The royal couple lowered their voices slightly for privacy’s sake. She watched Zabe for a few long moments with hopeful expectation. The perfect time for a hard conversation would never arrive; now would suffice.
Zabe didn’t talk. He drew his face together, obviously deep in thought.
Bithia dropped the question on him bluntly and with brute force. “Are we still a thing? Is there hope for us, Zabe?” She scanned the room while wearing a brave face brimming with false bravado. The diners who met her eyes smiled warmly as if she’d somehow blessed them.
Zabe glanced back and saw the expectation on the faces of the crowd. "The people expect a wedding… and the realm needs an heir to the Architect King."
Bithia did her best to keep her posture erect and pretend that the wind hadn’t been knocked out of her emotional sails. “So your intentions are…”
“Still to marry.” He didn’t meet her gaze.
Bithia’s heart tightened. It wounded her to know that she had played some small part in causing Zabe such agony and doubt. “You loved me once… when I was Bithia… before…”
Zabe looked into her eyes and nodded.
“Can you not love me again?” Her eyes glistened with fresh pain.
Zabe’s eyes moistened likewise. “Of course. I never stopped loving you! It’s just… something has changed… I… don’t know.”
“But you still love me?”
He took her hands in his and nodded vigorously. “Always. We will still marry… I will just… need some time.”
Bithia squeezed her fiancé’s hand and nodded. “My love burns as passionately as ever—more if such a thing is possible. I have, and always will, love you.”
Chapter 29
Caivev didn’t need to search the darkness to know that she’d lost a few more troops. She could smell the death within the musty, stone tomb. Fewer mouths would help with their rationing, a necessary protocol if any were to survive.
Most of her troops had fallen weak and gaunt in the weeks since the cave-in at darquegate. They’d luckily found a small cistern to draw stagnant, bitter water from in short amounts. They could hold out for far longer than any wanted.
Most of those lacking the will to survive had already put their blasters to their skull and surrendered. At least the random chaos waves they’d experienced before hadn’t come since the destruction of the Nihil Bridge.
She glanced to her right. While most of the survivors showed signs of emaciation, Skrom seemed to thrive. He’d proved no aversion to eating the dead if it meant the difference between survival or not, and her devoted general had encouraged Caivev to join him in his feral endeavor. So far she’d declined, but knew her hunger would return in a handful of days once her body stopped burning fat cells for energy and demanded new sources; she would take him up on the offer, then.
Most of them spoke in hushed whispers. Something about the dark made all humanoids mute their words, but she caught many of them. Some talked mutiny, some pledged even deeper dedication.
Caivev wasn’t sure help would come, but she was confident if it did not, the last two survivors would be her and Skrom. The tarkhūn would probably eat her and then kill himself, she figured.
The long, silent wait drew on like a foretaste of an endless hell. Gall burned in her heart—her devotion to Sh’logath only deepened as she identified with his tormented languishment. This sensory-deprived confinement must have been what the agod’s existence felt like through the ages.
A blinding light ripped through blackness like a welding arc. Everyone in the entombed structure shielded their eyes as the illumination split into three pieces and opened a familiar, triangular shape directly adjacent to the closed Kith Gate.
Cheering arose from the troops and shouts of accolade and support for Caivev. For her part, she merely stared at the blazing aperture in disbelief. A lone tear rolled down her face, cleaning a rivulet of skin amid the sooty grime that caked her cheeks.
From the other side, the midday light and clean German sky offered an oasis of relief for the prisoners. Walther waved excitedly and beckoned her to jump through.
She strode through first, with Skrom on her heels—and then Idrakka and the three Heptobscurantum leaders. Caivev kept her head high and preserved her dignity, a second portal burned on the other side of the large studio where Cerci Heiderscheidt operated the secondary machine.
“Doctor,” Caivev said thankfully. “So glad you were finally able to pierce the veil into the Darque.”
He wrung his hands as he spoke. “It was a joint effort, in fact. I had some inside information from an outside source. I really could not have done it without his help. You really must meet… where did he go?” Walther looked around with confusion as the folk trapped in the foreign realm continued pouring through.
Percival Wainsmith stepped back into the Earth realm right on Idrakka’s heels. The billionaire smiled at the Spring-like taint of the fresh air as the icelord drew a renewed bastion of moisture to himself that would reawaken his spectacular tarkhūn abilities.
He walked nonchalantly and straightened his clothes as if it somehow improved his stature. Wainsmith looked past the machinery and laboratory equipment that cluttered the eccentric scientist’s workshop and spotted his creature. Theera the Undying slinked away from the commotion of the rescue knowing that his master would find him later. Wainsmith smiled broadly; everything had gone exactly as he guessed it would.
"He was right here," Walther insisted as if his credibility were on the line.
A booming voice from the other portal sucked the attention out of the room, stealing away all concern over Walther’s ramblings. Opposite the other energy gate Basilisk stood, flanked by two long rows of Tarkhūn behemoths. “Caivev. Daughter of the Prime—you have an oath to fulfill.”
She narrowed her eyes at the hybrid ruler of the vyrm and hissed. “I owe you nothing but the same dedication we share to almighty Sh’logath.”
“I’d hoped that you wouldn’t need any more convincing,” Basilisk said with mild disappointment. “But I’d expect nothing less from a prize as lofty as you.” He tipped his head to signal someone behind her.
Caivev whirled around as the entire room filled with a curtain of ice that separated her, Skrom, and Idrakka from the others. The frostmancer held his pistol out and waved them towards the gate. “I knew you would be more comfortable if you had your pet with,” Idrakka said, indicating Skrom.
With uncanny speed, Skrom snatched Idrakka by the throat and growled. “Traitor!” he roared, lifting him off his feet and batting the gun away.
The clacking of hands on weapons on the other side of the gate reinforced the gravity of the situation. “Please put him down,” Basilisk requested with undue politeness.
Caivev rested a hand on Skrom’s arm. “Do as he says. We must return to the Desolation.”
Basilisk’s face glowed. “Do not be afraid, Caivev. I think you will be pleasantly surprised by how I plan for you to uphold your oath—it is unlike anything you could have guessed.”
***
Zabe answered the knock on his door. “Wulftone? Come in.”
Wulftone entered his cousin’s apartment and handed him a celebratory bottle of wine he’d tied with a bow. “Congratulations. The big day is coming up soon.”
Zabe nodded placidly and then flipped the fancy bow around playfully and gave his cousin an askew look.
He shrugged. “Jackie insisted it needed to be decorated, otherwise it wouldn’t count and I would still owe you a wedding gift.”
“Fair enough,” he chuckled, searching for a pair of long stem goblets. He uncorked the bottle and poured each of them a glass.
“So how are you really doing with this whole Bithia thing?” Wulftone knew him like a brother and could sense he still had things to get off his chest.
Zabe sighed and looked around as if he needed to ensure his apartment remained private. “I confess I’m pretty knott
ed up inside.” He looked at Wulftone, face tight with turmoil. “It just… it sucks,” he used the phrase that Claire had taught them.
Wulftone nodded. Zabe didn’t need to say anything more; he didn’t need a hug or to cry. Presence was all that his friend needed.
They drank in silence for a few minutes.
“I really feel bad for Sam, though,” Zabe murmured. “I know he and the Princess were getting together tonight.”
Wulftone nodded. “Jackie was meeting her after that.”
“She wants them to know that although she is Bithia, she is still Claire, too… just… differently.”
They poured another glass each.
“You still feel the wedding is the right thing to do? You know you can always move the date back to give you more time to process this.”
Zabe shifted in his chair. “I still feel it’s right—I know that much in my bones. It doesn’t make it any easier, however.” He reached for his communicator as it chirped on the nearby counter.
Respan greeted him on the open line. “Zabe? You should come to my lab—and quick.”
“You’ve had a breakthrough?”
“Just come as soon as you can,” he said excitedly. “I have some wonderful news!”
“I’ll be right there!” He and Wulftone dashed out the door.
***
“You owe me your oath, but I would much prefer if you followed my cause from desire rather than duty,” Basilisk said as he led the way up the winding path to the peak that overlooked Limbus. His estate broke up the skyline against the backdrop of the unspeakable thing hanging in the sky: the monument to the most ambitious of Basilisk’s and Nitthogr’s campaigns.
Caivev followed at a footstep behind. Skrom shadowed her closely. Idrakka and twenty other tarkhūn warriors nearly Skrom’s equal completed the parade.
Basilisk stood at a fork in the path. One led to his mansion, the other led to the edge of his yard where his game tables and garden were located. “We have ceremonies to attend—but first, we should parley in private.” He looked at Skrom, but not with resentment—more like appreciation for such fierce dedication.
Caivev nudged her protector. “It’ll be okay. Stay here.” She followed her benefactor towards the house and glanced back to the stone gardens where mixed vyrm had gathered. Caivev could barely make out a bunch of the game boards that Basilisk had been known for; the “king” playing piece on each of them had been turned over.
Escorting her to his posh inner chamber, he motioned for her to sit on one of the sofas. She’d already resigned herself to whatever fate he’d planned for her and so she sat.
He paced for a few steps, trying to decide exactly how to begin. Caivev almost grinned at this crack in his otherwise impenetrable bravado.
“You know better than I how my brother acted: how his heart had turned to purely selfish desires. He used Sh’logath for his own purposes.”
Caivev nodded.
"I have long struggled with a question that the Architect King had whispered to me during our deal that halted the Syzygyc War. It was unanswerable and led to further questions: my ultimate search. What did I really want out of life? I have finally arrived at a conclusion—and it is one that fits into my atheology… in case you fear that I’ve abandoned my faith or lessened my dedication to the Awakening.”
She fixed him with a firm gaze. “Go on.”
“Finally, I have ascertained my only true desire and I’m ready to make it known. It is you. You will rule at my side as Queen. The repeated failures for Sh’logath’s release only prove my belief that his time has not yet arrived—but that means I need a powerful mate ready and able to help pave the way for such a time as will come. I desire a kingdom dedicated to our atheocratic rule.”
Caivev's face softened—even if she secretly suspected that he'd fallen into the same trap that had seduced Nitthogr. However, her heart tightened—suddenly awake with carnal vigor. She had certainly desired this same thing from her predecessor.
In his own right, Basilisk was not undesirable; the power and strength that he exuded made him alluring. “But would the tarkhūn race follow my lead or would they revolt at bringing in an outsider—as they nearly did so many centuries ago?”
“It would solidify the all-vyrm alliance.” Basilisk smiled. “But I have a better answer to that. I hold the thing that you have long sought. It will be yours as a wedding present. The oft-fickle Black already follow you, and the tarkhūn have never wavered in support of my rule.”
She lifted her eyes and met his gaze. Something regal and unyielding solidified on her dignified face. The slight tug of a smile indicated she would accept his proposal.
He took her by the hands and lifted Caivev to her feet before escorting her out to the party in the garden. Skrom watched her approach and his posture relaxed when he saw her countenance on the approach. She glanced side to side as they strolled. Every game-table's fallen king only made her heart flutter with glee and reinforced her feeling that this was a good match.
Charsk, a member of the vyrm’s Black caste and High Priest of the cult of Sh’logath, stood at the center of the semi-circle at the center of the lawn. A human and a vyrm stood with him. “Congratulations on finally finding the final two persons connected to your Dunnischkte.
Caivev paid him little attention. She’d never cared for his foppish cajoling at her inability to secure those necessary for the rite. It didn’t matter now, though—she had it all.
Basilisk drew a ceremonial blade and held it out for her. “My wedding gift.”
Two women sat on their knees, held down by tarkhūn guards—one was vyrm. Caivev’s last human variant wore the leather garb of the woodland people in a far-flung and secretive dimension; she trembled like a leaf.
“Marry me, Caivev. Become my queen and bear my heirs. Eventually, we will subjugate all thirty-three realms until we succeed in unleashing the Great Devourer, yielding to whatever timing he has divinely appointed.”
She tilted her head low enough that he could place a crown upon it and then accepted the knife he offered. “I will.”
Caivev stood over the two women as the vyrm priests surrounded them to guide her in the ritual. It would grant her a hybrid form and a life resistant to age and decay. The Dunnischkte blessed her with the favor and power of Sh’logath.
“We have a wedding to perform,” Charsk shouted over his shoulders. “Begin the ceremony!”
Epilogue
Zurrah put one foot in front of the other and continued the arduous walk. He had no idea where he was or how long he’d been there. It might’ve been ages for all he knew. The boy had grown accustomed to time’s irregular passage.
Something in the Darque sustained him, fed him. He learned how to avoid the chaos waves—but not after one caught him and sped his age up by nearly a decade, closing the age gap to where it might have been if he hadn’t been locked away in stasis by Nitthogr.
Far ahead, something shimmered in the distance but moved closer at rapid speed. Zurrah braced himself for battle.
The point of light rushed towards him and stopped when it arrived. It expanded into a burning, three-sided portal.
Zurrah stepped back, ready to flee when a familiar voice called out. "Wait—stop. Are you Zurrah?"
He paused. It was the same voice that he’d heard before—the first voice he’d heard after years of captivity. He looked at his own body and scratched the stubble that had grown on his face. “I… I think so, yes.”
The girl smiled on the other side of the portal and a mischievous glint flashed in her eyes. She stretched out her hand. “We talked when your door was still shut. I am Cerci.” She beckoned for him to jump through the portal. “Let’s go on an adventure.”
***
Percival Wainsmith flexed his gloved hands as he walked through the Yale University Library. His fine shoes made only a faint noise against the polished floors. The facility remained otherwise quiet.
His majordomo, Mr. Theera, followed him closely, carrying a wrapped package.
Rows and rows of books towered and passed by like a blur. Wainsmith turned a corner and headed for the Beinecke Rare Book & Manuscript Library. He knew exactly where he intended to go. His money had gained the kind of privileged access only wealth can secure.
Nobody was around. He operated with impunity as he perused the collection of occult works. He sniggered at some and raised eyebrows at others. Some of the texts, such as the King in Yellow and the Keys of Solomon were potent and dangerous while others like the Satanic Bible were nearly laughable in their potential for arcane thaumaturgy.
“The book,” Wainsmith commanded and slid an oven mitt over his hand.
Theera unwrapped the bound manuscript and placed it on his master’s palm.
Masquerading as a billionaire, the extra-dimensional being used his magic to transmute the leather of the spine, embossing it with a gilded, archaic script. He chuckled as he slid the tome between two other volumes and stared at it for a long while.
“What does it say?” Theera asked, unable to translate.
“The Divine Joke of Akko Soggathoth,” Wainsmith said. “My lesser brother is free, only bound by the book’s clasp,” he giggled, shaking his head with a broad smile. “Someday in the distant future some poor sap will pull this opuscule for one reason or another and then all hell will break loose.”
Theera followed him out—faithful, but confused. “But why do it? Isn’t the book, and a bound and powerful demigod a valuable thing?”
“Yes, dear Theera. But I do what pleases me. There is sport in the mayhem, a certain amount of fun.” They continued walking as Wainsmith digressed. “Someday I will uphold the call and release the Dark One, as Mother and Father instructed so long ago. But not until I’m ready—once life has lost all pleasure for me and I become bored with my current state of existence I will choose to trade it in for the next one.”
Wolves of the Tesseract Collection Page 58