking you for a ride,” Voth said.

  Tyvian shook his head. “No—he has no motive. He’ll sell the same map to Rodall—he told me as much—but he has no reason to give me a fake one in the first place. Bad for business, for one thing.”

  “Why in the name of all the gods are we going to the bloody oracle?” Artus yelled. “We need to rescue Michelle and . . . and your own damned mother, Tyvian! What the hell?”

  “Artus, do you honestly think the four of us can infiltrate the Citadel of Dellor, release Sahand’s prize hostages, and then make it out again alive while I’m wearing this?” Tyvian pointed to his ring.

  Voth raised her hand. “What was that about four of you? Count me out of your suicide pact, you idiots.”

  Artus ignored her. “So are you saying the Oracle of the Vale can, what, remove your ring?”

  “It knows someone who can,” Tyvian said, shrugging. “Or so I was told.”

  “By whom?”

  Tyvian kicked a rock. “Well . . . by Xahlven.”

  Artus’s mouth popped open. “Your brother? The same guy who tried to kill you? The same guy who almost killed your mother? That Xahlven?”

  “Of course that Xahlven.” Tyvian shrugged, looking at his feet. “It’s not a terribly common name, you know.”

  Voth began to laugh—hopeless, wild laughter that echoed across the mountainside. Artus wanted to join her—it was just so . . . so ridiculous—but he couldn’t shake the sheer madness of the plan. He gaped at Tyvian. “You . . . you idiot!”

  “Artus, don’t you see?” Tyvian grabbed him by the arm. “You want me to fix things? This is how I can! I would be unrestricted, understand? Unbound by this stupid moral code which has done nothing but ruin lives!”

  “It didn’t ruin my life!” Artus countered. “You’d’ve ditched me if not for that ring!”

  “But I still would have saved you,” Tyvian said. “Remember that, Artus—the man who saved you from that burning spirit engine was me before the ring.”

  “I keep telling you,” Eddereon broke in. “The ring is not a burden. It’s an asset.”

  “Spare me, Eddereon,” Tyvian said. “I don’t expect you to understand—it’s domesticated you.” He turned to Voth. “Don’t you see, Adatha? You can get it off, too—I’ll free you, understand? You were correct—I shouldn’t have put the ring on you—but I can make up for it. It can be like it used to be.”

  Voth was stil
l laughing. “You poor, naive man. Reldamar, that’s not how power works! Nobody’s going to just pop the bridle out of your mouth and let you run free! Even if there is an oracle and it does tell you where to go, do you really think somebody will just take this thing off? Why, when they could just alter it to have you dance to their tune next?”

  Tyvian scowled. “We’re going. I’ve decided.”

  “Oh yeah?” Artus yelled. “You ain’t king anymore, Reldamar. What makes you think you’re in charge, huh?”

  Tyvian looked at all of them. Artus glared back, Voth still laughed at him, Eddereon looked like he was in shock. “I’m the one with the map. I’m the one with the plan to get back Michelle and Lyrelle. I’m the only one who can get that ring off your finger, Voth. You don’t want to come with me? Fine—head west and you’ll run into the Wild Territory eventually, and from there you’ll find Dellor easily enough. Assuming you survive the journey. As for me—I’m going north, I’m finding the Oracle of the Vale, and then I’m finding the Yldd, and when this stinking ring is gone from my person once and for all, then—and only then—will I take on Sahand again!”

  Artus pushed Tyvian, hard. The smuggler pitched backward and almost fell, managing instead to fall onto his side instead of into the abyss. Artus, at that precise moment, didn’t give a damn if he fell. “You’re leaving Michelle to marry Sahand! You son of a bitch! I should kill you! I should kick you right off this goddamned mountain!”

  Tyvian snarled as he scrambled to his feet. “Spare me all this ‘Michelle’ horse shit, Artus! You don’t love the girl—it’s just a bloody infatuation. She’s the first and only girl who’s shared your bed, and now you’re feeling all guilty that you got her kidnapped—that’s it!”

  “Go to hell!” Artus took a swing at Tyvian—a sloppy, wild haymaker that the smuggler saw coming. He ducked the blow and pushed Artus back, tipping him onto his backside, which blazed with pain from the old arrow wound. Artus gasped.

  Tyvian stood over him, fists clenched. “How did you think it would all end, Artus? Did you think you’d marry that girl? Do you want to be a prince for the rest of your life? Huh?”

  Tears welled in Artus’s eyes, hot against his cheeks in the frigid air. “Shut up! Just shut up!”

  Tyvian nodded. “That’s right—you don’t. You didn’t want that life any more than I did. And you know how I know? Because if you did—if you really wanted to be Prince of Eretheria—you would have run back to your people the moment we were out of Ayventry. You’d have raised a new army to go kick down Sahand’s doors—and you could have, too. But you didn’t.”

  Artus put his hands to his face. The words hurt more than any wound he’d ever suffered. His shoulders shook as the tears came more heavily.

  Tyvian sighed. His voice softened. “It was never going to work out. You’re no prince, I’m no king, and there’s no such thing as heroes.”

  Eddereon helped Artus to his feet, his face grim. Behind him, Voth was still laughing.

  Tyvian looked haggard—old, somehow. “This is the plan. It’s the only one I’ve got. Follow me or not, but I’m leaving.”

  He turned and headed up the path, not looking to see if they came. Eddereon was the first to do so. Voth still chuckled to herself. “We’re all going to die. Kroth take me.” She started up the path, too, leaving Artus behind.

  Artus stayed.

  Was Tyvian right? Didn’t he love Michelle? He thought about her all the time—didn’t that count? Part of him—the part that spoke with Tyvian’s voice—told him it had all been an act. That he had “loved” Michelle because he was supposed to and because he had said he would. He wondered if, maybe, it was the same with Michelle—maybe she had stayed with him because she was supposed to stay. Maybe those few months he’d spent as the Young Prince were just a big joke. Myreon needed a figurehead, and he’d been it. That was all. That was all it ever was.

  In any case, he knew now that he never wanted to go back. The life of a prince was not for him. Never had been. That was why Tyvian’s words hurt.

  They were true.

  Artus’s three companions were almost out of sight when an eagle cried overhead and he looked up. No, not an eagle—a wild griffon, soaring high above, looking for a meal. A little jolt of terror broke him into a run.

  He rushed to catch up, cursing Tyvian the whole way.

  Chapter 28

  Among the Ashes

  The silence in Ayventry was complete. No birds, no wind through the leaves, no cries of the hurt or fearful. Once the fires died out on their own, there wasn’t even the distant crackle of burning wood or the occasional crash of a collapsing roof.

  Myreon sat among piles of bleached skeletons, staring into nothing. She did not know how long she had been there. She did not think it mattered.

  The Creeping Dark was gone . . . somehow. Not by her doing, at any rate—try as she might, she could no more control it than she could divert the course of rivers with her hands. Perhaps if she were a more powerful sorcerer, perhaps if she had known what to prepare for—perhaps then. Too late now.

  The ley of the city had skewed so sharply into the Ether, Myreon could scarcely summon a positive thought, let along the energy to move. Every drip of optimism, every stain of hope had been bleached from her soul. She sat in tattered, rotting robes and felt brittle, as though any movement might make her break. Perhaps it would. Perhaps the Ether had drained the vitality from her body as well as her spirit. Perhaps she was ancient now, and withered.

  It would serve her right.

  It must have been days before the fires stopped, then the long silence, and then, one day, a crow landed atop a crumbled chimney and looked her up and down with one speck of an eye. It hopped down and made its way across the street, pecking at this thighbone and that skull, before stopping at her feet. It cocked its head this way and that, looking for a sign of life. Myreon realized she was likely the only hunk of flesh left in the city—the only meal.

  She shifted her foot slightly and it hopped back, but did not leave. Having no better feeding options in sight, the creature seemed determined to try its luck and see if she died. For some reason, though, she did not.

  That night, there was another crow, come to peck at her as she dozed, trance-like, amid the ruin she had caused. The first crow fought with the second and, at last, drove it away. Though not far away.

  It occurred to Myreon that the presence of the crows was the ley slowly righting itself. The flow of the great ley line that passed through the city was gradually rebalancing the energies of creation. A part of Myreon’s mind that was not despondent—not yet, anyway—woke up and realized that she was witnessing something the magi of the Arcanostrum spoke of only in theory. The Gray Tower worked so hard to keep the Energies in harmony that it had been literal ages since they had been so greatly disrupted. Even in Daer Trondor, the Fey energy had been concentrated inside the power sink, keeping it from completely obliterating the Dweomer and crowding out the other energies. If it had done that, she wouldn’t have had a snowball to throw.

  She discovered that she was desperately thirsty, yet she still lacked the energy to rise and find water. It might not even be good to drink, anyway, given the ley. Better to wait. Best, perhaps, to simply die. At the very least she would feed the crows, who now waited for her demise with great patience in a flock surrounding her. Their caws and squawks at last supplanted the eerie silence of death.

  On what might have been the fifth day, or possibly the fourth or sixth, the crows took to the skies as one. Myreon turned her head, the act itself painful enough to draw tears, and saw a tall man in the gray robes of the Defenders, his magestaff gleaming in the morning light, striding toward her.

  It was Argus Androlli. Of course.

  He stood over her and she looked up at him and, for some time, neither of them spoke. The bones, she felt, did the speaking for her. At last, when he did speak, his voice was softer than she had expected. “Are you hurt?”

  She shoo
k her head.

  “Did you see what happened?”

  The laugh ripped out of her before she knew it was coming. She laughed and laughed, even though each shudder of her ribcage hurt and her throat was rough and raw as freshly shaved beef.

  Androlli’s handsome face drew into a frown. He thought she was mad. Perhaps he was right—perhaps she was mad. She had a right to be.

  “You are under arrest, Myreon. Please don’t resist.”

  There was no resistance in her—if he could not see that, then she wasn’t going to tell him. She sat there, listless; a Sergeant Defender presented himself to Androlli and saluted. “Sir, no signs of life of any kind. Just bones, sir.”

  “Any sign of any latent disruption of the ley?” Androlli asked.

  “The magecompasses are still trending to the Ether, sir, but motion is positive. Whatever did this is gone.”

  Androlli motioned toward Myreon. “We have at least one survivor, so do a thorough search to see if we can find any other witnesses.”

  The sergeant looked down at her, his expression grim. “How’d she manage it?”

  “She was once a Mage Defender,” Androlli said, crouching down and producing a pair of casterlocks. “She went rogue.”

  Light dawned behind the sergeant’s eyes. “The Gray Lady?”

  Androlli shook his head slowly as the casterlocks clicked over Myreon’s hands. “Not anymore. She’s just Myreon now.”

  Gently, Androlli helped Myreon to her feet. Her joints creaked and her muscles ached with stiffness, but she was able to stand. “Thank . . . you . . .” she croaked.

  “If you want to help me, Myreon, you’ll tell me everything you know about how Sahand did this.”