by Luke Tarzian
Searyn dropped to her knees, hands still on the hilt. She felt winded, drained.
Wailing filled the air. Soldiers ripped their ghost-white helmets off and tossed them to the floor.
“You killed them all,” said Lugus, advancing on her, anguish in his eyes. “You killed your own.”
Searyn frowned. “What are you talking about?”
She stood, hilt clutched tightly as she looked upon the faces of nearly three quarters of her force. Black glyphs on their foreheads and cheeks. They drew closer. A hand raked across her greave. Searyn whipped around, watching Nahrmais crawl toward her.
“No. No!” Searyn readied her blade. Fashion, rang Vahnyll’s terrified voice. Was that all they were? Was that all they ever had been?
One by one the remaining Faithbringers, Wardens, and Illumurgists removed their helms and advanced, glyphs shining brightly on their sweaty skin. They circled her, wailing, lashing out.
“You killed her! Monster! You struck my daughter down as if she were a piece of wood!” cried Szen, sweeping toward her.
Searyn ducked the attack and swung at Szen, blade glancing off his right flank. He turned and lunged again, speed catching her off guard. How long his body would hold up she did not know. Probably not much more. The glyphs on his face were beginning to glow. She parried another strike and dodged another blow. All around her glyphs began to burn. Laughter trickled through the room, watery and wicked. It tickled her ears, trying to distract Searyn.
Truth from madness, she recited, fighting for her life. Truth from madness.
The lokyns withdrew from their hosts. They bent, twisted, and splintered plate, leaving Searyn’s soldiers dead and gutted on the floor. She withheld the urge to retch and instead readied herself to strike, horror and fury welling up inside her. She gripped the hilt of her blade so tightly she thought her knuckles would go numb, watching the darkness swirl overhead. Instead of multiple entities, though, she was met with a singular figure whose presence was so pervasive it made her legs wobble.
Te Mirkvahíl.
She brought her blade behind her shoulder and swung, only to stop halfway as the figure’s features came to light: dark skin, purple eyes, bald scalp, clean shaven. A blade hung sheathed at his side. Searyn’s own clanked to the floor.
“No…” She whispered. “It can’t be.”
“Truth from madness,” said Te Mirkvahíl. “Five hundred years of peace because he made it so, imprisoned me beneath his flesh. Khar Am was strong, he was resilient, and overpowering and devouring his soul took time, as did fashioning another force. But it is done. My people shall be remade, and I will watch their resurrection through your eyes.”
Searyn shook away the dread. She drew upon the last of her illum and lunged for her sword. Te Mirkvahíl was quicker and kicked her away. She hit the wall with a crunch.
“That might take a couple months to heal. No matter.” He knelt before her, holding Searyn’s gaze as he drew a knife and placed its tip just over her heart. “I really am sorry about this next part. Bonding with new flesh tends to leave a few scars.”
Searyn shrieked. Her illum burned away as the blade pierced her plate and plunged straight into her heart. Her life flashed before her eyes. Home. Friends. Theailys. She watched Khar Am’s pilfered corpse melt away, turning into mist. She felt cold, numb, violated. Dead. Searyn slumped to the floor and everything went dark.
* * *
Behtréal gasped as he came to. The world around him was dim and muffled. He pushed himself to sit up from the ground and look about. To his left lay Ronomar, eyes glazed over, trembling as Raelza tried to shake them from whatever trance they were in. They had been deep inside Behtréal’s mind, they had seen Searyn die that night, and perhaps even more.
Mirkúr coalesced around Behtréal’s hand. Te Mirkvahíl hissed in his mind, urged him on. He approached the twins, chest tight, throat near constriction, and grabbed Raelza by the face, saturating them with dark energy until their desperate retaliation ceased.
Ronomar made no effort.
“Go,” Behtréal whispered to them, and they rose from the ground and started toward Helveden. He leaned against a tree, sighing raggedly. What he’d done to the twins just now…Celestials, but he’d have felt less shame for having killed them. Instead…
“They are yours, Te Luminíl, puppets for the greater good,” Te Mirkvahíl said, and Behtréal started after them, serenaded by the monstrous cackling all the while.
* * *
Aunt Fiel and Fenrin had found nothing out of the ordinary in the Bastion. Nothing at all. But it was that absolute normalcy that’d made them privy to the influence within the city’s seat of power. Whispers, Fiel had said, and a thickness in the air, one palpable enough to cut with a knife. Serece was sure it’d been a warning. “I see and know all,” it seemed to say, and that realization made her feel horribly, jarringly small.
Serece walked through Helveden, bundled in her cloak, face concealed by her hood as the rain fell. It hadn’t stopped all day, though it was considerably lighter now. She could even see a sliver of moonlight through the dark clouds.
Her mind drifted back to the conversation she’d had with Leyandra, specifically the part about Entropy, Law, and balance. Was that really what was going on, the reason for Te Mirkvahíl’s longevity—to bring Law back from the brink, to give the world a nudge toward restoring balance? The more she thought about it the more ludicrous it sounded. Te Mirkvahíl had its purpose, all right, but she was quite sure it was not showing the world the error of its ways, however helpful that might have been.
Or maybe, a voice in her head whispered, Te Mirkvahíl is Law and you people are the chaos, the Entropy. Somehow that notion made a lick of sense, enough to numb and terrify Serece. The phantaxians were victims of Ariathan brutality and prejudice, but she knew her people sure as hell weren’t innocent of their own atrocities. She was proof enough of this, illustrated by the deaths of Rejya and Taür.
She drew a ragged breath then exhaled. She narrowed her eyes, curiosity rising as a familiar figure staggered out of what appeared to be a church. She hastened her steps, following at a distance, close enough that she could hear the poor soul muttering to himself.
“Dear, sweet Theailys An. We meet again,” Serece murmured. Truthfully, she was glad to see him alive, though she could hardly call him well. She hurried after him, following just a foot behind. “You look typically agitated.”
He jumped, and Serece afforded herself a much needed chuckle.
Theailys wheeled around. “Serece? What in Perdition are you doing here?”
“Sight-seeing,” she said, and Theailys raised his eyebrow. “Not the fun kind, I promise. The kind that makes your skin crawl and begs you question your sanity as a shadow falls across your world. I’ve been here two weeks and you would not believe the shit I’ve seen, Theailys An. Or maybe you would. You’ve lived here your entire life, after all.”
They walked aimlessly in step. “I’ve seen my own fair share of shit these last couple weeks,” Theailys said, and he told Serece everything that’d transpired on his journey after having departed the Phantaxis Mountains.
“And even after all that you still plan to forge that weapon, don’t you?” Serece asked. Theailys’ silence told her all she needed to know, and it made her want to punch him in the face for being so stupid.
“I need to,” he argued. “It’s our only chance at ending this war, at destroying whatever’s lurking in the city.”
“It could also destroy everything,” Serece hissed from the depths of her hood.
“You don’t think I know that?” Theailys snipped as he started from her.
“I know you know that,” Serece replied, “and that’s what’s so frightening! You know, yet still you’re going through with it. What happens if you’re wrong? What then?”
“Then I’ve killed us all,” Theailys snarled. “Is that what you want to hear?”
“What I want is for you to think—just for a f
ucking minute.” Serece took a deep breath. Temper Yssa and all that bullshit. “If you forge The Keepers’ Wrath and history repeats then there’s a damn good chance Te Mirkvahíl or whatever’s lurking uses it to…to…” Keepers, but it sounded stupid as a thought, and Serece could only imagine how it would sound aloud. “Alter time.”
Theailys snorted, then guffawed. “Alter time. Have you gone insane? It’s impossible. How would one go about such an undertaking? And how the hell would The Keepers’ Wrath help? It’s a power focus—a weapon! And how do you make the leap to Te Mirkvahíl wanting to alter time? What possible reason would a monster like that have for doing such an impossible thing?”
Serece bit back her frustration and the urge to smack Theailys An as hard as she could. He wasn’t looking at the bigger picture. He didn’t know what she knew. “Fenrin and the twins think this entity might be an old Reshaper.” Theailys cocked an eyebrow at the word, giving Serece the confidence to continue. She explained what little she knew about the Reshapers, about Yssa’s temple and Te Vétur Thae. About the city Ronomar and Raelza had seen in dreams.
Theailys was trembling by the time she finished, by the time he fumbled for a response. “The city…Ouran’an was it?” Serece nodded. “I’ve seen it in my dreams as well. I’ve been inside…” He trailed off, eyes widening. “I saw the twins in my dream, like…I don’t know how to explain it except it was as if we were in the same place at different points in time.”
“A bright light at the end?” Serece asked.
“Yes,” Theailys said. “Except I’ve also seen the dream’s end, and I’ve no idea what it means. Your aunt is adept at illumancy. Do you think she might be able to help me understand what it is I’m seeing?”
“Ask her yourself,” Serece said. “Come on.”
They started on their way from Helveden, making for the ruined house in the woods. Hopefully Aunt Fiel and Fenrin could discern the truth within this dream. Serece couldn’t say why, but she knew it was important.
* * *
Behtréal observed Fiel and Fenrin through stolen eyes. To his right stood Ronomar, arms crossed to their chest. Behtréal’s own arms were crossed—the twins’ mannerisms were as identical as their flesh for the most part.
This feels wrong. It was his own thought, not Raelza’s. The Illumurgist’s cognizance was locked away in the abyss of their mind, granting Behtréal dominion over what was more or less a vessel. Raelza would regain control over their body once Behtréal allowed it so, but even still…
“These things you put yourself through…” Te Mirkvahíl mused. “I would venture to guess you’re a bit of a masochist.”
Pain in the name of love, or something like that, Behtréal snipped.
Te Mirkvahíl chuckled, then went silent.
“Fenrin. Aunt Fiel.” Into the ruined home walked Serece, Theailys An in tow. “I’ve brought a guest with dreams in need of scrying or clarification or whatever you want to call it.” She looked at Behtréal and Ronomar. “Apparently you’ve had similar.”
“Have we?” Ronomar chirped. Even under Behtréal’s influence their curiosity shone through as endearingly as ever. “Ruined cities, screaming shadows, and the like?”
Serece nodded. “Before we get to that, did you learn anything of Mistress Khal?”
Theailys frowned. “Something wrong?”
“There was a thought,” Behtréal said, “she might not have been entirely herself. Eye color being wrong and all that.” He looked from Fenrin back to Theailys. “Ronomar and I can confirm, however, that dear Mistress Khal is…well, she’s a bit ill, hence the amber eyes.”
“What have I missed?” Theailys asked, and they took a moment to fill him in. Behtréal took an extra moment to assure everyone that Khal’s “illness” was the product of some Celestial rule she had violated, though she had neglected to mention more than that. Those were, in her own words, “reserved for privileged ears.”
“You sure about that? She’s just…ill?” Fenrin asked. He was not easily swayed.
“Not entirely,” Behtréal said, shrugging. “But what else could it be? What we know of the Celestial race suggests that they are far more complicated than our own, and Ronomar and I saw nothing, felt nothing that would suggest Khal had been compromised by Te Mirkvahíl or otherwise.”
“Dunno,” Fenrin murmured. Somehow that had silenced him, and for that Behtréal was thankful. His plan was close to coming to fruition, and he could ill afford to have things fall apart now.
Behtréal clapped his hands together and grinned at Theailys. “So. Dreams, Theailys An.” He approached the young Illumurgist and sniffed his face. Theailys recoiled with a glare. “Oh, come now—it’s mere curiosity!”
“Express it differently,” Theailys said, glaring at Behtréal, then at a chuckling Ronomar. “With words, perhaps. Questions.”
“All right.” Ronomar approached, arms crossed, staring into Theailys’ eyes. “We can scry your dreams for meaning, if you’d like. In one of two ways, maybe three, though the latter is a bit…brutal.”
Behtréal looked at Ronomar and shook his head. “No need to knife Theailys An, Rono. Illumancy and lacrimancy are perfectly suitable means to entering The In Between.”
Theailys stared at them incredulously. “You were thinking of stabbing me?”
“Of course not,” Behtréal said. “Well, that is to say, I don’t think Ronomar was planning on actually following through with their suggestion.”
“Why suggest it all?” Theailys snapped.
“Aunt Fiel did the same to me, for what it’s worth,” Serece muttered.
“Most of you are crazy,” Theailys said, sighing. “Anyway…”
“Do find a semi-comfortable place to sit, Theailys An,” Behtréal said. He took a deep whiff—the air smelled only of rain, stone, and dirt. Theailys An, however, smelled of something new, and that troubled Behtréal. Gone was the shadow that’d hung over him all these years, replaced with something, someone else.
“Be sensible,” Te Mirkvahíl warned.
Of course, Behtréal thought. Illumancy was a more efficient way of interpreting dreams, of scrying them, but it also made the Illumancer vulnerable to counter-scrying. Lacrimancy on the other hand…
“Hold still,” Behtréal said, making a fist. “This is going to hurt a bit.”
Then he decked Theailys clean across the cheek.
“WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU?” Theailys snarled, picking himself up off the floor, and Behtréal smiled at the tears trickling down his cheeks.
“Quite a lot, I’m sure,” Behtréal said, reaching forward to catch the tears on the tip of his finger. “This is the least invasive method, if you cared to know.” He licked them from his finger and immediately felt their memories stirring as his illum probed the tears. He took a seat on the floor and closed his eyes. “Oh. Well this looks familiar.”
* * *
Behtréal blinked the ruined home into focus as the dream ended. He felt disturbed. Ronomar and Raelza’s dream had shown an impossibly accurate rendition of Ouran’an, as had Theailys An’s, but it was what had transpired in the vault that really put a chill in his blood. If he was piecing this puzzle together properly…
Then that means Theailys An is my brother. Remulus. Behtréal looked at him, a maelstrom of confusion, loathing, and disgust churning in his gut. But that’s impossible.
“Because you watched him die that night in the Reshaperate Spire,” Te Mirkvahíl confirmed.
Behtréal remembered that well, or at least he did now that Te Mirkvahíl had reminded him. He blinked slowly and took a deep breath. He could ill afford to let unfounded notions rile him into recklessness. Remulus had been well and dead after his skirmish in the Reshaperate Spire—hadn’t he?
“Are you all right?” Serece asked, drawing Behtréal back. “Raelza?”
“S-sorry,” he stammered. “Just…collecting my thoughts. An interesting dream, that.” Dear Varésh Lúm-talé had been there too, luminous wing
s and all. “Similar to our own, yet different too. It was as if…” He paused, tilting his head. “As if Theailys was experiencing this city at different points in time. How strange.”
“So, what do you think it means?” Theailys asked. “The city. The vault. The…me as a silhouette. The journal.” He was shaking, beginning to crack. That was…good.
Behtréal shook his head, frowning. “I don’t know,” he lied. “You’re sure you’ve never been to Ouran’an, not even unknowingly?”
“Positive,” Theailys said. “I don’t even know where the thing stood.” He rubbed his temples. “Keepers, this has to mean something, though. I can feel it does. I feel it’s something more, that it’s not just a dream.”
“A memory, perhaps?” Behtréal asked.
“Maybe.” Theailys narrowed his eyes and sighed. “Either that or I’ve learned to look into the past, whoever’s past it is.”
“Some rest might do you well,” Behtréal said, though he knew he’d see Theailys again before the night was done. “Some rest might do us all well.”
“Right.” Theailys stood. “I’ve got a weapon to forge come dawn.”
He bid them all goodnight then started from the house, muttering indiscernibly to himself.
Behtréal stood next, he and Ronomar following suit. When they were far enough away from the others, he withdrew from Raelza, spirit tumbling through the void until the bright lights of Eisley Khal’s office pulled him out.
“Always a strange sensation,” he murmured. “Traveling through The In Between.”
He smoothed his cloak, stood from his chair, and started from the room. Theailys An would soon be here.
* * *
Behtréal sat beside Theailys in the Hall courtyard; they’d been talking for a while. He felt sick, something more profound than shame for what he’d done to Ronomar and Raelza. His stomach gurgled at the thought of his shadow puppets hiding in plain sight, at the notion they were now gears in his machine.