Silence fell at his words. The wind kicked up through the Reikonos streets just then, and they all stood there. “That’s … a lovely metaphor, Vaste,” Curatio said. “Very insightful. We do, indeed, possess great capacity for wrong—and right—given the changing of circumstances—”
“Oh, no, I mean it quite literally,” Vaste said, tongue playing over his teeth as he made a face that looked as though he was trying to get a taste out of his mouth with his tongue. “I just realized—Sanctuary made those bodies disappear from the alleyway? And some of our friends, of course, died in the defense against Bellarum—”
“Yes, some of us did,” Vara said acidly. “Apparently so brutally that they were unable to be reconstituted.”
“Right,” Vaste said, “and then the corpses just vanish—poof. And a meal appears on our table.” He arched his eyebrows. “Do you get what I’m saying here? I don’t think those bodies in the alley just disappeared. I think Sanctuary takes them, turns them into a tasty beef rib through magical reconstitution—”
“Oh, for the sake of the gods—” Curatio said. “This? This is where your mind goes now?”
“I think they’re in my teeth,” Vaste said, tongue running over his front teeth. “Our own heroes and these villains, stuck there, in my teeth, possibly for all eternity, now that I live forever—”
“Sanctuary does not reconstitute the dead and feed them to us,” Alaric said with great patience.
Vaste paused, tongue upon his front teeth. “It doesn’t?”
“Hardly,” Alaric said, then paused. “It’s more probably the stone block that once made up the miles of our walls that you ate.” And he smiled, beckoning Shirri to lead them on. She did so, and they began to move once more.
“I actually feel worse about eating old stone,” Vaste said, “no matter how expertly it’s prepared. Does Sanctuary not think me worthy of the good, villainous meat?”
Vara made a noise of impatience as she moved to follow Alaric and Shirri. “Count your blessings you’re not eating human, as you were complaining of just a moment ago.”
“It seems to have worked out fine for you,” Vaste snipped back. “And it doesn’t bother me—I subsisted on a diet of human meat as a child. It makes you stronger. Though it does taste a little gamey.”
“Lovely,” Cyrus said, the only one left behind as Curatio moved to follow the others.
“Oh, don’t pretend you wouldn’t have eaten troll if they’d put it in front of you as a child,” Vaste said, still picking his teeth. “Still, reconstituted stone. That’s worse than elf food, you know. Branches and leaves and such.” He gave Cyrus a subtle glance. “Hardly fitting fare for a living god.”
Cyrus let out a sigh and turned to follow the others. “Let it go, will you?”
“How can I?” Vaste asked, hurrying to follow him. “Look at you! They gave you everything! You ended up with everything. Statues. Your wife lives and breathes and—lustily does things to you that would make most of us blush—”
“You do seem a deeper shade of green.”
“It’s probably just nausea from hearing you two go at it,” Vaste said. “But the point is, Cyrus—” And he sagged. “My life ended up counting for zero. I was an outcast and hated in Gren, I was always on the fringes in Sanctuary—”
“Dumbass, you were a member of the Council,” Cyrus said. “In the thick of things.”
“Because I knew you,” Vaste said. “Reflected glory, that was all.”
Cyrus let out his own hiss of impatience. “Well, you are walking in my shadow just now.”
Vaste looked down. “Oh. In a literal sense, yes. How ironic.” He stepped sideways and moved to walk next to Cyrus. “Do you not see how well things turned out for you in all this?”
“Most of my friends are dead,” Cyrus said. “I was raised in a society that hated me, and when I found out my mother was actually alive, she was dead within a year.” He turned his head to favor Vaste with a fiery look. “Now I find myself in a strange world where my actions in the past have led to the complete destruction of most of my homeland and the possible annihilation of several different races.”
Vaste twitched slightly. “There are some among your people who’d consider that a good thing.”
“I’m not one of them,” Cyrus growled. “Do you really think—beyond the obvious things I’m grateful for, such as my life and that of my wife—that I am in any way ‘living the dream’ at this moment? Do I really have it so much better than you? In consequence and bounty, am I so much better off than you, Vaste?”
“You have Vara,” Vaste said quietly. “Do you need anything else?”
His words pricked into Cyrus’s skin and ran cool through his veins, soothing him as though a draught of some tonic. “Perhaps not,” he said, glancing ahead and noticing Vara with an ear cocked in his direction, even dozens of paces ahead now. She wore the trace of smile. “But … I do feel an enormous responsibility to correct these … mistakes.”
“Of course you do,” Vaste said. “You wouldn’t be Cyrus if you weren’t burying your feelings of guilt over something you were only tangentially involved in while acting as a brave and sane person would.” He paused for a thought. “Perhaps that’s why they worship you. Sanity and bravery. Such a rare combination among your people. It should be celebrated whenever encountered. I’d argue they took it a bit far with the godhood—”
“Meanwhile, in Gren, they’re still waiting for it to appear even once.”
“Well, I did leave,” Vaste said, “so it’s not as though they really saw it, did they?” His voice grew muted, and Cyrus regretted even mentioning Gren. “What do you suppose happened to them? The Scourge?”
Cyrus shook his head, trying to be cautious in his reply. “The headwaters of the Perda are too deep for scourge to cross. I … suppose I don’t know. Perhaps your guess about the elves and their wroth is … accurate.”
“I heard that,” Vara said. “Insult my people again by assuming our part in genocide and you will find yourself on the receiving end of elven wroth.” The look in her eye was dangerous.
“I think she means it,” Vaste said, and then he gave Cyrus a shove at the shoulder. “Go on. Make her mad.”
“I’m a fool, but I’m not that much a fool,” Cyrus said. “I don’t know what happened to your people. But almost anything is possible, I suppose.” He lowered his voice to a whisper. “Including elven wroth. They do get mad sometimes, you know.”
“I know. I think I’m about to see it now,” Vaste whispered loudly.
“Hmph,” Vara said, turning away from them both and saying nothing more.
“Are you really so worried about counting for nothing?” Cyrus asked, after another minute or two of walking. The scenery around them was changing; the buildings were growing taller, the stone block giving way to reddish brick, so different from the white stone of the buildings of his day. “About your life mattering for naught? Because you did great things, Vaste. Aided us in—”
“Aided you,” Vaste said. “I’m a mere second fiddle to a god. What does that make me? A lackey?” He made a rude noise. “I am clearly the brains if it’s you and I on an adventure together. Remember the Temple of—”
“Yes. It would be hard to forget.”
“I was plainly the brain in that scenario,” Vaste said. “You were the brawn.”
“Is that why I had to decapitate the troll bandits to claim our reward?”
“Absolutely. The brains do not need to sully their soft, beautiful hands with stinky troll blood.”
“So you admit trolls stink?”
“They stunk! Do you know how long it had probably been since Byb Hirrin and his lot had bathed in anything other than swampwater? I mean, really. I, on the other hand, enjoy the Sanctuary showers very regularly—”
“You could stand to enjoy one right now … lackey.”
“Oh, that’s cause for a dinging,” Vaste said, and with speed garnered from the staff of Mortus, brought the tip
of his weapon down on Cyrus’s helm, causing it to ring and Cyrus’s head to ache.
“Ow,” Cyrus said, grabbing his helm. “That genuinely hurts now.”
“Good,” Vaste said. “Gone are the days when you could simply smart off to me and have no consequence thanks to your own blazing speed. This is my equalizer,” he brandished Letum, “and remember well, Mr. Fancy God, that you while you may be the only one remembered, some of the rest of us ascended with you.”
“Duly noted,” Cyrus said, the resonant sound from his helmet finally dying down. “And … I haven’t forgotten you, Vaste.”
“Of course you haven’t,” Vaste said, “I just rang your helmet like a little bell. Anytime you’re in danger of forgetting me, I’ll do it again, too.”
“A potent reminder,” Cyrus replied.
“Yes, it’s like you in that regard,” Vaste said. “Now … do you have your mind upon the task at hand?”
Cyrus looked ahead, to where Shirri was leading the way with Alaric at her side, Curatio and Vara trailing them by a few paces. They were almost fifty paces ahead of Cyrus and Vaste now. “I do. As much as I can, anyhow. I suppose we should catch up.”
Vaste shrugged. “They’re not going anywhere fast. Perhaps we should let Alaric do what he does best.” He gestured with the tip of his staff. “You know, with our skeptical new recruit up there.”
Cyrus frowned. “Her? You think he’s trying to … recruit her? To what?”
Vaste wore the hint of a smile. “To what Alaric always recruits people to.” A little trace of regret twisted his lips, exposing fangs. “To join us and become part of a happy band of people striving to help others.”
14.
Shirri
She traced her path along the street in silence, the armored man with eyepatch and the greying beard walking alongside her. Shirri kept one eye on the street ahead, and one on the man at her side, and wondered which she needed to watch more sharply for danger.
“I won’t strike you down, if that’s what you’re wondering,” the man named Alaric said. He sounded amused—at her expense, no doubt.
Shirri reddened and turned away from him. “I wish I knew that was a certainty.”
“If I meant to strike you down, would it not have been more effective to simply let those enemies of yours do it in that alleyway earlier?” Alaric asked calmly.
“There are powerful reasons for them not to,” Shirri said, looking away and into the basement window of an apartment unintentionally. A child no older than six was sitting in it, looking up at her. He tossed a casual wave at her, and she waved back without thinking about it. “They want me alive...for...” She looked at him, a little hesitantly, “...reasons.”
“Your secrets do not concern me,” Alaric assured her. “Keep them, if they make you feel safer.”
Shirri shivered. “Nothing makes me feel safe anymore.” She stared into the distance, where the sun was casting its rays from below the horizon, lighting the eastern sky. “Probably because there is nowhere safe for me any longer.”
“Your world does seem to be constricting around you,” Alaric said with a light nod. “I won’t pry into your secrets, but … I admit curiosity to what has compelled this group to pursue you as they have.”
“They just destroy people,” Shirri said, and she could tell by the flicker of a smile from him that she’d said it too quickly. “It’s what they do.” At least that wasn’t false.
“Some make that their purpose in life,” Alaric said after a brief pause. “And from what I have seen of this … ‘Machine’ … and the people in their employ, I do not have a hard time imagining that is true. But there is always another side to a coin, and here I wonder at their motives—pure venality? Greed? Simple lust for power? Or is there something more, beneath the surface of this organization?”
“There’s less to them than meets the eye, if anything,” Shirri said, drawing her cloak around her. It wasn’t cold, but she still felt a chill, thinking about the trouble she was in, of her mother being taken. No good was coming, not now. Not from any of this. Certainly not from these … strangers was the most charitable word she could summon up to describe them—whom she’d turned to for help. “They care about maintaining their power, their dominance here. Nothing else. And they will employ anyone who can aid them in that. Corrupt or decent. Whatever gets them closer to their goal.”
“Interesting,” Alaric said, seeming to ponder that. “Then this world is not so different from the one I left.”
“Yes,” Shirri’s voice was dry, “it’s almost as though you woke up this morning and it’s exactly the same as the one you’re from.”
Alaric smiled once more. “You don’t believe that we are who we say we are.”
“I don’t even know who you are,” Shirri said, shaking her head. “Or the elf with the platinum hair. Or the …” She looked back at the green one, so tall and unbelievably large. “… Whatever he is. A ‘droll,’ did you call him?”
“‘Troll,’” Alaric said with a smile. “Though droll does perhaps fit him better.”
“You’re just strange travelers to me,” Shirri said, shrugging. “Maybe you got off an airship from Firoba yesterday or the day before, given how strangely you talk. Maybe you’re circus performers from another land, dressing two of your own up in the garb of our … legends.” And here she looked back at the blond-haired elf, and, further back, the man in the black armor. “I don’t know what your game is, and so long as the punch line’s not at my expense, I suppose I don’t care.”
“It must be difficult to go through life so isolated as to not care about those around you,” Alaric said. “To intentionally blind yourself to misery so long as it falls on others and not yourself.”
“It’s Reikonos,” Shirri said with a condescending smile. “No one cares about anyone else here. No one worries about their neighbor or—whatever it was like in the days of Cyrus Davidon, or the days after that, or even the more recent days, like my mother talks about. This city has changed. Wolves are at the door, hiding themselves like sheep. That’d be the Machine. You let them in, you think they’re just some poor, suffering person with their head down in need, like you? Then you find out they’re not.” She cocked her head at him. “You know why they call it ‘the Machine’? Because it’s made of interchangeable pieces, just like they make in the factories. Pull a few out, they’ll replace them with others. The Machine keeps running, always moving toward what it wants and never breaking down.”
“Fascinating,” Alaric said, almost a whisper. “They sound truly lost.”
Shirri let out a mirthless chuckle. “That’s what you think of when I describe to you a cartel bent on making misery into profit?” She raised her eyebrows in amusement. “You are truly naïve for someone so old.”
His eyes twinkled. “You have no idea.”
“I don’t have a care, either,” she said. “If you can help me, I suppose I’ll be grateful. Maybe take my mother and the little money I have, and try to get passage to Emerald Fields or Termina or even Binngart, across the sea in Firoba. That’d be safest.” She stared straight ahead once more, her footsteps carrying her in even paces toward her destination, a little lance of fear spiking along her back. “You should get out of here before things get any worse. Better to get away from the Machine than shelter in … whatever your home is, here.”
“I doubt that very much,” Alaric said, “but if it is your choice, I will respect it, as I respect your desire to keep your secrets. I hope, before we part ways, that you will see that there is hope yet in this place.”
“There’s not,” Shirri said.
“Then why are you walking with us?” Alaric asked, that small smile now seeming insufferable to Shirri. “Why have you not started your flight to this Firoba already?”
Shirri started to lie but something stopped her. “Because I can’t just leave her behind.”
“Then you hope for a resolution that sees your mother returned to you,” Alaric sa
id.
Shirri bowed her head. “Like a fool … I suppose I do.” Her smile was bitter. “Now who among us is naïve? Trusting in a Cyrus Davidon impersonator and his team of thespians.” She stopped and raised her hand to point at a building across the street and down a block. It was a multi-story apartment building of red stone, with glass display windows and a storefront on the first floor. “They’re in there. Or at least it’s their nearest post.”
The blond-haired elven woman caught up, eyes anchored upon the building. “A candle shop?”
“They use it as a front,” Shirri said. “Candleworks in this city are wholly owned by them. They’ve run every other maker out.”
“That’s quite indecent,” Vara said.
Shirri wanted to laugh. “It is what they do.”
“This it?” the one dressed as Cyrus Davidon asked, reaching them at last with the green one at his side.
“Indeed, so she says,” Alaric said. “Two men stand out front. Sentries?”
“Poor ones, if so,” the platinum-haired one said. Curatio, was it? “Their eyes are on each other, not the street.”
“What do they have to fear?” Shirri asked. “The city is theirs.”
“Me,” the black-armored one said, his voice a husky, determined growl. She looked at him in mild alarm; it was a threatening noise that he made, but his attention was entirely on the Machine’s storefront. He started toward them, crossing the street, on a direct line for the two out front. “They will fear me.”
“Well, he hasn’t lost that finely-tuned sense of the dramatic in the last thousand years.” Vaste sighed and then hurried off after him. “Wait for me! If you’re going to crack skulls, I want a piece of them.”
“You just ate,” the blond haired elf said. Shirri could not think of her as … well, as Vara. She didn’t fit the image Shirri had ever had of the Shelas’akur and wife of … him.
“I’m not going to eat them,” Vaste said, shooting her a look of mild reproach as she stepped off the curb to follow him and her … husband. “Besides, anyone who gets assigned guard duty on a sidewalk outside a store in the early morning is bound to be empty of head.”
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