17 - HEAVY HEART

I made the walk back with Justinia with a heavy heart. In the end, Camillan had accepted my pledge to him and his cause, and while Amaline had remained silent for the rest of our time together, I had started to feel as though I had passed some kind of test.

But the commitment weighed on me.

Not just because of the three million. For one, the plan was still unclear. I had once again asked how it was possible to even transport such a weapon into Althira, and Camillan had simply told me that all would be revealed soon. He had said that it was too dangerous for us to spend too much time together in one place and at one time, and so that we would simply have to meet again soon.

“Patience,” Camillan had said. “All of this has been years in the making. We can take a few more days, weeks, or even months, if that’s required. The most important thing is that we do this the right way.”

I could hardly argue with that, but even still, I felt unsatisfied, confused, and uncertain regarding the future.

Since Justinia was my sworn companion, and because I wanted to unburden myself, I told her everything.

By the time I was done, we were close to our inn, but not quite there. Justinia pulled me into a narrow, reeking alley and slapped me so hard that I saw stars.

Rage filled me, a darkening of my vision and a rising heat in my face—I was so shocked by how abrupt it was, how unlike my usual self, that I was paralyzed. Justinia seemed to misunderstand my limpness, perhaps thinking she’d hurt me worse than she’d intended, and stepped back with a grimace.

“You’re a foolish boy,” Justinia said.

“Probably,” I agreed, dusting myself off, forcing the rage back down. “But don’t hit me again. I mean that. You’re sworn to me.”

“Aye. But I never swore not to hit you.”

“Why don’t you first explain why I’m so foolish?”

“You’re a fool,” she snapped, “because you just threw your lot in with a man—and an organization—without knowing anything about him, or them, or what they’ve done, or what they plan to do. You saw an opportunity, desperate and mad as it was, and simply leapt for it out of…what, desperation?” Justinia shook her head in disgust and exited the alley; I hurriedly followed.

“Did you not hear the part about the bomb? There is a plan—”

“Shh,” she hissed. “Keep your voice down, would you?”

“Apologies. But—”

“I heard that part.”

“And you don’t have a problem with the three million dead? Only my foolishness?”

Justinia side-eyed me. We reached the front door of the inn and made our way up to the shared room. Despite how late it was, the main room was brightly lit with lanterns, and half a dozen men, all of whom were clearly laborers, were drinking and joking loudly. Once our bedroom door was closed, Justinia kicked off her boots, spun to face me, and said, “Why should I care about three million dead Autarchy slaves? They’ve killed far more than that in their quest for power. No, I couldn’t give less of a shit about that. I hope it works. I hope it takes Marak out, as well as the rest of his immortal cronies. My concern, rather, is for you, who I have, as you pointed out, sworn an oath to protect. I’m concerned that these people are going to get you killed.”

I sat down on the edge of my bed and looked Justinia in the eye. “I’ve already died once. I’m not afraid to do it again.”

“The next time, you won’t be waking up.”

More silence between us. I didn’t like it; didn’t want things to be uncomfortable between us, especially not when I felt as though she was still the only person I could truly trust.

“Justinia?”

She just grunted.

“Would you like to go downstairs with me and share a drink?”

Justinia pretended as though she hadn’t heard me.

“I’ll pay,” I added.

She immediately looked up and said, “Well, alright then.”

I hid my smile, and together we descended the stairs

Gavriel was behind the bar, and, seeing us, filled two mugs with ale and delivered them to the table we’d picked close to the central hearth. I kicked off my shoes, basking in the warmth of the fire, and sipped my drink. I still didn’t like ale much but it was good to have something. It was even better to be sharing in it. There was something about the communal experience of drinking with another, in a room full of others also drinking, that made me feel comfortable and settled.

I watched Justinia drain her mug in a matter of seconds and summon Gavriel for a refill.

“Impressive,” I said, eyeing her. “But what’s the hurry?”

“No hurry,” she said. “I’m just getting started.”

At that moment, I wanted to be like her, so casual, so confident, so world-weary and experienced.

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Like the innocent child I still was, I attempted to drain my own mug.

When I was done, I wiped my lips with the back of my arm and found Justinia grinning at me.

“A decent attempt,” she said, “but try again. Really throw your head back and don’t stop until it’s empty; keep your throat open. Pour that fucking liquid gold down.”

Ever-present Gavriel swooped in to replenish my mug. Justinia, maintaining eye-contact with me, annihilated another mug.

“And where,” I asked, “did you learn to do that?”

In response, Justinia rolled up her left sleeve. There, tattooed upon the flesh just below her elbow, was a black fist.

The fist of the Autarchy.

“Six years in the army,” she said casually.

I drank deeply, wiped my mouth again, and said, “How old were you when you left the Withered Isles?”

Justinia once more summoned Gavriel, then said, “Fourteen.”

My eyebrows shot upward. I was expecting the answer to be eighteen, the age at which people were initiated amongst the Isles. I tried to imagine it: a fourteen year old girl, knowing nothing about the wider world, sent out on her own and told to figure it out.

“What was it like?” I asked. “Where did you go?”

Justinia avoided my eyes. “It was fine. I came here, to Tymora; the Order at least had the kindness to give me a map, and this was the closest city. Managed to convince some farmer to pretend that I was his daughter, and that got me in through the gate. Problem was, I didn’t have the Autarch’s Gift. And so—”

“Wait,” I interrupted, “what is that? The Autarch’s Gift?”

Justinia squinted at me now, lip curling, as though she was once again realizing just how little I actually knew. “Finish that mug and I’ll answer the question.”

I stared down into the ale. The room was already starting to move around me. I’d been drunk several times before, back when my closest friend and I had stolen wine from a blind necromancer named Dagon, but that’d been a long time ago, and in a comfortable, familiar environment.

Still, I wanted—needed—to know more about Justinia.

I finished the mug.

Gavriel returned. I said, “How do you do that? How do you always know?”

The grizzled innkeeper winked at me. “Magic.”

“So,” Justinia said, settling back into her chair. “You really don’t know anything about the Gift?”

I shook my head.

“When a child is born,” Justinia said slowly, “the birth must be witnessed. That has been Autarchy doctrine for over two hundred years now. The Ministry of Life records all new babes—they write down the date of their birth and their name. And then they give to the child the Gift.”

“Uh huh,” I said, frowning. “Which is what, exactly?”

“A piece of bone,” Justinia said, “taken from the Autarch himself.” She held up a hand to stop whatever question I was about to throw at her next. Truthfully, there were too many questions to pick one to start with. “I know what you will say next: that it is not possible. That there are millions of people and only one Autarch. Yes. That is true. But the Autarch is capable of duplicating his own body. Do not ask how—it is not known. He does this so that he may take his own bones from his copies. And then a piece of their bone, perhaps the size of a coin,” and she held up two fingers, forming a small circle, “is implanted inside the baby.” She tapped her left shoulder. “Here, roughly.”

I stared at her, aghast. “Why? To what end?”

Justinia grimaced. “I take it that you don’t know about the Collective Dream.”

“That is a reasonable assumption, yes.”

Justinia rubbed her eyes. “It is all too much to explain at once, Aurion. Here, drink some more ale.”

“I don’t think more ale is going to enhance my ability to comprehend what you’re saying. It’s insane—”

“It’s just the way that it is. Every citizen of the Autarchy who has received the Autarch’s Gift is united in what they call the Collective Dream. This Dream is maintained by the Autarch and one hundred versions of himself—these One Hundred are imprisoned beneath his Void Throne; they suffer constantly, their minds tortured, in order to power and sustain the Dream.”

“Wait,” I said, taking another sip. “You’ve been fucking with me this whole time, haven’t you?” I winced. “I’m one gullible idiot.”

Justinia’s expression, however, was entirely humorless. “I am not fucking with you. This is real, and it’s something you need to understand.”

“And this Dream…” I said. “What is it?”

“It is difficult to explain. It connects you to everyone, and to the Autarch. He can…talk to you. Come to see you at night, in your dream. He tells us things, and sometimes shows us what he thinks we need to see. And in a way, we can feel the presence of everyone else in the Dream. Millions of us, our minds pulsing alongside each other.”

Cold dread slithered down my spine. The idea was abhorrent. Monstrous. It was the perfect example of why the Autarch and his cruel empire needed to be destroyed. They twisted the fundamental nature of humans, bending mankind to their malign intent—and what was the end goal? The conquest of the stars? The absolute limit of power?

“And you’re in this Dream,” I said, this time not asking a question.

Justinia’s expression was grim. “I was. I got the implant when I learned it was the only way to get into the army. Carried the thing inside of me for years while I served. Couple of years ago, I cut it out.”

That, at least, was a relief: that they could be removed. I said, “Why don’t more people do that?”

“Why do you think?”

“It’s punishable,” I guessed.

“By death,” said Justinia.

“And how can they tell if you don’t have one?”

“Only certain people can,” she said. “Operatives, for example, of the Order of the Seeking Hand. You could remove the thing and, chances are, you’d be fine—especially if you’re just some fuckin’ farmer somewhere minding your own business. But what’s the point? Most don’t have the incentive to cut into themselves. Especially when they’ve been fooled into believing that the Gift is a good thing.” Justinia leaned away from the table and then spat—Gavriel shouted out at her from the other side of the bar. “Says a lot about the intelligence of the average Autarchy citizens. They genuinely believe that the Autarch is some benevolent god who pisses out wealth and joy.”

The door to the bar opened. There was a burst of laughter. I didn’t bother to look. More laborers, more than likely, here to vent their frustration in the safety of a sympathetic establishment.

“Well,” I said to Justinia, taking another sip of ale. “You know what I think?”

“Oh, I’d just love to know what you think.”

“Fuck the Autarch.” And I lifted the mug to my lips and downed the rest of it.

Justinia grinned at me. “Aye.” She slammed her mug against the table, shouted, “Fuck the Autarch!”

To which a voice replied, from the front door, “Doubt you’ll be saying that to whichever Operative is assigned to your cell.”

My heart dropped. I slowly turned my head.

Four Terarch Guard were staring us down from the front of the bar. Two men, two women. All armored, all armed. One gently closed the door behind them.

“Ah, shit,” said Justinia.