by Matt Thomas
After a few turns the railed stairwell opened up to a carpeted foyer. A touch opulent, it mirrored some of the finer inns in the First City, if on a smaller scale. The room facing the stairs appeared the largest. That was the one. Even at this hour two men in town livery stood watch. Vandil’s orders. Two more of Imrail’s men were waiting expectantly. Bowing, they moved aside when he nodded curtly. Glancing at Lanspree, he seized the doorknob. Inhaling, he gave it a twist and pushed the door forward. He almost flinched when he did. He did not think there was anything he could have done to prepare him for what he found waiting inside.
He stood there for several seconds, stunned. “Get Altaer. Now.” His voice did not seem to make any perceptible sound.
Mystic imprints and devices had been etched permanently into the walls, symbols that glowed. He had been told there had been blood, Viamar’s blood, but someone had made an effort to strip the room of anything unessential and purge it in whatever conventional means one could. Something had changed, though. There had been no mention of the pockets of veiled darkness, a cloud-like mist that reminded him of Perdition. Heedless to his own peril, he swallowed, ignoring the beads of sweat on his forehead, and stepped forward. Should have waited until morning, he chided himself. But he already had the next day mapped out. His head was full of plans. Plans meant to bring them their freedom, even if he did not expect to live to see the day.
“Imrail, this is . . .” Avela struggled, then did not bother to finish the thought, yanking at him.
He was ready this time and side-stepped her so that her hand only caught air. “You aren’t the least bit curious?” he asked.
The woman made another attempt. He twisted, avoiding it. “Imrail, stop it. This isn’t a game. I know what you’re planning. It’s too dangerous. It’s stupid. We need you. The boy needs you. He looks up to you. I . . .” She took in a bit of air, then said it. “. . . I need you.”
“There’ll be a time when I won’t be there, girl. Best get used to it. He’s going to have to learn to face the world on his own, too.”
“Imrail, please . . .”
“Step away, Lanspree. You’re here because I need you too.” He was surprised he said it so smoothly. Maybe there was calm in acceptance. He had accepted his fate and yielded to the wisdom of Altris. The World-Axle turn without him. Stepping forward, he took a knee. “If I lose consciousness or you sense something . . .” He did not know how to describe it. “You’ll know if something’s amiss. You may act then. Clear?”
She did not answer.
Locking his eyes shut, he pressed a hand against the floor. The panels were noticeably free of dust. Trying to shake the image of the rising mist, a void or absence like dark noxious fumes, he took in a series of short breaths and focused. Images instantly seared across his mind’s eye. He would be observing them as a series of events, the most recent first, and would have to force himself into the precise moment. That would take time. Then he would literally see. Usually it was like viewing events as they unfolded as flickers of movement or obscured shadows; sounds were like echoes or reverberations. He had trained his mind to sort through the subtle distortions. This time he felt forced in. The smoke-like substance did not help matters. He thought he felt it coiling around the skin, touching him, defiling him. The most dominant scene came first. Though he had not been there to witness it, he recognized it instantly. Luc. Siren. It always came back to him. The images were so forceful he felt himself losing conscious control. Beads of sweat were running lines now. He clove a path through. The effort, the strain, saw him plant both hands against the floorboards, head light. Water leaked out of his eyes.
It did not work this way. This time the effort was incalculable. Had it been any other matter he would have brought himself back to the present—that was, if he was able. But this was not for him. It had to be done. He pressed harder. Wrestling free of the moment nearly broke him. He felt as if he was descending into the narrows, the hidden places of the world. Grappling with his own fears and the hidden forces at work, he reached past the image of the boy and felt more than he saw the image melt away. The blending images sped up and stopped so fast he had no way to prepare himself. What he saw then made him stiffen.
What he saw made the sweat he had broken into seem only a sheen of perspiration.
CHAPTER 7 — OATHS
The next morning Luc woke to a hand shaking him mercilessly. “How much did you drink, boy?” Imrail snapped when he came to. His voice, while cutting, also had a dry catch that seemed more than mildly inquisitive. Hard to say for certain with him. “Get up,” Imrail said finally. “You reek. Get dressed. On second thought, bathe first. We have a long day ahead of us.”
Luc groaned. He considered rolling over and covering his head, thinking the man might leave him be if he just stayed there. Vandil might have, but not Imrail. Sitting up, he had to blink several times. His head had a definitive throbbing feel. Clutching his forehead, he tried to work a little moisture into his mouth. He distinctively recalled Amreal warning him about this, a little ironic with his uncle sipping some prized vintage out of Ancaida at the time. Because of the climate down south, Ancaidan grapes were judged just right for winemaking. Most held Ancaidan wine peerless; it also likely contributed to most of the nation’s wealth. Even Martyren anchorites were known the covet it. Well, if nothing else, at least there had been no dreams. His last memory was the walk with Trian hanging on his arm. He had no recollection of undressing or climbing into bed.
One night spent without worry—for the most part—a lull he could ill afford. Throwing back the covers, he ignored the discomfort and fumbled for a robe someone had left for him on the nightstand next to the bed. He found newly pressed attire hanging in the wardrobe. Imrail waited with his arms folded, likely amused to see him stepping so delicately. Luc thought the man looked a little wan around the eyes himself. The slight tension was almost imperceptible, but by now Luc knew the man well enough to know when something was vexing him. Deciding not to bring it up for the moment, he followed the general out into the corridor. He judged it would be some time before he indulged in another late night outing with Rew or anyone else, even if it had been a needed change.
An hour later he found himself seated across Imrail and Riven sipping a cup of tea and nibbling on boiled eggs. The tea did nothing for the headache, but did help him focus. Studying the two men leafing through scripted reports, he became certain something was definitely off. Imrail looked unusually pale and gray-faced. He was also perspiring. Imrail never perspired.
Riven sorted the reports into three piles. He appeared to have read every one. The first stack he passed to Imrail, who scanned them and made notes with an ink pen. Most he put to the side. The pile he passed to Luc was considerably smaller. Most already had his recommendations.
“Pay attention,” Imrail scolded him. “You’re not even reading.”
Luc messaged his temples with both hands. He did not remember ever feeling quite so miserable. “I already read them,” he muttered, glancing into his empty tea cup.
Riven brought his head up. “You read upside down?”
“I guess.”
Both men exchanged glances. “What do you think we should do then?” Imrail asked guardedly.
He was more curious about why the man insisted he be present for this. Imrail’s recommendations were more than adequate. A forced curfew in Aldoren’s Watch to round up the Lawless; a request to meet with various Guild representatives who were concerned the Crown was not giving guild leaders realistic timelines or the coin to compensate them for the quantities of arms being requested; administrators and bureaucrats arguing Alingdor would be gutted due to the men needed to fill the ranks of officers needed for the war; several requests by the Ancaidans camped to the southeast to formally meet—it seemed they were dangerously short on supplies.
The most pressing need in the First City, though, was for some indication of who formally ruled. Folk were restive. Other irregularities or oddities
in the city had been penned in some of the more peculiar narratives, some indicating men and women had been subject to strange dreams, specific mention of a symbol of fear and power. There were Rumors of the Furies. And the Unmaker. One report mentioned the name Siren specifically. He would have cradled his head had it not been for the two men staring at him. Weighing him.
Events to the south seemed dominated by the ongoing construction of a city meant to provide a stabilizing presence along the Tolmaran and Ancaidan borders. These included tallies and inventories of current supplies and materials, requisitions for additional resources, workers, and skilled foremen to supervise the work. The southern roads seemed safe for the moment. Several of the newly founded towns had been positioned at key points. This was speeding up trade and unified the nation from north to south. The only thing that concerned him about the effort was the response it would provoke from their enemies. A unified Penthar was a significant threat to the Furies’ plans. He would have to move first. Any delay might end in their defeat.
After enduring a litany of probing questions, eventually the two men appeared satisfied he had actually scanned the reports. He wondered why they were so singularly impressed by something so relatively simply. The only real input he had provided was to not overlook the north. The Ardan city, hidden in the Forlorn Wood, would have to be dealt with. Another sat in the heart of the uncharted region of Valince known as Laringail. He was certain of it now. Something told him they would find more than just the Earthbound waiting for them there. For him.
He was mulling over returning to his room when Lars, Lanspree, and Trian entered. “We’re ready, Imrail,” Avela said. She appeared a little apprehensive, something he read more in the way she looked at the general than in her tone.
Imrail stood. “Very well,” he said after a moment. “Best you come with us, my Lord. This is something you will want to see.”
Puzzled at why the man’s face took on a gray hue, Luc did not protest. He was not sure what Avela had told Trian, but neither woman appeared particularly enthused. That morning Trian had elected to don a forest green and russet dress he suspected was Val Moran. The fabric appeared soft and velvety. Paired with heeled boots and a belt that caught the dress at the waist, the impact was alluring, colors contrasting her ivory skin. Feeling something significant afoot, he kept silent and followed.
When they exited a few minutes later and paused to take in the morning, he froze after just a few steps. He hadn’t realized he was perspiring so profusely until the wind hit him. The sky was a brilliant blue and the ardent light of the sun shone clearly over the town square. It also caught metallic flakes seemingly imbedded in a newly hoisted banner. The Sparrow was still there, several feet lower. But moving freely for all to see, the Mark of Chaos had been unfurled, high enough he suspected others could see it two or three streets over. It made his already dry mouth feel parched. It also awoke the part of his consciousness native to another plane of existence.
Just another indication there would be no going back for him.
Following the others towards the inn, his strides felt heavy. He had no idea what Imrail had found; no doubt it was something unpleasant. Worse perhaps.
“Last night I visited the room,” Imrail said quietly, likely reading his thoughts. No need to mention which room specifically. Luc remembered it quite vividly. “I think you’ll find it much changed. Altaer confirmed it. Something is growing. It shares some of the same properties as Perdition, like Shaiar and unlike. There I was able to see some of what occurred, enough to understand what may be happening. One of you may have a better sense for it.”
“He could have killed himself,” Avela said with a direct look. No emotion, only that. “He still expects to die.”
The general ignored the woman. “It wasn’t easy,” the man admitted. “And sometimes the effort does not yield results. We can be glad this time it did.” The inn’s doors were open in the morning air, but the noticeable lack of movement immediately caught his eye. In fact he realized the entire square was empty other than the full complement of Imrail’s men. None of the town’s guard was present. Had they sealed off the entire street? “Altaer thinks there are wards of some kind. He suspects a trap. I would have thought it meant for you, but they did not know anything about you to link it specifically to you. But this creature, this Forerunner, has distinct memories of Ardil. Memories of your father.”
Luc did not comment. That was not entirely correct, he now knew.
As they entered the inn, Luc saw it stood completely empty. No sign of the innkeeper or his wife. Imrail continued forward, leading them through the common room. No fire at the hearth either. “If Altaer is right, they will not know the moment you enter the room,” Imrail said. “We may be able to wheedle some advantage from that. Right now they do not know your intentions. I suggest we do not keep them secret. Our foe is full of arrogance and disdain. A little fear might make the last leg into Ancaida a little less harrowing. Think on it. They may not expect us to follow, or think we have the means to follow, which you do.” Taking the right corridor, the man led them up the stairs, glancing at him. “Outside of that, I suggest the moment we enter the two of you tell us what you can decipher. If we can’t find the means of breaking the spell or enchantment that created it, we will need to warn your father. Perhaps even then we should consider bringing the inn down.”
“Destroying the inn won’t stop this, Imrail,” Trian warned.
The general glanced at her. “What’s the alternative? We can’t risk the Warden attempting to enter. His hate for this former Diem is . . . beyond compare . . . beyond anything I can speak to.” Muttering, he continued up, one had tight on the rail and the other on the hilt of his sword. As they reached the upper level, Imrail crossed the carpeted floor and stopped at the door, turning. “Boy, they held a council in this room. I saw it. Heard it. They kept the king unconscious and spoke about as freely as you and I are now. This Ansifer is a beast. He doesn’t just serve the Furies, he is close to them in power. It seems Isar is his current master. I do not think he means him to remain so for long.”
“Naeleis,” Trian corrected absently. “Ansifer would be a fool to challenge him, Imrail. And I doubt very much he’s a fool. He was wise enough not to face us.”
Imrail studied the young women a moment before nodding. “You’ll want to hear the rest before we enter,” he said. “It seems Ancaida is already in their hands. Maien’s whereabouts are or were unknown, but Naeleis rules in the Mountains of Memory. That place you have both heard of. I need not tell you it is more than just a name some mystic conjured up.”
“The Val Moran people know it well,” Trian said tightly.
“So, boy,” Imrail went on, “it seems this Ansifer attempted a summoning, a direct tie to . . . some power. If he did it then, imagine what he might try to do now that he is on the run and desperate. If nothing else, it is clear these Fallen have a perception of some underlying presence linked to the Furies. I suggest we do this and be on our way. No need to risk their wrath on the townsfolk.”
“The day we find out more will be the day we will wish it were only the Furies we faced,” Trian said slowly, reaching Luc’s side. She exhaled, nodding reluctantly. “For now, let’s be done with this. If you intend us to be on our way, I would prefer we do so within the hour.” She glanced at Luc. “It seems we were not meant to stay.” She sounded disappointed, but ready.
Imrail signaled Lars. “Send word of our immediate departure.”
The tall man nodded. “Yes, my Lord,” he said, quickly striding off.
“I’ll go first,” Riven offered. A hair too late. Imrail was already inside.
Just on their heels, Luc touched his sword. The moment he saw the dark miasma radiating from the walls and inlays he considered sending for the Rod. Imrail was right. The room had a twisted feel far worse than the first time he had entered. He thought if a direct summoning of the Unmaker had been attempted, an attempt to reach its conscious will and act
ive presence, this is what it would have looked like. Feeling a forced alertness sweep over him, he struggled to recall the events of an earlier time, an earlier age. He shivered. He almost remembered. Now that some part of him had awoken and was actively moving to oppose the Furies, even if in the initial stage, he suspected the Unmaker’s presence had or soon would be doing the same. He did not relish the day they found out for certain.
As before, a series of symbols had been scribed into the walls. Now they gave off a smoldering, warning light. The hint of tangible power was real. Nothing they should fool with, that much was certain. No sign of an outside awareness or presence, but he probed with senses innate, usually untapped. In moments his mind shied away from something vast, something terrible, more offensive than Naeleis and the other Furies, in tune with forces native to the Third Plane, if off slightly. The fabric of the Making had been breached, tiny slivers at the moment, but growing. He did not think these were linked to Perdition. The lines were too far off. No, this fissure was connected to another place. Imrail’s insights had given him a clue. He did not attempt to follow it. That was the trap. Had his father attempted to trace it with the Tides, the effect would have been disastrous and likely would have ripped apart most of the town. Still sweating, he glanced at the others. Trian had closed her eyes and had a focused look on her face.
She knew.
Stepping back, he glanced around wildly. Sweat dripped into his eyes. He knew he was not ready for this. Far from it. “Give me your hand, Luc,” Trian told him.