The Reminiscent Exile Series, Books 1-3: Distant Star, Broken Quill, Knight Fall

by Joe Ducie

  I hesitated only a moment, fearing the consequences, and then sliced open a way between the worlds with Myth.

  A sharp pain just behind my eyes tried to blind me, and I almost let the portal slip, but I’d been trained long ago to deal with pain under stressful circumstances. Old warning bells and harsh red lights began to blink along the walls of the bridge and the control stations.

  Pushing off the back of the command chair, I took a long step forward and ducked through the portal. The step was disorienting, as I went from leaning at a forty-five degree angle on a shaking ship to flat, grassy ground in a single step.

  I’d moved on an axis with and—ever so briefly, on Voraskel—against gravity.

  The baby frowned, and I’m sure he felt the same momentary disorientation.

  “How was that?” I asked, in the clean air on the new world, somewhere I’d been once before. “First trip across universes.” Through the portal at my back, the warning sirens on the ship were eclipsed by Emissary’s frantic, ferocious roars. I turned back to see the dragon flood the shielded glass with green liquid flame. The creature slammed into the outside of the bridge, claws digging deep furrows in the broken metal of the hull.

  “Here’s the fun part,” I told my son, smirking grimly.

  The engines I’d set to cycle overloaded, the crystal cores ruptured, and the pressure forced a final burst of energy from the rear of the ship. The entire wreck flew forward—downward—with Emissary wrapped around her bow.

  A lizard clinging to the nose of a makeshift crystal fusion missile. I wanted to think the son of a bitch knew what was about to happen.

  Gazing through the portal at the wrecked starship was almost like watching events unfold on a television screen. The thousands upon thousands of tons of steel, crystal, bones, and dirt drove the Emissary into the city street.

  I’m sure a colossal boom and explosion, perhaps mixed with the shrieks and roars of the creature, followed next. I didn’t keep the gateway open to find out, certain that fire and shockwaves of energy could travel across worlds through the portal just as easily as my son and I had done.

  Walk away from that, asshole.

  “And that’s why they asked me to fight a war,” I whispered to the kid, enjoying the cool air and the scent of honeyberries on the wind. It made my eyes water, and I rubbed at my patch-less one with the back of my hand, still clutching blackened Myth.

  Bright spots of pain exploded in my skull, and the liquid I wiped away from my eye wasn’t tears, but blood. “Right… okay.”

  I stared at the dagger, at the sinister darkened petals, and thought the defiant vibrations felt a lot more like a low, dangerous growl.

  Chapter Eighteen

  A Distant Star

  In the memories Emily had shown me through her dying kiss, I had seen her change over the millenniums since Atlantis had fallen and the rest of her kin had been imprisoned in some of the darkest corners across Forget. Back then, she had not been Emily. She had been Fair Astoria—and entirely alien.

  But for whatever reason, as I understood it, she had given up what was known as grace, her power as one of the Everlasting, and slowly but surely turned human. Not entirely human, of course—not even close to entirely human, given her immortal status—but enough so that she could conceive the life in my arms and, unlike her brothers and sisters, come and go on True Earth as she pleased.

  That last distinction seemed like a significant slice of the pie.

  A few months ago, Scion had needed Myth to leave the Story Thread and access the real world, and from what I’d gleaned through Oblivion and Tal, the Everlasting coveted True Earth but could not travel there through ‘conventional’ interdimensional means. But with the Roseblade, Oblivion would have more than enough strength and means to access True Earth. The war would start with an Everlasting beachhead on the most precious planet in existence, where the books that formed the Story Thread were written.

  Trouble ahead and in my road… Yet none of that seemed very important when compared with the need to find some formula for my son.

  From the wreck of the starship on Old Voraskel I had travelled to the familiar honeyberry fields of Meadow Gate, one of the accorded neutral territories of Forget, and home to Miss Tia Moreau—now an ex-Knight, trying to stay that way—but more importantly pharmacies and markets where I could get some sort of food for the little fellow in my arms. And some bandages and salve for me. The gems in my pocket would be enough to cover those slim expenses.

  How much time had I spent dodging fire in the forest? Three hours? Four? Again, I didn’t know much about parenting, but I knew newborns needed feeding. Hell, I could go for a good steak and chips—none of that salad nonsense—the plate stacked with garlic mashed potatoes, burst cherry tomatoes dipped in basil and olive oil, as well as a schooner of delicious golden beer. My stomach rumbled at the thought of such a feast. Baby first, you second.

  I’d cut a path to Meadow Gate just along the farm roads that I knew led up and around to the main streets. The sun had disappeared behind the western ranges, spilling a tin of mauve paint across the sky. A few stars blinked overhead as dusk became true night. The town—more accurately a mini-city—had been built around a tall but gently sloping hill in the shadow of nearby snow-capped mountains. Cottages, buildings, roads, waterfalls, and all manner of stalls, cars, and hovercrafts used these hills as home.

  Luckily, the farm road—the same Tia had arrested me on a few months ago, with Annie—seemed empty. No one had seen my abrupt arrival, but I had to get out of sight soon. Meadow Gate kept a check on the use of Will and Will-related magical items like Myth. My use of them had triggered the buried sensors dotted under the landscape and announced my arrival up in the sheriff’s office. Deputies would be on their way to investigate, and while I might get lucky with the regular townsfolk, too many people knew my face—my infamous, exiled face.

  I’d lost my eye here in Meadow Gate, to an unruly mob.

  So I ducked into the honeyberry fields alongside the farm road, hiding behind the vines, and kept my remaining eye on and an ear to the road.

  Sure enough, about five minutes later, a pair of revolver-wearing, sword-wielding toughs sauntered past my hiding spot within the honeyberry vines. One was telling a story, mumbled just too low for me to hear, and the other bellowed great guffaws of laughter. Clearly they didn’t expect to find Declan Hale, the Shadowless Arbiter, exiled-but-not-anymore, architect of the Degradation and Hero-Villain of the Tome Wars, squatting in a field of ripe, juicy honeyberries.

  Once they had scuttled down the way a bit, I emerged from the field and marched a quick step toward Meadow Gate. After the mad dash through the forest and up a thousand or so flights of stairs, my legs had settled into a numb sort of indifference. The baby was drifting in and out of sleep now but kept making soft mewling sounds—the closest he’d come so far to crying.

  “That’s right, kid,” I said, as we rounded the hill and left the honeyberry fields behind. “Hales don’t cry.” Well, not often.

  A walk of only a few minutes brought me to the well-traveled road that led up the hill and into Meadow Gate proper. Streetlamps slowly flickered on to greet the end of the day as I hobbled along, keeping my head down and avoiding staying too close to other folk. As I limped past a small tavern that reminded me of Paddy’s, an idea occurred to me, and I ducked inside. Sure enough, just along the entrance corridor was a coat rack. The coats on the rack were varied—leather jackets, tweed blazers, and cloaks—both hooded and hoodless. I casually borrowed a long matte black cloak with a deep hood and stepped back out into the late evening air. I took a moment on the tavern’s porch to swing the cloak around my neck, straining to do the clasp with one hand, and then slipped the hood up and over my head, concealing my face in its velvet shadows.

  “There now,” I said. Enchantments existed to alter one’s face, but I’d never been good at the subtle stuff. A cloak was easier and less likely to fail. “We can walk with our heads held
high, aye?” I bobbed the baby up and down a few times in my arms, and he yawned, which was catching, forcing one from me. “Let’s see about getting you something for dinner.”

  The main street branched off near the top of the hill into dozens of winding cobblestoned lanes that rose and dove through uneven levels around the surrounding hills and down into long valleys between the mountain ranges.

  Meadow Gate was a shining example of worlds settled by the Knights Infernal, comprised of scattered buildings both modern and medieval, as well as structures that wouldn’t have looked out of place on an episode of Star Trek. The people were the same mix, pulling wagons that hovered about a foot above the ground and talking into displays wrapped around their wrists, or piloting small hovercraft in old suits of clothes in fashion roughly two centuries ago.

  I followed the laneway Tia had shown me during my last visit, up a set of limestone steps curving around a hill dotted with white stone houses and warmly lit windows. The scent of sizzling meats, fried onions, fresh garlic, and dozens of other homely smells permeated the air.

  At the top of the steps, the laneway opened on the heart of Meadow Gate, built just above the crest of the hill. A wide-open plaza, holding a series of mismatched buildings around its perimeter and a variety of stalls and food carts across its center. Roadside food vendors rubbed shoulders with silk merchants and bankers. Armorers forged Will-enhanced plate mail next to rare and exotic spice dealers. Mingled within all of that, a hundred other trades had set up shop.

  I caught sight of a pharmacy on the other side of the plaza, lit with neon signs, and meandered through the crowds to the storefront. The building would not have looked out of place back in Perth, and stepping inside, I saw a lot of familiar products that had been imported from True Earth. Cadbury chocolate and cans of soda, alongside a variety of over-the-counter medicines, toiletries, and—most importantly—baby care products.

  The air was cool inside the pharmacy and held that faintly clinical smell of a hospital. Identity concealed by my cloak, I scanned the shelves for a tin or box of infant formula, as well as a bottle. About a dozen different brands, all with smiling babies in their mothers’ arms, faced me down like a line of Renegade soldiers.

  Better for me if it had been a line of the enemy facing me down, as I knew what to do in that situation.

  I grunted and spun the first tin on the shelf, having a read of the directions and the ingredients. “Powder and liquid concentrate… soy protein based… Blimey, kid, are you in the mood for a helping of partially hydrolyzed nucleotides? Between you and me, it’s when you can start eating steak and chips that life really gets interesting.”

  I managed to find a bag of three small bottles, but as for the formula itself, I was flummoxed. I spent a few minutes perusing the products up and down the aisle. Some of the directions seemed to call for certain types of water; others seemed to emphasize the importance of folic acid, while one or two seemed to think niacin was of vital importance.

  “Do you need any help here, dear?” asked a kind-voiced elderly woman.

  I turned and glanced at her from within the folds of my hood. She was a few steps away—perhaps due to my reluctance to reveal my face—but when she saw the baby in his blue shawl, a genuine and warm smile spread across her face. She moved in close and cooed at the little fellow.

  “I’m not entirely certain which formula he needs,” I admitted.

  She pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose and blinked at me. “Well, young man, that entirely depends on a few things. How old is he? Does his mother breastfeed him? Any known allergies?”

  “About half a dozen hours; no, I’m afraid she can’t; and… allergies?” I shrugged. “He sneezed a few hours ago, but I think that was environmental. Lot of dust.”

  The lady peered at me, as if to see beneath my hood. “His mother can’t feed him?”

  I took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. “She died… not long after he was born.”

  “Oh, dear. I’m sorry for your loss. And you’re his father, I take it?”

  “That I am.”

  “You know, perhaps he needs to visit the hospital on the far side of Meadow Gate. I could call you a taxi… Or my son, Arl—he’s out the back—would be happy to drive—”

  The only thing that would keep my son alive in the year to come—the only thing that gave this tiny speck of life in my arms even a sliver of a chance of seeing his first birthday—was keeping secret just who his mother and father were.

  Particularly his father. If word spread I had a son, entire worlds of my enemies would mark him for death. Guilty by association…

  “I just need a bottle or two of formula,” I said, trying to keep my tone light and even jovial. I held up the packet of bottles. “If I could use your kitchen to prepare…?”

  The old woman stared at me in silence for a long moment, her expression blank and unreadable. Slowly she reached out and grasped the hem of my stolen hood and lowered the cowl to my shoulders. I blinked in the light with my one good eye, my face surely a mess of cuts and bruises from the events of the last day, and gave her a tired, sad smile.

  The look of mingled fright and awe on her face was all I needed to know she recognized me. I was, after all, the infamous Declan Hale—hero and villain of the Tome Wars, Commander of the Cascade Fleet, and almost-king of the Knights Infernal.

  Calmly, the old woman pulled the hood back up over my head and then grabbed one of the tins from the shelf, tucking the formula powder under her arm. “Follow me,” she said, and to her credit, her voice didn’t shake. She led me through the pharmacy, around the counter, and into a small kitchen out the back.

  Asking no questions, the old lady set a pan of water to boil and set about sterilizing the capped baby bottles, one at a time. “Biscuits on the table,” she said over her shoulder as she worked.

  I took a seat at a small round table and helped myself to a bit of shortbread, chewing softly and being mindful not to drop any crumbs on the baby. He fidgeted a little bit in my arms, yawned again, and made a tiny sound of discomfort. He was hungry, I was sure. I watched the old woman work with the ease of long practice, mixing the formula and sealing the sterilized bottles.

  After about five minutes, she splashed a bit of formula on her arm, testing the temperature, and gave a satisfied nod. She handed me one of the bottles. “Now, you make sure he finishes all of this, young man.”

  “Yes, ma’am. Thank you. I will.”

  “Here’s another. Give it to him in a few hours, and make sure you burp him gently.” She stuffed another capped bottle of formula in the deep pockets of my stolen cloak. “Now best you be on your way. Somewhere s-safe.”

  “Thank you,” I said again, ignoring the hitch on the word safe. I placed a handful of gems on the table for the formula and let myself out.

  *~*~*~*

  I hadn’t just come to Meadow Gate looking to steal a cool new cloak or brew some baby formula. If all I’d needed was the formula, I could have cut back through to Perth where hiding my face wasn’t a necessity.

  No, as I wound through the streets of the town, working from my memories of a few months ago, I made my slow but steady way to a tiny little bar, tucked under the eaves of a two-story wooden cottage on a busy lane overlooking the valley—a bar that belonged to Tia Moreau. The baby had taken quickly to the bottle, during our brief walk from the pharmacy, drinking the warm formula slowly and surely.

  The strong, caramel scent of honeyberries wafted up from the vast fields below, and above the bar, a sign swung gently in the breeze, secured to an awning on rusted iron hooks: The Reminiscence.

  The reason I had come to Meadow Gate and sought out Tia was simple enough. The jaunt down memory lane in the Tomb of the Sleeping Goddess had shown me several memories, all of them containing Tia. Whether I knew it or not, my subconscious trusted her. Needed her, if my son was going to have any chance at all. Perhaps never more so now that I knew she was alive, even healthy and strong, after we’d
all written her off as dead during the Fall of Voraskel and Avalon—but that was more for myself, than for the infant in my arms. If Tia could make it through the bad times, then perhaps I could, as well.

  To be fair, her command ship, the Reminiscence, had been swallowed whole by the Void. She had named her bar in honor of the ship—and the two thousand lives lost under her command—when all she wanted to do was forget most of her life as a Knight. I could understand that want—need—as well as the next man.

  She was out of the game, simply refusing to play—which was just what I needed. Tia did not have my enemies.

  I let myself in through the sturdy wooden door, and a wave of merriment, drink, and mouth-watering aromas washed over me. Any properly cared-for pub, bar, or tavern in the world always felt like home.

  Tia’s bar was lit by a twin pair of crystal chandeliers, which sent a soft light cascading over the long mahogany bar and the lounge area. Oak tables and comfy leather couches took up most of the space near a large, roaring fireplace. In front of that flickering blaze was a small stage supporting a stool and a microphone, lacking only a musician.

  None of the patrons in the bar spared me more than a second glance. Wearing a hood might have attracted a few concerned stares back on True Earth, but here in the outer territories, people didn’t ask too many questions. I was just another face in the crowd, caught between the absurd mess of past, present, and future that held Forget and the Story Thread together.

  It was nice to see that the bar hadn’t burned entirely to the ground a few months before, though a lot of the fixtures looked new and shiny. I guessed Tia had cleared up the unpleasantness and rebuilt her bar. I hoped the mongrels that had thrown bouncing incendiary bombs through her windows had been strung up and left for the fucking crows. A bit of a morbid hope, perhaps—but then they had cost me an eye and nearly killed my friends.