“I see,” Brother Jerod said. “I suppose I can explain it to you, then. A revenant is a kind of monster. They cannot die, at least in the traditional way. That was a variant called a curseblade revenant. They’re the result of foul artificing that attempts to subvert Marketh’s will by granting revenant immortality to a rissian. It doesn’t actually work, as you saw. The immortality they gain only turns them into a creature of evil.”
“Are you talking about that sword he had? That was the source of his power?” Brother Jerod nodded. “So you’re saying someone who might otherwise die can use a blade like that to extend their life?”
“For a time,” Brother Jerod said. “It always ends the same. A clean death is better.” The words of the other me started to make more sense. When he had said he was already dead, he meant it literally. The cancer finally got him and he used that cursed blade to extend his life. It was a shame he never got to warn me about any of the events that led him to get that desperate. All I could hope was that just showing up at all changed enough things that I could avoid his fate. Getting trapped in an endless cycle of death and time travel seemed horrifying. I did find it interesting, though, that nobody had mentioned cursed magic swords as a potential cure for my cancer yet.
“Back to the questions,” Brother Jerod said. “Do you know the identity of the revenant from when it was alive?”
“Were you paying attention?” I asked, rather than answer the question. “I just got to this world a few days ago. How could I know anyone? I can count the number of people I know in this world on one hand.”
“Please stick to yes or no answers only,” Brother Jerod said. I was specifically avoiding doing that, of course. Asking me to stop was going to make it that much harder to avoid suspicion.
“Sorry,” I said, as though it were an honest mistake.
“It’s okay,” Brother Jerod said. “I know you’re new to all of this. It is unusual, but not unprecedented. Next question: did you notice anything unusual about this particular revenant?”
Yeah, about a hundred things. “No? I don’t know. I’ve never seen one before, so I assume whatever I saw was perfectly normal for those things.”
Brother Jerod sighed. “This is obviously a waste of time,” he said. “But just to humor Brother Marcus, can you confirm it was trying to kill you?”
“Yes! If you and your team hadn’t arrived when you did, it might have succeeded.”
“And why were you still behind when the gates were closed? The Porters told us everyone got out before they locked it down.”
“Well, they said there wasn’t actually an attack, so I thought running around would be a waste of energy. I was just going to sit and wait for the lights to come back on.”
The older paladin placed a hand on my shoulder. “That was as brave as it was stupid, boy. I am glad we got here before it killed you. I’ll let you go. If you remember anything that you think might be of use to us, come to the Church of Marketh anytime.”
I almost smiled to myself at being such a useless witness. For once, not knowing anything had gotten me out of a problem instead of into one. At the very least, I learned not to let any paladins pin me down with questions in the future. A lie detector and only yes or no answers would be pretty much impossible to squirm out of.
A paladin arrived with a long, thick black box that was nearly polished enough to see reflections off the surface. He dropped it onto the ground next to the sacks of sand the others had collected and opened it. Two other paladins used a pair of tongs to pick up the black sword and place it in the box. They dropped the sacks of sand in with it, then latched it closed with thick steel clamps. The feeling of dread that had permeated the room ceased immediately. I’d gotten so used to it, I was surprised at the feeling of relief that spread over me when it disappeared.
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“Get that civilian out of here,” someone said. The paladin closest to me shooed me towards the hallway the rest of them had come from. I went without resistance.
“Why did it crumble like that after it died?” I heard one paladin ask another.
“It’s a bad omen,” his fellow answered.
“You don’t think it was—”
“That’s impossible,” the other cut off.
I was forced to keep walking and eventually couldn’t keep track of the conversation. It interested me to hear the death of my other self had apparently been so unusual. I wondered if that was because of the time travel or if the future me had prepared something like that ahead of time in the event of his death specifically to protect me from being linked to him. It would make sense if he’d known he was beyond saving. Maybe the only reason he’d come back at all was to give me a warning. The only thing he’d managed to really warn me about was that Brother Marcus was apparently “right”. I vowed to follow up on that. The other me had died to give me that warning.
When I got back to the reception area with all the lines, everyone was gone. A pair of paladins were standing in the doorway, addressing a crowd of people outside. “Everything is under control,” a paladin called over the din of conversation. “We dispatched the monster and the remains are being removed as we speak. The Porters will let everyone back inside. You will need to see someone at the front desk to sort out your tickets if you were in the middle of a transfer. Please enter in a calm and orderly fashion.”
“What about my ticket?” a man in a leather coat asked. “I was in the middle of a multi-jump trip! I ran into the nearest Doorway back in Kamenor. I’m supposed to be in Hoth right now!”
“All questions about travel will have to be sorted with the Porters,” the paladin said.
People started moving then, pushing past the paladins. I’d seen videos online of that type of mad rush to be first in line. As the only civilian on the other side of the door, I was in a unique position to claim a front slot. Recalling the package that the Porters in Oxenraith had told me about, I decided to do just that. I hopped in the nearest line and rissians crammed in behind me by the dozens. There were more people wanting to get in line than there was room in the entryway.
A rissian woman with sunken cheeks and curly hair opened the counter in front of me and waved me forward. “The Porter’s Guild is sorry for the interruption in service,” she said as soon as I reached the counter. “As always, your safety is our number one priority.” It sounded like she was reading from a script. I gave her a polite smile to let her know I didn’t blame her for anything. “Will that be parcel, port, or private today?”
“Parcel,” I said.
“Name?”
“Vincent Koutz,” I said. “I was told there was a package for me from a Lady Moxie.”
The woman pulled out a metal clipboard and tapped some instructions into it with a stylus. “Oh yes,” she said after a moment. “We just got that delivery in. You were very fast! One moment, please.” She kneeled down beneath the counter and returned with a small wooden box. “Here you go,” she said. “And it looks like the sender already paid the fee, so you don’t owe us anything. Have a wonderful day!”
I thanked her and stepped out of line. I would have liked to check out what the package was right away, but with how busy the lobby had become, I stepped outside first. I found a bench built into the outside wall of the Porter’s Guildhouse out in the town square and stopped there. The wooden box was no taller or wider than my hands, but it had some weight to it. A strip of paper with a winged sigil embossed in copper sealed the package closed. I was able to crack it with my thumbnail, then pull the lid off. Inside was a leather pouch big enough to fit in both my splayed hands. I lifted it out of the box, finding it to be fairly heavy for its size. It jangled with the sound of metal-on-metal. I pulled the strings on the pouch loose to see what was inside. It was filled with strange triangular coins that sparkled with a rainbow of colors, like the iridescent coating on the inside of pearl shells. Tucked in among the coins was a folded note. I pulled it out and found Brookie had written in a dainty script with lots of extra curls and flourishes. I never would have guessed a ten foot tall ogre could have written it if I hadn’t been told that Lady Moxie was an alias.