I stood on the platform, watching the bishop and his entourage file away across the arena floor. They maintained their composure in front of the crowds. Some ceremony was being conducted with the scroll that Mario had read from—they needed to perform some kind of procession to return it to the Tower. As I watched them move in single file, their bodyguards trailing further behind, I had to admire how they held themselves, Bishop Ra in particular.

A fire team was spraying down the flames still clinging to the wooden structure, and the water mixed with the smoke to create billowing clouds of white vapor. The whole thing looked as if it might collapse at any moment, but the bishop and the priests continued their solemn march across the floor, perilously close to danger, without batting an eye.

They passed the corpse of the fiend. The creature had almost immediately started to decompose upon death. Even through the clouds of vapor and smoke, I could see tendrils of steam rising from the corpse. The previously impenetrable skin of the foul thing had started to melt, chasms opening on its surface, the whole form taking on a strange and fetid sheen of decay.

Baltazar, Morningstar, and I were obliged to remain stationary on the platform as the procession trailed away from us. Morningstar had been an unexpected addition that the ceremony had needed to adapt to. A Griidlord was too sacred not to be included in such a display of noble figures, but he was not of the city. I felt that he had been gracious to stay. I could only imagine the things he could be doing with his time that were more entertaining than standing on a dais in front of a crowd from a city to which he had no allegiance.

The rotting fiend obsessed my attention. I wanted to speak to the other two, but I was afraid I’d fail to control the speakers in my helm. It was a small worry—the suit seemed to understand my intentions as I had them. But, out of paranoia, I reached up to remove my helmet.

I wasn’t sure if it would be a violation of the ceremony to do so. But I was the Oracle-damned Sword of Boston now! If I wanted to take my helmet off, what could anyone do about it?

Morningstar spoke as I reached up. His helmeted head didn’t turn as he spoke; he maintained a somber pose before the crowd.

“You don’t need to do that, kiddo,” he said.

I didn’t say anything. I was still afraid my voice would boom and the whole crowd would hear my inept response.

Morningstar seemed to sense my hesitation. He spoke softly, just loud enough for me to hear over the murmur of the crowd. Those poor bastards in the stands were obliged to wait until the procession exited the arena. The excitement of the display was over, and they wanted nothing more than to flood the streets of the city and indulge in the food and drink that awaited them.

“Tell the suit to open your face,” Morningstar said. “Will it to peel back. You’ll see.”

I had seen how the suit peeled open when the priests wanted us to exit. I believed it could happen, but all the same, the experience was disconcerting, to say the least. As I thought about baring my face, I felt the front of my helmet melt away, the mass of the material blending back into the rest of the helm. The strangeness came from the sensory shift. The surface of the suit felt like skin, but with a greater supply of sensory information and a lesser supply of pain signaling. As what essentially felt like my skin peeled away, I found my biological flesh exposed to the air. It was jarring. My human flesh was so much less sensitive than the surface of the suit that I almost felt numb. It was another example of how addicting the suit was. But at the same time, there was something strangely refreshing about letting my own nerves talk to me and tell me about the environment around me.

With my face now exposed, I said, "Are we going to pretend like that fiend appearing was just a weird accident?"

Morningstar replied, "How do you want to go about explaining those things? They're born in the storms, for Oracle’s sake! Who’s to guess what happened for that thing to show up?"

I could hear a strain in his voice that eluded explanation.

"I can’t ignore it," I said. "Where did it come from? And now? Why would it show up now? I need to know what happened. It came from the shaft to the basement. I’m going down there when this is over, and I’m going to see what happened."

The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

Baltazar spoke next. He, like Morningstar and I, continued to stand at attention, speaking without moving his head. "I’m not sure you’ll have time for that, Tiberius. Or should I say, Lord Bloodsword..."

The utterance of my new title carried a strange tingle of elation. I also had a faint sense of embarrassment. The name was maybe a little too dramatic. It had been a spur-of-the-moment decision.

He continued, "Lord Chowwick will be ready to depart with you to Dodge in a matter of hours. He dispatched his duties urgently to make himself available. I think he wants to get a measure of his new Sword. You won’t want to disappoint him, Tiberius. He does you honor by committing himself to your quest so quickly. You will, I suppose, have time to investigate this beast, but is that how you want to spend the few hours you have in the city? Dodge is days away, even under Footfield. You could revel in the festivities for a few hours at least, or perhaps attend to other business."

I paused, considering Lord Chowwick. The Shield of Boston, Arthur’s father, had decided to come with me on my most probably futile quest.

Morningstar added, "I’m sure the city will be looking into what happened."

Baltazar said, "Oh, rest assured, even if I didn’t want to, there are priests here who will spend days poring over the incident. One wizened old bastard, in particular, is quite obsessed with explaining the connection between the fiends and the Oracle. If you invest your time elsewhere, you can be assured of answers of some form upon your return."

I realized then how their tones had shifted. Neither man had dismissed me before, but I suddenly felt they were speaking to me as a peer. Baltazar had spent a lifetime assembling the political capital to become Lord Supreme. Morningstar might have been a Sword like me, but in just a few short years, he had already established himself as one to be feared in the land. But this was not a conversation between superiors and inferiors. This was talk between equals. I was one of them.

I said, "It can’t be an accident. Think about the odds. When has this ever happened before? And how often is there a Choosing? Let alone a Choosing for a new Sword? Every few decades?"

Morningstar shrugged and said, "We lost two Griidlords in three years at one point. That was hard. You’ll see what I mean after a while—those other suits become family when you fight alongside them for a few years. But I guess I’m bringing it up because it happened. Still, I get your point—lots of cities can go fifty years without seeing a suit come on the market."

There was silence for a while. Morningstar’s voice had tightened as he spoke of the loss to the city, the loss of friends. I thought I remembered hearing the tale of the events he referred to. The Griidlords were heroes, their every exploit reported from city to city.

The crowd continued to murmur. The rustle of thousands of sets of clothes alone became a constant murmur in the air.

Baltazar took a breath, then spoke. "Tiberius... when you go to Dodge, you should be aware that your father had some special interests..."

"Has," I said. "We don’t know that he’s dead."

There was a pause from both men that spoke volumes. It said, Don’t be so naive. No one survives the Horde.

As the pause faded, Morningstar said, "You know about that stuff?"

Baltazar’s response was equally surprised. "You do?"

Morningstar shifted slightly. "Ol’ Sempronius used to get me to run a few errands for him from time to time, you know, in fair exchange..."

Baltazar said, "You and I might have things to discuss."

Morningstar said, "That we might."

I burst out, speaking more loudly than intended, though still far below a volume that bystanders could hear. "What are you two talking about? What was Father into?"

Many ages have come and gone, and I know as much about them as any do. Proclivities that were once taboo have faded from view. Believe it or not, there was a time when lovers of the same gender were scorned. That was a thing of the past in my world, something few even knew of. Maybe it has emerged again in your time, and maybe this is as shocking to you as it is to me. There were only two thoughts that came to me as I waited for a response—two interests a man could have, short of murder, that would instill such scandal among the likes of Baltazar and Morningstar: enjoying animals or enjoying children. I really hoped I was about to hear that Father had a thing for sheep or chickens.

Baltazar took a breath and spoke with deep gravity. "Your father has something of a fascination with prohibited knowledge."

My eyebrows shot up. Prohibited knowledge... I knew so little of it. Ancient knowings that even the priesthood understood little of. Sacrilegious information that contradicted the word of the Oracle.

I stammered, "Why... why are you telling me this now?"

Baltazar said, "Dodge was a remote citadel, a repository of many of his treasures. You should be aware that you might find things there that are strange."

Morningstar nodded subtly. He said, "Oh, I get it. You’re right—he might find things out there. Useful things. Powerful things."