by K M McGuire
The Great Beyond, Book 1: The Vile Fate Copyright © 2017 by K.M. McGuire. All Rights Reserved.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.
Cover designed by K.M. McGuire
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Printed in the United States of America
First Printing: Nov 2019
Prologue: To Break a Pawn and Fell the King
Chapter 1: What Lingered in the Teardrop
Chapter 2: Innocence and Ignorance
Chapter 3: Baited with Dreams
Chapter 4: Artifacts and Legends
Chapter 5: Gifts for Tomorrow
Chapter 6: What Lies Beyond
Chapter 7: Between the Teeth of Sorrow
Chapter 8: Solace from Transgressions
Chapter 9: Hunger of the Jackals
Chapter 10: Fireside Chat
Chapter 11: Slay the Heart
Chapter 12: Bitter Sling, Weary Sorrow: Wayward Son
Chapter 13: A Drunkard’s Mistake
Chapter 14: Syphon’s Law
Chapter 15: A Tree and Its Shadow
Chapter 16: Beyond the Gates
Chapter 17: Of Fear and Courage
Chapter 18: Anthem of the Fissure
Chapter 19: To Know One’s Defense
Chapter 20: At Its Core
Chapter 21: A Victor and His Spoils
Chapter 22: Awaiting the Zenith
Chapter 23: Through the Gate of the Grove
Chapter 24: Zemilia: Guardian of Zagala
Chapter 25: The Dome of the Sky, The Pit of the Earth
Chapter 26: Ivory in the Roots
Chapter 27: Feral as Forux
Chapter 28: Queen Immured
Chapter 29: Empty Throne
Chapter 30: Mists if War
Chapter 31: Chasing Innocence
Chapter 32: To Bite the Fruit
Chapter 33: For Those Who Wait
Chapter 34: Dissonance of Snow
Chapter 35: By Fure We Are Enticed
Chapter 36: The Vagrant, The Seeker
Chapter 37: Piercing the Beyond
Chapter 38: A Heart Half Empty, A Pain Half Full
Chapter 39: Glinting Paranoia
Chapter 40: The Vile Fate
Chapter 41: Guilt of Blood
Chapter 42: A Fate Now Sealed
Chapter 43: The Amethyst Prince: The Stalking Pantomath
Chapter 44: He Who Pulls the Strings
Chapter 45: Third Eye
Chapter 46: At the Altar
Chapter 47: Sacrament for the Keeper
Chapter 48: In the Husk of a Man
Chapter 49: Alchemy of the Time
Chapter 50: Revelation of the Burden
Epilogue: Path Set in Stone
About the Author
This book is dedicated
To the one(s) who loved me first
I would like to take a fragment of this book to thank those who have been influential towards this story. Firstly, I would like to thank my wife. She has been a major support system through this process, dealing with my pestering for her opinions on whether my writing was worth it. She cannot truly know how much I appreciate the love that comes with the help she offered. I would also like to thank my parents who gave much time to go over the work and help encourage me to continue on, when there were many times I struggled with my own thoughts on whether or not I thought this was worth it. They proved to me that it was, and for that, I thank them.
To my family and friends who gave time to share their thoughts, there are also many thanks I wish to express for every ounce of influence and challenging thoughts that were shared to help build this vision. Everyone has a place in building scenery in others’ lives, and I hope this book can be a testament to whatever good there was to our relationship.
I also would like to thank my editor, who has been vastly kind to me and careful with this story. I am thankful for every bit of perspective she offered this book and the helpful conversations we shared to polish the details that I pray will give this book the luster I set out to create.
Finally, I must thank my daughter for being one of the main reasons I felt compelled to write, or more accurately, felt compelled to think harder on the big questions. She may not be old enough to read this yet, but when she is, I hope that you, Sienna, will find the value of things stitched throughout, and learn to see the same in the world.
To everyone else who is giving this book a chance: thank you, and I hope you enjoy my tale.
In the reflection of the transparent Dome, the boy knew he saw more than what his eyes could explain. He saw himself as though he were outside the Dome, staring back at the city, but to him, it was an illusion; the mirror was never enough for him. He sighed as he looked through the waters just on the other side of the Dome. They lapped against the rippling shield. The boy sat thoughtfully on a fallen tree, which rested half inside the mystical Dome and half in the tide outside it. The remaining leaves on the branches were left drowning in the wake. Yet his thoughts turned his eyes to the land of Jud on the other side of the lake. He could almost feel the plains of his forefathers calling him. He had found the ancient land fantastic, never having the chance to go visit any of the world outside of Adetia.
History had allowed for him to at least envision the world beyond the prison of his home. Thinking about it turned his heart bitter.
“Only the Missions are to go out of the city, dear boy,” the priests would tell him as they patted his head. “We would not want to risk such a gift as yourself.”
Even at thirteen, he felt he knew better than his elders. And he was wise enough not to mention it to anyone other than the pale reflection he looked at now. He felt his eyes peering through the image of himself. He felt it was all he knew.
He continued to listen to the waves rush in vibrant echoes against the iridescent firmament, begging his thoughts for an answer. He had always wondered about the faith that drove the city; how it endured for nearly two thousand years without any marauders to rain hell down on its gates.
“The Dome has protected us,” his mother always reminded him, as if that had all the answers stitched to it. She must have been naïve to assume he hadn’t read between the lines. It was what the ink hadn’t laid out that always bothered him. “You mustn’t question the blessings that the Scarred King poured out for us!” his mother also warned when she struggled to answer his questions, her expression always flustered at his keen insight and candor.
He scoffed at the thought of the Scarred King. He wondered how anyone truly believed in the fairytales that hardly explained the world, and he had realized long ago, if the Scarred King truly was something from the Beyond, then it would be irrefutable. He didn’t believe the Will (the mystical energy that was said to have come from the Beyond) enough to think it anything other than Syphon for fools, and the city being separated by the lake and the Dome just proved further how oppressed the people of Adetia really were, no matter how he tried to understand otherwise. There was never enough to make him grasp the legends as fact. The only truth to a fairytale: the allegory to find perspective towards morality.
He smiled at the thought. He knew he was right. He knew that the Well of the Will was merely a product of Arcane Memory, a ward that held the ability to draw energ
y just like the mage, the Scarred King, who created it, but the ward, instead, perpetuated the ability indefinitely, until its surrounding sources were depleted of energy. He offered the thought to one of the priests, and they simply laughed at his idea.
“It is the Will, boy,” the priest would say and pat his shoulder.
It made him cringe. Another nonsensical assertion that hardly scratched the surface. They either didn’t know how the arcane actually worked, or they had secrets. He always felt it to be the latter.
“The Will does not use energy in the same way as Syphon, dear boy. Energy is, instead, offered by our surroundings to perform, petitioned by creation itself! It is the way the Great Beyond has made all things!”
No, they were just blind, if not daft.
It didn’t matter. Why should it?
They would always be this way, even if someone paved the way for change. He felt himself tethered, though. Did sentiment make him long to find answers, or was it something…more? He usually found himself at the edge of the dome, where he came to think. Maybe he should leave the city and seek out what else was in the world. Perhaps he feared the dome would scorch him for his lack of faith. His family had told fables of those who tried to cross the threshold, flaring into flames as they attempted to enter the island.
He shuddered at the thought. He knew that would be a painful story to explain to his family. It would make his decision a bit easier afterwards. He knew people had entered fairly recently. He couldn’t remember the strange boy’s name or his family who were escorted through the streets. It seemed only those seeking the faith, or who were already faithful, could break the seal. Or was that a lie? He felt the rules were vague, but he did not want to risk what he did not understand. He knew, no matter how wonderful this utopia, it still stank of oppression.
One day, he would find an answer.
As he sorted through these thoughts, he found his eyes drift down towards the water, startled he hadn’t noticed the strange, fiery glow, quivering in the shallow tide, just on the other side of the dome. He slid off the fallen tree and brought his face close to the dome, curiosity lambent in his eyes. He could not explain the odd swelling sensation curling hungrily inside his chest, as if it responded to a whisper coming from the object. He had to know what it was.
He felt his mind urging the ripples to stop, hoping to force their stillness, and to his surprise, the water settled above the pulsing glow and became clear as glass. The fallen tree began to wither behind him, cracking in muted sizzles as the bark recoiled into itself, like a soul stripped from its body and turned to a powder. He gave it a quizzical look, realizing he had used Syphon for the first time, pulling energy from the tree. His excitement ruffled his heart. He turned his attention back to the water, where the glow still called to him from inside an ebony box, buried in the silty mud, the swirls of spindly dust hung frozen in the unmoving ellipse he had conjured.
Do not be afraid, my child.
He felt his heart hasten, finding no one near him. He turned his attention back to the box. It stared at him; a surreal eye, burning within the black prison. His heart skipped irregularly, beating to an odd sensation he felt partial to, and the voice spoke again.
I see I have found favor in you. That pleases me. Then you are of the type I have been seeking!
“How do you mean?” he asked, bending lower to the shore.
I have been seeking one who does not bend to convention; one who deepens the questions the sentients have been searching for, but few have brought them to the surface. In many ways, you are to be the answers, the answers first found inside the fires that burn within me. Do you see the truth I speak?
He watched with fettered sight as the diamond holding the smoke inside the cube spun miraculously through the solid obsidian form. The molten smoke seethed and coiled, flaring inside the boy’s eyes.
He winced a moment, perhaps in awe, and whispered, “How can I not?” He shivered, as though he could feel the cube smile at him. No, that couldn’t be true, but regardless, he could not help but feel he had almost wished for something like this. He had always dreamed of affirmations to the questions.
Good, the cube said, as the fire inside the form spread thicker. Then take me out of this mirk, and I will guide you towards the Beyond.
The boy hesitated, still fearing the Dome.
It will be fine, the voice whispered. Reach your hand through and pick me up. You must accept me, and I will show you the way.
The boy put his hand against the Dome, touching the strange surface. It rippled around his fingers, singing in quiet vibrations. He wondered what song it sang as he watched the churning flames swirl inside the diamond. With a firm sigh, he pushed his hand through the viscous surface and shoved his arm into the Dome. His hand struggled to pass the shell, his ears becoming hot as though he expected the punishment to come soon, but then, his hand pierced the other side, like a blade puncturing elastic skin. His hand felt the moisture of water just above the cube. He wasn’t quite close enough.
You must want to accept me, he heard the voice say, more urgently now.
He pursed his lips and felt his body fall, slipping further through the gel. It seemed his body was unwilling or unable to pass through the gel. Finally, he slid and splashed into the wake. Standing up abruptly, and with a nervous laugh, he found himself on the other side of the Dome with the cube at his feet. With a victorious smile, he bent down and snatched the cube from the mud, examining it.
In that moment, staring deeply into the heavy black shape, he finally knew everything he had wanted to know. Though it was not answered directly with word or conclusion, something within assured him he would soon know. He looked back at the Dome, staring through to the city, when he noticed his reflection against the gloss. His eyes were filled like the diamond in the cube, burning fervently with bloody fire, reflecting the smoldering flames against the city as though he watched a strange spirit fall and set it ablaze. He smirked at the knowledge pouring into his mind, whispered by the cube now connected to his brain. He stared at the city, still wearing his expression of mirth, and with one voice, the boy and the cube said, “Now, we will set all that has wronged us right.”
“Checkmate.”
“Argh! It’s just not fair!”
Voden clapped his adolescent hands against his face, covering his tear-glazed eyes from his grandfather. His grandfather leaned back in his chair, his lungs groaning as he chuckled. Voden peeked through his tiny digits, tears still welling at his eyes. Perhaps he was being overdramatic for a seven-year-old, but he still gave his grandfather a dejected stare from between his fingers.
“I should have won! Why won’t you let me win?” demanded Voden through the cracks. He’d been rather sure of himself when he had started the chess match.
“Don’t beat yourself up over losing, my boy,” his grandfather said. He leaned forward and tussled Voden’s hair. “One day, you will come to understand.”
“How do you mean, grandfather?” he asked, eyes intent on syphoning knowledge from his grandfather. The old man gently removed his glasses and wiped the lenses against his gray shirt. This was a common ritual, stealing himself a moment to collect his thoughts and give a well-considered response.
“Perhaps you should consider something much deeper than just how the pieces move across the field,” his grandfather suggested, still passively cleaning his spectacles. “Has the thought ever occurred to you to care for the pieces as a parent would a child?”
This puzzled Voden. It was such a queer thing to consider, yet his grandfather spoke like it was not that unusual. They were, after all, just tiny carved tokens; banal relics that made the game fun to play. He stared at the checkered board sitting between him and his grandfather while the aged man meticulously cleared smudges from the rounded glass. His grandfather looked up from his work as a sweet smile crept along his kindly wrinkled cheeks.
“Is it really hard for you to accept, Voden?” he chuckled again in his typical wheezy
manner. “I suppose for a child, it is a rather far removed thought. Think of it. You play with a single goal: to cause your opponent to submit. Spend risk as the wager for yourself to win. That is why you struggle to beat me. The truth behind a good chess player and a great one is the greats concern themselves with these tokens.” He lifted an obsidian pawn between his thumb and index finger and held it for Voden to see. “Each is significant. They, too, share in the same pursuit. The goal is to pull them through to that point, to victory! To some degree, you should almost be vindictive to lose a piece. They cannot be gained back, which weakens your position.”
He became quiet, while Voden mulled over the thought.
“I shouldn’t let my pieces get taken,” Voden muttered, begging his brain for understanding. “But then, how can I protect all of them? That doesn’t seem possible. I still don’t understand!” His face was riddled with strained seven-year-old tendons, urging himself to break the box trapping his mind. It was hard to make sense of it. How could they matter that much? He knew a pawn worth risking, especially when the tradeoff gave him a bishop or a knight. He listened to the cosmic choir of mysteries chanting in the hearth, the light wrapping the stone in cloaks of flickering vermillion. The sacred herald sung the narrative of life, if only Voden knew the language.
As the fire carelessly cracked, distant sounds of children came in through the open window, a sheepish, contented breeze crept through and gently kissed their cheeks.
“Why is it so important?” Voden asked.
“The greatest honor for a warrior is that their king leaves them not in vain. Honor gives power back to the memories. You must be a proper provider for them; to discern when it’s appropriate to provide them safety, but also, to be aware if they are to depart from their world, it must be with reason. If you cannot give them that, it is truly lost.” He leaned towards the table and picked up his teacup, taking a thoughtful sip. He continued, “All the pieces are important. Losing one must hurt. They sacrificed everything! You allowed them to. There is war plotted in them. They are eliminated from the game, holding to whatever ideal you have given them. If you care, you must bring them justice and give true meaning to their sacrifice.”