Then that awful, buzzing signature came from all around her, attacking her senses until she felt like she was choking on the acerbic taste of it, coughing and spluttering. The threads of energy that connected her to the world around her frayed and burned. Suddenly she felt blind, grasping in the dark. She couldn’t control her body, brain screaming commands that her body refused to heed.
“Rook?” Janus’ voice floated through the swimming haze. “What’s happening?”
And then it appeared. That beast that had incapacitated her in the cell. A huge, snaking creature with a spiny body, wing-like protrusions blurring before her eyes. Fangs spilled from long jaws, curving so that the creature appeared to be grinning. It blinked its slitted eyes at her as it spun in lazy circles around the ceiling, hypnotising her with its movements. She couldn’t tear her eyes away, even as The Rook recoiled, its cries echoing through her. Even as the soft curses from Janus reached her ears and the sound of the soldiers barrelling through the doorway from below. Like an animal caught in the dreadful eye of a gun barrel, shaking beneath the toxic energy the creature exuded as it flicked its tail and sized up its prey, she felt all hope drain out of her.
It was hungry. Hungry and desperate for sustenance.
“Janus,” she said softly, knowing without looking that he was listening. “You need to leave.”
“But –”
If it caught him it would burn through him in seconds.
“Now!”
At the same time as she shouted, the creature dived towards her and she rolled out of the way, drawing her blades before her in a cross. She pulled enough of her spiritual energy into them that the riftspawn bounced off, emitting a harsh cry like the sound of a banshee tearing up her eardrums. Noxious, putrid energy crashed over her in waves. As it swirled around for another dive, she swiped out with her riftblade but it swooped past her too quickly for her to catch.
Sensing her to be too costly as prey it kept going, gliding towards the group of soldiers gathered in a cluster at the door. “Look out!” she screamed as she realised, running after it. “It’s coming!”
It was too late. Plunging into its first victim, the creature disappeared for what must have been mere seconds. The soldier, confused, began to glow a soft red and he glanced around himself as his companions backed away with wide eyes. He opened his mouth as if to speak only for a hair-raising scream to rip from his throat. His skin began to sizzle and peel, flesh boiling. Steam rose from his body as he clutched at his dripping flesh, fingers little more than bloodied chunks of bone. Rook felt it moments before it happened – the wave of blackened energy cutting into her so sharply it knocked her over, breathless. Sparks danced across her vision, a kaleidoscope of red and gold. When she blinked back into focus and found the strength to roll over, there was a puddle of flesh and viscera on the white marble floor and another soldier was screaming.
Her connection to The Rook had been singed; she couldn’t feel the bond any longer. Exhausted, spent, she could barely keep her eyes open. The last thing she saw before they slammed shut was the young man in the white coat, glasses flashing in the light as he bent down to look at her.
His mouth opened, lips moving, but she couldn’t make out the words. She reached out, trying to fight it, but she was too weak. Rook succumbed to darkness.
Part Three: The Pact
If there was one thing Viktor liked about the palace it was the small luxuries. The place was large enough that he could easily avoid the stranger who was his sister, like in this tiled bathing chamber with a pool cut into the ground, bigger than the Tendril’s entire tavern floor and filled with steaming lavender scented water. The water warped the green tiled phoenix below, bending it out of recognisable shape. Viktor trailed his fingers through the water and let it trickle from his fingertips, resting his head back against the pool’s edge. He was hiding; he couldn’t deny it. Since their confrontation about his future, he didn’t know how to face her. How to face any of it. Better to let his tired body sink into the searing heat, the surface of the water tickling his face as he found himself lulled into a gentle doze.
In his dream he saw fire and mayhem. All of a sudden he was surrounded by people, faceless forms that screamed his name. Only it was not his name; the one he had grown with all his life. It was the name of that man that had come before, whose portrait on the wall had taunted him with his proud expression. That’s not me, he tried to protest as they pressed closer, clawing at his skin, nails raking flesh. I’m not him.
“I’m not him!” he yelled, jerking awake. Water cascaded down his shoulders and dripped from his hair as he pressed his flushed face into his palms. He must have been in the bath for some time because his fingers were beginning to prune. Rubbing them together, he imagined himself older, lined, wiser with the experience of years. Would that version of himself resemble who he was today? Or would he resemble the man in the portrait with the steely eyes and tilted lips?
Viktor swept back his damp hair and sighed, head falling back against the tile. Maybe he would never see old age. He didn’t know how this phoenix thing worked but maybe it meant he would never age, never grow old. Never die. It was a strange prospect, one that much like the water trickling from his fingers, he could not grasp.
A knock from the door to the side of the room startled him. Before he could reply in sauntered Fyera, wearing a long figure-hugging green robe of silk with fine gold embroidery, her hair coiled and braided, adorned with a headdress of gold coin-like pieces and emerald beads. He shied away from the assessing sweep of her kohl-rimmed eyes, attempting to cover himself as his cheeks burned a brighter red than before, but she rolled her eyes and continued until she was poised at the water’s edge, soft waves from his movements lapping at her sandalled feet.
“Relax,” she scoffed. “It’s nothing I haven’t seen before.”
Still he shifted to protect his modesty as best he could, glaring up at her. “Is there a reason you’re disturbing my peace?”
“Mm. Tell me, brother, do you normally scream when you feel peaceful?”
His eyes snapped down to her reflection in the water, skin warm in the candlelight, shimmering in ribbons of amber against the brown. “Maybe I wouldn’t scream if you would give me a little warning next time.”
Her laughter echoed in the humid cavern. “Fair enough. Now, get dressed and meet me in the hall. We have guests who would like to meet you.”
“Again?”
This was the third time in as many days that Fyera had invited ‘guests’ to the palace, to parade him forth like a spectacle, some kind of exhibit for them to shake their heads at and gawp. He didn’t like it. He wasn’t a thing and he most certainly was not who they all seemed to think he was, calling him by that name over and over as if he would begin to respond to it. This thing she was planning, he couldn’t tell what she hoped to gain. But it intrigued him more than he cared to admit, that so many were still interested in the Siklo name. Viktor had long thought them a name confined to history books, to be whispered when they warned of cruelty and fear, to remind them that it could be so much worse without Sonlin rule.
It seemed more clung to the past than he had realised, hoping to restore things to what they had once been. Even this palace was nothing but a relic, pretty from a distance, but crumbling and fading when viewed close up. In his experience things never went back. The clock continued its cycle, the seasons changed from high to low, and the sun and moon danced around one another every day and night. To go back was nothing but make believe. A sweet fantasy.
And yet he could see the way Fyera latched onto it. To the honeyed promise of yesterday, nothing but a sinking hole she wouldn’t ever see the bottom of. He could admire her vision nevertheless. With the memories that teased the edge of his consciousness every time he drifted off, he could understand why. This place had once been a place of wonder and beauty, drawing nobles and artists and musicians from all over to experience the finery and splendour. To celebrate their family like le
gends. Like gods.
A tug of the invisible strings around him sent a trio of small riftspawn fluttering past his ear, tiny blue lights glowing like the tea lights on the far side of the pool. He could sense the small blimps of energy against the net of his senses, as soft and ephemeral as bird prints in the sand. Between his fingers flared a stream of green fire, dancing around each knuckle as he casually directed it from hand to hand. With such power so readily at their commands perhaps they were gods, of a sort. Rook would have scoffed at such a thought but she wasn’t here to scold him so he let it fly free.
“How well can you control it now?”
Fyera had taken great interest in his abilities, keen to foster them and see them grow. She knew all kinds of techniques, such as focusing on breathing and meditation, to help him connect to and strengthen his bond with the phoenix. To help him master control over the strange, shifting fire in his veins, and the rage that would overcome him when he forced too much power out at once.
“I don’t know,” he said idly, eyes on the candles lined up at the other side of the pool. If he concentrated he could feel the fire dancing even when he closed his eyes, felt the heat against his skin and smelled the faint aroma of scented wax. Latching onto the fire, he channelled his own energy down the line that connected it to him until it flared with his power. Fyera’s murmured noise of approval opened his eyes to see green flame reflecting off dark water, burning bigger and brighter than before. When he channelled his energy into it he found he could control it, pushing more power into the flame.
“Careful,” Fyera warned, crouching down, profile turned to the candles. “Try igniting just the first row. Let the others go out.”
“I don’t know if I can do that,” he said, trying to separate the flame in his mind. It was all part of one writhing mass, unable to be chopped up or separated, and as he struggled to snuff out the flames on the back row of candles, his control slipped and he gasped, the fire spiking upwards into a wall of flame. The threads of energy around him trembled and shook, burning. He couldn’t stifle the flame now, becoming a force in its own right. Jerking upright, his eyes widened as he felt them grow out of control, the flame spreading across the surface of the pool, undeterred by water.
“Try and stop it. Breathe, Viktor. In and out. Anchor the flame to you.”
“I don’t know how!” The more he grappled with it, the more panicked he became, and the more his grasp slipped. It was like trying to hold liquid, slipping and sliding through the cracks in his fingers. The fire no longer felt like his.
“Watch me,” she said, reaching out a hand to direct the flame. It pulled back towards the source of those small tea lights around the edge of the pool, no longer a raging beast but a collection of beads of light, flickering from the wicks of the candles. Viktor could feel the way the energy receded and he breathed a sigh of relief, the air no longer thick with the pungent scent of otherworldly energy.
“Can you feel it?” she said, snuffing out individual flames until the candles resembled a chessboard. “The fire is yours to command. Do not let it consume you.” With that she clapped her hands together and the connection snapped, fire bleeding back to a natural gold. “We shall have to work on it. But after you meet our guests. It is impolite to keep them waiting.”
Heaving a sigh, Viktor waited until she left the room before he stood from the pool, wrapping himself in a robe and padding over the tile to the room where he had left his clothes. Palace servants – few and fleeting figures dressed all in white – had left him a few sets of kobi, similar in style to the ones that Fyera wore, made from thick woven material and rich dyes that shone in the candlelight. Today he would wear a robe of a deep forest green, accented by a dark crimson in swirling leaf patterns with a huge tree sprawling across his back. The cuffs swooped low and weighed down his wrists. Wearing these strange garments would take some getting used to but as he caught his reflection in the mirror glass he found his breath snagging.
Tall, broad, scrubbed to gleaming and draped in luxurious fabrics, Viktor hardly recognised the man who gazed back at him. Sleep had sanded down the dark circles and rough edges, leaving him fresh and dewy. His dark hair was growing longer, curling at the nape of his neck where it was still damp, and the warm hue from the candlelight only accented the sharp cut of his cheekbones. Dare he say it, he looked regal. With a haughty sneer and his chin up, the man before him might have belonged on that wall with the other paintings, immortalising him not as a scrappy youth on the streets, but as a young prince on his way to power.
Was it possible? It didn’t feel that long ago and yet it almost seemed a lifetime since he had gazed out upon the horizon with hungry eyes, talking about the future with Red at his side. The memory made him curious about what had become of the man. Of what had become of all the members of the Tendrils back in Nirket after he had left. What would they say if they could see him now? To think, all this time he had been a prince, destined for something more, and he thought maybe he had known it, somewhere deep down. In the quietest of nights, with nothing but the heavy rain pounding from the rooftops as he fought for sleep huddled beneath a ramshackle shelter, he had known in the way all young boys with big dreams had known. That he had been made for greater things than cutting purses and thinking of nothing but his next meal.
Had his dream found him now, upon crumbling stone on this lonely island off Yllaizlo’s shore? Or was he still the same scared lonely boy, looking for someone to tell him what to do so that he couldn’t blame himself for the bad decisions that he had made? Beneath the grandeur and the pomp the fear still lingered in his eyes, widened by things he still did not understand, like his bond to this strange riftspawn creature he had never truly met and the memories of a stranger threatening to poison him slowly, erase all existence of himself until he was nothing but a vessel for another man.
Human jam jars, indeed. His lips quirked as he remembered Rook laughing, throwing her head back and clutching her stomach. A shiver ran through him as a bead of water dripped from his wet hair. If only he had known then just how accurate that had been. If only he had known then what he knew now.
Towelling off the last of his hair and closing the last buttons of his kobi, he made a vow to check up on Rook and the others, to ensure that Sandson had got her out of her cell. He hadn’t yet said to Fyera about leaving – was still tentative around their awkward relationship – but he got the feeling she wasn’t quite prepared to let him go yet. Not when she had big plans involving him.
Viktor still managed to get lost in the network of hallways throughout the palace, partly because each new door took him to another world, one from time’s long past, full of paintings, or sculptures, or tapestries that spoke to the wealth this place had once held. The particular set of a marble jaw, or the particular shape of an archway with its ornate decorations above would trigger a vision from the past, until he could not see in front of him for the memory all around him. It left him unsettled and hesitant, trying to stick to the same routes so as not to set off the man lurking within.
Voices echoed from outside his sister’s parlour, laughter echoing through the walls as he turned and lingered in the doorway, suddenly unsure of where to place his hands, how to smile when he greeted someone, or whether he was supposed to bow before these strangers. Instead he froze on the threshold, observing them interact like a scientist dissecting his subject so that he might uncover the secrets of the world.
“Ah, Viktor,” said Fyera, glancing up, “come in, why don’t you? Come and greet our guests.”
Viktor shuffled inside, dipping his head at the three strangers – two men and one woman – who stared openly at him in a way that made him want to cover his face and hide. Instead he puffed out his chest and fixed a sneer upon his face. Let them see what they wanted to see if they were going to gawk at him like a prize exhibit.
“This is Leinahm Sha-wei, Yrnah Sha-wei, and Korshei Tallnyr-wei.”
Each face bowed in turn as they were introduce
d to him, eyes never leaving him. It was a heady feeling, to have them gaze upon him with a mixture of such trepidation and wonder. It had him falling into the part, cocking his head as he sized them up one at a time, revelling in the widening of their eyes and the quick glances shared between them.
“They have come to pledge their support in favour of our endeavour here.”
Viktor raised a brow. “Our endeavour?”
Fyera shot him a look. “To reclaim the island.” She fixed a calming smile on their guests. “We are going to claim back what is ours from these imposters. All those years ago they murdered my brother and I and dared to take the place we once called home as their own.”
Soldiers marching. An execution in the town square. Rage and anger. He didn’t get the chance the save his sister. On a sinking ship, forced there by an unruly Riftkeeper. The rifts all collapsing as guardians died one by one. But he never made it on time. Cold, cold water and splintering wood falling around him. He had died that day, when the boat went under. A powerful riftspawn had attacked them – he could remember its dark, rippling energy and the cry emitted from its pale, bat-like form. He had drowned, taken by the waves. The man of fire felled by water.
Viktor blinked back into the room to find them all staring at him again. “What?” he snapped, a flush rising on his face.
“Viktor sees visions of the past now. It will not be long before he truly remembers,” Fyera explained to them, all nodding like salivating dogs. “What did you see, brother?”
He didn’t appreciate being under such scrutiny, not from his sister and certainly not from strangers. With a scowl, he said, “I saw it. My death. My last death, I mean.”
One of the men – Korshei – shook his head. “To think we would be alive to see the day when two Siklos walk the earth once more. It is a sign that we must rise and stand up for change.”
“They took our youth from us. They took our island. I say it is time we unite to avenge our deaths and those of our forebears.” She nodded to them. “We must take a stand against this tyranny and show that we will be cowed no longer.” A flourish of her fingers ignited sparks of green fire that she weaved around her fingers. The flames danced in the reflection of her eyes, as if lit from within.
The Reaping Season Page 25