Vultures

by Luke Tarzian

  “You mean to kill him,” she said. She knew the answer in her heart, but she needed to hear the demon say it, whether for peace of mind or something else, Serece was unsure. “Theailys An. You mean to make his death a horrible thing. Why?”

  “I do,” Te Mirkvahíl replied. “But there is more to this than death.”

  And wasn’t that a vague response? Serece wasn’t sure what to make of it. As far as she could tell there was only death and the possible subconscious joy that torturing people brought. After all, the lokyns took horrendous pleasure in the pain of those they killed.

  “Such as?” She hadn’t meant to ask, but curiosity was a beast uncaged. The closer they drew to the Hall, the more she longed to know. Not necessarily about temporal alteration, but rather what made a creature like Te Mirkvahíl the way it was. What made this murderous, melancholy demon tick?

  Te Mirkvahíl glanced back and—were those tears in the demon’s eyes? It turned its head before Serece could properly analyze what she’d seen. What sorrow could this monster feel that was profound enough to elicit tears? She racked her mind, partially hypnotized by the demon’s swaying hips, initially awkward, eventually graceful, as though this walk was something familiar and practiced.

  Oh Perdition. The realization sent a shiver through Serece. Had Anayela ever been real, or had it always been Te Mirkvahíl? If the latter were true, poor Theailys An had been a puppet since the start.

  Serece scratched at an itch beneath her cloak, then shifted focus to the night. Her trembling had subsided some ways back; she was running on adrenaline, now. Adrenaline, curiosity, and fear. If she were to abet Te Mirkvahíl in altering time, in forging something better than this miserable reality that’d come to be, she needed more than simple truths. She needed to understand the reasons why, lest she follow out of fear and reckless despondency.

  “Did you…” Keepers, but it was such a peculiar question to ask of this…this entity in whose presence she felt little more than a speck of dust. “What I mean to say—“

  “Is did I care for him?” Te Mirkvahíl asked. “As I said, there is more to this than death”—the demon’s shoulders slumped, and the slump elicited a sigh—“and I have hurt the ones I loved.”

  Serece furrowed her brow. Not in confusion—and she was confused—but in commiseration. “I know what that feels like.” And before she knew it, she was telling Te Mirkvahíl of her sisters and child, though the demon had apparently gleaned this earlier in the night. Or time. It was hard to know considering how ubiquitous the creature was.

  “Will you tell me something of yourself?” Serece inquired.

  “Perhaps,” Te Mirkvahíl said. “What do you wish to know?”

  “Did you have a name?” Serece asked. “Do you have a name?”

  “I did and I do,” Te Mirkvahíl said. “Behtréal Dov’an.”

  The twins had sought a journal with that surname in their dream. “And who is Remulus?”

  Te Mirkvahíl was silent a moment. “My brother. But he is dead.”

  Serece had struck a nerve, as the demon offered nothing else in the way of conversation, let alone a passing glance. So many stones unturned, she thought. This thing was more complex than she had ever dreamt.

  “And what will you do, Serece?” asked Rejya, manifesting at her side. “You harbor fear, yet with every passing second curiosity seeks to reign supreme. Destruction gives you pause, but the mystery of Te Mirkvahíl puts haste in every step.”

  She was walking a bit faster.

  “Renew your people. Learn the genesis, the history of Te Mirkvahíl,” Rejya urged. “How long have you yearned to be free from your shackles, to see the world beyond the rock and snow to which your flesh and soul are bound?”

  So terribly, achingly long. Serece had never ventured very far.

  “All right,” she said, drawing a look from Te Mirkvahíl. “I’ll help.”

  The demon offered a tiny nod, and they continued on their way.

  * * *

  The city was silent, and this was music to Te Mirkvahíl. It was a melody of ignorance, one that roused in him a surfeit of delight. Contrary to his actions to this point, Te Mirkvahíl enjoyed the act of slaughter. He adored it. He always had and always would. Unfortunately, the severity of his enterprise required he refrain from spilling blood, and what a shame that was.

  A terrible thing indeed.

  He continued up the tree-lined campus promenade, its entirety wreathed in the wonderful uncertainty of night. In the distance stood the Hall, its windows bright with the light of its studious occupants. He ached to put them down, to end them, but he knew should they look his way the coward in his flesh and mind would keep his urge to reap at bay.

  “You look well tonight,” a passing acolyte said. His face was slick with sweat, pupils at rest with the accomplishment of a hard day’s work. “Keepers be with you.”

  Te Mirkvahíl smiled and bowed his head. He wore the skin of Anasharon Anor, Faro Fatego’s dead wife. “May They light your way.” The voice inside him clucked its approval as Te Mirkvahíl continued on his way. It was perhaps the sorriest thing he’d heard in years, and he frowned.

  “What’s another soul preserved, another body spared?” Te Luminíl inquired. “When we rewrite history, none of this, none of them, will have ever come to be. Why care about such trivial things?”

  Because, Te Mirkvahíl thought. Destroying them brings me joy.

  * * *

  The city shrieked and it was music to Behtréal’s ears. It was a melody of anguish, one that roused in him a surfeit of despair. Contrary to his actions to this point, Behtréal did not enjoy the act of killing. He despised it. He always had and always would. Unfortunately, the severity of his enterprise required spilling blood, and what a shame that was.

  A terrible thing indeed.

  He continued up the tree-lined campus promenade, its entirety wreathed in the mystery of night. Serece trailed silently behind him. In the distance stood the Hall, its windows dark with the fear of its studious occupants. He need not put them down, but he knew should they try to block his way the monster in his flesh and mind would take their illum and their souls.

  “You don’t look so well,” a passing acolyte remarked. His face was slick with sweat, pupils dilated like a spooked cat. “Are you all right?”

  Behtréal smiled. The voice inside him hissed contentedly as a thread of mirkúr speared the acolyte through the chest. “Better now,” he said, extending his hand to reap the fallen soul. Its objecting scream was perhaps the sorriest thing Behtréal had heard in years, and he frowned.

  “What’s another body in the grave?” Te Mirkvahíl inquired. “When we rewrite history, none of this, none of them, will have ever come to be. Why care about such trivial things?”

  Because, Behtréal thought. Destroying them brings me pain.

  * * *

  “I’ll help.”

  Serece thought on the words she had uttered little less than half an hour ago. She thought of the acolyte lying dead on the promenade, reaped of his light. She thought of the chaos sundering a night that’d once been calm and wondered—did she really want to help? To abet in torment of a magnitude such as this? Death on such a scale? She chewed her lower lip, drawing blood.

  “No such thing as a bloodless reclamation,” Rejya said, and Serece started at the voice. “There is always a price for such things, Serece. You should know this by now. After all, you gained a father and all it cost you was your mother’s love.”

  She never loved me, Serece bit back. She would much rather have seen me dead. She said so herself, or do you not recall that evening in the temple? Her ears twitched at the memory, at the shame. Maybe— What? Maybe she could change that, change how her mother felt if she committed to breaking this world in favor of building another? Serece had had some crazy thoughts in her life, but Keepers this one may have taken the cake as the Ariathans liked to say.

  She chewed her lower lip as she went, ears twitching at every
other thought that popped into her head, fingers aching to wrap themselves around the hilts of her blades.

  Now there’s a stupid idea. Turning on Te Mirkvahíl. Keepers, what a situation she’d gotten herself into now. A lose-lose if ever there’d been one. Attack the demon, lose her life. Aid the demon and affirm her monstrous tendencies. Her selfishness.

  Her heart pounded against her chest with every step. She was thinking of her father, now. What would he do? Would he have ever considered siding with Te Mirkvahíl? Shit, what about Phantaxis? Te Mirkvahíl had killed him, but what had they spoken of that night in the mountains? Had Serece’s blood father tried negotiating with this thing?

  She sighed to herself. Maybe I’m asking the wrong questions of myself. Phantaxis was little more than blood, and Undrensil, for his love and tenderness, was always last to the blade; he abhorred violence. So… What would mother do?

  Serece knew the answer before she’d finished asking the question, and that was enough.

  * * *

  The Hall interior was warm. The pale light of illum wisps reflected off the polished floor, and the mirth of achievement soaked the air. Te Mirkvahíl walked with measured steps, a smile drawn tight across his borrowed lips. The merriment of apprentice exploit brought him joy, the joy of knowing that their light would soon be his, the coward voice inside his head be damned.

  “Only him,” Te Luminíl said. “Only Fatego.”

  What’s another body in the grave? Anasharon inquired. You said it yourself: when we rewrite history, none of this, none of them, will have ever come to be. Why care about such trivial things?

  Because, Te Luminíl said. Destroying them brings me pain.

  Te Mirkvahíl chuckled inwardly. Pain is the blood of life. Pain lets you know you’re alive. It would do you well to remember that. Think where you might be without it. One incapable of feeling such an awful thing would not be here, a moment away from possessing the means to alter time. Guard your pain as you would your heart.

  Te Luminíl held his tongue, and Te Mirkvahíl continued through the Hall. He could smell Faro Fatego and he ached for his attentive gaze, hungered for the agony his eyes would weep when he beheld the beautiful, shambling corpse of Anasharon Anor for the first time since her death.

  * * *

  The Hall interior was cold. The pale light of moonbeams reflected off the polished floor, and the silence of fear infested the air. Behtréal walked with measured steps, Anayela’s resurrected lips drawn to thin line. The whispers of apprentice terror brought him sorrow, the regret of knowing that their light would soon be his, the murderous voice inside his head be damned.

  “All of them,” Te Mirkvahíl hissed.

  What’s another soul preserved, another body spared? Behtréal asked. You said it yourself: when we rewrite history, none of this, none of them, will have ever come to be. Why care about such trivial things?

  Because, Te Mirkvahíl said. Destroying them brings me joy.

  Behtréal hissed inwardly. Then you know little of joy. Joy is the warmth in your heart that lets you know you’re alive. Joy is holding your son. Joy is kissing your wife. Joy is knowing you’re a moment away from possessing the means to alter time. Guard this feeling with the same ferocity with which you ache to kill.

  Te Mirkvahíl held its tongue, and Behtréal continued through the Hall. He could smell Theailys An and feared for his attentive gaze, trembled at the agony his eyes would weep when he beheld Anayela’s beautiful, shambling corpse for the first time since her death.

  * * *

  Serece drew her daggers. The best she could do was slow the demon down and hope Theailys An was keen to their presence in time to flee. It was folly to think she was going to make it out alive and she accepted that. So, let this be my expiation.

  She charged Te Mirkvahíl, but the demon side-stepped easily, sword manifesting, emerald eyes glistening hungrily. Serece snarled, taking a defensive stance.

  “I wished otherwise,” Te Mirkvahíl said, nearing at a walk, mirkúr blade gripped tightly in one hand. “But I knew you would turn. They always do in the end. Tell me, what swayed you, Serece?”

  “Does it matter?” she asked, retreating as Te Mirkvahíl advanced.

  “To me, yes,” the demon said.

  There was sincerity in those words. Serece gripped her daggers tight. “Because,” she said, “I have sins to pay for. I don’t want to be the monster I think I am. Willingly killing a man in cold blood…” She shook her head. “No.”

  “I admire that,” Te Mirkvahíl said.

  The demon lunged, closing the distance between them with unnatural ease. Serece deflected the blow, but the force behind the attack sent her staggering backwards into the wall. Her head ricocheted off the stones and a sharp pain spread through her skull.

  “You are quicker than most,” Te Mirkvahíl said. “But still not as quick as you’d like. I expect it’s the plague, the internal decay. The atrophy my presence incites.”

  Like smoke, the demon stood before Serece and dragged its blade across her gut. Blood spewed from the wound. She shrieked as she fell to the floor. Never had she felt such agony. The sundered flesh and entrails, the mirkúr slithering beneath her flesh, hastening her decay. She smelled horrible; the wound already reeked of rot.

  Te Mirkvahíl dismissed its blade and knelt before Serece. The demon cupped her cheeks with hands like ice, boring into her with the emerald eyes of a woman lost to dirt and worms. “The end will be here soon. I am sorry that it came to this. Truly. I had thought perhaps our mutual abhorrence of the Ariathan Empire would have been enough, but I was wrong.”

  Serece parted her lips to speak, but she could only manage a pained gasp. Mutual…abhorrence? She clutched at the wound as if doing so would make it right, would subdue the entrails threatening to leak between her flesh.

  “You are a fool,” Rejya said. She stood several feet behind Te Mirkvahíl, leaning against the opposite wall, arms crossed to her chest. “You always were. You were offered a chance at reclamation and, predictably, you let your blades lead you astray. Once again, your selfishness prevails. You are a monster. You are the worst of our mother.”

  Tears trailed down Serece’s cheeks. Maybe Rejya was right. Maybe she had been selfish to refuse Te Mirkvahíl and the chance to rewrite time. And maybe she’d let her daggers point the way because violence was the thing Serece knew best, because it was what her mother knew best. An old and trusted friend, the most bitter of drinks. Little pleasure and a lot of pain.

  Te Mirkvahíl leaned in and kissed her forehead. “Farewell, my dear daughter of the mountain. Should we meet again I doubt you’ll have any memory of this night, if you ever come to be at all.”

  The demon stood and started on its way, gossamer threads of shadow trailing in its wake. Serece sat there against the wall, the blood loss and the stench of her dying body pushing her closer toward unconsciousness, not that there was anything she could do. She’d no vials of snow on her person, and even if she had, there was little she could do with such a trivial amount.

  Her head lolled to the side and her vision shifted in and out. Rejya’s lips were moving but the words were soundless. Instead, Serece thought of her companions. Of Fenrin, lying dead in the Bastion courtyard. Of Theailys An, surely soon to be dead. What of Ronomar and Raelza, of Aunt Fiel?

  Serece retched. The blood and bile smacked her shoulder and dripped down her arm, pooling on the floor with the occasional sad plop. What a shit end. She thought of Theailys, the man who’d no doubt forged the weapon of their end. And here she was, the woman who had nearly sided with Te Mirkvahíl. She wept at the stupidity of it all. At least we screwed this up together, right? Keepers, how the hell could she have ever come so close to following Te Mirkvahíl, to abetting in the slaughter and annihilation of an entire world? The tears came heavier at that thought. So many dead, massacred, and for what? What had the demon meant by “mutual abhorrence?”

  She was sobbing now, pain erupting from her gut as eve
ry violent breath unknit her flesh a little more. “You could have…a-at l-l-least let…me underst…and.” Even monsters have souls, Rejya once had said, and in this moment, it resounded horribly with Serece. What loss, what tragedy had driven such a creature as Te Mirkvahíl to all this trickery and death, to deciding time and history should be rewritten to its whim?

  Does it really matter? hissed a voice from deep inside her mind. We’ll soon be dead. Why linger on a question for which you’ll never know the answer?

  It had a point, she conceded. Maybe you’re right. Maybe this is what I get for slaughtering Rejya and Taür. For trying to resurrect my little Vhora. For allowing myself to be swayed by a monster. She squeezed her eyelids shut at the memories, sucking in a ragged breath. Maybe I really was meant for this, to suffer and fail. That was all her life had been these last years. Perdition, that was all her life had ever been. A bastard child whose mother looked on her with shame, whose deity father had doomed her to a life of misery amongst the snow and rocks. This was a fitting end, then, to a child unbidden by her blood.

  Serece placed her hand to her heart and prayed to Vol’anan. “Mother of Souls,” she whispered, “ferry my soul to the fair skies above. Love me in the Second Life as fiercely as my mother loathed me in the First.”

  * * *

  Behtréal lamented her end as he went. He hadn’t wanted that. Such pain and misery—he’d been sincere in wishing she would join in him in the Temporal Sea. In wishing they might keep her people, the phantaxians, from the plague. But this was how it had to be, and he accepted that.

  He turned attention to Theailys An, to The Keepers’ Wrath, dragging the tip of his blade along the floor as he went. It served as a warning, and he hoped the Hall’s occupants discerned it as such. He didn’t want to spill unnecessary blood, not anymore. The majority of the Illumurgists here were acolytes and apprentices, and why should they have to suffer for the sins of their mothers and fathers? If they wanted to escape the destruction of this place, he would allow it. His war was against those who had brought the war to him those many years ago. The Faithbringer generals, the Master Illumurgists, and the Lord Wardens who had razed Zorahl. The crown itself.