Awakenings

by C. D. Espeseth

  It wasn’t until Fin and Sheba had secreted them both away under the cover of darkness that Jonah let himself cry for his old friend. Yet as the pain drained him, his tears began to cement his resolve.

  Branson’s sacrifice must not be in vain. Jonah would use everything he was to make it so.

  The Kutsal Empire would end, and it would be by his hand.

  50 - Translation

  I have split myself into two versions in the hope that one might survive to fix the error. I have written an algorithm to be triggered in the sentinels if anyone should discover my journal. They will seek out the person who has found it and attempt integration. The interface will be triggered afterwards.

  I can explain the rest later.

  - Journal of Robert Mannford, Day 180 Year 69 (3rd to last entry)

  Those in New Toeron

  The Academy Infirmary, then the Red Tower

  Wayran woke from a strangely dreamless sleep, the first he could remember in years, and he found it wrong. The dreams and nightmares had driven his mind to seek answers, and without them, he felt adrift.

  He sat up from the bed and felt the firm, but not uncomfortable, mattress. His fingers caressed it longer than normal, and he watched them play over the texture of the sheet, noting he was unusually preoccupied with the sensation.

  He felt strange. Not bad, just odd. It was as if he been hit in the head and was seeing double but only now coming back to himself.

  “You’re awake,” a voice said from a desk at the end of the line of beds. It was a young woman dressed in a nurse’s uniform. “I’ll get the doctor first, but I know several people who are anxious to see you.” She got up and slipped out the servant’s side door.

  He was in the infirmary at the Academy. Wayran recognised it now. The light was filtering in from the windows, and he saw motes of dust swirling through the sunbeams. He watched their movement in a slight daze, enjoying the slow dance.

  It was then he remembered he had been injured in the battle outside Keef’s Tavern. His hand found the spot on his leg where he had been stabbed but found no scar. Curious, he thought but yet was not concerned. Somehow the lack of wound was as it should be.

  The doctor came in and did a few tests on his reflexes and shone a light in his eyes. “Hmm,” she said, making a note on her papers, “we noticed this when you came in. There seems to be some redness at the edges of your pupils and irises. Seems more of an irritation than blood clotting, however. Your eyes are responding to light normally, and you look to be in fine health. Are your eyes itchy at all?”

  “No, Doctor. They seem fine,” Wayran said blinking a few times just to make sure.

  “Hmm, well, monitor them. If they get any worse, I want you to come right back in, understood?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Wayran said, trying to sound appropriately concerned, but he had more than a feeling that his eyes were perfectly fine.

  “You can send them in,” the doctor called to the door.

  Matoh and his father, Harold, hurried over to him. His father looked concerned, but Matoh wore a very relieved grin. Wayran noticed Matoh was in his full ceremonial blacks, and that he now had a few more badges on his lapel and extra dots on his collar.

  “You’ve been promoted,” Wayran said nodding at Matoh.

  “Yes, yes. I’m embarrassed to say I’m a captain now.” Matoh grinned almost reluctantly and didn’t look anywhere close to how proud he should be. “We can talk about it in a minute, how are you doing? What happened to you? That’s what we want to know.”

  Harold Spierling nodded but put a hand on Wayran’s shoulder. “Let me have a look at you first.” His father repeated several of the same tests as the doctor just had, and he squinted suspiciously and took another look at Wayran’s eyes. He made Matoh look as well before declaring, “You’ve got two red rings in your eyes, thin and faint, but they’re too symmetrical to be injuries. Are you feeling all right?”

  “Yes, Dad, yes, I feel fine. I just went through this with the doctor.” Wayran patted his father’s hand to try and reassure him.

  “So, what happened to you? Do you remember?” Matoh asked after seeing their father was satisfied that Wayran seemed to be all right.

  Wayran cast his mind back to the battle. He remembered being injured, remembered being dragged behind the battle lines and Kevin yelling at the medic, but then it began to become fuzzy. Was there the roc? The man with red-eyes had been there, he thought to himself. Pain sliced across the back of his eyes momentarily and his recollection of anything more flitted away from him. “No, not much. I remember the medics trying to patch me up, they were sending me back to the Academy, but then I ...” he trailed off trying once again to remember, “then ... I don’t know.”

  “Don’t push yourself,” Harold Spierling said, once again patting Wayran softly on the shoulder. “You’ve been sleeping for days now. Whatever it was that happened to you took a hefty toll, though it also seemed to heal you somehow as well. The doctor says this can happen after traumatic events, she seems to think you should make a full recovery within a few weeks, and your memories will most likely return quickly.”

  “Well, that’s good news.” Wayran shrugged. “I wish I could tell you more, but it just gets fuzzy when I try to think about it.” He cocked his chin at Matoh. “What about you? How’d you get to be a captain?”

  Matoh turned away, looking somewhat haunted. His jaw muscle worked hard as he struggled for words. He methodically recalled what had been said. “Well Captain Miller is now Lieutenant Colonel Miller, and he said I was put forward for promotion by several of the senior officers who were at the Battle of Keef’s Square. Our new Lieutenant Colonel said it was ‘for honour and valour befitting a full Syklan and decisive action on the field of battle.”

  Matoh didn’t know what he thought of that. How could what he did be considered ‘honour and valour befitting a full Syklan? He shook the question from his mind and continued, “I was appointed after the High King’s funeral. You should have seen it, Wayran. The funeral procession wove from King’s Gate, all the way up to the crypts and the Mihanes’ private entrance overlooking the sea beside the Oratorio. They dedicated a special alcove for him, and a massive bronze statue has been commissioned to go at the head of his sarcophagus.

  “High Queen Echinni sang, and we could all feel her grief. Kai Johnstone, and that Chronicler you met, Jachem Sanders, were there with her. Their music filled the Oratorio. I don’t have the words to describe how beautiful it was. Then she called Adel forward, she’s officially the new Arbiter now. There were quite a few well-to-do Singers who looked none too happy about it, but I don’t think the high queen gives two hoots about that sort of stuff right now. Those rumours we had heard about her being young and childish seem all wrong, she’s got steel in her veins just like her father.

  “Anyway, then it was my turn.” Matoh ground his teeth and had to take a moment before he continued.

  Wayran squinted and said, “So why do you look like you are trying to chew through boulders?”

  Matoh turned to him, his eyes now had a haunted quality that Wayran had never seen in his brother before. “I killed people, Wayran,” Matoh said, holding up a forestalling hand as he saw the protest Wayran was about to make. “People on both sides.” Matoh took a deep breath. “I called the lightning again. When I thought Naira had been killed, I, well, I just didn’t care what happened. I used the surrounding power and tried to flatten everything around me. There must have been five strikes in quick succession, and where the lightning hit, people died, obliterated in an instant because of me. The concussive wave of the strikes knocked everyone down, cracking ribs in some. One man’s heart gave out. They think he was caught up in the rioting, but he was just a local man, not one of the disguised soldiers. I killed people on both sides, and they gave me a promotion for it, Wayran.” Matoh rubbed his temple and took another deep breath to steady himself.

  Wayran nodded at this, understanding how hard Matoh must be
taking it. He loved this city and had always felt a need to protect the people in it. “From what I can remember of the riot, it looked like it was going to end horribly, hundreds of people were going to die before anything was resolved. It was chaos. From what you have said, you ended it all with those lightning strikes.”

  “Oh, I understand it,” Matoh growled, “but I can’t square it in my heart, I guess.”

  “It’s all right, son.” Harold Spierling grabbed Matoh about the shoulders and pulled him into an embrace. “It’s all right.”

  It was a moment before they separated, and Wayran felt a lump in his throat. He hadn’t seen his brother so unsure and emotional since their mother had died.

  Harold Spierling held the back of Matoh’s head as they looked at each other. “But it is as you told me, is it not? You think you finally understand this strange ability you have with lightning. Yes?”

  “Do you?” Wayran asked.

  “Yes, well, I think so,” Matoh said, trying to settle himself before he began to explain. “There needs to be a lot of change in the weather around me: an energy gradient, Chronicler Rutherford, called it. Anyway, I can’t make the weather change, as it seemed like I was doing. We were going to have something close to a storm each time, it was just that I helped tip it over the edge so the energy could continue to build. Then, when there is enough potential, I can feel it, reach towards it, and when I get close enough, crack! Lightning! But it doesn’t flow through me. Instead, it goes around me, through the tendrils connected to the ground that I was using to reach towards the sky.” Matoh squinted. “Does any of that make sense?”

  Wayran nodded. “I’m fairly certain that’s how lightning is meant to work, other than the part where you are able to influence it, that is.”

  “Anyway, they want me to keep using my ability, figure it’ll be useful in the upcoming war with that army from across the Barrier Sea.” Matoh shrugged his shoulders as if it was perfectly normal, but he had a haunted look in his eyes.

  Wayran knew the powers that be would ask Matoh to use his power to kill for them, and he didn’t know if Matoh was anywhere close to fine with that.

  Their father raised a finger in thought. “You’re not going anywhere until I make you your own trisk with as much covellite as I can stuff into it. I’m going to speak to the armourers tomorrow and call in some favours. They will be working double-time on it. You too, Wayran. I’m going to make sure you both have the best for what’s heading our way.” Harold Spierling had his hand on his chin and paced back and forth.

  “That won’t be necessary,” Wayran said.

  Matoh and his father turned to look at him.

  “What do you mean, won’t be necessary?” Matoh asked. “There is a foreign army gobbling up the Nine Nations. Someone assassinated the High King, and from what Fellow Callahan talked about, things are just escalating. You’re going to need every favour that Dad can pull in, just like I do.”

  Wayran held up his hand, feeling a certainty and sense of peace he had never mastered before. “It’s not that I don’t appreciate the offer. It’s just ...” he hesitated, only now understanding where his thoughts were taking him, “… my path leads elsewhere.”

  Wayran got down from the bed and had to grab hold of his father for balance. His legs felt odd, almost as if for a second, he had to remember how to walk.

  “I saw them then. The rings in your eyes,” Matoh said as he shook his head. “What happened to you, Wayran? You were naked when you stumbled back to us, and the wound to your leg was gone, replaced by scarred over skin. Are you sure you don’t remember anything?”

  A flash of memory shot through him – silver dust burrowing into his skin, pain, choking, red-eyes swirling above him. Then it was gone.

  Wayran took a deep breath and then saw the journal lying beside his bed. “Is that?” He pointed to the leather-bound volume. Only now, he somehow recognised it was not actually leather surrounding the bound pages, it was so much more.

  “Yes, it was the only other thing you had on you. You were naked, clutching that damned book we found in the Jendar tower,” Matoh answered.

  Wayran tapped the bottom of his neck and winked at Matoh. “I notice you still have your lucky piece of glass. It seems to be working, yes?”

  Matoh rolled his eyes as he fingered the strange shard of glass he had thrown at a wall down in the Jendar complex, which had then seemed to magically open a door. It was the same shard he had stabbed into a roc’s foot to call lightning the second time and save them both from being eaten. “This is different,” Matoh said, and Wayran finally saw the crooked grin return to his brother’s face. “This I can at least use as a weapon.”

  Wayran chuckled at Matoh’s attempt at levity. It was nice to know some of the old Matoh was still there, yet Wayran’s eyes had never left the journal. He had an uncontrollable urge to touch it.

  His hand moved to the journal, his finger touched the leather-looking surface, and as it made contact a spark jumped from the pad of his finger to the journal. Then they were joined, his finger stuck to the outer cover.

  His head jerked in surprise, and Matoh and Harold Spierling both saw the bright red flash in Wayran’s eyes.

  “Wayran!” his father yelled.

  Wayran’s other hand shot up, forestalling his family from trying to pull him away. “I’m all right. Just wait.”

  In his mind’s eye, he saw a set of words appear when the spark had jumped.

  File Download Initiated. Installing Robert_Matrix_012/Rebirth_Protocol. Please wait......

  “What just happened?” Matoh asked, taking a step closer.

  Memories, scattered but clear, began to come back to Wayran. He squinted hard, trying to force his mind to remember. There were important things he had to tell people! He remembered the feeling of having his whole world turned upside down as if some truth had twisted him up and wrung him out. He couldn’t remember the details, just the amazed and hollowed out impression which had been left in him.

  Fragments began to return to him.

  Nine entities who change events around them.

  Tiden Raika.

  Kali waiting to judge us.

  Kenaz.

  Wayran’s other hand found the lapel of Matoh’s uniform, and he turned to his brother with as much gravity as he could muster. “Matoh, I need you to get me an audience with our new high queen, and immediately. I have news that affects us all.”

  “Wayran, you need to start making sense,” Matoh answered, patting the hand grasping his lapel.

  “Matoh.” Wayran leaned in closer. “I need you to do this. Can I count on you?”

  Something in his voice must have cut through Matoh’s confusion for his brother finally agreed.

  More memories began to flood back to Wayran, and he grabbed the journal up and began to pace. “I need you to bring all of our friends to this audience as well. Adel, Naira, that drummer friend of yours, oh and the senior prefect ...” Wayran cocked his head to one side as if listening to something. “Is he still alive?”

  “Yes, but what is this–” Matoh began.

  “Never mind. Bring him as well. He’s part of this. Oh! There’s more but I, no, it’s not clear.”

  Wayran paced back and forth a few times, thinking as fast as he could, seeing possibilities play out in his mind, trying to make sense of what he could as the thoughts and memories began flooding into him. “Urgh! It’s a shame Uncle Aaron is still back in the Wastes. We need him and his ship.”

  “He’s here,” Harold Spierling said, then snorted in contempt. “The rumour is he came back to ensure his investments within the city were not destroyed during the riots. He was going to make the royal family pay for any damages.”

  “Well, if anyone could do it, it would be Uncle Aaron. But yes, good. Convergence. Of course. I should have known. Anyway, we need him as well. He’ll want to hear this. Just tell him all his current ventures are in serious peril, that should get his attention.”

  T
he keys, he thought. Kali needs the keys.

  “Is all of this from your dreams?” Matoh asked, not discounting him, but not quite believing yet either. “I mean I admit the tower in the Wastes was quite a coincidence, but are you sure?”

  “They aren’t just dreams,” Wayran said, standing a bit taller, as what he needed to do began to form in his mind. “For some reason, I’m hooked into some larger narrative. Just like you and your ability to call lightning. It seemed impossible, but I too have gained strange abilities which I’m only beginning to understand. I see glimpses of some grand plan, some horrible design linking us all together, like the cogs of an enormous clockwork. The journal I found was some sort of confessional of the man Robert Mannford, the same man who brought about the Ciwix, the cataclysm which changed the world, yet…” He remembered more of what Kenaz had said to him, he turned to Matoh and then to his father, “it wasn’t the first cataclysm.”

  “What are you talking about, son?” Harold Spierling was beginning to look worried.

  “Argh,” he sighed in frustration. “I don’t know. It’s not all coherent yet.” Wayran tried to remember what had happened. Kenaz? He thought. What happened to Kenaz? There had been an error. Pain.

  Images of the NRE’s moving around him in a blur. Tubes had been hooked up to him. One had said something about restarting his heart? ‘We have to reboot the entire system!” He remembered one of them saying. “It’s the only way to save him.”

  Wayran remembered his entire body convulsing, and then, running. He had been running out of the strange church they had flown to just outside the city. Running through the streets of New Toeron, the rain on his naked skin, feeling like his heart was going to burst from his chest.

  He had run and run and then … he couldn’t remember any more. Matoh must have found him not long after that.

  “I think, I was rebooted,” Wayran said aloud.

  “What does that mean?” Matoh asked.