29 - THE SANGUINE TOWER

It turned out that Camillan, helpfully, knew a lot about the Sanguine Towers.

“I always knew it might come to something like this,” he explained. “So, I’ve been studying them for years. We actually had a Thorn on the inside for a while, reporting everything he saw to us. He drew maps. Listed personnel. Told us how everything worked from an insider’s point of view. Fascinating, blood-curdling stuff.” He sighed. “Only problem is, the Seeking Hand eventually sniffed him out and, well…that was the end of that.”

What he told us was this: the Sanguine Towers were all encircled by walls. The walls were twelve feet high, six feet thick, and constructed of solid stone, reinforced with iron bars. Specially selected members of the Terarch Guard patrolled the walls at all times and manned each of the two gatehouses. The gatehouses each led to courtyards, which also acted as killing zones in case anyone broke through the gates; they were narrow spaces that could be easily surrounded by a defending force. Moreover, there were four guard towers, each situated at a corner, where two walls intersected, forming a defensive square. There were at least four Sun Knights at every Sanguine Tower at any given time. Camillan had no reliable information regarding the presence of Seeking Hand operatives, but that was typical of their order; they were masters of secrets.

The Towers themselves, protruding out of a fortified base, were usually ten storeys high. The portal itself was on the ground floor, which was vast; the gates to the Tower were, Camillan said, incredibly tall and wide, and this was because one of the primary uses for the blood portals was to transport supplies and equipment from one Autarchy city to another instantaneously. This meant that everything had to be sized appropriately; carts and wagons needed to be able to get through all of the gates.

There were other things, too, inspection zones, administrative points, a barracks, and so forth, but the rest of the details didn’t matter much for the rough plan that was beginning to take form in my head

There were, however, pieces of information that I wanted to know, that Camillan couldn’t supply.

“How do the portals actually work?” I asked. “Are they always open?”

Camillan shrugged. “No, they’re not always open—but I don’t know how they actually work. All our contact told us was that the Sanguine Ministry has officials who live on site, and who operate and manage the portal. The person in charge of the whole Tower is called the Tower Commander. There should also be a section here…” and he drew a circle on the diagram of the facility he’d created for me, “...where victims are sacrificed. If the place has an official name, I don’t know what it is. Nor do I know how they sacrifice them, how many they need to sacrifice to get the portals working, or how, exactly, it actually opens up the portal.”

“Very helpful,” I said dryly.

“You have to understand that the general public isn’t even supposed to know that the Sanguine Ministry exists. The Towers are usually explained away as simply being military bases. The citizens don’t know about the portals, or about the sacrifice. There are rumors, of course, and suspicions, but…” another shrug. “I’m sure you know how it is by now. Everything is locked down tightly, and if you ask too many questions, you get vanished. And I’m guessing that means you probably end up in one of those fucking sacrifical chambers.”

It was a lot to take in. The complexity of the system was astounding, but even more astounding was the fact that they managed to even maintain any veneer of secrecy at all. It was just further proof of how oppressive the regime was. How well-trained the populace had become.

And how afraid everyone was of the Autarch’s wrath.

“Now that you know how it all works…” Camillan said. “What’s your genius plan?”

I smiled at him, displaying a confidence I didn’t actually feel. “We’re simply going to walk in.”

#

It took a full day for everyone to prepare. Camillan left the safehouse, the hood of his cloak drawn up to conceal his face. His job was to seek out certain other members of the Thorns, invaluable members who were too compromised to stay in Tymora. He, and those he gathered, would meet us close to the Sanguine towers at midnight.

And then it would be time to put my plan into action.

I was restless all day, pacing back and forth, hands sweating, guts churning. Justinia tried to force me to eat but I simply couldn’t stomach any food. I managed to sip some water, at least. A thousand thoughts ran through my mind all at once: my plan was terrible. My plan was barely even a real plan. It was going to get all of us killed. And why, why were all these people, who were older than me, and in many ways, much more experienced, actually going along with this as though I was supposed to know what I was doing?

It was madness. But there was no going back now.

Felice found me practically running circles around one of the small, rundown rooms at the back of the safehouse. She stood in the doorway, watching me for a moment, and then said, “You’re making me dizzy.”

Stumbles raised his head from where he was curled up in a corner. The cat rather liked Felice. He had good taste.

“Apologies,” I said, still pacing, hands clasped behind my back. There were a million things that could go wrong. What if the Autarch was close to the Tower? What if he was there? What if they expected us to make a run at the portal and had already locked down the whole zone? What if they didn’t care for our bluff?

It was all too much.

Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

“Aurion, you’re going to exhaust yourself before we even start. At the very least, you need to eat.”

“Can’t,” I said, attempting a weak smile. “I think I’d vomit if I tried.”

“A piece of bread at least. I have some spare.”

“I’ll be alright.”

“Aurion.”

I stopped pacing. “Yes?”

“I know it’s difficult, but try to stay calm.” She held up a hand to forestall my next words. “It’s a lot of pressure. Trust me, I get it. In your position, I think I’d be pissing myself.” This caused me some mild shock—I hadn’t expected Felice to use a word like that. But then maybe I just hadn’t been paying enough attention. “But, realistically,” she continued, “whatever you’d come up with is the best shot we have, seeing as how no one else has any idea what to do. At least you have a plan. Maybe it fails. Maybe we all die horribly.” She shrugged and gave me a smile I found endlessly endearing. “But at least we tried.”

I stared at her. “Felice…I have to be honest with you, if that was meant to be comforting…it wasn’t.”

“Oh.” Her smile turned into a frown. “Damn.”

I sighed and sat down, cross-legged. “It’s particularly hard because this isn’t just about me. I’m not afraid of death. But your life is going to be in my hands. I like you, Felice.” And then, immediately self-conscious, and terrified my words had just come across poorly, I added, “And, I, uh, like Justinia, and Stumbles, and Camillan, and even Amaline, although she can be a right bitch. Knowing that all of you could die because I devised what might be the worst plan to ever be attempted…that doesn’t sit right with me.”

Felice sat down in front of me. She placed a hand on my leg. A shiver went through me.

“What do you think it’s like? The Void?”

I shouldn’t have been surprised that she’d go back to that. Now that I’d planted that information in her mind, how could she do anything but think of it?

“I have no idea,” I said honestly. “And I hope none of us will find out anytime soon.”

Felice nodded. “For what it’s worth, I trust you.”

“That is worth a lot,” I said quietly. I paused, and then, into the silence, said, “May I ask how you ended up with the Thorns? It’s just that…”

“What?”

“You’re pretty. Smart. And you have manners. You’re not…well, you’re not quite like the other Thorns I’ve met. So I’m just wondering…”

Felice sighed and turned her head, and for a moment I feared that I’d gone too far, asked too personal a question too early—but then she met my gaze and said, “You must not tell anyone, Aurion.”

“I promise I won’t.”

“My father…” Felice closed her eyes. “Well. This is difficult to say. You know, I haven’t told anyone this before. Except for Camillan, I suppose.” Her eyes opened, bright, terrified, and her fragile smile told me that telling me whatever she was about to tell me was one of the most difficult things she could do.

“Autarch Marak is my grandfather,” she said.

A chill surged through my blood. I stared, eyes wide; my initial instinct was to search for some sign that this was a joke. It wasn’t. I could see that.

“I…” I swallowed hard. I need to be careful with how I replied. “I was not expecting that.”

“Of course not.” Felice was avoiding my gaze now. “But that’s the truth. My father is Samoth, a direct son of Marak.”

I tried to wrap my head around it. I knew very little about the Autarch’s family. I knew that his wife, Amara, was First Lady of the Autarchy, and the most powerful woman alive. She was one of the immortals. I knew a little about the Autarch’s first two children. Tasadir and Nera, and what had become of them. But there were many others, sons and daughters born across the centuries. Most were no longer alive.

“And may I ask…how old is your father?”

“Sixty-three,” Felice said tonelessly.

“Is he…?”

“Immortal?”

I nodded.

“Yes. All of the Autarch’s children are. I know what you’re probably going to ask next—am I immortal?”

That was, indeed, the question that had popped into my mind.

“Not quite,” she said. “It is my understanding that each generation out from the Autarch is a little more mortal. To be sure, I will probably live for centuries, assuming I’m not killed, but I’m not truly undying in the way that Marak and the others claim to be.” She shrugged. “Not that I’d want to be. I don’t want anything from them, Aurion. Do you understand? The reason why I’m here, with the Thorns, is that my father, Samoth, was awful. He hit me. He hit my mother. He is a cruel, vicious man. And when I was just a little girl, my mother, brave woman that she is, ran away, and took me with her. She fled to Tymora.” Felice’s eyes became distant. Cold. “But Samoth followed us. If you don’t recognize that name, maybe you’ll recognize the Twilight Angel. That’s what everyone calls him. What he prefers to be called. And he found us here, Marak, and he butchered my mother in front of me. He wasn’t even angry. Just cold. Like he wasn’t even human. I ran, then, and he just…let me. Het let me go. And sometimes I think it’s because he knew that if I didn’t run, he’d kill me. I spent a full year begging on the street. I was ten years old and a granddaughter of the Autarch, but there I was, homeless, alone, afraid, reduced to…” her voice choked. She stopped and lowered her head.

I edged closer and placed a hand on her arm. I didn’t say anything. What was there to say?

“Anyway,” she whispered. “Camillan found me one day, and he took me in. And the day I learned what his real goal was, what he’d been planning to do for so long, I wanted in. And it’s all I’ve wanted since.”

Marak’s granddaughter, obsessed with revenge.

I could hardly blame her.

The moment felt surreal. My hand on her. Marak’s blood in her veins. And both of us united toward the aim of killing him and burning his empire to the ground.

“If this changes your view of me,” she said, “I understand, of course. And I would not blame you. I hate myself more than you could ever match, rest assured.”

Sparks of anger. I gently touched her chin and tilted her face up so that our eyes were once again locked. “I do not hate you. The complete opposite, in fact. Thank you, Felice, for telling me all of this. But it doesn’t change anything. We can’t choose our family.” My other hand slipped around hers, gave it a squeeze. “Let’s burn these fuckers to the ground. Together.”

A shadow of a smile played across her lips. “I would like that, Aurion. I have one request.”

“Name it.”

“You can have the Autarch. But my father…the Twilight Angel…” her eyes shone malevolently. “He’s mine.”