Meric clenched his jaw.
The doomed march of Thrace’s two centuries had taken almost two weeks. They’d gone north, west, north and back east again, travelling thirty or so kilometers a day, totaling more than three times the straight-line distance between Panchaea and the landslide. The Great River, even at its slowest, was considerably faster than walking, and deviated far less than the soldiers had. In only six hours, the pontoon had covered most of the distance to Panchaea. Twenty-some kilometers from the Fog, they hit a snag. The river had grown much wilder. It was close to midnight, and moonlight sparkled off the flowing waters. Rapids foamed over hidden rocks and dips in the river’s bedding. The white waters stood in sharp contrast to the oily-black around them.
“I feel obliged to tell you that we’re going to drown around the next bend,” Trajan said.
Meric looked at him sharply. Trajan shrugged, unconcerned.
A trick? The water was growing violent. Meric paddled for the shore. He’d just maneuvered the pontoon onto the eastern bank when he saw the stark drop in the river ahead. A waterfall. A series of waterfalls. Angry white rapids spun into a gorge downstream. Probably the same gorge whose southern mouth was visible north of Panchaea. They would’ve been smashed on the rocks or drowned in the rapids for certain.
“I thought you wanted to drown. Why the warning?” Meric asked.
“At my age, even the darkest miseries fade with alacrity. Drowning is no longer my priority. It occurred to me you’ve still got about twenty kilometers to change your mind. I’m curious to see if you will. If not, at least I’ll have the opportunity to spit into Abraxas’s face. A juvenile gesture, yet I find it oddly appealing.”
Curious to see if I’ll change my mind–or curious to see if anyone will overtake us, Meric thought. Meliai and the others wouldn’t have wasted any time coming after him. They didn’t have the pontoon, but they could’ve cobbled a raft together, perhaps from the remnants of the steamcar. There could be savages closer to Panchaea as well–did Trajan have some way to signal them? Not to mention the wild things that might delay them–the jungle-lions, the mammoths, the demons he’d been warned about all his life. Meric still had an atomblade from the crashed steamcar, but he didn’t feel much safer.
The next few kilometers were the most miserable. Trajan refused to walk. Already bound, he simply slumped in the mud and looked bored. No amount of threats would move him. Drastic measures, like cutting off a finger, would’ve only resulted in him bleeding to death–a threat Trajan never took seriously. He knew Meric wanted to bring him in alive.
“You can hardly expect me to be complicit in my own capture,” Trajan said, shrugging.
An awkwardly shaped, two hundred pound deadweight required a lot of energy to drag, especially over uneven terrain. After a lot of cursing and dark thoughts, Meric formed a crude sled from three thick branches, binding them with the last remnants of his shirt, his belt, and a tough vine from the forest. He secured Trajan to the sled with the same materials he’d used to make it, and he dragged it awkwardly over hills and rocks and tree roots, through the underbrush. His muscles ached.
“You asked me about my exile. Perhaps now would be a good time to share,” Trajan said as they plodded along. He might as well have been a passenger of his own accord.
“I don’t care anymore,” Meric said through gritted teeth.
“We were excavating an old ruin north of Panchaea,” Trajan said. “Well, not me. Plebians, you know. The Priests had been trained to search for certain objects. The excavation was a failure. However, legionnaires stumbled across a woman there. A Wildlander. She’d been exploring the ruins on her own.”
“Again, I don’t care,” Meric said, though part of him listened.
“I remember the first time I saw her,” Trajan went on. “She’d been placed in a room high in the Fog. In the ruins, she’d found an ancient book–a religious book, the kind few savages would touch. We wanted to know why she carried it, and if she was acting on anyone’s orders. There was always a deep fear that another Ozymandias would burst out of the wild. A new take on an old religion might be just the kind of thing to unite the tribes under one ruler. We monitored for oddities like that. I questioned her myself. She wasn’t acting on anyone’s orders. The book was nothing to her. Abraxas and others didn’t see it that way, however. They wanted to torture her for information. I put a stop to it. How simple it sounds now. In person it was much thornier. Abraxas and I were old political rivals. We were both in the Circle. We took opposite sides on most issues. Among them was a controversial topic: extending limited Fog-access to Plebians.”
Don’t listen to him, Meric told himself. He should’ve expected this. Trajan’s lies would put the other Plutarchs in a negative light. He would try to gain Meric’s sympathy.
“Abraxas opposed me, of course. He wasn’t alone. You must understand, as a Plutarch, you grow up with an innate sense of superiority. It’s an accepted fact that Plebians aren’t fit to control the Fog. In the old world, global Fog-access had been a disaster. I wasn’t being so bold as to suggest equal access–that would never pass. But certain societal controls had cropped up in response to revolts and dissent, and I felt they’d gone too far. They’d driven psychological wedges between us and the Plebians. I wanted to loosen things up–extend better education to the Plebians, let them know what the Fog really was. That in itself was dangerously close to revolution, but I felt it was important to explore the conversation among my peers.
“Naturally, the savages were even lower on our scale. My sympathy for the captive emphasized the differences between Abraxas and myself. He pushed for her execution–not because of anything she’d done, but because he knew I’d defend her. He wanted to maneuver the other Plutarchs against me. But my sympathy for Vera–that was her name–was much deeper than even Abraxas guessed. I’d spent many hours alone with her by that point. I’d discovered much of savage life, and my interest had been piqued. I visited her daily. You can guess most of the story from here…
“It’s odd, you know. I can’t say how it happened. I remember moments, but the progression as a whole is mystifying. When precisely did I cross that line? I knew she was beautiful. But I’ve seen plenty of beautiful women. How did I find that … obsession? How did love grow? And with a ‘savage,’ no less. Can you imagine? Falling for a savage?”
Meric stared straight ahead, his jaw clenched. Could Trajan intuit the impact of his question? Had he seen that moment in the steamcar, or had he been too dazed to notice?
“Abraxas couldn’t have known my feelings ran so deep. Still, he pushed the Circle into agreeing that she’d seen too much of Panchaea to be released. She’d been in one room the entire time, but it didn’t matter. Privately, he must’ve been thrilled with my reaction.”
Trajan fell silent. Meric had been drawn in despite himself. At least the talk distracted him from the labor. When the minutes dragged by without a word, he couldn’t hold back.
“What reaction?” Meric asked.
“Oh, I set her free, of course. I secreted her outside the perimeter-wall. I made sure the turrets wouldn’t atomize her in the clearing. Abraxas was smug when he demanded my resignation from the Circle. What happened to Vera made no difference to him. His true purpose had been accomplished. There was an inquiry. You know the end result. Exile. To a Plutarch, that’s a death sentence. Everyone wrote me off. Not in their wildest dreams could they have imagined I’d not only survive but find something they’d sought in vain for generations.”
“Ozymand,” Meric said.
Trajan smiled.
“That’s not what I was referring to,” he said.
Meric looked back at him, frowning. He refused to ask any more questions. Exasperated, he muttered a curse and dismissed Trajan’s stories with a shake of his head. After a few kilometers, the river was more traversable. The pontoon, unfortunately, was still upstream. Meric dropped the sled, his shoulders aching, and allowed himself a brief rest before forcin
g his muscles into action. He cut more vines and added short logs to the sled until it qualified as a makeshift raft. He pushed it into the river.
He was cold, achy, and absolutely exhausted. It felt like he hadn’t slept in days. Trajan fell into a dark mood again. Meric kept an eye on him. He wasn’t sure he’d have the strength to pull him out of the water again.
Then he saw it.
Panchaea.
In the moonlight, it was a ghostly white cloud hugging the earth, faint as an old memory. It spanned the river two kilometers ahead. Meric looked for the pyramidal point of the Obelisk, but from this angle it was hidden by the Fog. He steered toward the eastern shore. They could’ve floated straight to the walls of the city, but there was no telling how the turrets would react to an approaching raft. Most likely they’d be vaporized. They disembarked into the forest not far from the clearing. Meric removed the binding from Trajan’s ankles. The savage-king followed him, listless but unresisting.
“Better wait for morning,” Trajan said.
Meric guffawed.
“So your men can find us? I’m betting they could make a raft pretty fast. For all I know they’re right behind us.”
“It’s my daughter who would find us first, but that’s not why I suggest waiting. You don’t want the Plutarchs to think you’re sneaking up on them in the dark. We’ll be atomized by the turrets. Then again, it’s likely I go to my death–at least this way it’ll be quick.”
Meric thought it over. Trajan was right about Meliai. She would be racing them to Panchaea, and she could probably track them in the dead of night. The girl was in touch with her animal side. Part of him wanted her to catch up, if only to see her again–but no, that was insane. He couldn’t risk waiting until dawn. Probably no one in Panchaea would even recognize him. He hadn’t shaved in a week. He’d lost ten pounds, his shirt had been used for bindings, and he was wet and dirty. Still, he would put his faith in the Plutarchs, as he always had. He’d passed all their tests. He’d done the unthinkable. Finally they would know his worth. He led Trajan toward the clearing.
“There’s still time to turn back. You don’t have to do this,” Trajan said, halting toward the edge of the trees, just out of sight of the turrets. A hint of desperation had entered his voice. His silver eyes were earnest. Meric found it difficult to look at him. He saw Meliai again in the sacred pool, emerging like a water nymph, a spirit of the wild.
“I’ve made my choice,” Meric said.
“Then unmake it. Are you man or machine? A machine can’t recognize good or bad decisions. A man can change his mind. A man can do the right thing. See through your programming, Meric. Turn back.”
The Wildlands test the faithful.
There must’ve been more doubt in Meric than he knew, because his whole body was tense. His thoughts were sluggish. Her lips had been soft, her voice anguished. Yet how could he hesitate at this final step? Turn back?
“Impossible,” he said. He saw Meliai tumbling out of the steamcar again.
“She’ll forgive you,” Trajan whispered.
Meric’s gaze froze on the grass. Was he so transparent? Fury welled up inside him. It was the biggest lie of all. Forgive him? He’d poisoned her friends, thrown her out of a moving vehicle, and kidnapped her father. And why should he even want her forgiveness? She was a savage. It meant nothing. It had to mean nothing. She was never part of the Plan. A wall of bitterness engulfed him. His fingers dug into Trajan’s arm.
“That’s the last lie I’ll hear from you.”
He pulled the savage-king into the clearing.
Trajan deflated, chin sinking to his chest. Meric pulled him forward, raising his other arm to wave at the perimeter-wall, praying the turrets wouldn’t fire. Trajan’s wrists were still bound in front of him. The great mass of Fog was visible, suffused with pale moonlight. It was vast and beautiful, and Meric let it drive out other thoughts.
Home.
Reed and his mother and Dominus and his friends…
And Swan?
Maybe she was back from the floating palaces. And if she wasn’t, he’d ask for her as a gift. The Plutarchs owed him a majestic reward. He had accomplished the impossible. He alone, of two hundred soldiers, had returned alive with the Plutarchs’ dread enemy in hand, a heroic feat beyond his wildest expectations. He smiled, remembering Reed’s request.
Bring me something back.
How about … the head of Trajan himself!
Trajan was staring now too, his expression unfathomable. Meric wondered how many years it had been since he’d laid eyes on Panchaea. The walk was unnerving, knowing they could be atomized at any second. But no, God would not allow his Chosen to make that mistake. They were almost to the perimeter-wall when an opening formed. After the endless hours of toil and exhaustion, after his doubts and bitterness, relief flooded in. It was over. Tears blurred his vision. He would receive a hero’s welcome.
CHAPTER 11
Abraxas sat on the upper balcony of his cylindrical palace, sipping blackberry wine and staring into a gray-white abyss. The abyss was punctuated by floating palaces, islands of light smeared across the Fog. Their details were made vague by distance, but all were more elaborate than his squat tower. Everything about his palace was austere, unadorned, firm, orderly–like Abraxas himself.
You’re an Augustus surrounded by Neros, Vilindrio had once said to him.
In the distance, the ancient radio tower–“the Lance of God,” to the Plebians–drifted in and out of visibility. It rose from the dome of the White Palace, a relic from before the war. The White Palace had been formed with an eye toward the Capitol Building of the American Empire. It had been “inveterated,” preventing anyone from modifying its structure, and the code-key to reactivate its composite Fog was inaccessible without the full approval of the Circle. It had become an immobile monument in a city whose face could change with the ease thought.
Further away, the streets, sky, and trees were all hidden from view. The moon was a white blur, more suggestion than fact. The Fog may as well have extended infinitely in all directions.
Yet how quickly it can all be swept away.
Abraxas swirled his goblet. The goblet had been designed by a skilled Artificer. Hundreds of tiny figures were inlaid into the black metallic surface. The figures fought with slow, repetitive movements as the goblet’s surface shifted according to some program. It was meant to show the Siege of Ozymandias–Plebians and Ozymandians battling in the streets; Plutarchs and Fog-demons clashing in the sky. The city had almost been lost that day, and all because one demented, Fog-hacking madman had emerged from some godforsaken patch of Fog bearing the weapons and the know-how to breach Panchaea’s defenses.
Ozymandias was long dead, but the fear of a repeat invasion had been the invisible architect of the city, the hand that had shaped Plutarch policy … and the cloud that darkened Abraxas’s dreams. All those Neros around him, they cared as little for the future as they did for the past–as long as neither interfered with their habitual self-indulgence.
Abraxas would never make their mistake. He’d studied the past. He felt the weight of the future in his hands, and he shaped it like clay is it tried to slip through his fingers. Fog had once covered the world. No one knew exactly how much was left, but the percentage wiped out by the Smiting carried nines past the decimal place. If so much could be lost so quickly, Panchaea’s existence was more tentative than most Plutarchs realized. The recent news from the north was sobering evidence of that.
Two centuries–two whole centuries–annihilated.
Long term, the loss of life was not significant. There was enough Plebian stock to replace it relatively quickly. But the capability of the enemy was another matter. Evidence suggested a landslide. The real question was: had the Fog played a role. The legion hadn’t tested that region for electrical receptivity. If the RFI had decayed there, if Trajan had found Ozymand, Fog-weapons could’ve been brought to bear…
Abraxas drained the last vesti
ge of wine and frowned at his empty goblet. Quiet as moonlight, a girl padded across the balcony to refill the Plutarch’s cup. Dark eyes and smooth dark skin, with firm curves, the girl was barely twenty years from her mother’s breast. She’d served in the floating palaces all her life, but she’d come to Abraxas only within the last six years.
“Thank you, Nyl,” Abraxas said.
She bowed and backed into the shadows.
A silver chair was gliding toward him through the Fog. Abraxas scowled. He should’ve known. Vilindrio seemed to sense his dark moods from afar, arriving with uncanny timing. A transmission pined for his attention. Abraxas opened a channel through his implant. Vilindrio’s voice spoke quietly in his head.
I see you too are awake this ungodly hour. Mind if I join you, cousin?
They weren’t real cousins; it was a term of endearment. Abraxas didn’t bother to answer. He waved vaguely. Vilindrio’s chair parked itself on the balcony.
“I hope I’m not intruding on your late-night ruminations, Consul,” Vilindrio said, though his sardonic smile suggested he didn’t particularly care.
Abraxas sipped his wine in silence.
“Is that elderberry wine?” Vilindrio asked. As if he didn’t already know.
“Blackberry,” said Abraxas.
“Of course, of course. Do you mind?” Vilindrio asked, conjuring a cup from the Fog. Nyl padded from the shadows and filled it, bowing and retreating.
“Prompt. I trust she still pleases you?” Vilindrio asked, sipping his wine with raised eyebrows, gazing into the Fog.
Abraxas felt a pang of annoyance. Vilindrio loved this kind of petty goading, these half-hidden suggestions. Abraxas hadn’t been married in almost twenty years–not since he was seventy. He rarely took on lovers or servants. In a rare moment, he’d accepted Nyl as a gift from Vilindrio. She was exactly what he wanted in a servant–which was no accident. Vilindrio found it amusing to tempt him, to throw him off-balance, to suggest he wasn’t as pure and sterile as the image he projected. The girl’s Plebian nature was both insult and reminder, suggestive of their long-ago crime, of Abraxas’s rage against his second wife. Worst of all, he was not always above the temptation. Now and then the animal lust descended, even at his age, and he’d grab the girl and take her from behind. Such weakness he could ill afford. But Nyl was a perfect servant even then. Especially then.
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