by A J Witt
“So why are you here, Lecarn?”
“Coming back and saying hello to an old friend isn’t a good reason?”
“It’s a reason, just not a valid one for you.”
“You know, you’re the second person to tell me that today.”
“Then, it must be true.”
“By Gods, I’ve got one rotten reputation,” lamented Lecarn. “One I don’t deserve, you know?”
“Doesn’t matter whether you deserve it. No one shows up ten years later to say hello to people they’ve supposedly been missing.”
“And why not?”
“Because, well …” Aiden paused, unsure how to drive home his point. “I don’t know,” he said, sighing. “People just don’t do it.”
They got to the final contraption in their routine, a large tree stump carved hollow. Inside it was an iron weight connected by a rope and a pulley at the top. The other end of the rope was attached to a handle which Lecarn seized with both hands. He pushed down, lifting the weight inside the stump.
“My triceps are already too tired for this,” he whined after several repetitions.
Aiden ignored his friend, stepping forward and grasping the handle.
“So what do you think about these attacks in the countryside?” asked Lecarn.
“Ah!” The chief dropped the weight with a slam and turned around. “That’s why you’re here.”
“No, I … I was just making conversation.”
“You’re not even subtle anymore.”
“About what?”
“Come on, it’s too late. Who’s paying you?”
“No one.”
“You may be a good liar with others, but with me?” Aiden winked his brown eye. “You can forget about it.”
Lecarn chuckled. “I can’t tell you. Client confidentiality and all.”
“Tell me, and I’ll give you the Battalion’s dossier on the attacks.” Aiden was serious. “The entire thing, it’s back at the Main Complex.”
“That,” murmured Lecarn, “I didn’t expect.”
“So come on, who is it?”
“Obviously someone whose identity might help you solve the case, given how much value you’ve placed on the information.”
“Perhaps, or perhaps I’m just making conversation.”
Lecarn laughed once more. “No,” he decided. “I’ll find out what I need on my own.”
“You’d throw away an opportunity for inside information?”
“Yes. Your dossier’s still empty.”
Aiden winced. What a cholee.
“Remember that whole thing you were saying about detecting lies? Well, it’s a two-way street, my friend.”
“Fair enough.”
They walked to the exit.
“It was nice seeing you, Aiden.”
“Good luck,” the chief responded. He extended out his hand. “You’ll need it.”
“I can always use some luck.”
“I’ll see you in another ten years?”
Lecarn looked over his shoulder with a grin. “I have a feeling we’ll be seeing each other much sooner.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The glob of saliva came flying at an impressive speed. With a stable trajectory and ideal composition, it flapped through the air before splattering onto Edvon’s cheek. The young man wiped the spit off his face, scanning the crowd for the perpetrator.
“Nice aim for an old granny,” quipped Kyran, having identified the culprit.
“Shut up.” Edvon locked eyes with the woman. Her spine curved by age and her scalp dotted with clumps of white hair, she stared back with a hatred that made him shudder.
“Nasty Adepts. You soiled, repulsive Adepts. You disgusting, abominable, repugnant Adepts. You vile Adepts. You dreadful, stinking Adepts!” As she screeched one insult after another, the old woman’s face morphed from a light pink to a deep purple. Running out of air, she coughed, gasping for air and stumbling. “You think …” cough “funny?” squawked the woman. “Wait till you …” cough “what they do to” cough “those who disobey the Recital Supreme.” She tried to inhale, but it only made the hacking worse. “They’ll …” cough “send you to the …” cough “you belong.” In a last-ditch effort, she brought her head up and spat toward them once more.
This time, Edvon dodged the oncoming projectile, despite the cumbersome platinum collar on his neck. “You’ll have to do better than that, cholee!”
“How dare you … that name …”
Her response was hardly audible as the wagon moved ahead, bringing them one step closer to Mount Kilda. Kyran fiddled with the small lock keeping his collar fastened. Scarce and hard to find, only platinum suppressed an Adept’s Source drawing capabilities, and rumor had it the Overseers hoarded any amount of the material they could get their hands on. Some even whispered that the walls of the Temple were lined with the precious metal. Kyran could feel the platinum weighing him down. I’m nauseous. The young man had trouble deciding whether the substance itself was making him sick, or whether it was the simple realization he had no ability to access the Source. He lurched forward as they hit a bump in the road, much to the delight of the growing throng of people following behind. “Where did these losers come from, anyway?”
“What do you—”
“Make way for the murderers!” shouted Gorgios. “Make way for the murderers!”
“—care?” finished Edvon.
The delegation of twenty Overseers was advancing, its two captives confined in a caged wagon.
“Well, I’ve always wanted to visit East Phaidros,” said the younger Adept.
“You don’t get the trouble we’re in, do you?”
“That’s precisely why I’m trying to enjoy it as much as possible.” Kyran pointed at the crowd. “I’m not going out the way they want me to, crying for mercy.”
Edvon had no answer, so he looked around instead. As they traveled farther east, the metropolis gave way to a more rudimentary habitat. Simple thatch homes, many spewing gray smoke from their mud chimneys, replaced brick and mortar structures. How depressing. Edvon remembered the bazaars of West Phaidros, the laughing children and bright colors, a stark contrast to the bleak stares they were receiving from citizens trudging by. Some continued along their way, while others joined the procession, as if it presented the only excitement they had witnessed in months. The wheeled vehicle tilted backward and launched a steep climb. A point of no return.
The Adepts sat in silence for the remainder of the journey along the winding road up Mount Kilda. They passed trekking pilgrims, many holding the Book of Provenance and muttering verses to themselves. Edvon took in the scenic view of Phaidros that grew more stunning the further the wagon ascended. It was shadow time west of the city where he could discern the Academy, its Sea Tower jutting out into the Bay of Alboran. The Apex caught his attention, as well as the Noble District with its hundred shimmering lakes. We were just there. He spotted the gloomy walls of Crain Prison. And we may end up there. He shuddered and looked the other way, only to take in the vast city cemetery just to the south of Mount Kilda.
“There!” Kyran prodded his brother in the ribs.
The peak revealed the Temple in all its glory. Constructed of white stone, the massive building was a sight to behold. An enormous central spire rose high into the sky, surrounded by seven similar erections of lesser height. Golden statues glimmering in the sunlight graced the top of each one. The heptagonal structure was enclosed by thick walls, similar to a fortress rather than a place of worship. The Overseers came to a full stop and unlocked the cage.
“Tie their hands!” ordered Gorgios.
The brothers were paraded toward the entrance. They walked across a big drawbridge and into a main courtyard where hundreds of pilgrims were standing in line, waiting to enter the Inner Sanctum. The Temple’s most sacred chamber marked the precise location where the Gods had exiled the Dominion’s forefathers, or such were the writings of the Book of Provenance.
&n
bsp; “Can we make a quick stop to pay our respects?” asked Kyran.
“Shut it!”
A congregation had already gathered, clapping en masse and cantillating spiritual verses in a disorderly fashion. Gorgios pushed his way forward, clearing a path as they got closer to one of the smaller spires. The brothers were shoved inside, and the last Overseer closed the door, preventing the curious crowd from following them into the edifice. They marched up a stiff helical staircase, leading to a room with no furniture or decorations, save a long raised desk near the rear wall. The senator disappeared through an opening behind it and resurfaced with three elderly Overseers in tow whose white robes had multiple gold stripes adorning the sleeves. They settled at the desk.
“Marshals of Justice, these men are accused of murdering cadet Matthias,” announced Gorgios.
“Witness for the prosecution?” asked a marshal, his eyes peering overtop thin wire-rimmed glasses.
“I, Master of Arms of this Temple, present myself as a witness.”
“Very well. And—”
“What is the meaning of this?” exclaimed Rex Ruga as she barged into the room.
“Commandant,” hissed Tibon, “you are interrupting a trial.”
“A trial I have every right to attend.”
“In case you have forgotten, I tend to the judicial matters of this Temple.”
“Perhaps,” Rex Ruga replied, walking to the marshals’ desk. “But not if I invoke the Gods as witnesses.”
“What?”
The commandant was facing the brothers and the group of Overseers that had assembled behind them. In desperate need of a victory, she could sense one within her clutches. “We do this the old way.”
The gathered Overseers looked on with anticipation, and Tibon tried to stall her. “Commandant this is—”
“We do this by way of the Gods!” Rex Ruga shouted, scoring several grunts of approval. She pulled from her pocket a large coin, holding it out for everyone to see. On one side was a skull and on the other a star. Flicking it up into the air, the commandant caught the piece of gold on the back of her hand. “The Gods will guide this coin!”
The audience cheered, and Rex Ruga approached Kyran, grabbing his collar. She kicked the young Adept in the shins, making him drop to his knees with a scream, then leaned in close. “If it lands skull up,” she said, tossing the coin once more, “then the sentence shall be death.”
“And if it lands skull down?” Kyran groaned, struggling to pull himself away.
Rex Ruga brought her lips to his ear. “It doesn’t matter.”
With a clink, the coin hit the cold stone floor. Edvon watched as it rolled around, losing speed at every new turn. The coin fell flat, skull face up. Overseers roared in unison, while the Adept closed his eyes in despair. This can’t be happening.
“The Gods have spoken.” Rex Ruga spun around and left, satisfied with the success of her act. Word of the judgment would soon spread throughout the Temple, and best of all, Najara was nowhere to be seen. The spoils were the commandant’s reaping. She would be lighting the pyres, front and center for any Overseer to witness. The execution of two Adepts, the first such event in years, would define her regime. Naturally, partial credit would need to be attributed to her Master of Arms. Had Gorgios not sent an Overseer ahead to warn Rex Ruga, Tibon might have brokered a diplomatic arrangement with the Academy and received all the praise.
Meanwhile, Gorgios led Kyran and Edvon out of the room and down the spiral staircase. Rather than stopping on the main floor, they kept descending until they felt a wave of cool air. The stunned brothers had penetrated the Temple’s dungeons. Gorgios grabbed a torch from the wall, leading them along a tenebrous and narrow passageway. Secured cells with iron bars lined both sides. Approaching one on the left, the brothers watched with dismay as two Overseers pulled open a heavy door.
“In you go!” roared Gorgios.
PART II
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
The Book of Provenance’s verses included many tales. Although each had been analyzed and dissected by Overseer scholars throughout the ages, one stood out as the public’s favorite. It took up less than a couple pages, and rather than depicting the life of the Gods in their Red City or the piousness of a Noble lady from centuries past, the verse told an altogether different story.
Following the infamous Exile from the Heavens, an episode of prolonged misery known as the Dark Age arose. Marred by conflict and death, the period’s anarchy ended only when Auralus, the very first Overseer, climbed atop Mount Kilda and laid the foundation for a Temple. He succeeded in uniting the population under a new theology, one revolving around an acceptance of and reverence for the Gods’ punishment.
While constructing the Temple’s fifth spire, Auralus suffered a grievous injury, a gash across his chest that festered. He was rushed into the newly built Inner Sanctum, his followers praying with all their might for the Gods to save him. They applied ointments, crushed herbs, geega blood, nothing would help. Days passed, and Auralus grew weaker. At his request, the dying founder was brought in the courtyard to once more breathe fresh air before his impending departure.
That night, a drunkard ascended Mount Kilda from the fledgling town below, captivated by the sight of the Temple’s new spires. Clinging to the fresh-laid stone, he pulled himself up, swinging wildly in the air and shouting incoherent words. Those awakened by the commotion were convinced the man would fall. Instead, in his intoxicated state, the drunkard managed to drop his pants and urinate. The golden shower, caught by the breeze, trickled right onto an unsuspecting Auralus.
They never found the man, and the next morning, to everyone’s amazement, Auralus’s gash was healed. The urine’s alcohol content was so high it had disinfected the wound, allowing the Overseer to recover and live out the rest of his long life. Many argued the drunkard was in fact a God, sent to ensure salvation for the Temple’s founder. Never debated, however, was the merit of alcohol as a disinfectant, the main reason why the amusing tale also made it the favorite of modern day medical practitioners around the Dominion. And one of them just happened to be using a dose of the liquid on a squealing Adept.
“Ouch!” shouted Elias.
“Will you be quiet,” Gaston pleaded. “And stop squirming around so much.” The doctor dabbed his rag in a small vial of rubbing alcohol and applied it once more to the cut on Elias’s head. “How did you say this happened again?”
“I … I ran into a doorway.”
“Is that so?”
Gaston gave the Adept a suspicious look. “It seems more like an object struck you, not the other way around.”
“Well … the doorway struck me.”
“Fine. Say what you want. All I can conclude is you suffered a concussion, and you’re lucky the blood coagulated fast enough. Otherwise, you’d be lying dead under some …” The doctor paused, and raised an eyebrow. “Doorway.” He finished cleansing the injury and bandaged it with a beige dressing.
The color reminded Elias of something, though he had trouble placing it. Why does that feel familiar? Beige … the color of robes … the color of Marrek’s robes. The officer closed his eyes. Returning to the Academy was unthinkable, not after what had happened.
“Done,” Gaston announced.
Elias picked himself up.
“And duck next time you walk through doorways.”
“Yes, yes.” The Adept tossed him several well-worn coins. He staggered toward the tapestry hanging from the ceiling and pulled it aside to expose the busy street. A sensory overload compounded Elias’s searing headache, from loud passersby, children shouting as they played, merchants calling out to sell their wares, bright sun reflecting off the stalls of the market, and smells both pleasant and rancid. He wanted to throw up.
The boys were probably dead, there was nothing he could do to change that. I guess I’ll have to leave Phaidros, find somewhere to live in hiding. The officer stepped into the street, scenarios playing out in his head, hundreds
of them, with different endings. Elias envisioned himself in a rotting shack in Fisherman’s Bay, or sleeping in a barn out in the countryside. He shuttered. Wait. Maybe they won’t blame me for this, and I can stay at the Academy. After all, it wasn’t my fault. The Adept imagined the pleasant patio back in his quarters, the sweet sound of water trickling from his little fountain, the soothing sunlight warming delicate plants placed along the railing. Suddenly, the rays became brighter, to the point where Elias felt his skin burning. The water evaporated from the fountain, the plants erupting into flames. He shook the image from his head. Of course they’ll blame me for it. The officer’s nausea intensified, and he stopped to take a breath. I could follow Lecarn’s treacherous ways to get out of this. Should I just do what he did to Marrek?
Conflicted, Elias resumed a mindless pace, trudging his way through a crowd that never seemed to end. It was estimated more than half the Dominion’s population lived in Phaidros, an urban sprawl that continued to grow. The Noble Assembly knew it to be an unsustainable rate and a few years back had attempted to alleviate the problem by developing new neighborhoods on the outskirts of Portown, as well as forcing the displacement of several important industries to the south. These included the city’s largest breweries, employers to thousands of workers. However, the plan, initially instituted to encourage citizens to relocate, had backfired. The workers stayed, finding employment at other factories seeking to add to their pool of labor. And with a gradual shortage of ale, one by one the taverns went out of business. Rather than admitting its mistake and remedying the problem, the Noble Assembly did nothing, wagering instead that the lack of alcohol would drive thirsty citizens southward. But Phaidrosians lost interest in the drink altogether, new vices replacing old ones. Enterprising growers seized the opportunity, opening smoking lounges throughout the city where one could puff on a variety of herbs. It was like Marrek had always said. “The citizens don’t make Phaidros. No, Phaidros makes the citizens.”