The Reach Between Worlds (The Arclight Saga, Book 1)

by C. M. Hayden

  “It’ll take a few hours for your bones to heal,” Mr. Crissom said.

  Pipes stretched his arms and pivoted his back. “You won’t tell mom, will you?”

  Mr. Crissom placed the ointments back into the box and sighed. “Not this time. But that doesn’t give you free reign to act stupid. Understood?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Crissom crossed his arms. “Your friends are welcome to stay, Piper, but I’ve got big client visiting early tomorrow. I don’t want you embarrassing me.”

  “Is it the buyer from Ashwick?”

  Crissom nodded. “Not sure what to make of him yet. A gentleman named—”

  “Victor Mathan,” Taro said to himself.

  “That’s right. You know him?”

  “We’ve met.”

  _____

  Sleep didn’t come easy that night. Taro could hear a faint, tiny sound of bending coming from inside him as his fractures realigned. Every time he got a few minutes of sleep, a jolt of pain rushed through his body.

  Pipes’ bedroom was larger than Taro’s entire house in Ashwick, and filled to the brim with animated constructs: tiny birds and bugs made of thin sheets of tin. They hung from the ceiling by string, and fluttered like they were very much alive. Pipes claimed to have made them all by hand.

  Whether it was through the pain or the incessant fluttering of constructs, Taro gave up trying to sleep. He slipped out of the bedroom and went downstairs. It was light out already, and the propeller-shaped clock on the wall said it was just past five o’clock.

  The house was like a museum, and each display had a bronze plate beside it explaining what it was and where it was found. The largest piece was a in the common room, and was surrounded by a circular couch. It said ‘Escape Craft Hatch - HMA Titan.’ It was a round steel door with a glass window in the middle and clamps on the outer edge.

  He was so distracted by it, he didn’t notice Mr. Crissom was in the corner of the room.

  “Marvelous, aren’t they?” Mr. Crissom said. Taro jumped. “When I was a field medic, I had my femur shattered. It took months to heal and the pain was excruciating. It’s hard to sleep when you can feel your bones moving, isn’t it?”

  “I didn’t know the Magisterium taught medicine.”

  “Of course they do. Back then it was all field positions though, since the Arclight would repair minor cuts and fractures on its own. I was stationed on the Titan. The ship was lost in... unfortunate circumstances. This was the pod I escaped it.”

  “Why keep it?”

  “To remind me of where I came from. And of the friends I’ve lost.” Crissom set his notepad down. “What was your name again?”

  “Taro.”

  “Pipes hasn’t mentioned you.”

  “This is my first time in Endra.”

  “Ah, a newbie then. I envy you. These will be the best years of your life.”

  Taro spoke his next words carefully, to avoid it sound like he was asking for a handout. “I doubt I’ll be able to afford to stay much longer. Tuition and all.”

  “Your parents sent you without any money?”

  “My parents couldn’t afford it. I thought I could get by with a job, but there aren’t many available.”

  “That’s the truth. It’s one of the reasons I’m considering selling my company.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “My foundry employs thousands. Endra has been at peace with its neighbors for so long that the Magisterium doesn’t buy as much steel as it once did. I’ve done everything I can to avoid letting workers go, but I don’t think it’ll be possible for much longer. This Mathan gentleman says can turn it around without layoffs.”

  “I see.”

  “Maybe I could help you with your tuition,” Crissom said after a pause.

  “I don’t want a handout.”

  “I wouldn’t insult you by offering one. But if you come by the foundry on Eighth Street, say Tuesday, I could have the overseer set you up with some work.”

  “You mean it?”

  “I’ve got a soft spot for recruits. Believe it or not, my first term I was dead broke. Had to pawn my aurom, if you can believe it.”

  A throat-clearing chortle came from the living room entrance. Standing in the doorway was Mr. Mathan, a cigar clenched tight in his teeth. “Your front door was open. I let myself in.”

  “That’s quite all right,” Crissom said, though his expression didn’t match his words. “You’ve met Taro already, I understand.”

  “Me and Taro are well acquainted. I didn’t know you and he were.”

  “We’ve just become acquainted. He’ll be working at the foundry on Eighth Street, so he’ll be your employee one day if we can reach an accord.”

  “Working for me? Wouldn’t that be novel?”

  “Yeah. Sure.” Taro thanked Mr. Crissom once more and returned to the bedroom.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Aftershock

  “What the hell happened you?” Aris said, glancing briefly at Taro’s bruised face. He was vigorously rubbing a bit of charcoal onto a sheet of vellum when Taro found him.

  “I’d rather not talk about it.”

  Aris’ wagon was parked between two other merchant carts, one a travelling apothecary and the other a chandlery shop. The front of his wagon detached from the frame, allowing him to show off his merchandise. Despite his sign’s proclamation of ‘choice oddities’ most of it was useless junk, and Aris didn’t seem particularly keen on selling any of it.

  “Excuse me, sir,” a customer said, looking over a dented telescope. “How much for this?”

  “Forty crowns,” Aris said without looking up from his sketch.

  “Forty?!” the man said incredulously.

  “It once belonged to the queen of Helia.”

  “Helia wasn’t a monarchy,” Taro said.

  Aris glared at him and gave him a look that could only be described as ‘shut up.’ The man left and Aris set his drawing down.

  “Doesn’t matter,” Aris said. “He wasn’t going to buy anything anyway. I think it’s time to move on.”

  Aris wedged a metal bar into a gear on the wagon’s frame. The front panel slowly closed as he cranked it.

  “Where will you go?” Taro asked.

  “Won’t know until I get there.”

  While Aris gathered his things, Taro got a glimpse of what he was sketching. It was the creature they’d encountered in Mr. Mathan’s cellar, and the thought of the hideous mass of tendrils and eyes sent an unpleasant shiver through Taro’s body.

  But the shiver didn’t go away, it grew and soon became a sharp pain in his chest. At first he thought it was his injuries from the day before, but this was different. The pain was so intense he almost curled up onto the ground.

  “Are you okay?” Aris asked.

  The pain came again, and Taro clenched his chest. It was hard to breath, and even harder to speak.

  “I need to go,” Taro said. He dredged back through the cold streets towards the Magisterium. The frigid air numbed the pain, but each step was harder than the last.

  Nima was in the gallery studying with Suri. She had a metal ball sitting on the head of a pin, and was doing her best to keep it from falling with only her templar.

  Suri looked horrified when she saw Taro. “You look like death,” she said, and put the back of her hand to his forehead.

  “I got jumped last night,” Taro said.

  “No kidding.” From her tone, it seemed like she’d been waiting for the proper time to yell at him. “I expect Ven to be an idiot, but I thought you had more sense.”

  Taro was in too much pain to defend himself.

  “But that’s not what I mean,” Suri continued. She placed her other hand onto Taro’s chest and for a moment it seemed like she was listening for something. “Oh my God, we need to get you to Magister Ross. Now.”

  Taro collapsed to his knees and sweat trickled down his forehead. “What’s wrong with me?”

 
Suri lifted Taro up onto her shoulder. “It’s an aftershock from Ross opening your templar.”

  “But Ross didn’t open my templar.”

  “Who did?”

  When Taro told her that it was Kyra, Suri was positively furious, but seemed reserved to saving her chastisement for a time when his life wasn’t in immediate danger.

  They hauled him to the dueling room. Kyra had just finished a match, and apparently won handily as the boy could hardly stand.

  When Kyra saw Taro her eyes became wide as saucers.

  “Set him down,” she said hastily, and pulled the grips off her knuckles. “How long has been like this?”

  Taro couldn’t make out Suri’s answer. Sights and sounds faded around him and his senses couldn’t process the world. Everything seemed bright, and when Kyra spoke again it was like she was shouting into his ear at the top of her lungs.

  “Clear out,” she said. Kyra propped him up and placed her hand on his neck. “Tar? Can you hear me?”

  Taro put his hands to his ears. “Why are you yelling at me?”

  “You need to calm down. You’re templar is off balance.”

  “It hurts so much.”

  “I know,” Kyra said softly. Her skin became as cold against his, and it was like she was pouring ice water over him.

  The fire inside him slowly settled; his breathing slowed and the room came into focus. Kyra looked exhausted. She lifted her hand from his neck and tilted his chin up. “Are you okay?”

  Taro managed a nod. “I... I think so.”

  Kyra pulled up her sleeves and leaned back, panting. “I should’ve known this would happen. Antherion was right. If you’d died...” She put her hand to her mouth. “You’re certain you’re all right?”

  “I think so. The pain’s gone,” Taro said.

  “This is why Magister Ross insists on opening all new templars. I thought I could handle it.”

  “It’s not your fault, I asked you to do it,” Taro said.

  “You mean you won’t tell Ross?”

  “Of course not. But what exactly was the problem?”

  “Growing pains,” Kyra said. “Templars grow or contract with emotions, fear most of all. It’s one of the reasons Magister Veldheim puts recruits in harm’s way and why the trials are so brutal. But too much too soon and it can trigger aftershocks.”

  Kyra apologized a dozen more times before she would accept that Taro wasn’t angry with her.

  By the time Taro returned to Lower, Aris was gone. On the ground, wedged under a rock, was the sketch he’d made. Scrawled in the margins were the words ‘what are you?’

  Chapter Fifteen

  A Thousand Tales

  Despite the lower city’s well-deserved reputation of being filled with criminals and vagrants, Taro felt more at home in its sprawling underground than he did on the surface. This was despite his recent ass-kicking. It’d been two weeks, and he was still sore.

  Nima sat on the floor of their room scratching into a plank of wood with her inscriber. She made four columns, each with seven wards and seven leys. Wards stopped the flow of energy, leys guided it, and both were required for successful magistry.

  Nima shut her eyes and tried to repeat them in order. “Lon, der, vad, caer, vael, dor, esen, ko — tel?”

  “Shir comes first,” Taro corrected. He was laying on his back, leafing through The Compendium of Magical Monsters.

  Nima groaned and ran her hands over her face. “I’m never gonna get this. Did you find what you were looking for?”

  “Nothing,” Taro said. He must’ve checked through the compendium a dozen times, but he found no mention of the creature he’d seen in Mr. Mathan’s cellar.

  “You could ask Aris.”

  “I haven’t seen his wagon in days.”

  “There are other books in the Librarium, you know.”

  That wasn’t an option with Moira’s book still in pawn. Before Nima could press the issue there was a knock on the door.

  Taro set his book down. “It’s unlocked,” he said, as if locking the plywood-thin door would’ve prevented anyone from entering.

  It was Suri. She pressed her hands against the door frame, but didn’t enter. There was something off about her: she was wearing her ‘talking to tenants’ face. “Hey you two. Studying?”

  “And failing,” Nima said without looking up at her runes.

  “Listen, I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but your rent was due yesterday. One crown, two nobles.”

  Taro fished through what money he had. After pooling coins from the dresser, his sock, and both his and Nima’s pockets, he scrounged up half a crown.

  “I’m a little short,” he said nervously.

  Suri crossed her arms.

  “I just need a couple more days. I’ve got a job starting soon.”

  Suri exhaled hard. “My dad balances the books tonight. You have until then to get the rest, or he’s going to kick you out.”

  “You can’t stall for a few more days?”

  “He’s rather single-minded about this sort of thing.”

  Suri left them to brood in silence. Taro weighed his options. He’d already pawned every possession of worth, which left only one option.

  Taro slipped his shoes and jacket on. “Stay here. I’ll be back before dark.”

  Nima stood between him and the door. She seemed to know exactly what he was planning. “If you get caught, they’ll court martial you.”

  Taro darted past her. “I won’t get caught.”

  Nima followed close, sliding down the handrail of the stairwell. “I’m coming.” Before Taro could tell her ‘no’, she quieted him. “That wasn’t a question. Someone’s gotta keep you out of prison.”

  It was simple, really. Taro couldn’t get the money, so he was going to steal it. Months ago, he wouldn’t even have batted an eye at picking a pocket, but he really wished there was another way.

  Some parts of the lower city were warmer than others. These hot spots, called boroughs, were near natural vents leading deep into the earth, and had the heaviest crowds. It was the perfect place to slip money from an unsuspecting rich bastard. But there was a problem: there were no rich people in the lower city.

  Taro scanned the crowds looking for anyone who looked well-off, to no success. Not far a few dozen people formed a circle around a faded green wagon. With their backs to him, they were prime targets, but as he neared he got distracted by what they were looking at.

  An elderly man exited the rickety wagon. He was positively ancient, and his thick white beard looked like it weighed more than he did. He could barely support his doddering body with his staff, and every step looked like it knocked the wind out of him.

  One of the older boys helped him down the last step and the old man sat on a wobbling stool. He licked his dry lips, cracked his scraggly fingers, and pulled a tray from underneath. He handed it to the nearest person; they dropped a penny into it and passed it along.

  The man mumbled something to himself, then cleared his throat. “A larger crowd than usual. Hopefully you’re as generous as the last. This may well be my last year coming this way.”

  The crowd let out collective sounds of disappointment.

  “Now, now, getting through the tundra at my age is no small feat.”

  A little girl raised her hand. She was tiny, probably no older than seven, with bright ribbons in her hair. “How old are you?”

  The man gave a grandfatherly smile. He waved her over and set her on his knee. “How old do you reckon I am?”

  “Ummm...” The little girl grinned sheepishly. “A hundred years old?”

  “If only I were so young.” He turned his attention to the audience. “For the curious amongst you, my name is Leorin. Soothsayer, lore-keeper, teller of a thousand tales. The best way to keep me talking is to keep me fed, and the best way to keep me fed is by placing coins onto the tray. Don’t be shy.”

  He sipped from a nearby cup and some wine dribbled onto his beard. “Before I
select one from my own fancy, you can make a request for one copper noble. I know everything and every story. What shall it be? Something from your city’s past? The fall of Isaroth the Cruel? The Banishment of Nuruthil? The War of the Old Gods? Or the founding of Endra Edûn and the first magisters? Don’t be shy.”

  When Taro placed a noble into the tray, Nima looked as though she was going to kill him. They were short on money, but one noble wouldn’t make the difference. If they were going to steal anyway, they were going to go for much more.

  “And what story would you like to hear, young man?” Leorin asked.

  “The first magister.”

  There was booing and people called out alternatives.

  “Now, now,” Leorin said. “The Magisterium is a part of your history, like it or not. Besides, it gives me an excuse to opine on my travels. You see, last autumn I traveled north to Caelis Enor. It was once home of the tribes of Amín. You think the world has problems today, imagine every nation on the planet living in one countryside.

  “Among the drunkard chieftains and idiot kings, one bastard stood out: the vile warlord Sacrolesh.

  “When you get to be my age, you learn that even the most honest story has some embellishment. I say this because in my travels I discovered many different stories regarding Sacrolesh, and some contradict one another.”

  The crowd had gone completely silent, except for some children adjusting their seats.

  “In my father’s stories, Sacrolesh was once a man, but sold his soul to Nuruthil. The oldest of the Old Gods, bound forever in the reach between worlds.”

  “Worlds?” Taro blurted out.

  Leorin squinted at him. “Speak up, please, my ears aren’t what they used to be.”

  Taro felt every eye on him. “Well... there’s only one world.”

  Leorin tapped the side of his nose. “Ah, now that’s where you’re wrong. There are more worlds than flakes of snow in a blizzard. You, however, will only encounter two: our world and the spirit world.” He held his hands parallel to one another, with a few inches of space separating them. “Between these worlds is a void of churning ether. It was here that the Old Gods banished Nuruthil. It’s a domain of beast-like apparitions; hideous creatures of a thousand eyes.”