KNITE:
Polerma’s dungeon was like most others—a dark and cold muster of stone. Hard walls and steps slick with moisture led into the bowels of the estate. The little water that managed to slip in from the surrounding earth served its term as a prisoner, clinging to surfaces, saturating the air with humidity, and building an invisible armada of mildew. Vast stairs descended further and further, so deep as to make me wonder why Polerma had chosen to expend the effort. Darkness surrounded me, comforting, silent, and thick. That is, until the passage neared its end, and the soft glow of matrix lanterns crept in to hold the darkness at bay.
One floor, one room, circular, seven cells lined side by side, separated by thick walls, their half-open faces locked by matrix-carved metal and floored by matrix-carved stone. Skeleton cages. My prisoners were put in cells north of the entrance, in view of each other and any visitors who bequeathed them a visit. Klisa was near death—a Duros did not do well with skeleton cages. Muraad, however, had enough in him to raise his head—a Duros he might be, but a Leaf’s capacity and constitution outstripped a Tripler’s many times over. His people did not do so well. Deedmo and Togan were slumped over each other, naught but a spark left in what was soon to be their corpses.
“Why am I alive?” Muraad asked.
I drew closer to him. He was no longer the debonair Leaf back from his victorious conquest. Time in the dungeon had brought him low. Already, his bulk had diminished. Lustrous locks of hair had gone wild, going from the yellow of a noon sun to an ashen blonde. In the corner lay the metal plates of his armor, too heavy to wear. Leaning against the wall was his greatsword, too heavy to wield. Loose silk and leather hung from him, dirtied and scuffed. The sight brought me untold pleasure, satiating all the times in the distant past when I had the urge to bring him low but was forced to prop him ever higher.
I came to a stop before the metal bars that kept him a prisoner. “Because, as usual, I saved you from death. It is a wonder you’ve managed to stay alive in my absence.”
Face gaunt and eyes dead, he stared. “A hundred years was just about enough to wisen me. That and the many deaths I employed to weaken my enemies.”
“Yours?”
“The deaths? No.”
I titled my head, watching him with soulsight and seeing his darkness, pitch black and cavernous. “In your eyes, all who serve you are yours.”
“Their lives, yes,” he said. “Their bodies, their allegiance, their loyalty, their efforts, all mine. But their deaths were their own. As were their pains, their hopes, their pleasures, and all the other parts of them I had no use for.”
“Ah, I see. For a moment there, I had thought your claim of gaining wisdom held credence.”
His laughter sounded far more like wheezing. “Do not speak to me as though you are any better.”
“I am. And if anyone can tell the worth of a soul, it is me.”
“And all the lives you’ve taken?”
“Deserving.”
“And all the lives you’ve let die?”
“None by my hand.” I grinned and licked my lips. “I only claimed to be better than you. That is not as difficult as you might imagine, nor does it require feats of heroism.”
Muraad’s head fell tiredly. “I ask again—why am I alive?”
Getting the metal bars to retract back down into their holes was simple, a flick of my sensus altering the mesh of matrixes. Metal groaned out of my way, sinking and sending out plumes of earthen dust. Muraad raised his head once more, curious. The more I looked, the more I could see the man I remembered, see the pronounced bone structure he inherited from his father, or the glacial eyes he’d gotten from his grandmother, or, less agreeably, the hint of Merkusian in the way his face came together so handsomely. I took pleasure in seeing how his disheveled state added to his scar and further dampened his good looks.
“Because your pain will hurt them more than your death,” I said.
He laughed again, that same breathy chuckle. “They care not for my pain. My death, on the other hand, will lose them a puppet. That they will not stand for.”
“There is that, but you keep forgetting I can read souls. They love you, you know, my mother and brother.”
“I know, and I’ve told you why.”
I shook my head. “You were born before the war; my mother knew you before she became who she is.”
“The Queen? So?”
“Who she was loved you merely because you came from her well of life, and who she is remembers who she used to be—her who could still love, her who is now but a specter of what she has lost.”
Muraad snorted. He did not remember this person I spoke of, for he was too young when the forges of her creation burned her anew. Not that I knew her. No, I only saw the specter, the smothered speck that kept the cold and ruthless fire of her determination alive but otherwise cold.
“I do not know her well enough to speak on the matter,” he said, the blatant disbelief in his expression belying his words. “I do, however, know my father.”
“Your father does not love you for your power.”
He laughed true then, from his chest, deep and hard and long. Dry coughs hacked at his throat and cut his laughter short, and when he finally managed to speak, his voice was almost too hoarse to understand. “I beg to differ.”
“Bainan loves those of his children who are powerful for two reasons.”
Muraad held his breath to stop from chuckling. “So, in the end, you agree.”
I held up a finger, ignoring his amusement. “One, because the powerful are long-lived—the prospect of millennia makes children of centuries. As he sees it, those too weak to survive time and conflict are not worth the investment of his attention, let alone his affections.” A second finger joined the first. “More importantly, he loves what power says about you. Did you know it was he who invented the term ‘Faded’ and propagated the concept of dilution? Yes, it was he who spun the notion that godlings who failed in matters of sensus were so because their souls had drifted too far from their divine origins.”
The truths I shared pulled Muraad into contemplation, and he sat there, silent, eyes drawn to a single, unspectacular spot on the stone floor.
“Why are you telling me this?” he asked after a time.
“So that you care enough to let their pain feed yours when I present them to you.”
My sensus rushed into him, refilling the pain matrix. His teeth clacked and gnashed. A whimper of a scream, more a soft groan than an expression of agony, almost like the moans of a woman in the throes of passion. Rigid muscles stiffened limbs crooked. Frothy dribble trickled from the corners of his mouth and down his chin. He’d not look out of place if he were in the far recesses of The Bridge, chained and feeding the reservoirs of sensus that protected Evergreen like so many of the prisoners of war he’d collected during his campaigns. Good. He was well on his way to becoming the broken, pain-ridden mess I wished to present to my enemies.
I turned. Klisa was awake, watching Muraad. She noticed me then. What I expect would’ve been a jolt had she been of sound condition came more like a drunken sway, and she slumped to her side, her back scraping against the wall.
“Who a-are you?” she stammered.
Muraad’s cage shut once more. I left him to his agony and approached my grandniece. Mystical fingers made of my sensus pulled Yabiskus around me as if his shell was a long, thick, hooded cloak for my soul. My features receded, replaced by his visage. Weak as Klisa was, the shock morphed her face into an expression of such incredulity as to draw my laughter.
The bars of her cage lowered and buried themselves into the stone of the floor. She was, like her uncle, striking in that masculine way House Bainan was. A strong jawline, thick eyebrows, and high cheekbones made her more handsome than beautiful.
“Y-Yabiskus?” Her lips quivered, cold and blue.
“Not exactly,” I said.
My sensus reaching out to feed into her. I gave her enough to pull herself back from death’s door but not so much as to close it. She sat up with a growl of effort. Her new lease on life and the energy and clarity it came with deepened her emotions, the sweet scent of her evergrowing fear calling to me.
“Who are you?” she asked.
“Death or service?”
“Service.” Her answer was instant. A survivor. A schemer, too. I supposed her scheming ways had often saved her from death and elevated her influence. There was, I was sure, a grave of her enemies somewhere, each of the corpses a brick in the stronghold of her confidence, a confidence that convinced her she would always come out on top if only she managed to survive the danger long enough. I wondered if the bond would dissuade her. Maybe it would take a failure or two to resign her resistance. Or perhaps I’d have to foil her machinations to escape my control a hundred times over before she gave in. No, I thought—there were ways to hasten the lesson if need be. Methods I’d enjoy. I chuckled, imagining the joys of instilling such lessons.
“Do you know who I am?” I asked.
“Knite, if my guess is correct. Yabiskus used your name as a curse, an insult meant to convey a weak coward who seeks victory with tricks and lies.”
“I’m no coward.”
“I know. Yabiskus treats—treated the weak with indifference, not hate. I take it he’s dead?”
I nodded at her question. “Nor was your father one to lie. He is of House Bainan, after all.”
Klisa shrugged, her fear easing, her confidence building. “I do not subscribe to the infallibility of the divine. They lie to themselves as well as any mortal might.”
“Which is why you think you can find a way to escape me.”
Her fear spiked but settled back down. “If you are infallible, why would you care?”
“Because it’d be enjoyable to teach you that I need not be wholly infallible to be infallible to you,” I said, smiling, and went about my work.
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***
I was saddling Qaniin outside the inn when Halga came to see me.
“You’re doing well.” I ran a hand down Qaniin’s flank, her muscles tense from the weight of the pack I’d just tied to her back. “Your sister got a sizable head start on the road to recovery, and still she moping around as if she has no place to go.”
“You know her,” Halga said. I felt her presence behind me, her eyes on my back, a wave of nervous energy pulsing from her aura. “She’s the idealist. I’ve always had an easier time accepting reality and my own insignificance.”
Beside me, Klisa paused to watch. To her, Halga was a legend, a godling born outside of House Bainan who had won the acknowledgment of the House’s patriarch. A rarity indeed—Bainan acknowledged few of his own and, besides his siblings and parents, scarcely recognized those outside his line. For the longest time, he had thought little of me, too.
“Cease your stargazing and finish your preparations, Klisa.” My foot slipped into the stirrup, and I lifted myself up onto Qaniin. “I am not a patient man.”
I glanced at Halga over my shoulder. “Talk.”
“I… I’ve come for my orders.”
“Where are the others?”
“Carrying out theirs.”
“Wait for them to return.”
“And then?”
“Tell them to make for Haloryarey.”
“Lira’s city?” Halga stepped close and patted Qaniin on the side of the head. The despotic creature left her touch unpunished for reasons unknown to me, going so far as to rub against Halga’s chest, the hair of her mane brushing against the Seculor’s smiling face.
Klisa looped the last of her gear onto her horse—a duffel of spices she deemed essential lest she had to content herself with flavorless meat. “Ready!”
“When will you get there?” Halga asked.
“I have some business to finalize. Two, three days to see to them, and another week for the travel. Ten days, all told.”
“Do we settle in or prepare to leave upon your arrival?”
“Prepare or settle. Each of you will have a choice to make. The seeds have been planted in Halor.” I led Qaniin toward the city gate. “As have I planted seeds in the capital. It is time to plant the other two—or maybe three, depending on how Manar’s children have conducted themselves in her absence. You and the others may stay to germinate those I’ve planted or leave with me to plant the others.”
***
I jerked in my saddle. Lorail’s presence suddenly hung in the air. As I’d known, Elur had lied. Rough estimates put Lorail somewhere between the capital city and Discipulus. A little more time and better estimates confirmed she was on her way to the latter—her frightening speed made her direction obvious. I had forgotten the extent of my sister’s power. Not even a pair of decades since I sensed her last, and already the difference between my siblings and their firstborns had been blunted in my memories, not in the least because my own power had been locked away for just as long. The vast depth of her strength spanned half the capital island to brush against my sensus.
We marched on.
None entered Discipulus from the west. I could, but I wanted to see what had become of the city before I went about infiltrating The Academy.
Klisa and I circled northward in the mid-afternoon sun, skirting the western hill. The slope was like an oblique door of sorts, and the city inched diagonally into view from over the angled earth. Discipulus had grown in more than just size. Last I knew, the place was a scholarly metropolitan filled with students hungry for knowledge and wisened men hungry for discoveries. It still was. Yet the city had attracted those of other ilks in the years since: Muds, poor and dirty and more so for the contrast the city’s wealth provided; merchants aplenty, from those who seemed little better than Muds, dressed in rags and only differentiated by the healthier tone of their complexions and larger circumference of their waists, to those who rivaled the haughty extravagance of Lorail godlings, some of which were decked in colorful leathers of foreign evolved beasts and crystallized sensus; foreigners from near and far, stocky Golodanian, olive-skinned Kolokasians, and more.
We cut through dense crowds as we traveled one of the three main roads. In the outer reaches of the city where the poor lived, simple warehouses of stone used by merchants fenced the busy highway, hiding the sight—if not the scent—of the poorly constructed huts and shacks of hardened clay and their inhabitants. Spices, seafood, sizzling meat, and a multitude of other subtler scents mingled in the air from the many vendors situated along the walkways, manned by agents of the merchants tasked with offloading all the scraps deemed too substandard for the wealthier clientele who came by ship. Crowds grew denser as we traveled, and we did not get far before I decided we’d better stow away our horses. I chose a suitable place a little way into the city—those on the outskirts were run by merchants or Muds, neither of whom had the means to desist Qaniin’s strength and rebellion. The stables, which catered specifically to all manner of landbound mounts, was a large, half-wooden, half-stone building. Their hay bales were fresh and neatly organized in stacks, the meat on the carcasses they kept on hooks was abundant, the water in their troughs was clean, the gear was polished, the beasts and horses appeared content, and the men and women working there went about their business with competent haste.
I gave Qaniin over to a short redhead with thick arms. She reached out to pat my horse’s flank, each pat accompanied by the weak pulse of a Surgeon matrix meant to slow blood flow. Qaniin tolerated the stable hand, mainly because the woman fed her a steady stream of fruit.
“This one’ll cost.” The woman had a lilting accent that marked her as having grown up as a Mud.
“She always does.” I handed the woman a fair amount for the chore of dealing with my spirited horse.
Klisa, who’d been silent throughout our journey, handed the reigns of her chestnut horse to one of the men. He stroked the animal’s side as he cooed in her ear. The stallion had kept up with Qaniin’s strolling pace and now suffered the consequences.
“Where are we going?” Klisa asked.
“I’m off to see some friends,” I told Klisa.
“How long?”
“However long I please.” I tossed her a coin purse and nodded to the tall fellow whispering into her horse’s ear. “Once you pay the man, you may entertain yourself during my absence. Do not kill or maim unless it is to save yourself from death.”
I did not walk out onto the main road; instead, I slipped into the small alleyway beside the stables and took to the roofs. Slanted surfaces filled my sight and had me kissing my teeth.
Zephyr and Painter matrixes made the journey swift and inconspicuous, and soon I stood before The Academy’s gates, a line of carriages behind me. Students walked past, unaware of my presence but not so unmindful as to bump into me. I stared up and saw the cresting hill rise, and with it rose buildings of marble humming with lights the color of one or more of the five Arts. Avian beasts circled the sky. Colored smoke escaped the Golem foundries and Alchemist labs. Near the summit were the Alchemical regions, four segmented areas of glistening rain, white snow, howling winds, and scorching heat. I had missed the place; my formative years were spent here under the tutelage of men and women I had long ago surpassed. Those were better times.
I entered. As usual, the defenses Merkusian had erected welcomed me in. Inferior protections that so-called masters had added in later years did not faze my expertise.
My first stop took me to an office at the peak of the first structure you came across upon entering. He was there. I knew because I had sensed him long before I’d begun to make my way. The room had changed. Where once he was like me, preferring the dark brown of aged brick, his tastes had changed, and the walls and roof of his office were an opaque glass-like material. Thankfully, not much else had changed. There were no books in the room—he was a staunch believer in memorization. He did leave a Painting of his daughter, though; there were things one kept not to know or remember but to appreciate.
Head Master Ricell did just so, eyes fixed on the Painting, pen poised over some half-forgotten document or other.
“Greetings, Muddy.”
Muddy jumped to his feet, his chair rocking back and hitting the glass of the back wall. “Who goes there?”
I waved him down from where I sat across his desk. “Calm yourself. It’s only me.”
He peered at me, disbelieving. “Is that really you?”
“How’ve you been?”
Muddy sighed. “Good, for the first fifty years or so. Then I started getting old.”
“We all do.”
“Some more easily than others. You appear unfettered by time, yet you carry twice the number of years.”
I shrugged. “Life’s not fair. Be thankful you weren’t born a Mud.”
“I was.”
“Then be thankful you weren’t born a Mud after his death.”
Ricell nodded. “Seems to me my date of birth had saved my hardships for my daughter. I’d refuse if I had any choice.”
I shook my head. “You are missing my point.”
He smiled then, and it was the first expression not riddled by his exhaustion. “It is good to see you.”
“And you,” I said, returning his smile.
“Are you here to check up on your projects?”
“No, my people have an eye on things. Thank you, by the way, for acceding to my… requests.”
“Requests,” he scoffed. “You here for me, then?”
“For you,” I confirmed.
The tiredness fell off his face to be replaced by a stern stare. “Last time we saw each other, I could no longer be counted as your friend.”
I became still, calling on grey memories whose color had been stolen. In their absence, I was forced to imitate what I had once felt for this man. “You are and have long been my friend, Muddy. As was your father before you. It is just that there came a time when our friendship had to assume a subservient role in the face of the enemies I faced.” True enough, but not the truth.
Muddy smiled, and though the jovial cheer of realizing who I was had gone, so too was the cold accusation that followed. “So, what exactly brought you here?”
I walked over to the west-facing wall of glass and observed The Academy. Nostalgia nipped at me, and I wondered if those nips might’ve been fearsome bites if Lorail had not robbed me so thoroughly. “Several reasons, you among them. It has been some time.”
We caught up. My stories, stripped of my secrets and all the pain and misery of my captivity, were short affairs. His were much the same. I left at last with a promise, one I had made long ago and needed to reiterate.
My next stop brought me to the Pondus chamber. I expected nothing less from Brittle; she had always been obsessed with rekindling the lost Art. I wondered, as I had many times before, how she would react if she found out I knew the very secrets she searched for.
Brittle did not look away from her latest experiment when the entrance slid open. She did, however, make her irritation known. “Three,” she growled. “And I’ll not heal the last.”
I smiled but tried to keep the humor from my tone. “Three broken bones? Cuts? Blows? Will you be using your full strength? And why would you heal the first two? I’ve always held the opinion that you’ve always been too tame with your threats.”
Brittle half turned, intrigued but unwilling to tear her gaze away from whatever she was doing. “Stay for a while.” Her voice was sweet, inviting, and dangerous. “And we’ll see if you can survive two strikes from me without dying.”
“Much better.”
Bored, I approached and looked over her shoulder at what she was doing. The matrix was a mess—she was trying to combine basic principles into a new effect, but all she’d managed was a construct built to counteract itself.
“I don’t have much time,” I said.
Brittle leaned back and away from her latest failure. “Don’t worry, neither do I. Your punishment won’t take long.”
Then she turned around and froze. I waved a hand over her dumbstruck expression.
“U-Uncle!” She stepped back and bowed. “Apologies! I wasn’t—I didn’t…”
“Calm yourself, Brittle.”
She peered closer at me, and realization dawned. “You did that on purpose.”
“You mean changing my voice. Guilty. Be thankful I did not go so far as to wear Yabiskus.”
“What are you doing here?”
“Visiting.”
“Why?”
“To ask a question.”
Brittle rubbed her hands together. Tiny curls of metal from her etchings drifted off of them. Then she began to pat her front, removing more from her chest and arms and legs.
“The boy?” she asked.
“He and I will speak soon enough. I have come to ask about another matter.” I waited for her to nod her assent. She did. “Are you with me?”
“Against them? Yes.”
I nodded. “Good.” I turned to leave.
“Wait!”
I stopped. “Yes?”
“Who is he? The boy?”
“A friend.”
Brittle kissed her teeth. “Did you know he’s soon to battle another to the death?”
“Ah, I see.” And I did. Lorail was here. Why? Aki, of course. But what had he done to attract her attention? A duel made sense. But who did he face for her to visit? Brittle answered my unasked question.
“A Foira.” Distaste crossed her expression.
“A Bainan?” I asked.
“A powerful one,” she reluctantly admitted. Many, including her fellow Bainan Leaves, thought Brittle held little esteem for the Art of her House. They thought wrong. Just as she delved into the mysteries of Pondus Arts, she reveled in perfecting the Art she’d inherited. None but Bainan was as well-versed in both Surgeon and Reaper Arts as she was, though her talent in Pondus made her a better Reaper. Few cared to know of her prowess. Bafflingly, none of her self-proclaimed rivals had ever questioned the reasons Bainan had allowed Brittle her freedoms. If she were to ever ingratiate herself and adopt the values her father dictated for his House, she’d soon have replaced Muraad as his favorite.
“Not the most powerful of the Leaf candidates within his age range,” she continued, “but competent enough not to fear being displaced for quite some time.”
“Cruel?”
“Bainan would call him ruthless,” she scoffed, and I knew she’d never be his favorite, for he would never be hers. That her sense of honor preferred my fractured morality marked him on the wrong side of good.
I raised an eyebrow. “You’ve kept abreast of the hatchlings and their growth.”
“Many have either challenged or joined me this past century.” She shrugged as if the matter was barely worth mentioning. “I found keeping an eye on them helps me mitigate their disruptions to my research. Besides, one or two of my brothers and sisters are remediable. Unfortunately, Vignil was not such a brother.”
“Interesting. How many were?”
“Four,” she said. Her expression made clear the number did not instill in her a sense of accomplishment.
“Impressive,” I tried.
“Do you know how many of my father’s progenies have tread the path?” The question was rhetorical. Brittle lowered and shook her head.
“Better than none,” I said.
Brittle turned and started packing away all her tools. “Are you coming?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Lorail.”
Brittle shivered, and the small etching knife she was placing into her bag slipped from her grasp and onto the work table. “She’s here?”
“Indeed, she is. Prithee, Brittle, do not make it obvious you know of her presence.”
My niece nodded, and I hoped the trace of fear in her aura would subside in time.