KNITE:

Like The Old Queen and her children, I did not hate Grono and Silas for who they were; I hated them for what they’d done—and not done—and the knowledge their choices would remain the same if given the chance.

Pah! That was almost a lie. A half-truth, at the very least; I might not have loathed them for who they were, but they were, at any rate, and even before they’d conspired against me, low in my estimations. They were what one might call bad men. That is the crux of why I find it so easy to tumble into pitfalls of lies when I explore this subject. What is it to be bad? What is it to be good? Are they merely constructs of weakness and naivety, some way to hope what you want into what is? Is it good to be selfless? On the contrary, I’ve found that the best of us harbor a great deal of self-interest. And yes, to be evil is to be selfish, for evil is, at its root, the ability to disregard the wants of others for one’s own interest. But ask yourself this: Is it not selfish to want others to find happiness because you find joy in seeing them happy? Is it entirely righteous to take the honorable course of action simply because knowing you have done so soothes your pride or terminates that nagging feeling in the back of your mind fostered by arbitrary notions of right and wrong? And so the only difference between Merkusian—the best man I’ve ever known—and The Old Queen and her children, between good and evil, is the serendipity or misfortune of their soul’s desired, for no man or woman had ever chosen what it is their heart yearns for.

See how effortless it is to make a fool? Utter nonsense. Convincing nonsense, but nonsense nonetheless. There is no such thing as evil, but if there was…

Allowing for the question’s flawed premise, is it evil to kill if it does not take a life? Of course not. It is the costs you do not reap, the belongings you dispossess, and the pain your actions inflict that constitute this illogical abstraction we call evil, which, again, if it could be measured, is measured by how much more you treasure your own interests over those of others.

The test is the same; the tools are not. In all likelihood, I am—or was, depending on the time of your reading—cleverer than you, whoever you are. It stands to reason that I am, therefore, better equipped for a test of knowledge. Or wit. Unfair, I know. But the test is yet the same. Such is the case for the most significant test of all. Regardless of my boons or how well I fare, if you fail, you fail. Whatever your proclivities, whatever desires or burdens stand in your way, it is your choices and your efforts to adhere to those choices that decide your fate. Choose well, remain steadfast, or you shall fail. And remember, one need not meet death to fail at life; death is the end of the test, not its result.

Centuries past, back when Merkusian began to see my budding hunger, he had planted the seed of who I’d become, imparting on me the greatest tool I possess.

***

We hovered above churning waters, him clad in his armor, me dressed in my customary dark leathers. In the distance were the shores of the continent's mainland, the border between Golodan and Evergreen, frigid, rugged, cast in the white of snow, and altogether uninviting. Below us was a mass of ships anchored in place by the stillness of The Dead Sea. An army milled about the fleet’s countless decks, running to and fro, leaning over guardrails, shouting, cursing, and otherwise panicking over their predicament. Golodanians were never much for water and air; they preferred their feet be firmly planted upon the earth and stone they so worshiped. Yet greed and a sense of superiority had cast them into the depths of danger and onto planes they had no reason to tread upon.

“You wish to reap their souls?” Merkusian asked. He knew the answer, but he had a habit of leading me toward lessons along a path made of my own answers.

“In a manner of speaking,” I said.

“What is it you take from them?”

“Pain and fear.”

“And does it lessen their burden?”

“Yes.” I nodded as if the gesture might make my lie more credible.

“Aki?” Merkusian’s tone was soft. Disappointed.

“It amplifies,” I admitted.

“Has there ever been a genesis of pain and fear within you?”

“Some. I suspect my capacity for those sensations is muted. And given all the times your beloved has tested me on that field…”

“So you have some sense of what you put them through.” Merkusian’s gaze never left the field of panicking enemies below us, and he stood there, impassive and contemplative, a divine judge weighing life and death. “Do you think they deserve the suffering they must endure so you might quench your cravings?”

“Does it matter what they deserve?”

“To me? Yes.” That was Merkusian—he almost never avoided a question. It went some way to explaining why he expected the same from others.

Our ships drew closer, encircling our enemies. The sleek, Zephyr-aided vessels were free to move about; Merkusian had given them his blessing, and The Dead Sea, being his creation, was but an extension of his will. Our ships approached undisturbed, hidden behind Paintings. Once the encirclement was complete, they cut in, slung a volley of stone and metal and fire and raw force along the edges of our enemy’s fleet, and slipped away from the boulders the Golodanians blindly threw back. The invaders rushed to swing pails of water overboard, staunch the wounds on their vessels, or aid in whatever task might defer their deaths. Uncaring of their efforts, our attacks continued, the damage we inflicted grew, and their ships sank. Some caught ablaze and were made into pyres; others snapped in half and spilled their contents, while yet others were shattered into fragments no larger than driftwood. Men and women tumbled from their ships, appearing from my elevated point of view like a colony of scattered ants sinking into thick, pale-blue honey. Flustered screams were cut short by floods of water as they each slipped deeper into their viscous tombs, arms fruitlessly reaching up as if in supplication. I watched their lives plunge towards death, and my only thoughts were of all the wasted fear and pain I might’ve tasted.

“It does not matter to me,” I said, “same as my suffering at the hand of The Old Queen mattered little to you.”

“It did matter,” Merkusian uttered the words carefully, each syllable stressed, every drop of meaning squeezed out and transformed into sincerity. “Elonai’s suffering has—”

“I do not care for whatever excuses you’ve prepared in her defense. My youth has expired, her stewardship has passed, and I am content to forget and avoid her existence.”

“She is my wife. You are—”

“Nothing to her. I am not of her blood or line. I am a child you tried to force her to adopt as one of her own. A stranger.” I threw my hands up in frustration. “Gods, I am less than a stranger! I’m an enemy. And do not remind me of who she is to you. Some of my vexation stumbles onto you whenever I’m confronted with the reasons I cannot suck her dry.”

Merkusian sighed. “Forgive her in advance, and I am confident she will, once healed, deliver you the apology you are due.”

“Apologies,” I corrected. “Too many to ever be enough.”

“I’m sure—"

“Bury the topic,” I hissed. At the time, I had no clue the tortures of my childhood were but a prelude to the suffering Elonai would inflict on me a century hence, my anger a petulant sputter of sparks compared to the raging inferno she’d inspire in the future.

“Then let us return to our earlier discussion,” Merkusian said. He was not upset. He preferred honesty over all else, even if the truth did not please him—I was sure my anger did not please him. “Should whether or not your actions are warranted matter to you?”

“I am who I am. If the death of a man who deserves to live might save Manar’s life, would you not expend his life for hers?” Manar was his favorite. I did not blame him; she was mine, too.

“I would.” Honest to a fault. That was Merkusian. His integrity considered deceit a miscarriage of honor.

“That is who you are,” I said.

Merkusian smiled. His eyes, however, remained downcast as he gazed upon his dying enemies. “It is one thing to choose one life over another. It is quite another to choose one’s pleasure over another’s pain.”

“And what if your pleasure was their pain? What if you cared as much about that pleasure as you do Manar?”

Merkusian looked at me then, crystal eyes peeking out from under a heavy brow, the amusement in his smile invading the pensive sadness in his eyes. “You’re twice too clever for my liking, Aki. Let us be thankful I shall never face such a test and that it is my family that my soul holds dear.” It did not escape me that he said ‘my’ and not ‘our.’ “Now, if you will allow us to put aside the matter of whether or not you ought to care, I ask again, do they merit the agony you wish to inflict.”

“Maybe.”

“Aki?” Again, that soft tone.

“Not all of them.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I can see.”

“And why is it you can see?”

I looked up at him, curious. Never had I questioned the reasons behind my abilities. My siblings each had their own domains, gifts they’d been bestowed by our father. He had cultivated and picked which of his gifts they inherited and wove these gifts into their very being. The reasons they had their abilities were his to answer for. Mine? Mine were my own. He had told me as much when he revealed his inability to replicate my feats—one cannot give what one dies not own.

“I cannot fathom the mind who molded me and my abilities,” I said. “Perhaps my mother knows.”

Merkusian winced at the mention of her. He hid it well, but my eyes saw all. For as well as I’d known him, for all the needling questions I’d raised throughout the years, all of which he had faced in his honest, forthright manner, she was the only subject he refused to entertain.

“And if you had to guess?” he asked.

“Do you mean for me to realize I have the gift of sight so that it may aid in directing my gift for punishment?”

Merkusian blinked long and slow, and when his eyes were open once more, the sadness had returned, the balls of ice a little more grey, the shadow of his brow a little heavier, the angle and lines of his face a little more severe. “I take it you disagree.”

I shrugged. “I merely have not seen enough evidence to expend an opinion on the matter.”

“And is their pain and fear all you treasure.”

“You know it is not.”

“Manar?”

“And others.”

“Me included?”

“For all that I wish it was not so, yes, you included.”

Merkusian smiled ever so faintly, recognizing the jest for what it was. “Then, for me, would you act as though it is true?”

“I would.”

He turned to me, all of him, his expression as earnest and imploring as I’d ever seen it. The weight of his full attention struck me as it always had—oppressively. “I will ask something of you. Something different. Not unalike, but different. Will you grant me this indulgence?”

“What is it?” I stammered the words.

Merkusian did not answer me. Instead, he raised his arms high, calling on his endless pit of sensus. Sudden motion befell the stillness of The Dead Sea. Waves lapped, water splashed, and after a time, figures broke its surface, countless thousands thrust up from the depths, a chorus of gasping breaths marking their emergence. Once they had their frantic hearts under a semblance of control, they began their long swim back with a zeal only a brush with death can inspire.

Merkusian nodded at his work, the mercy he had shown easing his dour mood. “If you had asked me if I’d pay two innocent lives to spare Manar’s, I’d have told you no. Do you know why?”

“Because the act of so flagrantly ignoring what is righteous would stain you too profoundly,” I said.

Merkusian grinned in that waggish way he did when he wanted to ease the tension of an impending act of duty he was honor-bound to complete. “I smell a hint of contradiction.”

“Ideas can be desires. I believe justice and honor are nearly as dear to you as your family is.”

Merkusian threw an arm around my shoulders, the metal of his armor so cold as to yank the heat from my thick leathers. He’d noticed my meaning as I knew he would, but he’d not answer my question unless I asked, and I’d not ask unless I knew his answer. Such is the trouble with veiled truths. Despite the ominous growl of its hunger, as long as its cage remains unopened, the beast cannot shred its prey asunder, vanquishing all the delusions that’ve been erected as a means of self-defense.

“Name your favor,” I said.

“Will you grant it?”

“Perhaps.”

“It shall be the only favor I’ll ever ask of you, though I warn you, its scale will atone for its singularity.”

I sighed. “Very well.”

Merkusian stared at me, using the long stretch of silence to accentuate the importance of his coming words. “Merkusuan turned back to me,MWhen you punish those who need it and never lay a hand on those who don’t, when lies never cross your lips and you wield the truth for the greater good, you will be the man I think you to be, and I shall consider your promise true.”

I had broken that promise. Once and only once. That mistake is, more than anything else, who I am.

***

I saw the ceiling first, tall and imprinted with painted reliefs of a familiar battlefield. And for all that the works did not contain sensus as a Painted work might, its beauty caught my breath, not least because the scene it depicted was such an inspired lie. In the center were two men frozen in the climax of their contest. A Merkusian godling held a greatsword a hairbreadth away from the neck of a thin-faced, olive-skinned man with long, flowing hair dressed in armor made of bark.

Noticing my gaze linger on the painted sculpture, my escort, a Grono Seculor assigned to me when I bought my entry with a particularly innovative Painting I’d taken from among the many Sishal had surreptitiously procured from Halorian godlings, said, “Lord Momoose carved the piece himself. He is rather proud of both the skill it took and the memory it displays.”

I looked down at the squat man, some grandnephew of mine, and tried my best not to mock his remark. It was me who had cut down Huzizal, the general who led the Kolokasian assassination attempt. I had never before heard of this Momoose. More likely, I had, but his insignificance tugged his name out of my readily available memories.

Our steps drew us further into the room and down a set of stairs. Below us was the expansive space where the celebration was being held. The hall was packed. The squeaks of footwear rubbing on marble and the screeches of a hundred lips expelling chatter and laughter echoed. A sea of robes, purple and green, milled about. There were servants, too, each silent as a grave and dressed in light browns, platters held high. Some carried delicacies, some purple vials of drugs, some marble mugs of alcohol. Fewest of the present groups were merchants, most of them foreign, all of them decked out in expensive garb of neutral colors: browns, whites, blacks, and greys.

Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

“What is it he is celebrating, this Momoose?” I asked.

My escort narrowed his eyes at me. “You may be a guest—and immeasurably wealthy, seeing as you’ve managed to acquire an invitation to this gathering—but do not presume to refer to a godling by name. That is especially so for a Leaf.”

I chuckled at him. The boy tried to turn. I grabbed his shoulder and pushed him onwards. The sheer look of terror on his face upon measuring my strength drew another burst of laughter from me.

“Calm yourself, boy,” I said. “I am not a Root, and so there is no offense for you to reprove—not that you’d have the means to do so in any case.” The cut and design of my dark clothing, which was distinctly from Evergreen, and my dark hair suggested I was a well-off commoner. However, not all godlings were born with fair hair. Some of those unlucky few even forwent mimicking the coloration with dyes or Surgeries or other such superficial methods.

The boy flustered, his mouth opening and closing like that of a fish out of water.

“Ah,” I said, “come now, stop that. I neither need nor want your mumbling apology, boy. Lead the way and answer my questions, and I shall forgive you your presumptions.”

The boy, shoulders hunched, half in embarrassment, half in fear, led me toward the outer and quieter region of the hall. We navigated around the dense crowd, cutting through the smoke of hashla leaves, the smell of overly strong alcohol, and the loud prattling of boisterous and belligerent godlings. Only when we found a relatively private space near the far wall did the boy speak.

“F-F-Forgive me, sir, but I shan’t b-be answering anything I am not allowed to.” The words boiled to his lips and sputtered out.

“You have nothing to fear, boy.” I waved for him to continue.

He sighed in relief. “T-thank you, sir. I, uhm… The Hoard is celebrating the successful completion of a rather audacious venture. My father, being one of the more instrumental members involved, volunteered to host a party in celebration of the success.”

I glanced about the room with a critical eye. Halor was crippled. The greatest of their Leaves was living as a slave. The following two worked in my favor, and what remained of the others were of no concern. Lorail might try to revive her brood, but with Nikal and Lira working against her, the rebellion gaining momentum, and the relations with House Bainan heating up, I had the time to sow chaos here in Partum.

I spotted my targets with ease; competence is a habit that can rarely be hidden. Peppered among the horde, they stood straight, walked deliberately, and, beneath subtle or overly expressive movements of their projected merriment, watched their surroundings as only a predator does.

“Sir, will you be needing my services any longer,” the boy asked.

“You may go.”

The boy scuttled off, nearly falling, his robe snagging on his pattering feet.

I closed in on my first target, a portly woman in lime-green robes. Before I closed the distance and struck up a conversation…

The room froze. All the servants went to their knees, the platters they carried expertly kept even. Every godling bowed his head from the neck.

At the top of the stairs were two men, opposites but for their height and the oppugnant gravitas of their presence. Both were as I remembered them: Silas, tall and wispy, his pale beard much the same; Grono, tall and wide, his clean-shaven face laying bare the silver tint of his skin.

A man rushed out from the crowd of frozen godlings. I recognized him as Momoose, the man in the painting and our host for the evening. “Father! Uncle!” he called. “I did not dare to hope you might accept my invitation. It gladens me to have the honor of your presence.”

“We caught news of the reason you organized this… gathering.” Grono’s voice grated like the twisting of hardened metal, ancient yet more powerful for it. “I approve.”

“As do I.” Silas slurred his words, but the melodic nature of his tone made it seem hypnotic, altogether soothing and perturbing at once, like the call of a siren if the siren was elevated to godhood. “It is a remarkable feat you and your fellows have accomplished. It is worthy of celebration.”

Grono chortled, a rumble of clashing steel. “You have never had much trouble finding reasons to celebrate, Brother.”

“Whatever do you mean?”

Grono clapped Silas on his back. The casual gesture boomed across the hall, echoing like thunder. Silas did not move an inch.

“A celebration is a time to partake in luxuries, to drink, smoke, and whore,” Grono said, a smile plastered on his face. “You do all those things near constantly. I can, therefore, only assume you are always celebrating.”

“Ah, spare me your witticisms, Grono.” Silas turned to Momoose, his smile sloppy. “Come, Nephew. Bring us all you have to offer. We are here to partake in the revelries you’ve prepared, after all.” He looked down at the frozen crowd and frowned. “Be about it, people! I do not care to jubilate among a hall of petrified statues!”

Everyone resumed their activities with the stiffness of obedience. Everyone but me. A particular memory had beleaguered me into inaction.

***

My strides were long. Eager. I carried news of another victory, the fierceness of the battle displayed by the cuts on my leathers, though if one were to ignore the state of my attire, I was a picture of health. As always, being freshly fed had raised my spirits.

I entered. Light bled in from outside, and the crystal floor and walls of the throneroom shimmered like gentle tides under a cloudless summer day. High above, near the pointed ceiling of the central tower, rotated its sun, a spinning orb of emerald discharging a constant wave of tyranny.

Elonai sat alone; Merkusian’s throne lay empty. There she was, perched upon her smaller yet no less impressive throne like a sword resting within its scabbard, her back straight, her head held high, and her posture stiff. Translucent silk of dreamlike white flowed around her.

I approached, ready to exchange her hot rebuke for calm condescension, which I knew would vex her to new heights. Yet she remained quiet, only waiting for me to draw closer, her expression an iron mask. A wiser, less content man might have noticed how unusual it was for her to look at me with anything other than scorn, but eager anticipation is an efficacious blindfold.

White light erupted from between the matrix’s many lines. I lurched to a stop within its boundary. As did my sensus. Defenseless, the orb of green bore down on me, dropping me to my knees. It did not take long for my Meaning to shatter the matrix, but by the time the trap was undone and my sensus escaped its confinement, Elonai was before me, her hand wrapped around the pommel of a finely crafted Nuf dagger. A dagger whose sharp end now rested in my heart.

The bane of my life, beautiful as all the most effective poisons were, snapped off the handle of the dagger, leaving the blade buried in my chest. She watched me, the mad cruelty and satisfaction of her expression more visceral and animated than any diction she could concoct.

I collapsed, delirious.

Elonai dragged me through half the city, leaving the upper plateau and reaching the coastal edge of The Bark. None saw us. Elonai had borrowed her daughter's talents for a time, and a Painting overfilled with Meaning hid us as well as our absence might’ve. We entered the dark recesses of The Bridge, past the rooms of experiments, past the twentieth floor where the most powerful of the prisoners were kept, and into tunnels few ever traveled. My face, raw as a freshly skinned flank of meat, scraped across the rough stone floor, a trail of blood in its wake. Debility-induced stupor blocked the pain behind a pane of grogginess. My heart stuttered its song, the beats twice as slow and half as vital. Bridged by way of the Nuf blade, my soul suffered the same, the fusion between flesh and spirit tangled and locked in place.

At last, we came to a stop. Elonai released her grip on my ankle, and my leg struck the coarse ground.

“Is the room ready?” I did not see who she spoke to.

“Yes, Mother.” I recognized the voice.

“And the tinctures?” she asked.

“Yes, Mother.” Another speaker, also familiar.

“Bring him in,” she ordered.

My brothers lifted me to my feet. My head dangled. A slow trickle of blood rolled down my chest. Despite my predicament, I spared a moment to find my bleeding heart amusing.

“I think he's laughing,” Silas said.

“The crazy fool would.” Grono’s grip around my arm tightened. No doubt, he’d been looking forward to my despair.

The first few days were the worst; the heights of pain Elonai introduced to me often reached new peaks, each day outdoing the last, every moment an ascending zenith. And as she carved my flesh and soul, they watched. Together. Arms crossed. Grono had been smirking at first. It flattened into a line of indifference as time went by. As my screams grew hoarse. As he grew bored of the brutality. Then, one day, they did not return. Still, their gazes stayed with me. As did the many deaths I imagined for them.

***

My mind returned to the present. A dozen plans came and went, each more effortless than the last. Effortless, that is, if I were not who I’d become. One lie. If I were to allow myself but one lie, they’d likely both be dead before the day was done. Two, and it’d be a certainty.

All I’d need is—

But the promise stood. It had stood for centuries. The last time it had fallen had cost me in ways I dread to recollect. So, no. No lies. Deceptions? Sure. But no lies.

I spared them one last look. Grono. Him I’d peel into strands. Slowly. Silas. I remembered how he watched me, and perhaps it was whatever he’d inebriated himself with during those days of observation that drew his brows just so to intimate the faintest whiff of sadness or how he swayed his head just so to appear as though he shook it in disapproval. Or perhaps my pain-riddled mind sought lines of reprieve, however thin the strand of hope. Still, I decided then and there, in the midst of my living nightmare, that he’d die a little more quickly and a little less painfully when it came time to reap their lives.

I shook loose my errant thoughts and strode towards Momoose, steering through a thrum of godlings. He stood near Grono and Silas, basking in glory.

“Pardon me,” I said, interrupting a Silas godling who’d been pouring praise over him.

“No, I shall not,” the Alchemist snapped back, each word a slur. A pipe filled with hashla dangled from the corner of his mouth, a cup of wine sloshed in his hand, and a constellation of purple stars decorated his wrists from where he’d no doubt injected some assortment of self-created brews. The man was utterly intoxicated. “Your betters are having a conversation, Root. Begone.”

Momoose watched me curiously, saw the thread of sensus I spun into the stone beneath the Alchemist, frowned at the complexity of the Golem matrix they formed into, and held up a hand at the man who sought to claim his ear. Then, once the Alchemist had ceased speaking, he addressed me.

“You have piqued my interest, merchant. Speak.”

“The matter I wish to discuss requires some privacy,” I said.

“Requires?” Momoose’s eyes narrowed.

“For your sake more than mine. It is in regards to your order’s recent acquisition.”

“You have no business even knowing of it.” The jagged edges of a burgeoning anger trembled Momoose’s voice into a faint growl. “And I do not much care for the casual manner with which you address me.”

“House Yabiskus,” I said.

“Of Bainan?” Momoose’s umbrage made way for curiosity.

I nodded. “My current disguise is but another layer of secrecy I’ve employed for our meeting. So, shall we?”

“Before we retire to a more private setting, how is it your master knows of our recent activities?”

“House Bainan is well informed of all the happenings concerning the war we rage. It is rather odd you did not expect my visit.”

The Alchemist stepped toward Momoose, wobbling yet somehow surefooted. “House cousin, it is the height of disrespect to render me less than a Root.”

Momoose waved him away. “Be that as it may, whatever request you were dancing around had enough patience for you to bumble through your unscrupulous flattery. I reckon its urgency can survive a little while longer.”

Momoose began to walk away, then turned and beckoned for me to follow. Leaving behind a quietly seething Alchemist, Momoose and I headed to find a secluded place to converse.

A discreet exit between two tall, thorny, potted plants led us into a modest corridor. The sounds of the gathering cut abruptly as the door closed behind us. My escort led us across the hallway and into another room. It was… an odd room for a godling to keep, much less a prominent Leaf. The walls were packed with mundanely painted canvases, the floor riddled with pedestals upon which were mundanely carved figurines, renditions of more men and women were artistically woven into the many rugs placed about the room, and, most curious of all, near the back, lining the many shelves of a titanic cabinet, were hundreds of dolls stuffed with feathers and cotton.

“An avid lover of art,” I said. “Strange.”

Momoose came to a stop in the center of the room and took one of the six seats around a round table. As I got closer, I saw the furniture, too, was art, the table legs carved into fish tails, the round top into an oasis, the back of the chairs into the human halves of buxom mermaids.

“An avid artist,” Momoose corrected. He gestured around him, arms stretched to indicate the far reaches of the room. “Everything you see here is my creation, molded by my hand. But despite my passion for the subject, I think it behooves me to reorient our conversation towards the purpose of your visit.”

“Ah, yes, your… acquisition. You understand all aspects of the war are the responsibility of House Bainan.”

Momoose frowned. “We used our own resources to capture the prisoner. Our ships, our men, our funds, our time.”

A foreign godling, then, I thought. “Nevertheless, you had used the cover of the invasion to accomplish your task. It is only right you pay for the service.”

Momoose’s jaw clenched. “Money?”

“Coin?” I laughed. “All of Evergreen’s coffers are pockets to the war.”

“An exaggeration.”

“Admittedly, but true enough for you to know I am not here for coin.”

Momoose stood, face pursed. “What then?”

“First, I would like to meet this prisoner of yours.”

“Out of the question!”

“The Queen will side with Bainan, you understand.”

Momoose choked on whatever vitriol his wisdom locked behind his throat. Then, with bitter reluctance, he swallowed his words, stood, and guided me to this mysterious captive.

Like most of his House, Momoose possessed an expansive underground complex, its enormity measured in depth rather than breadth. A contraption Grono had designed long ago, a small box with a metal lever in one corner and a thick slab of some adamantine stone as its base, sucked us down into the depths along a shaft of hollowed earth. So fast was its descent that it rendered us weightless for a time, and so dark and smooth was the vertical tunnel that there were no visual cues to reveal the speed of our plunge.

We landed softly. A turn later, after a series of identical passageways carved from fluorescent stone, we came upon our destination. The matrixes warned me long before we’d neared. They might’ve been crude, but few restraints could match its effects. What it lacked in finesse, it more than made up for in brute strength.

A mountain of metal chains wrapped around a lone figure, a silhouette of darkness broken only by the whites of his eyes and the shimmering ropes of metal wrapped about his onyx body. Lights flooded the room, so strong as to blind a mortal, yet not a lick of its shine touched the man.

I killed Momoose. Stuck a dagger into the back of his neck, then twisted it for good measure. I stepped over his slumped figure and approached the cords of metal.

“Kakaro, was it?” I spoke in his tongue, the ugly language sounding like hyenas of differing ages and genders taking turns to cry that piercing cry of theirs. “How is it you’ve gotten yourself caught?”

“Do I know you?” The man’s head rose, the lines of his features hidden behind an unnatural darkness.

“You do, though your teacher, Huzizal, knew me better.”

Kakaro cocked his head. Then he smiled in such a way as to reveal the oily blackness of his tongue and teeth, a sign of royal status among Af’titalans. When the darkness was more than skin deep, so too was their power.

“I suppose he was not the most clement of instructors,” I said.

“He was, however, effective.”

“Your present circumstances do not appear to concur.”

Kakaro barked a laugh. “It took fifty of your godlings to bring me down, and by the time they did, half were dead, and half of those who remained were on their hands and knees, crying as my darkness ate at their fragile minds.”

I shrugged. “You are a warrior. They were scholars.”

“Are you one of our agents?”

“Hah, imagine!”

Kakaro inched as close as his neck allowed—the rest of him was too restrained to allow him movement. “Who are you, then? And how did you know the old fart?”

I sighed. “Forgive me, but I’m not in the mood to play games of deception. Might we speak candidly?”

It is difficult to read an Af’titalan’s expression, particularly those of royal blood, but Kakaro’s concerted effort to appear confused was so exaggerated as to escape the muddying of his hungry skin tone.

“I’m not sure I know what you mean,” he said.

“I’ve always found it strange.”

“So, too, is this conversation. Its thread is rapidly escaping the limits of my understanding.”

“Your people have always been a guileful lot, possessing a talent for stealth unmatched by any other. And unlike what many believe, I know it to be a talent not limited to your abilities with darkness.”

The whites of Kakaro’s eyes grew narrow. “I think I am beginning to grasp flashes of the thread. But to be certain, please continue.”

“I wish to ascertain your motives. You wish to hide them. I insult to provoke action. You boast as if to justify your loss so you might hide the fact that you never did.”

“My present circumstances do not appear to concur,” he said. I only knew he was smiling because there was an ever-so-slight sheen to his teeth, contrasting the flat color of his skin.

“They do,” I said, returning his smile. “Given you orchestrated your circumstances.” My eyes followed the chains and ropes up to where they were anchored to the ceiling. “It seems my people acted under the mistaken belief that light weakens your Arts—a misconception you’ve painstakingly spread as far and wide and often as possible.”

Kakaro’s teeth were nowhere to be seen when he spoke. “You know us well. How?”

My eyes tracked back and landed on his. “Before we knew to be enemies, Huzizal and I were… friendly, you might say.”

“The old man had no friends.”

“True, but he did have a few he more easily tolerated.”

There was silence for a time. The air was still. Neither of us breathed. Our bodies were relaxed, but the tension of anticipation held us captive. Then I felt the tension leave Kakaro’s soul, the ready violence shifting from explosive to poisonous.

“You could kill me before I escape,” he said.

“A fair assessment.” I gestured to the mass of lights he was nestled within. “Absorbing the sensus from the light will take you time. Even then, You’ll need all of it to contend with the metal itself. Your captors might be ignorant of your talents, but they are neither oblivious to the danger you represent nor so incompetent as to rely solely on one conjecture.”

“So? What now?”

“What was your plan?”

“I see no reason to tell you.”

“You have failed your task. Telling me has no consequence. Now, I can safely assume you’ve been tasked with an assassination. Who is your target?”

Kakaro shook his head. “I may have failed, but the mission remains.”

“Other agents have been sent?”

“You insult me.” The toiling of his soul matched the sharp angle his scowl inflicted on his whites. “You have asked me to speak candidly. I have.”

“Not Lorail or Bainan,” I mused. “They have not returned to Evergreen for decades. Manar is unlikely, much for the same reason. Grono and Silas, then, but which of the two.” I snapped my fingers. “Ha! Wonderful! Why kill one when you might rid yourself of two.” I turned back to a confused Kakaro. “Ambitious of you. Might be why I had the very same thought. But I’m afraid I cannot allow you to succeed.”

Kakaro’s mouth was agape, his brow furrowed. “You wish to kill them?”

“I do.” My admission brought with it my conviction, which in turn brought a whiff of my anger. A pulse ran through all my muscles, a wave of vibration supplanting my playful demeanor with grim ferocity. “I will,” I growled.

“Then we need not be enemies.”

“But we are enemies.”

“Why?”

“Because our peoples share too much history to accept peace.”

“But—”

“My animosity is for The Queen and her children, not my father’s empire. I will not ruin his life’s work. Evergreen is not ready to lose two of its pillars. Not until I have organized their replacements. Besides, allowing an enemy to fell two of our greatest will only invite others to try their hand at dispatching the others.”

“Y-your father’s work?” Kakaro’s shock reached new heights, and he stared at me, eyes wide.

“And you?” I asked. “What am I to do with you? Obviously, I cannot leave you here to enact your plan. Killing you does not tickle my fancy—in Huzizal’s memory, I find myself wanting to spare your life. Once.”

“F-father? Merkusian was your father? That means you’re—”

“You’re going to have to go to sleep for a little while. Can’t have you resisting while I escort you out of here.”

“You’re Kni—”

I broke his neck, flooded sensus into his soul, and forced his consciousness to retreat into the embrace of slumber.