“Why lock him up if he was helping you?”
Rialto waved his cane dismissively. “No one was locked up, Yorkov. Not by me. I assure you, I am as distressed by the circumstances of his death as you are.”
More lies. Damn fucking lies. “So you had nothing to do with it then, sir?”
Rialto sniffed. “He was perfectly well the last time I saw him. Why would I harm the man who made possible my life’s greatest work?”
The prisoners in the tower came to mind. “I saw the results of your work, sir. Your formulation stole the minds of innocent men and women, of children.”
“An unfortunate side effect for those of weak blood.”
“And that was a price worth paying?”
“What price do you put on deliverance from death and madness, boy? Life is not black and white. There is the greater good to think of.”
“Whose greater good, sir? The Echelon?” Somehow, calm still prevailed. “You knew Molina’s work would favour purebloods. What was the goal? Raise your kind up as gods, reduce the poor to animals?”
Rialto sniffed. “No solution is perfect in the fight against the Affliction.”
“Better one at the expense of the commons though, eh?”
Rossi interjected. “It could be worse, Yorkov. A strong Echelon is good for all.” What was he talking about? Surely the idiot wouldn’t come down on Rialto’s side? Guyen ploughed on. “Do you subscribe to Echelism too, sir?”
“We are not all mad, chanting monks, Yorkov. Echelism’s principles are sound. Purity is key to the sanctity of the Binding.”
So he’d been a zealot all along, playing at the man of science. But what else was he playing at? There’d been too many coincidences along the way. “Did you arrange my entry to the Devotions, my lord?”
“Actually, Yorkov, no. When you attracted the attention of the Office, it really was quite inconvenient.”
“I’m sorry if it was a drag, sir.”
Rialto’s eyes narrowed. “Of course, it made sense an ancestor of Hayern could be Purebound, but you’re something else, something more. So I gave you a chance and asked D’Brean to keep an eye on you. I hoped you would be brought around to our way of thinking. I still do.”
Nyra wrung his hands. Guyen glared. “I thought you were a friend, Ny. All this time you were telling tales.”
The senior Maker offered a defiant stare. “Some things are bigger than friendship, Yorkov. You’re dangerous to the Binding—to us all.” That was his motivation? Protecting the Binding? What gave him the right to decide who was dangerous?
“Enough of this,” Rialto grunted. He glanced at Hawkins. “We must work together. I have almost perfected Molina’s technique, but your brother’s blood is the key which shall unlock the puzzle.”
“My brother?” What new hell was this?
Rialto sighed. “Despite my advances, Yorkov, the new concoction was unstable. But with Yemelyan’s Sendali heritage, the next variant shall be a hundred times more effective.” He stared into the Miasma. “Your brother shall be our salvation.”
Surely he wasn’t serious? Who would condone their own brother’s torture? The Song intruded again. Guyen dampened it easily. “There has to be a better way,” he said. “Binding is an evil.” He swapped a look with Rossi. The cadet frowned, a hand edging towards his sabre. Guyen shook his head slowly, one eye on Hawkins.
Nyra cleared his throat. “Sir, he’s here to do a job, and time marches on.”
“You’re right, D’Brean, it does.” Rialto locked eyes, expression earnest. “Will you help us, Yorkov?”
“You’re joking, right?”
“I thought if I were honest with you.”
The building hummed with energy, the lulls and waves of the Song waiting for instruction. “What do you want from me, sir?”
“We need your help to dispel the Miasma.”
“And how am I supposed to do that?”
“Align the Dome, my boy. It will collapse the field.”
Rossi let out a nervous laugh. “Align it? What nonsense.”
The domed ceiling illuminated with Faze again, streaks of nether light fizzing along unseen channels. Guyen pulled focus back to the dark reality of the Equilibrius, his control exquisite.
“According to the codex, the dome turns,” Rialto said. “The crown rests upon the rotunda. The only thing holding it in position is its weight.”
Rossi snorted. “That’s thousands of tons.”
“It can be manipulated with Faze, cadet, our engineers confirm it.” Rialto paused. “All it needs is a conductor. A Bindmaster.”
“Him?” Rossi scoffed. “Horseshit!”
“We all felt the building shake, cadet. It recognised him.”
“What’s really going on here?” Rossi waved at Yemelyan still shimmering amidst the cloud. “Why don’t we just take him and get out of here?”
“Take him?” Rialto chuckled darkly. “May I borrow your gauntlet, cadet?”
Rossi tensed. “No man touches my gloves, Prime Wield. It’s rank bad luck.”
“Just a brief demonstration.”
“Do it,” Guyen said, still serene. Anger was a concept.
Rossi muttered a curse and pulled off his glove. He handed it over.
“Thank you, cadet.” A knowing half-smile playing on his lips, Rialto aimed, and threw the glove at Yemelyan. It disintegrated on contact with the shimmering cloud, dust, and what looked remarkably like grass, falling around the base of the altar as the Faze storm intensified. The distortion in the solid world expanded several inches.
Rossi jumped back. “More witchery,” he snarled. “I knew you were no good, gutterfill. It must run in the family.”
Rialto pointed his cane at the roof. “So, you’ll do your duty, Yorkov? For the sake of the Binding?”
“What exactly am I supposed to do, sir?”
“You must align the dome’s spine to the altar.”
“And how do I do that?”
“I assumed you would know.”
The intricate patterns in the ceiling contained deep wells of probability. And he’d made things turn before—Mist’s globe, the wagon wheel… This was on a completely different scale, but the principle was the same. He had to try, for Yemelyan’s sake. “I’ll do as you ask,” he said, “but for my brother, nothing more.”
Actually, what he’d do was play along, get Yemelyan safe, then slit the bastard’s throat. Sometimes a medium term game is required.
Rialto nodded approvingly. “I knew you’d see sense.”
One long, deep breath. Now we see what you can do.
Guyen touched the Song.
Waves of rushing harmonics broke amidst a crystal gale. He slipped into the Overlay, and the ceiling lit up. Shit, that was bright. Multi-coloured nether light streaked across the dome, fizzing like contained lightning, random bursts of energy morphing and combining, scarring his dazzled retinas. There was enough probability up there to dam an ocean. Eddies formed, orange-yellow streams twisting around a series of orbs set in the roof’s perimeter.
Sudden, sharp migraine hit. He pulled focus, and the ceiling reverted to blackness. Looking for Faze signatures up there suddenly seemed like a terrible idea. But what choice was there? Steeling himself, he slipped focus again. The heavens revealed. He picked an orb. It outlined, jittering in place. Honing in on an alternate version, one fractionally ahead of where it was supposed to be, he willed it into existence. The Song glitched, and the patterns in the roof changed, an intelligence to the chaotic light. The orb burned bright, angry red. But nothing else happened.
“Are you sure about this, Yorkov?” Rossi’s voice was a distant drone.
Dark forms appeared in the Dome’s heights, nooks and crannies morphing into unnatural shapes. The shadow creatures. They could wait their turn. Guyen picked an orb on the opposite side of the great ceiling, repeating the process. The building groaned. He switched again, choosing one a quarter way round, then moved opposite to that. A cracking sound rose, dispar
ate forces fighting for dominance, as lines of blue Faze arced between the orbs like necrotic veins.
“Good, Yorkov,” Rialto called from somewhere.
The clamour sang in majestic baritone, in soaring sopranos. Guyen worked quicker, eyes burning, attaching momentum at points on the roof as quick as glancing at them. The orchestra of Faze knew how to play. Rialto was right—he was merely the conductor. The shadows grew deeper, more defined, forming faces, claws and fangs. Then came the ungodly light, six bars of blinding white energy dissecting the roof like a vast, hellish cartwheel. If the others could see this, they’d run like scared children. The air cracked with thunder, cooling, the pressure changing—something for everyone tonight. Shouts rang out. All could feel it, even if they couldn’t see it. And how will you survive the madness, Maker?
The building made a grinding sound, and the dome started turning. The point at its centre charged with Faze, and a beam of white light arced to the floor, earthing along a channel towards the altar. Crack. The crystal slab glowed red, the Miasma beginning to shrink.
Guyen closed his eyes, marvelling at the power flowing through him. As before, attaching momentum took constant work to sustain, but the probability was coming from the building, not from him. He could keep this up a while longer. The Prime’s words echoed. ‘For the good of the Binding.’ But what about the unfortunates in the tower? Father, drained and used up? Kiani? Where would it all end? Rialto wouldn’t be satisfied with stopping the epidemic. He’d use Molina’s bloodwork to corrupt the concoction until the Echelon could enslave the entire world. Yemelyan wouldn’t want this.
A thought struck. If turning the dome one way shrank the Miasma, what if he turned it the other? Might he use it as a weapon? But would the Miasma kill him too? And how would Rossi fare? Not well, unless… Was there a way to protect them in the Layer? He’d done similar before, saving himself that day the Binding had gone wrong at Whitefriars. But he’d never visited the Layer by design. It always asserted itself at its own convenience. In here though, anything was possible. He tuned into the Song, letting it fill him, and looked beyond.
Just a blank space. Stone floor and a grey horizon, the difference between them imperceptible. Rossi stood there, nonchalant, drawing patterns in the air with his sabre. In the distance, a storm of shadows gathered.
Protect me, Guyen thought.
The flagstones cracked and crumbled underfoot, fragments rising from the ground to form two men in burnished bronze armour, broadswords at the ready. They prowled, faces severe. Guyen gestured towards Rossi, and one stalked towards him, taking watch at his side. The cadet seemed not to notice, continuing his blade-work unconcerned.
A strip of darkness hung in the air, a fragment of the Dome. Guyen reached for it.
Cold air hit, nether light a frenetic dance above. He was back, the dome still turning, although it had barely moved. He pushed the Song away. High-pitched ringing replaced it, the visions fading. In the solid world, the altar glowed magenta red, tinting Rialto and the others’ faces pink. He slipped focus into the Overlay again and blinding Faze burst into life once more. He had total control. He could go wherever he liked.
But could he reverse what he’d done?
He stared into the glare and called forth new orbs, adding momentum in the opposite direction. The Dome shuddered.
“What’s happening?” Rialto asked.
Eyes burned like acid, but thoughts were only of Kiani, of Father. With a booming crunch, the dome ground to a halt. The altar dimmed.
“Why have you stopped?” Rialto demanded.
Guyen didn’t reply. He was too busy calling up alternate versions of things to care. The dome let out a grating, guttural cry, and began turning backwards.
“Yorkov!” Rialto roared. “What are you doing?” The crystal altar brightened again, now glowing cyan as the shimmering cloud expanded. Rialto gesticulated wildly. “Stop, Yorkov. You had it right before.”
“He’s making it worse,” Nyra rasped.
“Yorkov, I won’t tell you again.”
But this was the only way. The Miasma burgeoned, creeping closer. Guyen pulled focus to the solid world. Where the cloud passed over the floor, the flagstones bubbled, a layer of dust sparking over them, vapour solidifying, exploding ice crystals skittering to freedom.
Rialto took a step back. “Stop this, Yorkov.” He screamed. “Hawkins!”
The attack’s future echo highlighted as a piercing red Faze signature, a thin line of crimson fire. There was no time to react, or care. Rossi dived. Hawkins fired his pistol.
And the Miasma bloomed like a supernova.
Guyen slipped into the Layer.
A bright blue moon hung in the sky, bathing the scene in cyan light. The bodyguards still prowled, and Rossi hadn’t moved, stuck there making patterns with his blade. But a fine red spray leaked from him now. In the distance, figures came into focus, men arranged on plinths of jutting rock like dolls set on trial—Rialto, Nyra, Hawkins, the Rachnoo priests… and on the horizon, the storm of shadows closed in, bestial faces forming in the cotton soot.
This made sense. The horde of shadow creatures was the Miasma. If he could protect him and Rossi here, they’d be safe in the solid world. That had to be right. It felt like it did. And how did you vanquish a horde? You employed an army.
Beams of blue light shot down from the cyan moon, reforming into ranks of shimmering men. The figures solidified, bronze armour crystallising around them as weapons formed in their hands. Guyen approached the nearest man. He saluted. It was him. Of course it was.
“As you were,” he said curiously. He waved at the oncoming foe. “Stop them.”
Crystal chimes sounded on the rose-scented breeze, rock dissolving as grass sprang up in its place. An ash tree sprouted, suddenly filled with chattering birds, and stone blocks materialised in thin air, interlocking like a child’s puzzle to form a circular wall. Without never having been there, a babbling brook wended its way through the lawn, hugging rockeries and shrubs. Rossi looked on, the stream turning red at his feet.
The wall closed up, and the thousand-man army waited behind it, pikes, swords and battle axes jammed against the ground, muscles tense. The horizon darkened, closing in. On the plinths outside the wall, versions of Rialto, Nyra and the rest stared in horror at the approaching swarm.
It engulfed them.
Likenesses fled the screaming figures, rising up from their marooned masters like ghosts. From this distance, the prisoners appeared to fight, but had neither weapons nor a hope in hell. The creatures clawed their way up the rock pedestals, tendrils and mutant hands reaching up, tearing flesh, raining down blood. And then there were only the creatures, a curtain of annihilation, closing in, blotting out all. The army of me readied. And the enemy hit. Beasts slammed against the wall, giants and scurrying critters, every slithering, bounding, feathered abomination, pincers, beaks, vast jaws and razor-sharp teeth pressing in, attacking in waves, as steel tore flesh and claw, eviscerating bone and carapace, raking the air. Howling screams, the sound of hell, every slash and thrust felt, strength draining in heavy, choking battle.
The creatures fell, torn apart, forced back, his men holding the line. But the horde exacted a price, each fallen man a weakening blow. The world of sense and solidity faded to a forgotten dream. He was a general. Leader of men. Battle, death and glory his banner.
Ariana’s voice came. ‘Guyen, remember yourself.’
Suddenly, guilt burned at being in this place. It was a trap, a mirage. He had to leave. He spun, looking for the way. A dark, vertical stripe opened up under the ash. He threw himself towards it.
And fell into the Equilibrius.
Tearing pain burned his eyes. All around, aside from a small circle of flagstones beneath him and Rossi, the floor bubbled and fizzed. Rialto, Nyra and Hawkins lay deathly still, their bodies shimmering. Rialto looked wrong, inside out. The grinding sound was replaced by a terrible hum, the building vibrating, the dome locked in place
. Up above, the shadow creatures looked on, leering and angry, and the winged amongst them dived to attack. But they crashed into an invisible cocoon, tumbling away to the floor. The Faze signatures striping the ceiling were too chaotic to discern now and looking hurt like hell. But revenge was complete. He had to stop this while he still could.
He focussed on the roof, trying to reverse the momentum again. Faze sparked in angry bursts. Damn, he was too tired now. But he was the conductor.
OBEY ME.
Thunder clapped, and the great buzz filling the cavernous space retreated into eerie silence. A winged monstrosity, part-serpent, part-wolf, howled.
One second.
Two seconds.
There was a groaning crack, and the dome began turning back, Miasma retreating, the floor solidifying in its wake. Breathing hard now, numbness and tingling spreading to every extremity, sleep comes, the pleasant death of consciousness. There is no avoiding it. And sweet it will be.
Rossi’s groan of agony.
Energy depleted.
Will exhausted.
The death came.
Burning heart and silent hope.
Her sweet touch.
Honour, friendship and light.
For to love is to live.
And life must be the fight.
“Bindcrafter, you’re awake.”
Who was that? You know them. Guyen opened his eyes. No vision, only crystal-clear sound, the Song vanquished. “Where am I?” he croaked.
Rossi spoke. “You’re in the Dome. You fell over. After you—” He paused. “After you did what you did.”
“Why is it so dark? I can’t see.” Panic rose. “I can’t see anything.”
A hand touched his shoulder. “Here, drink.” The voice was familiar—Yarvil, Rossi’s Third. So the cavalry had made it? Better late than never. A flask pressed to his lips.
He found it with numb hands and drank deeply. “My brother?”
“He’s alive. Sleeping, but alive.”
“Does he look normal?”
Yarvil hesitated. “I don’t know. I’ve never met him before.”
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