Rossi glared. “I’m not sure this is a good idea, Prime Wield. I am charged with keeping Yorkov safe. I can hardly do that if he is gallivanting about the city in the middle of the night. There’s a bounty on his head.”
Toulesh went from puzzled to preening. Guyen raised an eyebrow. “Bounty?”
Rossi shrugged. “Probably.”
The Prime Wield grunted a mirthless laugh. “You should stay here, cadet. Yorkov will be perfectly safe with me.”
“No, sir. I shall come along. Orders, sir.”
Rialto muttered something dark, but his expression resigned.
A thought struck. They’d be deserting Mist. Guyen caught Tarobert’s eye. “Will you stay, be here when she wakes up?”
The cadet looked to Rossi, who nodded agreement. “Of course,” he said.
Rialto tapped his cane impatiently on the wooden boards. “Very well, lead the way, cadet.” They followed Rossi outside.
Rialto’s coach waited at the bottom of the steps, Hawkins patient at the reins. It was a miracle he hadn’t solidified, the temperature had to be well below freezing. Dark Carla and the rest of Rossi’s eight-strong squad huddled around a brazier next to a homeless man, their mounts snorting freezing vapour from their nostrils. Rossi gave orders for them to follow on behind while Rialto instructed Hawkins on their route—they’d need to collect the patch serum from Silver’s Den on the way. A few minutes later, they were trundling through the deserted streets.
They snaked westwards, the blades of cutpurses glinting in the coach’s headlamps, silhouetted figures of drunken whores turning to stare. The sky crackled red overhead, the Faze storm still stalking the city. The mood inside the carriage mirrored the atmospheric conditions outside—thick and tense. What would they find when they got to Karonac? Why was Rialto helping? This was a game of brinkmanship far outside Guyen’s comfort zone.
Rossi contented himself with staring out at the passing curiosities of the night, unaware of the Prime’s possible involvement in the attempted coup. There’d been no right time to mention it, which now looked like a huge oversight. If they were walking into a trap, the cadet’s loyalty to his orders would be invaluable, but if he didn’t know it was a trap, well, what use was that?
Rialto sent regular beams of encouragement. And Guyen wondered what it might feel like to put a knife through his heart. Nyra watched on, face thoughtful, brow troubled. How much did he know about all this?
“Did you miss me, Ny?” Guyen asked.
“Of course, Yorkov.”
“Not enough to visit me in prison though?”
“My fault,” Rialto said, rubbing his leg. “I forbade D’Brean to go near you. To my chagrin, I thought you guilty. Jal was so sure.”
“It must have been hard,” Nyra said.
“I was fine,” Guyen lied.
Nyra frowned. “I’m sorry about Mist.”
“Me too.”
He offered a hopeful smile. “She’s strong. She will prevail.”
“I hope so.” Guyen turned away. She’d always been there for him, now he wasn’t even going to be there when she woke up. If she did. It was more proof he was the worst kind of friend. Another knife in the guts.
They rolled to a stop outside the Den and he jumped out to bang on the door. Lyla poked her head through an upstairs window, appearing in front of him seconds later.
“Stars and demons!” she exclaimed. “What ya be calling at this time for, Maker?” She offered a thin smile. “Crows! At least ya’s alive, I s’pose.”
“And kicking,” Guyen grunted, raising a wry grimace. “Sorry about this, Ly, I stashed something in the cold store.”
“What?”
“A vial. Do you mind? Sorry, I can’t hang about.”
She glanced nervously at the waiting coach and squad of cadets. “Devotions?” she muttered. “Ya’ll be having some trouble?”
“Have you ever known different, Ly? It’s fine, nothing I can’t handle. I do need that vial though.”
She grimaced. “Go on with ya.” She handed over her lamp, hovering at the door, eyes fixed suspiciously on the coach.
The vial waited as expected along with the syringe pack. Guyen pocketed both and hurried back outside, muttering thanks as he handed back the lantern.
“Go easy now,” Lyla said.
“I will,” Guyen called behind him. Rossi’s squad eyed him like hawks. What must they think about all this? He got back in the coach.
“All set?” Rialto asked.
“Yes, sir.”
The Prime knocked on the roof and they jolted back into motion.
Karonac lay to the north, two miles outside the city walls. The heavily fortified complex sprawled over several acres, maintained under careful watch of the Rachnoo, a quasi-religious order affiliated to the Office. Blindly and fiercely loyal, they protected the Binding with their lives, so it was said. Theirs was a rare and hallowed Assignment.
As the coach whipped through Northgate, hardly slowing at the guard post, the streets widened and deteriorated, regimented blocks giving way to a wasteland peppered with abandoned buildings and dirty coach houses. They followed the Ranatland Way north for a while, then turned down a narrow lane lined with bushes and tall trees. A checkpoint and barricade came into view, a high wall stretching off into the darkness. Beyond it, Karonac’s sullen black domes loomed on a hill in the distance, ghastly silhouettes in the moonlight. Red static hung in the sky over them, occasionally earthing to the ground with a fizzling crack.
Hawkins stopped the coach, and Rialto disembarked to talk to two Rachnoo guards, no doubt surprised to be receiving visitors at four in the morning. An adjunct appeared, and after a short conversation Rialto reboarded. He offered a reassuring smile. “Your brother is within the Equilibrius, Yorkov.”
“Equilibrius?” Guyen looked to Nyra. He stared back, expression sober. “What is the Equilibrius, sir?”
“Another name for Dome Major,” Rialto said. “The final destination of the Unbound, when all else fails.”
“Why is it called that?”
Rialto banged on the roof. “It will be easier to show you. Don’t worry, it’s not far.” He took another swig from his hipflask and the stench of leathery brandy breath filled the compartment. The coach set off again, leaving the rest of Rossi’s squad arguing their case for entry.
They continued up a rising, tree-lined track, passing dark outbuildings and residences protected by more high walls. Rossi locked eyes for a second. The cadet was unusually quiet. They really needed to talk—he had to be warned this could all be a trap. They swept around a bend. The domes appeared again, sinister black behemoths edged with silver where the moonlight caught their flashings and polished abutments. Dome Major soared hundreds of feet into the air, dwarfing the minor domes around it. Ornate columns made up of stacked platforms supported its corners, each with their own lavish arches. It looked like some kind of ghoulish temple.
They stopped where the road ended, and the domes all but disappeared as a bank of cloud snuffed out Silvera’s light. Hawkins came around and opened the door, then went to decouple a lamp from the front of the coach.
Rialto climbed down with the carriage lantern and turned back to Rossi. “We won’t be needing your services anymore, cadet.”
Rossi shook his head, eyes hard. “Sorry, Prime Wield, I have orders. Where the Krellen goes, I go.” Yemelyan’s last memory was probably being beaten up by the arrogant scrag. He was the last person he’d want to see. But the thought of going in there without him… How times change.
Guyen jumped out, and Rossi pushed obstinately past Nyra, hopping down beside him.
Rialto glared. “I’m ordering you to stay here, cadet.”
“I don’t take Maker orders, Prime Wield.”
Rialto glanced from Rossi’s twitching sword hand to Nyra emerging from the coach. “Berese has trained you well. The loyal lapdog, eh?”
“If you like, Prime Wield.”
Rialto grunted.
“Then let us hope your first loyalty is to your country.”
“I like to think myself a patriot, sir.”
The Prime let out an exasperated half-laugh, adjusted the shutter on his lamp, and started across the gravel. Nyra and Hawkins followed.
Guyen hung back with Rossi. “Be ready for anything,” he whispered.
Rossi glanced sideways. “My middle name, gutterfill.”
“This could be a trap.”
“Don’t you trust him?”
“As far as I could throw him.”
“Oh.” Rossi’s hand went to his sword.
“Don’t do anything rash,” Guyen hissed. “Not until I have my brother. Then, well, do what you like.”
Rossi leaned in closer. “If I get shit on my shoes,” he growled, “you’ll be licking it off once Berese relieves me of babysitting duty. Just remember that.”
“What you get on your shoes is your lookout,” Guyen returned. “I didn’t ask you to come.” Even as the words escaped, he was glad he had.
They cleared the trees, the Prime’s gait brisk considering his bad leg. The shadows lurking between the domes retreated at another red flash above, reimposing darker still. Guyen shivered, pulling his coat sleeves over his hands, and caught up with Rialto, still fighting the urge to confront him. Was the Prime doing a good deed? Or was it his fault Yemelyan was here? And why had they brought him here at all? “What is the point of this place?” he asked.
“Karonac is a measuring device,” Rialto replied, striding on. “The Ancients built it. The outer domes, the minors, reflect the state of the Binding. When it is in balance, their vanes point due north. Unfortunately, they are out by eight degrees now.”
Guyen regarded the gargantuan structure in front of them. “And what of Dome Major?”
“The Equilibrius serves a functional purpose, Yorkov. It manipulates Faze. Specifically, it heals ruptures in the Void.”
“Is that why my brother’s here?”
“You will see for yourself.” The rolling skies cleared for a moment, striping the dome in moonlight. Another flash of red lightning zigzagged down, earthing at the Dome’s pinnacle. The clouds locked again, and the building returned to a vague outline.
They crossed stone paving, closing in. The base was devoid of detail. Higher up, gargoyles stared down from jutting stone buttresses, sharp features catching glints from the carried oil lamps. Higher up still, a singing wind whistled through the parapets. The sound mingled with the clamour, hard to distinguish. Guyen touched the Song, comparing it to what he was hearing. The ethereal timbres lurked within the clamour as vibrant as ever—but the wind was just that—wind. It was a relief. He hadn’t lost all sanity yet. He let the Song fade.
Nyra looked up. “A splendid sight, no? You can feel the power.”
You could feel something—something dark, something unnerving. If only Toulesh would fold in, but he’d still have no part of it, preferring to dart ahead, appearing and disappearing between the columns.
“I don’t like this place,” Rossi muttered. Who could blame him? The heart of Karonac felt like a tomb. “Where’s the damn entrance?”
“Not far,” Rialto said, still following the perimeter. They passed various inset rectangles—doors of a sort, then turning another corner, they stopped in front of one. It looked identical to all the others they’d passed. Rialto tapped his cane on the pillar. “Here we are.”
Toulesh shook his head, not keen. Rossi unsheathed his sword. As he did, Hawkins fumbled with something at his waist. Did he have his pistol on him tonight? Another burst of red static filled the sky, and Toulesh hazed again, struggling to remake himself. Rialto ducked through the opening. Guyen followed, leaving the simulacrum outside.
A narrow passageway stretched ahead, filled with a whistling wind, at least, it sounded like wind—but there was no discernible breeze. The route turned left, they’d entered a labyrinth, but Rialto seemed to know the way. Then it began, clamour rising unbidden, out of control. Guyen came to a stop, trying to quieten the sounds.
Rossi shoved him in the back. “Get a move on,” he growled.
Guyen stumbled forwards, the passageway turning up an incline. Something scampered across his foot. He jumped. It took some effort to block out the Song now, so he hummed a long-forgotten nursery rhyme from his childhood, hoping to assuage the growing harmonics within the gale.
“What’s wrong with you?” Rossi grunted. “You sound like a lunatic.”
He hummed louder. He didn’t want to hear the Song right now. He had to stay focussed. The tunnel twisted left, right, and left again. The effort of blocking out the sound became too great.
He let go.
A discordant wail rose up, as if the very walls cried. He stumbled, dropping to one knee, the sound excruciating. It was like that day in the midwifery when the children had been Bound. The passageway shook. Vision dotted with white pinpricks. If only he could clear his thoughts.
“What’s happening?” Rossi barked. “Get up.”
That was impossible. The Song oppressed, sapping all will and strength.
Rossi yanked his collar. “Come on, before we’re buried alive.”
“Wait,” Rialto said.
Like some great pressure equalising, the rumbling ceased, and the Song called, light and strong, no longer oppressive, just an essential part of the universe.
“What the hell was that?” Rossi demanded.
“The Dome greets its master,” Rialto murmured. “Remarkable.” He tapped his cane on the wall. “Onwards.”
Whatever just happened, it was something to do with the Layer. And why should that be a surprise in this place? The Equilibrius felt like home. But the earthquake wasn’t the problem, Rialto’s reaction was the worry—he’d been expecting the tremor. What did he know? What were they walking into? There was nothing for it but to find out.
The passageway continued another two turns, then broke, and an expanse opened up—the heart of Dome Major. Dim white light flickered on the far side. Rossi exchanged a nervous look as two men stepped out in front of them, ghostly hooded faces glowing in the light of their lanterns. Rachnoo priests.
“Halt,” one instructed.
“Stand aside, man,” Rialto said. “It is I.”
The priest bowed. “Good evening, Prime Wield.” He sounded nervous. “I fear this is a bad time to visit, my lord. The building may not be stable.”
“I know what I’m doing. Leave us.”
The men bowed without further comment, melting into the shadows. Other sinister figures loitered around the edges of the vast hexagon. Were these priests the ones treating Yemelyan? At this time of night?
“Over there,” Rialto said. He pointed his cane at the flickering light.
49
Sanity Through Sacrifice
They neared the light, dread blossoming as the scene fell into focus. Rialto raised a hand. “I wouldn’t get too close.”
Yemelyan lay on a glowing white crystal altar. The air shimmered around him for several feet, vague shapes and patterns drifting in and out of being. In the Overlay, the Faze storm responsible was quite something—blue and gold twisters shooting out silvery sparks, swarming, thick bands of colour rising and falling, congealing into ghostly humanoid forms and faces. High above, the Dome danced with nether light. It was beautiful. It was too much. Guyen refocussed on the solid world. The Dome darkened.
Rossi stared at the cloud, open-mouthed. “What the hell is that?”
“He is infested with Faze,” Rialto said. “It’s called a Miasma.”
“How long has he been like this?” Guyen breathed. The sight was truly mesmerising.
“The best part of a week,” Nyra said.
“You knew about it?”
“Don’t be hard on D’Brean,” Rialto said. “I only told him of your brother’s whereabouts after you were arrested.”
Betrayal burned like acid. “But you knew before that, sir? I thought him dead. You could have told me.”
“Jal thought you would get in the way.”
“In the way of what?”
“Of our endeavour, Yorkov—the new formulation.”
So he admitted it. Rialto was the mystery Bindcrafter. Of course he was.
Nyra’s face lined with confusion. “What are you talking about, sir?”
“I’m sorry, D’Brean. The fewer people that knew, the better.”
So Nyra hadn’t been part of the conspiracy? Maybe he was a fool rather than a demon. Rialto, on the other hand, was pure devil. “It was you,” Guyen said. “You were my father’s torturer.” It was a matter of fact.
Rialto looked appalled. “It was nothing like that, Yorkov. It was his idea. He understood our first duty is to battle the Affliction. He was a martyr. You should be proud.”
It was strange, despite the lies, all anger was gone, hatred yes, bitter determination certainly, but the Equilibrius had installed a rare inner calm. “You used Molina’s research, didn’t you, sir?”
“I did, Guyen.”
Nyra stared. “Molina? Blood work? But that’s illegal.”
“Needs must, D’Brean. Molina was a visionary. I needed his methods to treat Yorkov’s father for incubation.”
“I don’t—” Nyra hesitated, suddenly getting it. “His blood was special too?”
“Our bloodline contains the original Seed,” Guyen said. “Isn’t that right, sir?”
Rialto grimaced. “Yes, Yorkov.”
Time for a test. “I don’t understand, sir. How do you come to know my father?”
The Prime shifted his weight, stretching his leg out. “Arik told me about him,” he said, “how he claimed to be a direct descendant of Hayern. I didn’t believe it until I saw his blood, but Arik was the type to put his trust in fate as much as science. He’d already arranged your father’s cooperation so I could hardly turn down the opportunity to work with him.”
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