Felun
Felun hadn’t seen the Healer since he’d done him the favour of stopping Iolite from cutting his fingers off. This time, the Healer was unconscious: crumpled facedown in his cell, submerged in a thin film of stasis once more. Felun wasn’t sure whether to be relieved or stressed out. Though, he guessed it saved Thorn the trouble of keeping the Healer sane.
Iolite was preparing to do something to the enchanted restraints, work involving several sheets of magical notation and a dozen different jars of powders and potions. She’d told him to draw circles of protection around the unconscious Healer and to stand off to the side in case something went wrong. Not that anything would go wrong, she’d said—it was just a precaution. That hadn’t sounded terribly convincing. He spun his runequill in his fingers and waited, fidgeting uselessly.
He felt the moment she opened the enchantment, a flat wave of magic thinning the air around him. Then came the taste of something unnatural, isothermal; it bled through his closed lips, stung at his eyes and made them water. The taste grated against the edges of his teeth, scratched at the insides of his cheek until his mouth flooded with unwanted saliva.
Whatever it was, it felt hungry.
The glimpse he’d taken of one of the cuff enchantments sprang to mind: something slithering through the deepest layers. Lazy, pulsing coils of hard scales and red muscle, an amalgam of false-flesh without a mouth to feed with.
There was a word for it in the tongue of this continent, wasn’t there? Devil—no, daemon. Such things made their homes in strange places. Well, why not within an enchantment?
Iolite touched the collar and each cuff in turn, and the engravings upon their surfaces glowed like phosphorous lamps. The enchantment pushed at the air; his ears popped, equalising—once, twice. She murmured song-like words under her breath for a good minute, and then stopped.
“Felun,” she said, voice suddenly unsteady. “I…require some assistance. The sense of it is not quite correct.” She took one hand off a cuff to grab a potion bottle, upending its contents over the circle’s perimeter. The magic-field quietened for the briefest of moments before flaring bright once more.
His ears popped again. Huh. He knew this feeling. It wasn’t the feeling of everything going sideways—not yet, it wasn’t…but they were getting there, slowly tipping. He thought of the daemon-thing bursting out of its containment, given shape and form and weight, and shivered inwardly. Did it make sense to a send a Breaker after something like that?
“Fine,” he said anyway, because he had to.
“I will stabilise it as best I can,” Iolite said.
He sketched the barest of shielding circles around his feet before he reached for the closest cuff, and dived.
Past the quicksilver surface and into honey-sludge marsh, he kicked his way down and wove his way deeper. This enchantment-ocean was bluer than the truest sky, brighter than the sharpest waters. He could see, in his mind’s eye, the shape of the trisected creature beneath: twenty leagues of metaphorical scales, a capsule housing an invisible thing. As soon as he thought it, the landscape of the enchantment shifted in response; the daemon lurched up to meet him.
A coil of scarred scales looped upwards in slow motion, rising like bloated flesh from black waters. He saw what the problem was, now: Iolite was trying to use her magic to slot it together, but this section had floated loose.
The creature—if it could be called a creature—was ten, twenty, a hundred times his size. How he meant to return this coil to its nest, he wasn’t yet sure. He reached out a hand to touch it, to comprehend the vastness. For a fraction of second, two minds intersected—he peeled himself away as fast as he could, reeling from the sensory input.
It didn’t intend on harming him, he realised. Honestly, he wasn’t sure it could use intent; there was no human intelligence to the thing, nothing he could translate into mere words. There was something that could be interpreted as hunger, though it stabbed into his brain by way of shining un-colours, gritty wavelengths that coalesced into signals of growth and absorption—but no hunting instinct, nor prey drive.
If this daemon harmed him, it would be by incident only; a behemoth turning in its sleep, uncomprehending of the ants it crushed beneath.
Very distantly, he was aware of his physical body coughing blood.
Okay. That was normal, relatively speaking. Not good, but still normal: no wounds bursting on the backs of his hands yet. Not too different from the deeper runs he’d done back in Ironport—but he had to work fast. He gathered strings of the environment around him, twisted them into ropes of heavy air and ocean crust and looped them around the loose segment of daemon. Then he swam downwards, towards where the rest of its body lay anchored. The lost loop of scales came with him, easy as anything; it didn’t have real weight, not here. This slumbering thing wasn’t even a fighting creature. It hadn’t wriggled free in hope of escape. Through his touch, he sensed that it had merely let itself drift towards his blood-warm aura in unconscious sampling. If he were one such leviathan, he supposed he would also question a fleck of warmth in a world where there was none.
Already, his head was starting to hurt. Coming closer to the vastness had its costs; he tasted more blood, like an afterthought.
The core of the thing resembled a puzzle as it came into view, shielded no longer by layers of enchantment-meshwork. Felun sucked in a breath. The hissing, skittering filter-feeders above held no candle to this. He’d meant to set his segment of daemon-body as hastily as possible—but of course it wouldn’t be that easy.
It was a knot of scaled tubing, like miles-wide loops of intestine. The shape of it formed an almost-sphere. How was he meant to stick this loose loop back in? The enchantment shuddered briefly around him; Iolite’s magic fizzed at the edges of his thoughts, holding the world together.
He drifted closer still, right up to the surface: close enough that whispering scales blotted out all sense of a horizon, close enough to touch. The tails of the loop seemed to emerge some ways around the curve of the sphere. He swam his way round until he found the source: a vast tunnel plunging into the nest of scaled coils. He nudged the loop of vastness forwards, and hoped it knew how to settle without him. The loop drifted and didn’t move of its own volition.
The walls of the tunnel pulsed, as if with a heartbeat. He was fairly sure he wasn’t meant to go in there; he’d probably die if it closed while he was halfway through. He gave the loop a hopeful little push into the darkness—but no. It seemed reluctant to merge back into the rest of its body.
Felun swore under his breath and surfaced.
Crashing back into his physical body was always a jarring sensation. He staggered, spitting blood.
“What is wrong?” Iolite asked sharply. “You were almost there.”
“There was a,” he started, then shook his head. “Can’t you see it?”
“Not as a Breaker would,” she said. “Describe it to me.”
He did, fumbling over his words. Whether the visual metaphor made any sense to her, he couldn’t tell; all he knew was that his runequill shook in his hand as he refreshed his shielding circle.
“I see,” she said after a pause. “Well, that is simple enough. I will paralyse the daemon for the time being.”
She reached for one of her potion bottles and mixed in a pinch of powder. Felun tried to ignore the way the enchantment shifted as she took her hand off it. It reshaped itself as if trying to subtly buck off her grip—not the daemon itself, but the rest of it, the ocean. Hostile territories.
“I will form a safety-line, too,” she added begrudgingly, and tipped back the potion. “Find it. Hold on tight. Draw the loop as deep as you can. If I do not retrieve you immediately once you are finished, send a signal. You are familiar with the process?”
He nodded jerkily, only half-aware of the blood slipping from his nose, and dived once more.
A line waited for him, as promised: gossamer-thin and sharp to the touch, tinged with Iolite-blue. He wrapped it around his wrist, even though it’d leave him with blisters for days. Small price to pay for not dying, huh? Despite himself, he could feel his expression settling into a scowl.
This time, the enchantment was easier to navigate. He got to the tunnel in moments, the segment still drifting idly. He eyed the endless tracts of scales, wary of the sudden stillness—but Iolite’s magic didn’t feel strained, and the line seemed strong enough. He reformed his own tethers and leashed the loop down, grasping it in his other hand as he swam into the tunnel.
Darkness shawled in on all sides, thick blankets of shadow. Quiet, too. Eerily quiet and uncomfortably warm. The warmth wasn’t like the glow of sunshine, or the crackle of a campfire. Dungeonrunners got a distinct feel for these kinds of things, and for Breakers he supposed it was even more so. This was the warmth of something slumbering, hibernatory.
The tunnel was vast enough that he didn’t have to touch the sides as he swam, though the loop of daemon he dragged bumped against the ceiling at points. The passing sound of scales sliding along scales made him break out in a cold sweat.
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Not in a dungeon, he reminded himself. Not in a dungeon, just arguably somewhere worse.
For a while, there was nothing but stillness save for the occasional bubble from tiny, shrimp-like filter-feeders and not-water draining from clusters of natural ostia. Felun kept glancing back at the loop of scales dragging behind him. Would it be fine if he just left it here? Or here? Probably not. He sighed and carried on, drawn deeper by invisible currents.
The safety-line stung at his hand, an anxious reminder. Eventually, he sensed the tunnel opening up into a wider space, a central chamber. He kept swimming until he bumped into a wall of scales, almost cutting to the touch. He jerked backwards and let go of the loop.
As far as you can, Iolite had said. He was pretty sure this was it; he heard no drainage outflow here, and no further tunnels to take. Backing away, he prepared a signal to chase up Iolite’s safety-line—and stopped dead.
Something was breathing.
Breathing. In here. Right here.
Shallow exhalations, made clearer by the stillness all around. His blood ran cold. He stilled his own breathing to check he wasn’t going mad from an echo before he realised he was in a false-body, inside an enchantment, and he hadn’t really been breathing in the first place.
The damn thing was paralysed, right? Overt casting shouldn’t interfere. Curiosity got the better of him, and he summoned a shielding spell.
Golden light flooded the chamber, throwing scalloped scale-edges into relief. Within that, though—he felt his throat close up at the sight: a web of tangled flesh and bone, anchored to the far side of the room with roots of cartilage. The coppery reek of blood forced its way into his nostrils, as if it had been waiting to be perceived.
He bit his tongue as his stomach lurched. He’d seen worse things, down in dungeons—far worse. Piles of arms, he reminded himself. Medic’s tents overflowing with bodies, Ishaan’s screaming, dull-eyed hope—
He looked the fleshy thing up and down and realised there was a person inside.
A face lolled out of the mess, and the side of a throat—with it, a scrap of collar as red as blood. The eyes were shut, the expression slack and drifting as if in sleep. The rest of the figure was encased by the expanse of blood and bone, glistening oily-gold under his shield-light. So that was where the breathing had come from.
Well it made sense, he thought, feeling faintly ill. He was inside an instrument of imprisonment, wasn’t he? It made a lot of sense. Small comfort, that the prisoner wouldn’t be perceiving it like this. Then again, he’d said something about feeling his cells dying, hadn’t he?
He took a step back, fingers squeezing onto Iolite’s tether.
The Healer’s eyes flicked open. Part of his face melted and dripped away, exposing bare-white bone.
They locked gazes for one, terrifying moment—though was it really seeing in the Healer’s case?—and then the safety-line near yanked his arm out of its socket as it dragged him out, rushing backwards through the dark corridor of scales.
He crashed back into his body the instant he hit open water. Pain blazed along every suture of his skull, symmetrical ley-lines of agony. He really should’ve drawn a better shielding circle, he thought dimly. A familiar blackness invaded the edges of his vision. He toppled, and Iolite’s tail whipped out to break his fall.
He was out before he hit the ground.
===
When he came to, he was laying on a cold, hard surface. Smooth, though, and not covered in flakes of plaster. His room? No, that couldn’t be right. This felt more like the laboratory, the air thick with potion-scents. From somewhere behind him came the soft murmur of conversation. He opened his eyes and winced at the spike of pain that followed—then at the matching prickle of itching in his hands: blisters burst, again. He could tell without having to look.
Faery footsteps clicked closer.
“Hello, Felun,” Iolite said. “That was most excellent work you did, back there. The issue is resolved most satisfactorily.” She stepped around him, and he heard liquid being shaken in a bottle.
His stomach turned. The sloshing sound reminded him of blood-wet flesh and of other wounds he’d rather not recall. He thought of the Healer’s face melting, skin sloughing off in sheets of colour, sliding past the contours of teeth and jawbone. He reminded himself that the enchantment wasn’t a literal thing. Still, the image of that fleshy core burrowed into his brain, chewing deep. Ishaan flitted inexplicably through his thoughts—it had been a while since he’d consciously remembered. He winced and shoved the thought away, not fast enough—images crowded in: Tyirn’s eyes with the light gone out of them and Vilette’s crumpled jawbone, lips parted and teeth blown loose.
“Drink this,” Iolite said, seemingly oblivious to his discomfort. She pushed a potion into his hand as he sat up, every muscle aching in protest. “Silverwater, show him the papers. Tell Suria the General’s foolery has forced our hand; harvest begins now.”
Felun brought the potion to his lips, almost choking on the sugary-sweetness as Silverwater pulled him firmly to his feet. The infusion of magic did make him feel better, though, and he set the emptied bottle carefully onto a bench as Silverwater gestured to the doorway.
“Come, Sungrazer Zhao,” he said with a slight bow of his head. “Let us not disturb this workspace further.”
Iolite had already turned her attention away; she muttered to herself in the faery language, tossing an egg-shaped gemstone to and fro between her hands. In the corner, a cauldron bubbled, close to foaming over.
Silverwater led him into the kitchen, which had been converted into a makeshift war room. Felun blinked at the maps tacked to the walls, the charts blanketing the table, the counter cleared for brushes and inkpots. Thorn and Curlew pored over a piece of paper together, chittering amongst themselves. Saiph perched sullenly in the corner, leafing through a tattered book.
“Uh, Lieutenant,” Felun said. “You need my help for this how, exactly?”
Silverwater picked up a set of scrolls from the table and pushed them into his arms. “There is to be a new venture. Iolite wants you to study these. Ensure you know the sort and how to break them.”
Ah. Familiar territory.
“You have plans here?” he asked. “When?”
Silverwater tipped his head in agreement. “Yes, here. Very Glister plans. And soon, I expect. Though I hear Archivist Zekore has been requesting your aid, so…expect changes abound, if you would.”
An image of the crumbling Archives flashed through his head. His hands started to itch, as if on cue. He tightened his fingers around the scrolls. More of the same, he told himself. It was only more of the same. He could deal with it.
“Additionally,” Silverwater began, and hesitated. “Winterbird and I have finished sorting the old cargo. There are some…items for you that Iolite thought you might find useful.”
“Items?” he asked warily. “What items, exactly?”
Silverwater gave him an inscrutable look. “From the old Breaker,” he said.
Oh. Shit. Well, then.
“Do you want them?” Silverwater asked, his spines tilted in courtesy. It was hardly a question. If Iolite said he would have them, then he’d have to deal with the old Breaker’s ghost whether he liked it or not.
“I suppose I’ll take a look,” he said reluctantly.
“They are in the basement levels.” Silverwater headed out into the corridor without so much as a backward glance.
Felun tucked the scrolls under his arm and followed him through the crawl of plaster-dusted tunnels. They walked deeper into the safehouse warren, only stopping outside Suria’s door for Silverwater to poke his head in and mutter something about an amphora. That old vase he’d dug out of the Songian Library, he realised. He was glad it was in Suria’s hands and not his; he shuddered at the memory of its faintly pulsing surface.
Silverwater led the way down yet more tunnels, less plaster-like now. Glowing bundles of moss hung from the ceiling. Roots pierced the walls, and the ground squished wetly underfoot. Water—Felun hoped it was just ordinary water—started seeping into his boots. Silverwater, wing-blessed as he was, flew forth a couple inches off the ground.
Eventually, the marshy bit of tunnel dried up to pure stone, smoother than sea-tumbled glass. They arrived at a rather plain set of doors, not unlike the sort set into castle gates. Silverwater gave it a shove with his shoulder, grunting under his breath as it screeched open. Felun sneezed as a cloud of dust puffed up around them.
The chamber was large but mostly empty, poorly-lit by patches of glowing lichens. Half-emptied crates were piled against the far wall. Some leaked puddles of gooey faery building material all over the floor.
“Over there,” Silverwater said, gesturing to a lone chest with a swing of his tail. “Those were her belongings. You will need a little time to look through them and assess their suitability, correct? I will finish unpacking. Speak if you need assistance.”
He fluttered off to the side and began lifting what looked like bundles of shriveled tentacles from one of the crates.
Felun sighed inwardly and crouched down by the old Breaker’s chest. It looked innocuous enough: plain and wooden, dome-topped with metal clasps and handles for carrying. He steeled himself as he undid the clasps and flipped the lid open, not sure what to expect—remnants of madness, maybe, bloodstained knives or scorched spell-slips still reeking of spent magic.
Instead, there were quills and ink and a couple of stylographs, bundled up alongside rolled-up sheets of blank spellpaper. There were a couple of books, too, and what looked like a journal. He flipped one of the books open—an adventure novel of some sort. Something was inscribed faintly on the inner cover. He held it up to the light and squinted. For my darling niece, he read, and felt as though he had bumbled in on some private gathering. He shut the book and opened the journal instead. It was a little like his own at first glance: leather-bound and formed from sheets of spellpaper, good for storing runes in. The contents, though, differed greatly.
Inked words sprawled over the sheets in a crabbed hand, only occasionally interspersed with a shining cluster of runes. Several passages referenced concepts he had only a vague grasp on, though others made some sense: a description of the intangible landscapes within enchantments, the process of stripping the armature and filleting them open like fish. Pieces of the old Breaker’s mind unspooled before him like a map unfurling, showed themselves in messily-sketched diagrams and underlined passages using complicated words that tested the limits of his fluency. The runes, too, were all fairly high quality. Whoever this Breaker had been, she’d been good at her work—a step above him, even. That was an uncomfortable thought; if she’d succumbed to the Hive Archives, then where did that leave him? He shoved the thought away and skimmed forwards.
Several times, the Breaker had notes referencing her troubles with skin-blistering. A formula for blister ointment had been jotted into one of the margins; Felun made a mental note of it for later, to bring up if he caught Iolite in an agreeable mood. As he flipped further into the journal, the writing became sparser, scratchier. More runes swarmed over the pages, signs for crackling and splitting and corroding—and where had she lifted those, he wondered. From the Archives themselves? The severity of those runes were rarely encountered outside of dungeons. As far as he knew, she hadn’t been a runner like him. Eventually, the filled pages came to a close—the last third of the book was blank.
Threads of unease stirred in his chest. He studied the most recent notes, searching for signs of the madness that Iolite so frequently referenced. What had she been like, he wondered. Someone desperate enough to work with Iolite—an outcast scraping by, or someone like him? Someone with debts to pay?
Ishaan’s voice darted through his thoughts, startling and unwelcome—come on, guys…I think we should sit this one out. And though it had been Tyirn who had pushed for them to go ahead, and though Vilette had been the one to choose the leftmost passage, he’d been the one to break open the door.
He’d opened the door. And really, that was all that mattered in the end.
Empty eyes. Broken jaw. Crystals like canine teeth, gleaming bright. Other images that his thoughts still flinched from, like fingertips grazing a hot stove. Their bodies had shielded him; it was the least he could do to beg pension for the last one remaining.
“Sungrazer Zhao,” Silverwater said, breaking into his thoughts. “I am finished now. Will you be taking those?”
Felun startled and looked up, shutting the journal with a thump. “Yeah,” he managed. “Sure.”
Silverwater tipped his head to one side, spines flexing. “Is everything in order, Sungrazer Zhao? Forgive me if mentioning this is a human taboo, but you seemed, ah, perturbed.”
He tucked the journal back into the chest and clicked the lid down. “I’m fine.”
And it was the truth. He was fine. He was the only one who had been.