COBALT 7.5: A CHAMPION’S WORK
“It is our belief that, ultimately, we can accept the word of the Mundian. Peace is a possibility. But what form can this take for our people? The envoys return to report the fair treatment of our kin. They will not accept us there in number – nor would we assent to go if our presence was requested. I would not have us abandon our city, and yet what choice have we? If we are no longer hunted by land and sea… is a new life possible for us down there? Might we build a second home atop the mountain peaks, and forget our red ways awhile, that we should survive this disaster? I am a sorry Singer – may a Reaper’s Bride not step forth, and settle this matter with Yane’s decree?”
– from Princess Iseliya’s address to the Ysyri, 16,498 VC
It was after midnight when we flew home from Em’s with fresh flight-spells keeping us aloft, Zab covering us with his camouflage. Em had leashed Xastur’s spell to Xantaire’s so that the boy couldn’t just fly away, and I made certain everyone had reinforced shields in case of attack. We’d make easy targets, six people floating around in the sky like this, and I was painfully aware that, whether I wore the mask or not, my identity was now compromised. Anyone who was capable of seeing through a gremlin’s illusion would be able to spot us, and in Mund that meant we were never truly safe.
Still, we didn’t fly directly home. The spell had an hour on it, and there was no point wasting it. I’d become more familiar with Mund’s different districts over the last three months, the city I’d lived in my whole life having suddenly opened up to me – so I gave them a tour of the three Doors they’d never seen, the gargantuan portals of legend. The Spring and Summer Doors were both in Rivertown; the Spring Door stood just off a busy highway in a small plaza, its warm yellow light shining like a miniature sun over the trade-shops surrounding it. Even at this time of night, even on Yearsend, it was active and functioning, tiny-looking watchmen and magisters down there checking credentials, waving groups of salesmen and travellers through. Those outbound stepped forward into the light, disappearing, while at the same time a new group would step through on the other side, inbound from Habburat.
The Summer Door, by contrast, stood alone in a disused part of town, the presence of a dozen guards and a cordon enough to keep tourists away. This Door’s red light was no crimson glimmer like the plane-fire of infernal eldritches, but it was red. For all its homely brightness, and for all that I stayed well back from the sorcerous buzz that would set my teeth on edge, I couldn’t help but feel slightly uncomfortable looking down at it.
Asilqarith. The Sunken City. A place we’d lost centuries ago – probably another Magisterium mess-up, in all likelihood, now I came to think of it. Who else was so incompetent they could sink a city? For all I knew, just like Zadhal it might’ve been done deliberately.
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How had the druid at the Autumn Door put it, that day when I took the twins and Xassy? Something about how Asilqarith, like Zadhal, was explorable under the right conditions… wizard conditions…
I made our stop by the Winter Door a brief one – they started hassling me with questions, so I used the amount of time we’d taken as an excuse to race home. (Which I totally could’ve won, if I’d been trying.)
When we finally crossed back over Sticktown and charged down into Mud Lane, Xantaire got the door open and we headed into the apartment; I lugged the sack of presents through the doorway and shoved it in the middle of the room, letting the kids at its contents so they’d get their last bits of energy out. Once Zab ended his spell, I rejoined with him and stepped back out onto the balcony for a moment, checking the windows of our neighbours for any onlookers. A pair of old vigilers across the way were scrutinising me through open shutters. Some of Salli’s friends waved from one balcony, and I waved back a bit sheepishly. The expressions on their faces said it all.
Guess the pig’s well-and-truly out of the pen then.
I took a minute, listening to the dogs barking into the night, watching the snowflakes drift. I saw Rolo Sawdan, the father of the family, leaning on the rail outside his doorstep, and I inclined my head to the big guy. I didn’t see him often – he had wormface, the long thin pustule across his cheek wriggling away. He froze halfway through raising his beer to his lips, then, realising who I was – realising who I really was – he hurriedly went back in and slammed the door.
He’s scared of me. I’ve done nothing wrong, not approached him about what happened, not threatened Tick, never used a bit of magic on him or his family… but he’s still terrified.
I sighed, then I went back inside, shutting and locking the door behind me.
I looked around at the apartment. Xantaire had roped Orstrum into doing some last-minute cleaning, while Jaid, Jaroan and Xastur played with Jaid’s illusion-sphere and its miniature animal images. Everything looked the same… yet somehow different. It was as though something had changed, something fundamental in my relationship to the place, but I didn’t get the impression it was to do with the attack that took place here earlier… I still felt safe here; it still felt like home, even with my new plans to buy a place with Em, and my shielding was as strong as ever.
No, it was something to do with Wyre’s death. Something to do with the way my parents had been avenged. The catharsis was still seeping through my flesh, the sensations vaguely pleasurable despite the discomfort – my bone marrow itched; the interior of my skull felt like it was playing host to an army of ants.
When I’d finally come to terms with the fact they were gone, the internal transformation had brought with it the arch-sorcery, but I’d been kicking their gravestone. It was an acceptance borne out of anger and despair, the looming threat of Peltos’s Gentlemen… Now that I’d surmounted that obstacle, and other, far less prosaic obstacles besides – now I was ready to reconsider. The reality of the fact they were gone – it changed over time. It matured.
It no longer felt like their apartment. It felt like ours.
Goodbye, Mum. Goodbye, Dad. I hope wherever you are, you’re happy. I hope you don’t have to look down at all this mess; I hope you don’t have to worry about us. We’ll be fine.
I looked around at my family.
We’ll be just fine.
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