Nether Light

by Shaun Paul Stevens

  Damn. She was right. Father was weak. Why wouldn’t they just kill him? “Fuck.” Guyen punched the wall in frustration, immediately regretting it as his knuckles burned.

  Mist touched his arm. “Calm down. Now’s not the time for a tantrum.”

  Breathe. Think, Maker, think. There has to be a way. Perhaps there was. “Could you pick the locks downstairs?”

  “Of course, but—”

  “We need a distraction, don’t we? Go. Now. Start at the bottom then meet me back here. I’ll get him ready to go.”

  “What about your brother?”

  It was a good question, and the answer killed. “I don’t think he’s here.” Mist didn’t move. “You got a better idea?”

  She looked like she might have, but didn’t want to say. “Fine, I’ll do it for you, Greens.” She turned on her heels and headed down the tower.

  Guyen turned back to the bed. How was he going to move the lump of a man? He unsheathed his knife, and a minute later he’d cut him free. “What have they done to you?” he murmured. The scene was horrific. Like one of Molina’s blood experiments.

  “Seed,” Father grunted, “seed.”

  “Is Yemelyan here, Father? Have you seen him?” No reply. His boots were tucked under the bed. Guyen got to work, forcing them onto him.

  A moment later, Mist called from the door. “Guyen.”

  “All done?”

  She shrieked. “I’m sorry, Greens.”

  Dread conquered hope. He whipped round. A depressingly familiar bastard stood in the doorway, grinning like the asylum.

  45

  Lives of the Living

  Guyen pulled his sword.

  “I wouldn’t do that,” Vale growled. He stepped into the room, revealing Yannick behind him in the doorframe. The tailor held Mist in hand like a doll, neck pulled back at an unholy angle, shortsword pointed at it.

  What was the use? Guyen threw down his weapon. It clattered dully on the floor, as rankers piled onto the landing. Vale shoved him back towards the bed.

  Mist swore. “Get off me, you bastard.” Yannick yanked her head some more. She winced. “Sorry, Greens, the mad woman attacked me. They took me by surprise.”

  “Frisk her,” Vale ordered.

  Yannick forced her to the floor, placing a foot on her neck. She struggled, lashing out, but thought better of it as the pressure increased. He bent over, patting her down, inappropriate hands exploring everywhere. The switchblade, her ankle blade, then the dainty peeler at her thigh revealed. He pulled the lock picks from her jacket pocket and tutted. “Don’t think you’ll be needing these, little lady.” He pulled her back up by the braids.

  Vale glared. “Have you any weapons, Bindcrafter?”

  “Why don’t you find out?” Guyen muttered.

  Sword aimed at his neck, the barber relieved him of his belt knife. He admired the moon-embossed hilt. “Ah yes. This little number. I shouldn’t have given it back to you the last time.” He pocketed it. “What are you doing here, Maker? Family reunion, is it?”

  “Go swing.”

  “I won’t, if you don’t mind. I suppose we have you to thank for the dead man outside the wall?” He considered Mist. “Or maybe it was your sweetheart that slit his throat? She has quite the reputation for a lady.”

  “You’re next,” she spat.

  Vale raised an eyebrow. “I was wondering when I’d get the chance for an introduction, Mistress. Perhaps our foremost will allow me some personal time with you later.”

  “You wouldn’t know where to put it, pig.”

  “On the contrary, my dear, I’m very knowledgeable on the subject.”

  She scowled. “You know you got your own song around the taverns? The barber’s got a baby dick, it’s smaller than a needle prick. That’s the gist, anyways.”

  He bent over her. “Wait until later. You’ll find out how big it is then.” He ran a finger across her lip. She snapped at it. He slapped her, sending her sprawling, and a ranker grabbed her arms.

  “You’re dead, vache,” Guyen said. It was a statement of what was to come, not a threat.

  Vale turned back, shoving him onto the bed. Father let out a groan. “The ogre’s still breathing?” he observed. “Krellen stock’s strong, I’ll give you that.”

  Rage built like a storm. “You should kill me while you have the chance.”

  “You really are untameable, aren’t you, Bindcrafter?” He almost sounded impressed.

  Guyen banished Toulesh. The simulacrum folded out, swarming angrily around the scrag. Was there anything beyond the solid world that might save them? Touching the Song, weak nether light swirled in the air. Perhaps he could cast Mass as a weapon? He focussed on the clasp securing Vale’s necktie, willing the Faze eddies into something more. They fizzed weakly, pain striking his temples. It was no use. The Layer was too distant.

  Cotes strode into the room, out of breath. He stared at Guyen. “What is he doing here?”

  “A rescue party, commander,” Vale said. “A rather incompetent one at that.”

  Cotes dismissed the news. “We’ve received a Blackcap. A report from the capital. Berese and several companies have set out on the East Road.”

  A smile tugged at the corners of Mist’s mouth.

  Vale’s face contorted through a collection of disturbing expressions. “Will they intercept us before we get the wagons up through Langdon?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “Well, fuck the idiot. This is why we have contingencies.”

  “The river?” Yannick muttered.

  “Indeed. We ferry the wagons north and travel west along the Urmouth trail. I assume you have the operation in hand, commander?” His tone suggested Cotes had better.

  “Well, yes,” Cotes managed, “but I didn’t think we’d actually need the plan. It’s far from ideal.”

  “Now, commander, you’re not filling me with confidence.”

  Cotes paled.

  Vale sighed. “How many barges did you prepare?”

  “Er, six.”

  “And how many wagons fit on each?”

  “Two including the horses.”

  “Is that all?” Vale looked over, dead eyes chilling. “If I were you, commander, I would have my men ready the dock. Begin loading at once.”

  “The barges are concealed upriver,” Cotes said carefully. “It will take a while to move them into position.”

  “I’m sure you can encourage your men to make that a short while.”

  “Of course,” Cotes sputtered.

  A mouse scurried past. Vale stepped on its tail, trapping it in place. “I suggest we ready the defences, commander.”

  Cotes stared from the struggling rodent to one of his lieutenants. “Yes, absolutely.”

  Vale skewered the mouse on the end of his sword. He flicked the furry corpse at an unfortunate ranker. The man jumped. “Now, commander!”

  Cotes snapped to attention. “You heard him. Let’s go.” He bristled from the room, redcoats following like ducklings.

  Vale turned to Yannick. “Lock these miscreants down and make sure they stay in one piece until we’re ready to move.”

  “No knives?”

  “No.” Vale let loose an exasperated snort and stormed out of the room.

  Yannick tapped his pin case. “Looks like I have you to myself again, Maker.”

  Guyen flinched like a conditioned dog, immediately appalled by his pathetic fear. “Leave us alone,” he managed.

  Yannick laughed. “You didn’t miss me?” He grabbed Father by the beard like he was a cut of meat. “You actually thought the fucker was dead! You lost me a bet, rascal.”

  Bitterness surged. “What have you done to him?”

  “Took extra special care, that’s what. You should be grateful.”

  Good sense evaporated. Guyen shot up, catching the bastard with a crunching fist to his pug nose.

  Yannick stumbled backwards, holding his face. “Well now, that smarts,” he said.


  The retaliation came predictable as a whore’s gonorrhoea. Guyen ducked a jab, but it was a feint, and the tailor’s shiny black shoe connected with his groin. He doubled over, only to receive a knee to the face. The room swam as another blow knocked him to the floor, then a sharp heel hammered home, slamming his head into the wooden boards. An ocean of searing pain eviscerated thought. Just a swimming, grey world of confusion.

  “Stop it!” Mist cried.

  “I apologise,” Yannick said. “That was uncalled for.” Guyen pulled himself up to his elbows as Mist landed beside him. The blur of men left the room, the door closed, and a key turned in the lock.

  The concussion hung on like an obstinate old relative with a large fortune. With only the dim glow from the landing for light, judging whether vision had returned was an imprecise art. Mist helped him up, and he sat against the wall, head throbbing, jaw aching.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “It’s all my fault.”

  “No, it’s mine.”

  She shrugged. “You live and you die. Pretty sure we’ll tick both boxes. How’s your father?”

  Guyen forced himself to his feet and bent over the man, laying a hand on his forehead. His good eye flickered. “Sorry, son, too weak,” he murmured, then blanked again.

  “What do we do now, Mist?”

  She took a sharp breath, rubbing her face. “I’m all out, Greens, sorry. What about your gift?”

  “I tried. It wouldn’t come.”

  “Don’t worry. We’ll think of something.” She didn’t sound hopeful.

  Toulesh looked on, sullen and moody. Make yourself useful, Guyen sent, go see what’s out there. The simulacrum ghosted through the door, returning a second later with the sense of two men. Two guards?

  “What about this,” Mist said. “We wait for them to move us and overpower them on the road?”

  “Maybe.” It wasn’t worth pointing out she’d be the first person you’d kill if you wanted an easy transport—she wasn’t stupid.

  Perhaps Father needed more water? At least the scrags had left that. Guyen fumbled with the flask, dripping the contents around the sleeping man’s mouth. The small window flickered red, a sudden burst of energy filling the air. A distant rumble sounded.

  “Weather!” Mist exclaimed. That was more than regular weather. She went to the door and peered through the bars. “How about you give a girl a break, corporal?” The guard coughed but offered no response. She wandered back over.

  “How many guards out there?” Guyen asked.

  “Two.”

  “Ha! Toulesh was right.”

  “What?”

  “Oh, nothing.”

  She tutted and began pacing the room. Guyen searched it, mainly by touch. Just the scarce furniture, the copper cylinder, a chunk of stale bread… He turned their predicament over in his mind. How would this all end? Was Berese their best chance? The cannon emplacements lining the fort’s defences didn’t bode well in that regard.

  A half hour later, it began hailing outside, the roof slates pinging under a barrage of crystal shrapnel. Down below, the sounds of moving equipment and rankers’ shouts drifted up. Father slept on. Guyen mopped his brow with a strip of linen. The conversation had died, the depressing reality of their situation sunk in. Soon, the silence was too much. “You think Rossi’s Blackcap made it back?” he asked.

  “Must have,” Mist said. “If Berese is already on his way.”

  “What about Rossi?”

  She considered. “They’ll find the guard post deserted.” She clicked her tongue. “I hope he’s not stupid enough to get caught.”

  “You think there’s any way out of this room?”

  “No, do you?”

  Father stirred. Guyen bent over him. “Father, can you hear me?” His eye remained closed.

  Time dragged on, and the weather outside worsened, red flashes brighter and more frequent, ice pellets skittering in through the high window. Slipping focus, Faze seemed thicker in the air now, the nether light brighter. Was it the storm? A button lay discarded on the dresser. Experimentally, he tried charming it. Finding no Faze signatures in the room to borrow probability from, he attempted to draw in Faze from somewhere else, anywhere else. The alternate version of the button stuck—he felt it—a glitch in the Song. But he was suddenly drained and tired, a metallic taste in his mouth. The button did nothing in particular. Perhaps it would be more likely to fall off a coat if anyone tried to sew it on one—who knew?

  As the wind outside gusted like a banshee, Father surfaced into prolonged consciousness. He was still too weak to raise his head, but at least had the power of speech. Time for some answers. But where did you start?

  Mist jumped in. “How did you get here, old man?”

  “This is Mist,” Guyen offered. “She’s a friend.”

  Father grunted. “Glad you found one, son.”

  “I thought you were dead,” Guyen said. “I was sure.” A tear fell, unseen in the darkness.

  “I’m sorry, I must be a disappointment.”

  Disappointment? How could you be disappointed without a clue what was going on? “How did you end up here, Father? Where’s Zial?”

  Father groaned. “He’s dead. They killed him the first night, poor bastard.”

  “What night?”

  “The night they abducted me.”

  “They what?”

  “They took me, staged an accident at the dam to cover it up.”

  “The dam collapse was sabotage?” This was too much. “They killed a dozen men!”

  “I know, and it’s on my head.”

  Guyen snorted. “Why would they want you?”

  Father didn’t answer for a moment. “There are things I tried to protect you from, Guyen. I couldn’t put you in danger.”

  “What things?”

  “Water,” he murmured. Guyen put the flask to his lips. He drank. “Zial and me,” he said, “we fought for our brothers and sisters.”

  Mist sat forwards. “You’re with the rebels?”

  “Yes.”

  Confusion turned to disbelief, disbelief to fear. “The rebels—you?” Guyen stared, dumbfounded. “Impossible. I’d have known.” Actually, those late night political discussions, the clandestine meetings, Mother’s reticence to explain Father’s movements… But that meant he’d betrayed them—sacrificed his family. For what? Politics? Suddenly, the man was a stranger. It was a knife in the guts. Guyen took a swig of water, trying to remain calm. “How could you do that to us?” he managed. “And why would you help the Sendalis? After Kiani? After everything?”

  “Sacrifices must be made, Guyen, for the good of the many.”

  Mist huffed. “Is that the best you can do, old man? A proverb?”

  “I’m getting there, girl.” Father took a rasping breath. “It was Zial’s idea. The Sendalis were to use my blood to make a new concoction. He was convinced it would destroy them, that the Devotions would fall and a people’s republic would arise, that the slaughter would stop back home. They promised safety for you and Yemelyan, for your mother, but it was a trick. As soon as they could, they imprisoned me and conducted their experiments.”

  “Have you seen Yemelyan?”

  “No, why?”

  “He’s missing.”

  Father reached out a hand, grip desperately weak. “Your mother, is she all right?”

  “Dalrik has her.”

  “Dalrik? I haven’t heard that name in a—”

  Mist interrupted. “What’s so special about your blood, old man?”

  The answer was obvious. Hadn’t Hayern himself already explained it?

  Father coughed weakly. “We have a lineage, an ancient line. I tried to protect you from this. I thought I had.”

  “You haven’t protected me from shit, Father.”

  “I realise that now.” He groaned. “Do you remember the tales I told you as a boy?”

  Guyen suppressed a bitter laugh. Happy times like those were best forgotten—they only put the pre
sent into more painful focus. “What tales?”

  “Remember the story of Hayern? The man who cured the Affliction?”

  “Oh, I remember him,” Guyen muttered. How could you forget him?

  “Son, Hayern is our ancestor.” And there it was—a living, breathing man, just about, confirming the delusion.

  Mist laughed. “The old fella’s lost it, Greens.”

  “Hear him out.” Of course it was true. He’d been too real to be a dream.

  “Our blood contains the original Seed,” Father said, “the means to cure the Affliction, passed down our line from Hayern himself.” He cursed. “And now the Sendalis have used it, used me, to design a new poison.”

  A thought struck. “You didn’t Bind us when we were born, did you?”

  “We had good reason, son. The concoction is nine-from-ten fatal in our family. Why do you think you have no relatives on my side?”

  “I thought it was because Grandfather died too young.”

  “No, I had three brothers and a sister. None lived. I couldn’t bear the thought of losing you, so I paid off the midwife. You did well for the first year, but then you got sick. Your mother was desperate. She persuaded me to go to Zial for help. It was he who opened my eyes to the struggle against the Sendalis. He knew herbs. All you needed was Red Oil, given regular.”

  Guyen touched an old scar on his arm, a vague memory of childhood injections and burning pain surfacing.

  Father continued. “Zial’s potions worked. You were always brighter, talented in so many things. Never dulled by the Binding like the rest of the Feyrlands.”

  “And Yemelyan, Kiani?”

  “It was different for them, the oil blunted your brother, even if it kept him healthy. And your sister, well, we never got to find out.”

  He’d treated them like experiments, not children. All these years he’d lied to them. Anger swelled, frustration peaking. “They call me Purebound,” Guyen growled. “I see visions. I can do things, strange things, supernatural things. You made me into a demon.”

  “I saved your life, boy.”

  Guyen shrieked with frustration. Mist patted his arm. Outside, the wind howled and more red lightning crackled on the horizon, the room flickering with crimson shadows. “Something’s happening to the world, Father. To Faze. The Binding is failing. And it’s changing me, I feel it.” The words came out in a waterfall of fear and regret.