by Brandon Barr
“Do you want the Empyrean’s blood on your hands?”
“I’m not the one holding the sword,” said Arentiss.
“Your choice determines what happens next,” said Rueik. In one swift motion, he tossed the sword away then placed a gloved hand at Karience’s throat. “I may be a Shadowman, but I keep my promises.”
Arentiss froze. The fingertips of the glove glowed faintly red. She couldn’t bring herself to take another step.
“Go,” commanded Karience, beginning to thrash in Rueik’s arms. “That’s an order. Run! RUN!”
The red light flashed brightly from Rueik’s gloved hand. Karience screamed and her head twisted in Rueik’s grip.
Arentiss took a step toward her, hands outstretched, but it was too late. Karience’s body collapsed upon the ground, her head dangling unnaturally against her shoulder.
For a moment, Arentiss stared in horror, Karience’s last cry echoing in her head, piercing her to her bones. Then she was running. The crunch of Rueik’s feet was close behind her. Ahead lay the ruins of the Guardian Tower. The road she was on wound around it, then down to the portal. If she stayed on the road, he was going to catch her. He was already closer.
Making a sudden decision, Arentiss swung left, leaving the road and hurling into a row of bushes. It was too dark to see where she was putting her feet. One false step would send her tumbling to the ground. She tripped over unseen stones and stumbled through bushes. Hopefully, Rueik was less sure-footed. She heard him breathing hard behind her. She cut sharply between two dimly-seen boulders, picking up some scratches as she crashed through another bush.
She gained a little on Rueik, but not enough. The portal was still too far away. He would catch her before she reached it.
Arentiss had an idea. She acted on it instantly, knowing she was almost out of time.
She stopped and scooped up a handful of sand, straightening up as Rueik charged up to her.
Then she threw it in his face.
Cry about this, Rueik.
RUEIK
Rueik rubbed his wool sleeve across his eyes and tried to blink out the sand.
He hissed out a string of curses, unable to keep his eyes open for more than a moment. He stood there, rubbing them, his lungs sucking in air.
“Are you going to abandon Winter?” shouted Rueik. “Are you going to leave her and go through the portal?”
The sound of Arentiss running through brush was much further away now.
“I’m going to kill her, you hear me?”
She wouldn’t abandon Winter, would she? He felt he knew her too well. If he could get Arentiss down into the facility, there would be any number of opportunities to kill her and Winter.
Rueik changed course and stumbled through the brush as he searched for the path to the facility. He rubbed his eyes as he went, unable to purge the irritating granules of sand that had been flung in his face.
When he reached the facility entrance, he climbed down and took the moving platform into the guts of the building. He found the communications center and sent off a quick message to Chavereel, Isolaug’s Shadowman hidden in the Ministry of Information.
Intercept all transmissions from Birth’s portal city immediately. Arentiss knows who I am. Detain her for me. Our Master’s identity is at stake.
He departed and searched every room, every closet in the facility. The only person he found was a man tied up in the common room. It was Theurg.
“Please,” cried Theurg. “It wasn’t my choice to have Winter killed.”
Theurg seemed to suddenly take in Rueik, his arm, dripping blood onto the floor, the blood spattered across his face.
“Where is Winter?” asked Rueik.
“I don’t know,” said Theurg frantically. “I don’t know!”
“Who’s trying to kill Winter?”
“It was our orders. Direct from Sentinel Cosimo.”
Rueik grabbed the man’s collar. “Why—because she’s a Seer?”
Theurg stared at him in fear. “Yes. And she’s named in an ancient prophecy.”
Rueik decided not to kill the man. Two things were clear. Arentiss and Winter were both no longer on Loam. Rueik left Theurg tied and made his way back out of the facility. Quickly, he took the trail down to the sea cliff, to the portal that would send him home.
His master needed to know about Arentiss.
Rueik had blown his cover. Arentiss would rat him out, and that meant the Guardians would likely find out that Hearth was a Beast world. All of Isolaug’s work to conceal that would come crashing down.
How his master would react, he couldn’t be sure, but it didn’t matter. The sooner he warned him, the more time Isolaug would have to devise a strategy.
If his master did not kill him for his failure, Isolaug might give him the chance to complete his mission.
He would go to Birth. Find Arentiss. Cut her damned legs off so she couldn’t run away, then beat her brains in with them.
HEARTH
War gives humans the hope of dignity. It is an opportunity to prove oneself and grow stronger. In killing or displacing another set of humans, the dead or expelled leave behind a bountiful harvest—homes, riches, positions, ships, livestock, whatever you fancy to take hold of.
And the more we war, the more there is to take.
It is a truth that power and pleasure are the only pure things worth living for. Abandon your lives to me and my vision, and you will have power and pleasure for all eternity.
-Isolaug, the Beast, to his Shadowmen, lower temple amphitheater.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
PRASEME
Ceramic cups rattled on Praseme’s tray, and a candle rested at its center, lighting the cold passage. She walked carefully up a servants’ stairway, her heart racing with excitement and fear. The hot, drugged teas sloshed a little as she came to a stop before four guards in the upper tunnel, standing before a wood door. She was familiar with the room within, for it had once held barrels of wine, and the year before, bags of flour and salt. A short tunnel led from the wood door to a metal door inside.
Praseme smiled as she approached. “It’s too early in the morning to be standing guard,” she said sweetly.
“Your pretty face and those steaming drinks make it far more tolerable,” said one of the soldiers, not impolitely.
“Compliments from the kitchen,” said Praseme with a bow of her head. “Enjoy.”
When all had taken their drinks, she left, passing a lookout placed in the shadows at the top of the servant stairway. Praseme stopped at the bottom of the servants’ stairway and joined a throng of other staff. Mica stood there, along with six stablemen and older boys apprenticing. Mairena, the kitchen matron, was whispering to a young male cook and a broad-shouldered serving girl, both big and formidable. And there were half a dozen others from a variety of servant positions.
Praseme moved close to Mica, who held a small rope. The other end was held by the lookout at the top of the stairs. The moment the guards realized they’d been drugged, the lookout would tug hard twice on the rope.
The two tugs came quickly, and the servants rushed up the stairs. Praseme followed at the tail end, and when she arrived at the top, the four guards were already subdued, gags tied around their mouths. Praseme followed Mairena through the wood door and unbolted the metal door within.
Praseme yelped with excitement when she saw Meluscia, “Surprise!” she said with tears in her eyes.
Meluscia’s mouth fell open. “Praseme? Mairena?”
“We conspired to free you, my dear,” said Mairena merrily. “You have a small army of servants at your service just outside.”
“You must move quickly, my dear,” said Heulan, who stood beside Terling.
“Has blood been spilled?” asked Meluscia, her eyes concerned.
“A cut on a stablemen’s arm, a knock on a soldier’s head. Just nicks and scratches.” Mairena’s eyes sparkled. “We quadrupled the moonleaf drug for sleeping and put it in
their teas. They were quite wobbly when we took them.”
The relief was plain on Meluscia’s face. “I’m glad to hear it. You’ve taken a great chance with your lives for my sake.”
“You belong on the throne,” said Praseme. “It is the sentiment of every servant here.”
“She’s right,” cried Mairena. “Now, how can we help?”
MELUSCIA
Meluscia found the four guards gagged and blindfolded in the tunnel. Torches held aloft by several servants cast warped shadows against the wide passage.
It was difficult to tell the number of servants gathered there, but they seemed to be of the muscular sort, except for Mairena and Praseme. She saw Mica, but quickly glanced away to other familiar faces.
“What would you have us do, Luminess?” asked an older boy beside Mica.
Luminess. The word breathed hope through her.
She took the treaty from her inner cloak pocket. “I must deliver this to my father, but I fear Valcere has put himself head-deep in his own treachery. He knows the stakes if I succeed in waking my father. I fear he is not far from resorting to bloodshed.”
“We will defend you with our lives,” whispered a brawny young man whom she knew from the kitchen staff as Kren.
Hushed words of agreement reverberated in the passage.
Meluscia lifted her hand. “I forbid you fighting any more than you already have. If it comes to it, I will challenge Valcere myself. If he dares accept my challenge, then he will do so to his own ruin.”
Mica knelt first, and the others followed. She turned and saw Heulan and Terling kneeling also.
“We are honored to help protect you,” said Mica.
“Any of you who are willing to risk further danger, I would be grateful if you’d accompany me to my father’s room.” She turned to Mairena and Praseme. “If the two of you would spread news about my imprisonment and Valcere’s treachery throughout the Hold, I am certain no small earthshake will rattle this place to the core. Most of the soldiers are not our enemy, only a few under Valcere’s influence.”
Meluscia looked up the sloping passage. It was not far to her father’s chambers. “Those who are coming, follow me.”
She fingered the hilt of her sword, remembering the Maker’s promise.
Then she broke into a run.
Chapter Forty
MELUSCIA
Two guards stood before her father’s room. They drew their swords at Meluscia’s abrupt approach and the sight of the servants following behind her. Signaling the servants to halt, Meluscia took a torch from a brawny woman beside her and went slowly forward.
She saw fear and questions written on the guards’ faces.
“I am Meluscia, Trigon’s daughter.” She held the torch before her so they could see her face. “Make way for me and my friends. We wish to see the Luminar.”
“Afraid not,” said one of the guards. “Orders are that no one enters.”
Meluscia kept her voice calm. “My father is dying. You would keep me from him at this hour?”
“Not I, my Lady,” said the soldier warily, as if counting the number of men behind her. “Valcere has given me my orders.”
“Then I demand that you suspend your orders immediately,” said Meluscia coolly. “Valcere is a traitor to my father. I will be given entrance, as Luminess Imminent. If you would sheath your swords and let us pass, you will be exculpated of any wrongdoing under Valcere’s command. It is that or face my wrath, and that of my friends.”
The two soldiers looked at one another, then both put away their swords.
Meluscia strode past them and entered her father’s room. Candles glowed about the walls. To her surprise, Katlel stood beside the physicker, a book in his hand. He appeared to be reading scriptures to her father.
“Meluscia!” he cried. “You’re home!”
She knelt beside the bed and found her father’s hand.
“I’m afraid,” said the physicker, “this may be his last night. He is close.”
She stared down at her father’s pale face, the weight of the moment hitting her chest hard. The sight of him contradicted her childhood memories of her father in his health. Suddenly, she felt her fingertips begin to tingle, just as they had in the meadow with the Maker.
Was her father to be healed? Or was she simply giving him strength? Strength to read the treaty and declare her Luminess.
A thought passed through her she knew immediately to be wicked. It was of losing the crown once again, only this time, to her father.
It was healing she felt in her fingers, and she felt anger and shame all at once.
“It’s a pity King Feaor is as stubborn as your father,” said Katlel. “If you couldn’t persuade him, none could.”
“You’ve heard lies,” said Meluscia. “Do not trust the bull my father has placed as judge.” She brought forth the treaty from her cloak. “It is signed.”
Katlel stared in confusion, then cried, “Praise the Makers!”
“Your father cannot speak,” said the physicker. “He is too far under the malady.”
“He doesn’t need to speak,” said Katlel, “Many know of his promise. That if Meluscia returned with a signed treaty, then she is to be made Luminess.”
Meluscia looked at her father and the dark, ugly thought returned.
If you heal him, he will spoil the promise you made to Feaor. War will continue.
These felt like noble reasons to keep her healing hand at her side, but she knew the logic to be wicked. “Curse my ambitions,” she said under her breath. Her father’s face loomed before her, sickly, fragile. She longed to see him as he once was.
And what did she know of the future, might her father not soften, especially once he heard Meluscia’s account? And if he knew of the spies that Savarah had listed and how Isolaug was on the verge of gaining some mysterious power that would crush them all, would her father not turn his eyes to his true enemies?
A sense of peace came to her heart at the thought of her father’s health returning. Perhaps she was not to be Luminess after all, but to play some other role.
She spread her hands and placed them lightly on her father’s chest. Between them, she laid her head over his heart. Tears came to her eyes at the thought that, through her hands, her father would be made well by the Makers.
The warmth in her hands began flowing down into her father’s chest. The sensation was pure power, like nothing she could describe. She closed her eyes, absorbing the moment, in awe of it.
A cry of alarm came from the room’s entryway. She lifted her head to see Valcere flood through the door with a mob of soldiers. The loyal servants who’d come with her pressed back to where she, Katlel, and the physicker stood.
“You’ve caused quite a stir in the Hold,” said Valcere, his eyes hard as diamonds as they glared at her. “You are no peacemaker, Meluscia. In fact, you seem to have sparked the beginnings of war within your own house.”
Meluscia saw several familiar faces behind Valcere. A few she knew were friendly. Behind him stood Rivdon. His eyes met hers briefly.
“Sometimes peace requires rooting out a tyrant,” said Meluscia. “If blood is shed, it’s on your head, Valcere. You are the one guilty of treason. I have a right to be here with my father, as his daughter, and as his peace delegate to the Verdlands.”
She held the treaty beside her head. It hung like a dagger from her upraised hand.
Valcere’s smile was ice, his eyes brimming with malice. “Give it to me.”
“The treaty is between Feaor and my father,” she said, hiding her fear behind defiant eyes.
“Your father is two heartbeats from death—mute and unable to hear. I am his chosen judge, and when he passes, I will be Luminar.” He stepped toward her menacingly. “Now, give me the treaty.”
“As long as I am alive, you will never touch the treaty, nor be Luminar.” She stepped forward, the rightness of her cause flowing furiously through her veins. “You forsook that office when y
ou imprisoned me. You sought to prevent the treaty from reaching my father so you could secure your position—that is why I call you treacherous before all who will hear.”
A hush fell over the room. Meluscia suspected—hoped—that some of the soldiers present were unaware of Valcere’s actions.
“Her treaty with King Feaor means nothing,” said Valcere. He turned and looked at the soldiers, entreating them. “She knows nothing of the skirmishes and the blood spilt by Verdlands soldiers.” He turned back to Meluscia. “You went and groveled before our enemy, without honor, without pride. He did not sign our treaty in the past, so what did you do? Whimper and beg? Bow down and plead to Feaor like a fool?” He sneered. “Tell me, did you really propose only your father’s conditions, or did you promise other things to him? Things you would do once you gained power?”
Meluscia glared at him.
“I love my father, but I am not him.” She held Valcere’s gaze. She would not hide the truth. “I promised Feaor just as you have said, but there is much you do not know, Valcere. And if I were to tell you, your stubborn mind would twist it to fit your own vision. A war-hungry heart cannot appreciate kindness and respect to one’s perceived enemies. And that, among other reasons, is why you must never be Luminar.”
The throng of servants around her shouted in agreement.
“You have the mind of a child,” snapped Valcere. “If you were a man, I might say Feaor has you by the balls. But you’re a weak, groveling woman. Tell me, did part of your side dealings with Feaor include the spreading of your legs?”
“Enough!” roared a voice behind Meluscia. The sound of it stilled her fury. She turned and saw her father, eyes open upon the pillow, teeth bared. “How dare you speak to my daughter like that! Your duty as judge is over, Valcere. I’ve heard enough. Treachery is my judgement. The dusty floors of the dungeon will be your new throne.”
Meluscia fought the urge to run to her father. Clearly, the healing had begun. But prudence held her feet. She returned her gaze to Valcere, a man turned wild by desperate words and deeds.