And then he punched.
His fist sailed down into Tyran’s face.
It sailed down again, and again—
THUMP! THUMP! THUMP!
—and again—
THUMP! THUMP!
—and again—
I squeezed Alain’s wrist, not aware I even still held it. “No—!”
Borrick hit out again. The collision of fist on skull echoed across the arena, across the viewing platform at its edge.
Tyran crumpled. Face a bloodied mess, his lip was split, his nose was crushed, his eyebrows were soaked through with crimson wetness—
I released Alain. Throwing myself forward, I surged for the platform’s edge—
Blue light pulsed as I hit an invisible wall.
“No!” I shouted, unable to pass it. “Tyran! Get up!”
“Come on, Burnton,” Heidi urged. But her voice shook now.
Preston leered down at Tyran. Almost as bloody as Tyran was, he sneered, crimson staining his teeth, dripping down his chin, onto his cloak, down around his feet.
“Your days are done, Burnton,” he growled.
Tyran sucked in a haggard breath. He looked up from where he lay. One eye was almost entirely red.
He did not move; did not try to fight.
And Preston raised his fist—
“NO!” I roared, slamming my palms against the invisible wall keeping me out of the arena—
Preston’s fist slammed down on Tyran’s forehead with a loud, echoing CRACK!
Tyran fell back on the arena floor—and lay still.
“No!” I cried.
Beside me, Tyran’s remaining men roared.
Preston turned to look out at us arrayed about the arena’s edge. Eyes sweeping across us, there was nothing but hate in his gaze.
“CONGRATULATIONS,” came the Antecessor’s voice. “YOU ARE VICTORIOUS.”
A shaft of light glowed, centered on Preston’s hand. He raised it; the shaft followed him; and then, when he’d turned his bloodied hand so that his palm faced up, a golden spoon with inset jewels appeared in it.
“THE SPOON OF ABUNDANCE IS YOURS.”
He appraised it. No victory in his eyes, no pride—there was only coldness.
Then he lifted his gaze again—to the viewing platform set over the arena.
He met my eyes.
“You bastard,” I said, meeting Preston’s hatred with just as much of my own.
He gripped the Spoon of Abundance. “You’re next, Brand.” And then he swiped to cut a gateway, stepped through it and vanished.
The blue light fencing us off from the arena gave out.
I practically fell down, descending steps I hadn’t realized were there, sprinting down to the arena at the bottom—like a wrestling ring, with no ropes, the stone floor slicked with blood—and there, Tyran, lying in a heap of golden streaked with crimson—
I landed heavily in the arena.
Tyran wasn’t moving.
I crossed to him, feet carrying me automatically.
At his side, I fell, hard, on knees that cried out, but which I did not hear.
“No,” I whispered, tears burning the backs of my eyes. I gripped Tyran, pulled him up, gingerly, afraid that my touch would break what little was left of him. “Tell me you can hear me,” I said, strangled. “Please, Tyran. Please …”
Tyran drew in a shallow breath.
“I hear you, Mira,” he whispered.
His voice was papery, thin.
He could not open his eyes.
A hand gripped out for me—at least, his fingers flexed, searching.
I took them.
“Mira,” he wheezed.
“I’m here,” I said. “I’ve got you. I’ll—I’ll get you back to the Velocity. We’ll fix you up. Doctor Fiennes, he’ll—”
“No,” Tyran sighed. “I’m … too far gone.” He coughed another spray of blood. “But I … put up a good fight … wouldn’t you say?”
“The best,” I said. The sobs were close to bubbling up to the top now, I felt them in my throat. Others were around me—Heidi, Borrick, Tyran’s crew, perhaps an entire world of onlookers. I could not turn to look at any of them though, could not move from here, where I crouched with Tyran’s body gripped in my arms.
“The King of the Skies,” Tyran sighed. He sucked in a rattling, wet breath. “The … perfect name …”
“Absolutely perfect,” I agreed.
“Mira,” he said. He forced open a red eye.
Blood leaked into it from his hairline.
He ignored it—just turned a tired pupil out to me.
“Do something for me,” he whispered.
“Anything,” I said. “I promise.”
Tyran nodded, faintly, the tiniest movement.
“Stop him,” he said. “Stop … Preston … Borrick …”
“I will,” I sobbed. “We will. I promise.”
Another minute nod. Smaller, now.
Tyran closed his eyes.
“The … Golden King … of the Skies,” he mused, in that paper-thin whisper. “Has a … ring … to it … wouldn’t you …?”
He did not finish. One last breath, small and shallow …
He breathed no more.
“Tyran,” I whispered, tears overflowing my cheeks.
He did not answer. Did not move.
“Tyran,” I said again. “Please, Tyran. Please.”
I shook him, gently, hoping to rouse him, hoping that it would cause him to draw another breath …
Yet none came.
Tyran Burnton lay still—this King of the Skies—in my arms … dead.
No, not just dead. Murdered.
By Preston Borrick.
29
The Velocity; top deck.
Tyran Burnton lay swathed in a golden cocoon of fabric. Swaddled like a baby, he lay in the center of the deck. His eyes were closed. If not for the pale, somewhat plastic sort of look he had taken on in death, he would look peaceful.
The Velocity’s crew were clad in silver garb, each and every one of them. Arrayed in lines that radiated out from either side of Tyran’s body, they formed a very garish display.
This was no strange West End production though, or a gaudy fashion show. These silver robes were Harsterran funeral colors—and this was Tyran Burnton’s memorial service.
I stood at the sidelines, with Manny on one side of me, Borrick on the other. Heidi and Carson stood together farther down the line. Bub appended himself at the end of the opposite line looking over Tyran’s body, sticking out like a bulbous lump. The humans among us had been lent silver robes. Bub, too large to fit into anything the Harsterrans possessed, had instead scavenged silver paint and daubed it over his armor.
Under dull brown skies, the Velocity sailed.
“We stand here today,” Commander Greco said heavily, “to remember our captain—our confidante—and our friend—Tyran Burnton, leader of the Velocity, Golden King of the Skies.
“He was a captain like none other. A traveler of this world, and others, he found us—we brothers—and united us together, to fight for a common goal. A fierce leader, he had a vision—to be the greatest Seeker the many worlds have ever known—and it was for that we all strove together. Tyran Burnton had a singular destination in mind, and he drove us toward it every day, not just as a team, but as equals, respected, when we had seen so little of that before he found us; listened to, when we were so rarely heard; and treated with kindness, when this world had none for us.
“But more than all of that: Tyran Burnton was a friend, to all of us. And this world—no, none of these worlds—will ever be the same now that he is gone.”
The arrayed crew murmured a ‘hear, hear’.
Greco cleared his throat. His eyes had a faint shimmer to them.
“We now fire the cannons to commemorate Captain Tyran’s passing.”
And they boomed: the cannons, pointed outward on either side of the ship, all fired in unison. A five-seco
nd delay; then they fired again … and again … again … finally a fifth time, a resounding eruption that echoed throughout the sky … and then left a deathly silence upon us all.
The men of the Velocity looked sadly upon the body of their fallen captain. Eyes were wet. Most tried to remain stoic, standing stock still. A few broke, though, or at least their orderly, largely imperturbable version of it: they lifted a hand to massage the tears out of their eyes, or pivoted on a heel to look away, though still remaining in line.
I felt a sting of my own. Part of that sting was for Tyran. A larger part, though, was for these men.
Manny took my hand, squeezed my fingers.
I looked up at him, smiled sadly.
He returned it.
“Adelaide,” said Greco, “Astley, Dartford, Timpson, and Whitehall; please join me now in committing Tyran Burnton’s body back to Harsterra, where it may join with the world’s core, and in so doing be converted to the diamond that shone in his heart.”
The five men stepped forward, two from one side and three from the other. They, with Greco, stooped down, half and half about Tyran’s gold-swaddled body. Gently, they slipped arms under him, lifting him onto a stretcher formed by their linked hands. They rose … and then they crossed the deck, each step timed to the new boom of the cannons unloading once more into the skies. It was a long process, minutes; but I couldn’t tear my eyes away from them, nor Tyran’s face, eyes closed, a faint shadow where his cheek was pocked by its scar.
At last, they reached the Velocity’s edge.
The cannons went silent.
Greco spoke quietly … but in the stark quiet that followed, it was clear across the Velocity’s wide top deck.
“Goodbye, Tyran Burnton—Golden King of the Skies. May you rest well.”
The men lifted their arms, tilted …
Tyran’s body gently slipped down the slope they formed, feet first … and fell over the edge, disappearing in a gold streak.
A tear slipped down my cheek.
The men watched him go. The procession broke apart to join Greco at the ship’s edge, a growing silver line, looking out into the cloud as their captain descended.
I couldn’t join them.
Manny squeezed my hand again. “It’s okay,” he whispered.
Heidi cleared her throat. She was leaning against Carson. He’d put an arm around her. Borrick glanced at the pair of them, to me, and then away.
“Oh, Tyran,” I murmured, my eyes hot. “You bloody fool.”
The funeral party watched for some time. I doubted Tyran’s body even remained in sight for much of it; the cloud cover grew quickly dense, although in that garish golden cloth, I supposed perhaps he would stand out until he was nothing more than a speck.
I tried not to think of him, falling through the atmosphere, down to the core, not least because Carson had schooled me a little on some of the physics of gas giants before our first trip to Harsterra. As Tyran’s speed increased, and pressure did likewise, he’d probably simply burn up, the way rogue asteroids did plowing into the upper levels of the Earth’s atmosphere, long before he ever descended to the point at which he’d be compressed to a diamond. But then, I supposed those constituent parts of him would still rain down to the core; they’d be squeezed into pinpoints.
There we go: I was failing at keeping it out of my head, clearly. And anyway, none of it mattered. The memorial was the important thing, the messages left … and all our feelings, centered on this peculiar, but endearing man.
The crew gradually began to peel off. A handful passed us by, exchanging looks. Some nodded; others avoided our gazes, usually the ones whose eyes were red-rimmed. Two, meandering separately, gave us all a very dirty look, but passed without a word.
Commander Greco approached.
“Thank you for attending,” he said quietly.
“I wouldn’t have missed it,” I said. “None of us would.”
My companions murmured their agreements.
“I’m sorry,” said Borrick, tone earnest and terribly sad. “For your captain. For what my father did to him.”
Greco appraised him levelly. “There are those among us who will never forgive you. I am not among them; your father’s sins are his own. You have nothing to repent for, and he, everything.”
Borrick’s lips thinned, at that second-to-last part: that he had nothing to repent for. He did not argue it though, and instead lapsed into silence.
“I have something for you,” said Greco.
He reached into a fold of his silver-edged commander’s garb, and retrieved from it two things. The first, which he handed to Manny, was a glossy black leatherbound journal. Quite small, it would easily fit into a palm. A few sheaves of paper were loose, their edges sticking out raggedly. A buckle clasped the whole thing closed.
“And this,” Greco said, producing the second object—an obduridium plate.
“The Lamina Ambroscus,” I said, staring at it. “You’re … giving this to us?”
Greco nodded. “I believe Tyran would want for you to have it, so you may continue the path he started down.” He extended it to me. “Take it.”
I removed it gingerly from his palm.
Turning it back and forth, I looked it over.
To think, a few months ago I was so utterly consumed by the search for this thing. I’d have felt such a flare of victory at taking it in my hand, holding it, knowing it was mine.
Now I felt only sadness—for Tyran—and, lower than that, a grim sort of fear.
This object was one of the very few that now stood between Preston Borrick laying claim to the final item in Brynn Overson’s questline … and parity with the Antecessors.
“Thank you,” I said.
Greco nodded.
Adelaide passed us, one of the few members of Tyran’s crew—the Velocity’s crew, I amended, now that Tyran was gone—who I could pick out from the others. He nodded at me sadly, murmured a word to Greco, and then was gone.
My mind caught on something Greco had said, in the memorial.
“You called the crew ‘brothers’,” I said cautiously. “Are you …?”
“Genetically engineered,” said Greco. “Minor differences between us—but yes, we are, as I’m sure you’ve noticed, very similar in appearance.”
I smiled. “I had wondered. You do all have a … kind of ‘production line’ sort of a look about you.”
Greco nodded. “Quite literally. We were produced in a facility here on Harsterra, designed to be soldiers.”
“Are there more?” asked Carson.
“Yes,” Greco answered, “more like us, and others produced before us, to their own specifications. I do know that we were the last—Tyran sieged the facility and rescued us, put us to purpose on the Velocity—but those who were … ‘birthed’ before? Countless, perhaps.” He shook his head. “I daresay we will never know for sure. They might have been trafficked anyplace, to any world.”
“That was your purpose?” said Manny. “To be shipped out to other worlds?”
“And used as fodder. Yes. Our only purpose.”
I suppressed a shudder. I couldn’t imagine it. And to think, I’d thought it almost comic just how cookie-cutter all these men appeared. That they were actually a genetic ‘project’, designed to be sold off as a pre-built army to the highest bidder, and that they’d likely known that for entire childhoods—whatever that looked like—it sickened me. And made me feel very sorry for them all—and filled me with a flush of admiration toward Tyran Burnton.
“So what will you do now?” asked Carson.
“Well,” said Greco, inhaling deeply, “first we have a bargain with you to uphold; we will return you to your world, via the cut-through at Pote-N’ihe. After that … I don’t know. We may stay together—but without Tyran to lead us, we are rudderless; we have no destination. We are adrift.”
“Will you not join us?” I asked. “In stopping Preston Borrick?”
“We could use all the help
we can get,” said Manny.
Greco smiled kindly. But he shook his head. “We must find our own way now.”
My shoulders slumped. Not an unexpected answer. But it was still a blow.
“Thank you anyway,” I said. “For everything.”
“Do not thank me,” said Greco. “Send your thanks to Tyran Burnton. All of us are here because of him.”
I nodded, once again frittering over the Lamina Ambroscus.
“Tyran Burnton,” I said. “The Golden King of the Skies. For everything you have done: Thank you.”
30
The six of us were back in my library. Chairs pulled around a single table, we sat in quiet, broken only by the crackle of the endlessly burning fire in the hearth.
Atop it, the Chalice Gloria reflected the glow from the overhead lights, pearly dots sparkling in the inlaid gemstones about its rim.
I eyed it.
This thing that had meant so much to me … I’d wanted it to prove myself, to open doors that no other Seekers had been able to open before—at least, not since Brynn Overson himself had found all these things, scattering them back into the universe, or multiverse, or whatever, before he died and made the location of his crypt one of the most elusive enduring mysteries of all.
If I’d had the first clue as to the doors that Preston Borrick threatened to throw open now, though …
I sighed, bowing my head.
Could I say that I wouldn’t have sought the Chalice Gloria after all?
I liked to think so.
But back then, I was blind. I didn’t see, the way I did now; didn’t understand—how pointless the ‘glory’ was that came with it, the fame—and I doubt I would have come to appreciate how much I would threaten the lives of all the people I most loved, by simply owning the thing.
My, my … what a tangled mess of a web this was.
I sat on one side of the table. Manny slumped beside me, elbows on the wood, head propped in his hands. He was frowning deeply. A dimple cratered one cheek, so intense was his troubled, downturned expression—rare, that; I almost never saw them unless he was pulling a crooked smile.
Borrick drew up the other side, on the long edge. His look was even more troubled. He’d not said anything at all, for a long time.
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