None would return to Panchaea.
When they woke again, in bonds, he revealed himself and told them the truth–the same truths once fed to him by Trajan and Diodorus. Of course, none of the Plebians believed him. They used the same arguments, the same denials. He couldn’t believe he’d been so resistant. But they would change, just as he had. The world demanded it.
*
The Plutarchs sent a second force after the first. Meric’s strike-force captured that one as well. The legionnaires had to be guarded and fed, which posed a problem. Rations were short and hunters overworked. Diodorus, Lucretius, and Aureus worked themselves to exhaustion helping to integrate the newcomers. Aureus’s nephew was among the captives, which helped break the preconceptions of the whole group. In days most were less resistant than Meric had been. Then again, Meric had always been an overachiever when it came to self-delusion.
When he wasn’t pretending to be a demon, Meric was training in the Fog. Gallatius’s reluctant tutorship continued. Meric learned the secrets of inveteration–the process of deactivating Fog-objects to “lock” them into place. By transmitting a personal code-key, he could prevent Plutarchs from reactivating pieces of Fog. He developed Fog-weapons as well: flying spheres that splintered into hails of foot-long barbs, concentric spheres programmed to shrink around their target; blades hidden within blades, in case a Plutarch should dissolve the outer ones but miss the inner.
Outside Ozymand, he managed to ally another small tribe–the Stonefists, from a swamp northeast of Panchaea. His force was growing. Those who’d helped capture the Plebians had set up camp at the south end of the valley. Others joined them. There was a sense that something big was coming. The Foglord had a plan, they said. As the leaves reddened, and a biting wind scattered them like sheaves of frozen blood, proud and painted warriors flooded the forest from other tribes, eager to fight for the Foglord.
How many of them will die because of me? Meric wondered, riding Listener among them, making the greeting gesture: right fist over heart, left palm open. He had to become worthy of them. He had to complete the job, even if he died in the process. The only question was how long the Plutarchs would continue to ignore him. Winter was coming, and soon the warriors would be forced to return to their tribes. The barren trees would offer little concealment, and snow would lock down the countryside.
Meric was brooding in the Fog, thinking on the path ahead, when Diodorus ran out of the corridor from the lift.
“Meric!” the older Plebian called.
“Up here,” Meric said, descending through the Fog.
“Meliai…” Diodorus panted, catching his breath.
Fear seized Meric. Meliai had left a week ago on another scouting trip. He’d rather she not, but there was no controlling her. Had something gone wrong?
“What is it?” he demanded.
“She’s come back–but she’s not alone. Lillian is with her. Your sister…”
Before Meric could even process that, Diodorus stepped forward and took hold of him by the shoulders. His expression was one of wonder.
“Meric, she says Trajan is alive.”
CHAPTER 22
The treehouse was a wonder. A kilometer north of the entrance to Ozymand, it sprawled through the branches of an ancient scarlet oak. The trunk rose through its center. The floor was a combination of “real” planks and durable Fog-wrought faux-wood. A rope-ladder led to the main entrance, though a pulley system formed a manual elevator for Malthenian’s benefit. On days he felt up to it, the elder used the rope-ladder regardless, spurning the concerns of his younger colleagues.
The house had been constructed remarkably fast. It was as though the tree had grown it for their convenience. Squirrels scampered across the roof. Warblers whistled songs from the windowsills. Sitting within, Meric was reminded of both Malthenian’s and Diodorus’s advice: forget Panchaea, find a new home, let Nature cure the blight. The simplicity had an innate appeal.
But then the complexities arose, the machinations of his mind, the fears and desires. The Plutarchs had survived this long–they would endure. And when the effects of the Smiting had worn off, the Fog would expand again. Besides, Meric’s family and friends were still trapped in Panchaea. He owed them, just as he owed the people of the Wildlands.
Just as he owed Trajan–perhaps most of all.
“A laserpainter. You’re sure?” Meric asked.
Lillian sat beside him. She touched his arm frequently, as if to reassure herself he was still there. Malthenian, Diodorus, Azog, and Meliai sat with them around a table. Rune had invited himself, following Meric up from Ozymand. Mother Raptor’s second son, Vireo, stood by the wall, arms folded, the Spear of All Spears strapped to his back. Muscled and well-proportioned, he had an eagle tattoo covering his shaven head. A red tear was etched beneath one eye–for his older brother.
“Positive. My father doesn’t waste resources,” Lillian said, touching Meric’s arm again. “His goal was to find Ozymand. Trajan wouldn’t talk, so they put him in isolation. Sensory deprivation. Drugs to loosen his tongue. In time, he’d give up secrets without even knowing it.”
“The fogborn have no shame,” Vireo said. From the angry stare he gave Lillian, he wasn’t excluding her. Lillian gave him wary glance before continuing.
“I was never in the Circle, but I know my father. When you captured Gallatius, he’d have argued for a strong response. But there’s no way he’d kill Trajan before he was certain he had Ozymand’s position. So he faked it, setting a trap in the process. An Artificer programmed the illusion. The laserpainter was probably hidden in the grass, or in the cart that left the Fog.”
“Trees exploded around us. That was no illusion,” Meliai said.
“Of course not. The turret-fire was real. But Trajan was never in the clearing. It was a no-loss situation for my father. He didn’t particularly like Gallatius, so it wasn’t necessary to secure his release; it was only the act of capturing a Plutarch that required a response. If you were lured into the clearing, the turrets would’ve killed you. If not, you still might’ve killed Meric to avenge Trajan. Either way, Panchaea’s enemies would be reduced–and you’d be too preoccupied to notice anyone trailing you back to Trajan’s village.”
Lillian glanced ashamedly at Malthenian. The elder’s ancient gaze was hard to ignore, given that it was his village which had burned.
“They could never have trailed us. We covered our tracks, and you fogborn make more noise than a drunken bear,” Azog said.
“Not all of us. There is one Plebian in particular who I’m told is quite good. One who has a thirst for revenge against the people who wiped out his legion.”
Oh, Godsblood.
“Frost,” Meric said.
Lillian nodded.
“Is it true? Did we lead someone to Red Oak?” Meliai whispered, horrified.
“Don’t blame yourself,” Lillian said. “To our soldiers, you’re as elusive as ghosts. But one man, patient and quiet as sin, hidden in recon armor, could easily be missed–especially when you’re preoccupied with grief. When that man returned to Panchaea, he knew exactly where to go–where to lead the other veterans, the quietest and deadliest, while the main legion paraded in the clearing.”
Leaning against the wall, Vireo spat in disgust.
“A Plutarch went with the legion. We think he was hoping to access an ancient machine in the bunker. Who was it? Abraxas?” Meric asked.
“No. My father never leaves the Fog. It was a cousin of mine, Ebon. He’s young, idealistic. A good-natured boy. He still believes what they tell him–that Plebians are a lesser race, unfit to rule the Fog. He’s a good person, even so. He wouldn’t mistreat the poorest, most desperate soul. Not all Plutarchs are the monsters you must think we are, Meric.”
Meric dropped his gaze. Meliai shifted in her chair.
“Well, I know at least one isn’t,” Meric said, and Lillian squeezed his hand. “You haven’t said yet how you ended up here.”
&nb
sp; “I was exiled,” Lillian said, eyebrows going up as she sighed.
“They found out you helped me,” Meric said.
She nodded.
“Issenian played her part well. It was the implant that gave me away. Production is strictly controlled. Obviously we don’t want any implants falling into Plebian hands–even with the security measures. As a Fogsmith, I was one of the few Plutarchs with access. That’s how I was able to steal one for you. I and Hephaestus–the Senior Fogsmith–had finished testing a new batch only days earlier. It was to be used in the next Oathtaking. In its place, I left a vial filled with a watery gray solution. To the naked eye, you couldn’t tell the difference. I needed only to replace it with a real one before the Oathtaking. Yet with Hephaestus always hanging around the lab, I couldn’t manufacture another. We keep other implants in long-term storage, but they’re locked away for emergencies, and the process of acquiring one would’ve given me away. In the end, I ran out of time.”
Lillian shrugged.
“In the amphitheater, I watched four teens take the Oath to protect Panchaea. Hephaestus prepared the syringes. I knew my solution would do no harm, but when the implant didn’t take, there would be tests, and the fake would be discovered. I tried to cover my tracks. It was impossible. My father and others already knew I’d been at the White Palace the day you escaped. Finally I was detained. My implant was stunted. They knew what I’d done.”
“But Abraxas is in the Circle. Couldn’t he stop your exile?” Meric asked.
Lillian gave a bitter Hah! Her silver eyes glittered with momentary anger.
“Stop it? I wouldn’t be surprised if it was his idea. He disowned me. Said I took after my mother–as if that’s an insult. Like I’d ever want to take after him. I spent some time in the holding area. Then they exiled me. I had some notion to try to find you, but I had no idea where to look. The forest terrified me. I made my way to the Obelisk. I’d always wanted to see it up close. It’s marvelous, by the way. I’d probably still be weeping beside it if Meliai hadn’t found me.”
Lillian smiled gratefully at Meliai–who looked away, her intense green eyes failing to affect the impassivity they were striving for.
“That’s some tale, but I hear some assumptions on your part. How can you be sure that Trajan is still alive?” Diodorus asked.
Meric watched Meliai out of the corner of his eyes. She was conspicuously avoiding looking at him.
“Has Abraxas found Ozymand?” Lillian asked.
“No. If he had, he’d come for it,” Meric said.
“Then Trajan is still alive.”
*
Meric leaned against the scarlet oak, numb with shock. Lillian and Malthenian were still in the treehouse above. Meric had promised Lillian he’d talk more later. She wanted to know about him, to be close to the baby-brother she’d lost long ago. His hand went by habit to the black hemisphere in the pouch under his shirt–he kept the datadrive on him at all times.
Alive. Trajan is alive.
Did that mean Meliai would forgive him? Trajan was still a captive, but at least he had a chance. Meric’s responsibilities were greater than ever, yet he felt as though a weight had been lifted. A light pierced the clouds darkening his mind.
“A smile. That’s rare,” Swan said.
Meric blinked. He hadn’t noticed her approach. An atomblade was sheathed on her hip.
“Planning to skewer someone?” Meric asked, nodding at the weapon.
“Oh, this? Azog is teaching me to duel,” Swan said.
“Azog?” Meric asked, his eyebrows going up.
“He’s really quite sweet beneath all that muscle.”
There was a pause.
“Azog?” Meric asked again.
“Yes, Meric. Azog.”
For a moment he remembered Avigon being struck by Azog’s spiked hammer. He ran a hand over his face. All his friends were also his enemies–and everyone wanted to kill each other.
“That’s … That’s…” he said.
“Come on. Let’s walk and talk,” Swan said, looping her arm through his. The scouts returned; the two of them circled toward the hollow hill.
“I talked to Lillian when she arrived,” Swan said. “I have to admit, I felt an immediate dislike for her, just knowing she was a Plutarch. But I also know she’s your sister, and she helped us escape, and she’s actually quite nice.”
Meric watched the leaves. Once, he’d thought he’d loved Swan. He’d assumed he’d marry her. Those memories belonged to someone else now. Her dark complexion and serene nature were as attractive as ever, but a rift had grown between them. When he thought of Meliai, it was with a unique and fiery obsession. She burned a hole in his brain, and in the flames was something sacred. How could he feel that way about anyone else? He couldn’t. Next to that, Swan was warm water, pleasing and comfortable but not dangerously irresistible.
“You’ve got to show her how you feel, you know,” Swan said.
Meric glanced at her. Could she read minds?
“I–I don’t know what you…”
“I’m not blind, Meric. You’re distracted whenever she’s near, and you’re looking into the forest whenever she’s not. Looking for her, I’d wager. I think she feels the same way. She just doesn’t know how to break through all the barriers you’ve built for her.”
“How could you possibly know all this?” Meric asked, feeling dangerously close to the hidden passions of his heart. Swan gave him a look.
“You’re not the enigma you think you are. I knew the moment she woke us in the forest. Her eyes said it all,” Swan said.
Meric opened his mouth and closed it again, baffled. Wasn’t Swan angry or jealous? He felt almost let down, like she’d never really cared about him. But she had, he knew that. She must’ve felt the rift too then.
They entered the hollow hill and took the lift down to Ozymand.
“There’s something else I wanted to talk to you about,” Swan said as they approached the Fog.
“Yes?” Meric asked.
She let out a quick breath.
“Your plan, Meric. I haven’t asked about the details, but I’ve seen the fighters camped in the forest. Whatever you’re going to do, it’s going to be big. I know you, Meric. You’re bolder than you are smart–oh, don’t make that face. I’m not saying you’re dumb. I’m just saying you’re a man of action, and sometimes you let that get ahead of you. You get something in your head, you just run right at it. So tell me: how well have you thought through the costs of what you’re about to do?”
“Costs?” Meric asked, frowning.
“Human costs, Meric. The Plutarchs deserve to be brought down, but how many of our friends–how many Plebians and Wildlanders will it take to achieve that? And will it be worth it?”
Meric closed his eyes and shook his head.
“I know there will be casualties. There’s no way around it, Swan. But they’ll be kept to a minimum if all goes well.”
“A minimum–given your goals, you mean. Because the minimum is zero if we leave Panchaea behind,” Swan said.
“You too? Diodorus talks about leaving. Malthenian talks about letting the Fog die on its own. Am I the only who wants our families and friends to know the truth? To live free? The Plutarchs can’t be allowed to get away with it. I can’t live with it, knowing what I know. Something has to change.”
Swan nodded.
“I want our friends to be free too, Meric. I just want to be sure you’re doing this for the right reasons. I want to make sure you’ll do what’s best for everyone, not just what’s best for you. Because if those two are in conflict, and you choose your own goals at the cost of so many lives, how will you be any different from the Plutarchs?”
If you do win, it’ll be because you stopped being yourself–and became me.
Was Gallatius right? As Meric hesitated, Swan embraced him. It was the hug of a friend, however, not a lover.
“Don’t answer. I meant it for you to think about, no
t to justify to me. And thank you again for what you did in the clouds.”
He looked at her, and for a moment he saw the old Swan, calm and graceful, smiling serenely from his mother’s table, a cup of tea in her hand as he and Reed came in from the blackberry fields. He kissed her forehead.
“Swan, I…”
“There’s nothing to say, Meric. This life wasn’t meant for us. We had a little time, at least. Be careful, whatever you’re going to do. And tell her how you feel.”
She left him in the Fog. An upwelling of emotion hit him, as he remembered how they’d once lain content and carefree in the grass of a strawberry field. Old feelings were coming out to die, gasping for one last breath.
Another life.
The Fog lifted him, a billion tiny hands. He rose into the mist. To clear his mind, he began the Dance. Silver blades materialized. Twenty were circling him when he tried to draw a breath–and couldn’t. The air in his mouth hardened to concrete. It couldn’t bypass his pretracheal filter or it would’ve filled his lungs. His eyes bulged. Before he could process what was happening, twenty knives turned inward and flew at him. He reacted without thinking. The Fog burst outward in all directions, creating a sphere of emptiness around him–a void-shield. His practice paid off. The knives dissolved inches from contact. He dissolved the concrete and coughed out Fog. But his support disappeared with the rest, and he plunged toward the ground.
He condensed a cloud to stop his fall. Even as he drew a ragged breath, the cloud wrapped a tendril around his throat and squeezed. The tendril condensed into razor-wire. Other tendrils sought his arms and legs and pulled him down toward a tapered spike. A crazed thought struck him: the savages had been right, there were evil spirits in Ozymand. The Fog had turned against him. He turned the tendrils to smoke, ripped the spike apart…
…and felt an empty sphere in the Fog toward the far end of the cavernous chamber, a bubble just bigger than a man. A void-shield, meant to keep the Fog at arm’s length, giving the creator more time to react to attacks. Someone else was in Ozymand. Someone who could speak to the Fog.
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