KNITE:

My next destination drew me north and along the eastern edge of The Deathly Forest. Here, the chirping of birds fluttering between branches, the rustle of predatory felines stalking their prey, the howls of canine packs out on the hunt, the whistling winds darting past, and the countless other sounds of nature were all replaced by the portentous whispers of disgruntled ghosts.

Klisa rode beside me. Her new mount—a sandy, hot-tempered male with white socks and a stubborn streak—was already frothing at the mouth.

“The horse trader cheated me,” she said.

“Me,” I corrected.

“Goes without saying. I’m yours, after all.” Klisa was, like all of Yabiskus’ children, trained to be overly obsequious. “Where are we going, Master?”

“My business is to steer; yours is to follow.” I glanced over at her. “Quietly.”

Another half day passed in silence before Klisa’s restraint failed her once more. “What happened in Discipulus?” she asked. “You seem more sour than usual.”

Several apt punishments flashed through my mind, but I decided against them; the image of Aki standing over the godling, the manic glint in his eyes, and what he’d made of his opponent had stayed with me. Unwilling as I was to entertain her questions, the distraction felt more palatable than stewing on my miscalculations.

“You wish to know where we are heading?” I asked, deflecting her question with one I preferred.

“Yes, if you would permit it.” Her heels beat rhythmically into her horse’s flanks; bruised and chafed, the animal was not having a good time of it. Klisa did nothing to heal or dull the horse’s pain, either. Every scrap of her meager Surgeon skills went towards ensuring the beast kept up with Qaniin’s pace.

“Why do you ask?”

She nodded past me and at the darkness of The Deathly Forest, its blacks and greys devouring the brightness of the clear skies. “I’m hoping we’ll not need to venture into that.”

“Because your horse refuses to tread past the demarcation?” I asked. “Or is it because you fear the spirits that dwell within?”

The stout—for an unevolved—creature Klisa rode had reared at every attempt she’d made to cross the explicit boundary of the forest, and despite all the cajoling, the animal remained just this side of where the green grass turned to black bristles, brown soil to grey dust, and the warm, damp air of the morning’s rain to the icy dryness of a place that rebelled against the touch of anything alive or warm.

I leaned down and patted the space between Qaniin’s neck and shoulder. As expected, she’d reacted to the foreboding changes of The Deathly Forest with her usual disdain.

“Both,” Klisa said.

“Our next destination shall have mounts more agreeable to traversing the spirit-infested forest. As to the issue of your fears, I leave you to deal with them.”

Klisa’s kicks grew heavier. “Where are we going? You never said.”

“Holden.”

She let in a sharp intake of breath. “The city of collectors?”

“Indeed.”

“I’d rather run through The Darkly Forest naked,” she said.

Holden lay on an expanse of flatlands, a hulking structure of obsidian stone moored in a sea of green coasted by the black of The Deathly Forest. It was, to my eye, a twin to Snowliar, as if the same mind had designed them both, only while experiencing differing moods. A somber yet more ambitious frame of mind had outfitted Holden in black and expanded the size tenfold.

We approached on a road of compacted earth, me on Qaniin, Klisa on foot. Somewhere along the way, when the effort of prodding the horse into maintaining Qaniin’s pace grew tiresome, she’d given up on the animal and bolstered herself with Reaper Arts instead.

We came to a stop before the giant metal of the city’s singular gate, the surface so black as to hide the many protrusions of its design from the naked eye. The place was deathly quiet. Mundane senses determined it had long ago been deserted. Superior senses knew it wasn’t.

“Do we knock,” Klisa asked, a little breathless from her run.

“No need,” I said, and as if to prove my point, an oval-shaped hole melted itself into an opening, the metal flowing outwards into airborne appendages of dark liquid.

A hairless man, lean but corded with muscle, stood clad in black robes, a staff of gnarled wood a head taller than he clasped in his right hand. He looked us up and down, me in particular. I was wearing Yabiskus’ skin. And say what you will about my nephew, but you’d never call him unassuming.

“Greetings,” he said. “What brings you to our door, Fiora?”

Two more persons dressed much the same and with the same obsidian staff the first man carried came into view beyond the opening, their faces hidden by hoods.

“I ask again, what business has brought you here?” the man repeated.

“Are The Accords still in place?” I asked.

The man flinched in surprise. “Do you mean to cite one of the rights?”

I took a step forward, ignoring the gliding limbs of darkness swaying in the air like snakes poised to strike. “Are they in place?”

The man watched me closely, whatever expression he wore deadened by the limits of his tight skin. “They are, but—”

“I call on the right of providence.” I disliked the wording, but one of the city’s more astute leaders had convinced me of the need. ‘Language can be a subtle but powerful beast,’ the wily old fox had said, her very presence proving her point. Weaker than all the candidates she had competed against for her role, she’d won the vote purely on rhetoric. ‘To make less of your enemies in the eyes of your subjects, you must first elevate yourself above them.’ I found very little fault in her logic; the fault lay with those whose thoughts her logic was predicated on.

“Only a Primus can bestow and call on the right of providence,” The man answered. “You may, at most, plead for such a blessing.”

I nodded. It had been over a century since I was Primus. The Primus, to be exact. The one and only if my initial intentions were to be realized, but time waits for no man. I first devised the role after I found out I had, accidentally and in a roundabout sort of way, created the city of Holden. The Primus was not the ruler, for I did not have the time or inclination to rule. No, the Primus was there for altogether different reasons.

“Has the Regis fallen?” I asked.

The man’s eyes narrowed. “You know an awful lot about us for an outsider. Are you one of the old ones?”

“Relay my request for an audience to the Primus, if you will.”

The lack of soft flesh on the man’s face showed the ripples of his jaw muscles as they worked to grit his teeth. “The Accords only pertain to those who’ve signed the document. Only they may request the blessing of an audience.”

“I have, in a fashion.”

“Lies.” The wood of his staff creaked as his hand gripped the haft tighter. Both his companions flinched back. “I take it you wish to be granted entry?”

“We do,” I said, glancing over at Klisa.

“Good. Because your blasphemy has earned you a judgment.”

It was my turn to frown. “Your new Primus can perform the task?”

“New?” It was one of the other two figures behind the bald man. “Our Primus has held her seat since The God of Equilibrium died. A century is more than sufficient to rob that descriptor from her title.”

The bald man glared the woman into silence. “Seize them.”

“Do not resist,” I said to Klisa.

The two hooded figures bent out of view and returned with sensus shackles; whatever pretense they led with, their preparations revealed this to be their plan from the onset. Restraints snapped onto our wrists and ankles, held fast by a Telum matrix drawn onto their latches. Directed by the bald man and prodded forward by the other two our rears, their staffs digging between our shoulders with a constant push, Klisa and I made our way deeper into the city, the chain connecting the cuffs binding our arms behind our backs and forcing us to shuffle our feet.

The city was much the same on the inside as it was on the outside. Dark stone absorbed light, turning the sky into an inverted twilight without color, a blended ladder of softening greys. Like Snowliar, every building was mostly made of stone, and like most cities, the structures grew ever loftier and more spacious as they neared the epicenter. There, standing squat, was the keep, a stump of dark stone that used to house the elected Regis.

Holden was neither small nor large, and the brisk walk to the heart of its land took us two turns of an hourglass. Near the fringes, we met with very few passersby, most of them guards or city officials, as evidenced by their black robes. As we traveled, the sight of residents going about their daily lives became more common. It was a sad sight to behold. Grim-faced children too young for school or apprenticeships played their simple games joylessly, vendors haggled, their animated passion for profit absent, colleagues worked and talked without friendly familiarity, and couples held hands or kissed or showed signs of affection as if merely mimicking the actions. Every citizen who passed us moved with the graceless, wooden motions of lifeless puppets.

Eventually, we came upon the keep. Up the half-dozen steps and on either side of the tall entrance stood two more robed persons, their uniform supplemented by studded gloves, horned helmets with a ‘Y’ shaped opening, and the addition of spear points to the ends of their staffs.

“We have criminals here to be judged,” the bald man said with the air of someone bored by repetition.

“For what crime?” the one on the right asked, his bulk and height a few fingers greater than his partner.

“Blasphemy.”

The guard nodded gravely, his expression as emotionless as everyone else in the city. “You may take him to the Lord’s steward.”

Fingers spread and palms flat, the second guard hunched down, lay his hands on either side of the two-door entrance, slid his feet back into a runner’s pose, and, with a mighty effort, heaved the doors open.

We entered in the same order we’d traveled, passing under the archway and into the dark abyss that lay beyond. The muted light coming from our backs grew narrow as I heard the two guards pull the door closed. Illuminations flickered on as we walked, ceiling lanterns throwing down a purple glow. Pools of darkness resting on the floor drank the light, and it was as though we walked upon shadows. Klisa stumbled a time or two, fumbling a step when her toes snagged on the upturned corner of a loose brick.

Deep in the heart of the keep was a staircase, a square opening stretching the depth and height of the building, steps winding up and down along the tall walls, no rails or handholds or safety measures between them. Someone had, however, been concerned enough to carpet the stairs so that the dim, purple lights of the lanterns helped in keeping watch of one's footing.

We stepped off one floor before the stairs came to an end. A short corridor led to a spacious, perpendicular hallway. Staff roamed, all robed, all going about their duties absentmindedly. Those not hidden by their hoods were hairless, man or woman, and none paid us any attention, their expressions stiff, eyes downcast, and motions stilted as if they wished to match their demeanor to the city’s bleak aesthetics.

Another left and passed a set of doors brought us to our destination and into the first room not constricted by blackness. It used to be the holding cells for those awaiting judgment. It had changed. We walked into an expansive space filled with the white light of exquisite matrix lanterns shaped into glass-blown sculptures of naked women. The windows of the back wall had been expanded from small barred openings to panels of glass looking out into the silhouetted cityscape of Holden, the elevation alleviating some of the dark ambiance. Half the room was partitioned by a maroon curtain falling from the ceiling, hoops of metal hooked through apertures holding up the thick spread of velvet. The half we occupied was designed around a block of beautifully carved wood that served as a desk. On the front side—the side facing us and the entrance—displayed the Painting of a haram lounging in and around a fictitious bath, eating fictitious fruits, splashing in the fictitious water, or just lying there seductively. The miniature figures moved lithely, seeming much more alive than everyone else we’d seen in Holden so far.

You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

The man sitting behind the desk looked up from the scroll he’d been inspecting, one of several dozen lying on his desk. He was a big man, most of it muscle, his face the first I’d seen to hold an expression that did not scream apathy, smiling as he was. White hair brushed back and encircled by a golden diadem ran halfway down his neck. Behind him and a little to the side stood a scantily dressed woman, her arms wrapped around a large bowl of white grapes.

“What do we have here?” he said. “A Fiora?”

The bald man bowed. Our other two escorts slammed the butts of their staffs into the backs of our knees, then followed suit and kneeled.

“Rise,” the giant instructed.

“My lord,” the bald man began, “we have two blasphemers here for a judgment.”

“How did they blaspheme?” He waved two fingers at the woman beside him, who proceeded to feed him a handful of grapes.

“The man presumed himself equal to the Primus,” our captor explained.

The giant chewed and swallowed without haste, then asked, “And the woman?”

“Guilt by association, Lord.”

“And did they resist their detention?”

“No, Lord.”

“Why?”

“He wanted an audience, Lord.”

“Leave us.”

The three men bowed once more and, while still bent from the waist, walked backward and out of the room. Soon, the door closed behind them, leaving Klisa and me alone with their ‘Lord.’

The giant stood from his chair, rounded his desk, half-sat-half-leaned on its edge, and I found I had underestimated how right I was to think him a giant. A crisp robe of unblemished white hugged his shoulders and splayed outwards to drag about his hidden feet, the beaded fringes sparkling with emeralds.

“Introductions are in order,” he said. “I am Salander, steward to the Primus of Holden. And you are?”

I walked closer, paused to appreciate how the Painted women had crowded out to the ends so they could peer past the giant, and then continued until I stood within his reach. “A wonderful piece you have there,” I said. “Stolen?”

He smirked. “A gift.”

“Freely given.”

“Rightly earned.”

I nodded. “Those Lorails are a duplicitous lot, aren’t they? It’s a wonder how they make any dealings given how often they attempt to default on their agreements.”

He lost a little of his smirk then, a little of his certainty. “I take it you are not of House Lorail.”

“Curse the thought.” I tore the manacles from my wrists and ankles and tossed the mass of chains and bands of metal on the floor between us. Salander stood erect and tense. “Can you imagine? Me, one of hers. No, Salander, I am not of House Lorail.”

“Bainan?” he asked, a faint stutter hitching his voice.

“Gods, that’d almost be worse.”

A breeze caressed the back of my neck, and I heard the door fly open and hit the adjacent wall.

“Why have you allowed a Leaf past our defenses and into my domain!”

I looked over my shoulder, and there she stood, a heavy, grey shawl partially covering the dark brown of her leather armor. Given her lack of talent in sensus, time had been inordinately kind to her. Last I knew her, she stood bent forward, her deformed leg tilting her off-center, both her hands gripped around the handle of her cane as her only means of balance. Now, the cane did nothing to keep her upright, the hunch of her back was nowhere to be seen, and the plumpness of her old age had slimmed into the supple form of a much younger and more agile woman. The worn but well-kept handle of the sword she wore about her hip spoke of the physical prowess she’d discovered since my time away. Well, stolen might be a more apt description, for I knew the strength she wielded was not her own.

Our eyes met. Hers narrowed. Mine joined my smile. A frown joined hers.

“Duros,” she spat, “what are you doing here?”

“Oh, how rude of me.” I turned to face her and extended my arm to her. “Some know me as Yabiskus.”

Klisa scoffed at my deception.

“I have no need for your name, Fiora.” Again, she spat the title as if it were an insult. In a way, I agreed. “I have not failed to pay my tithe. Holden is mine to rule, and only gods may cross its borders without my consent. Even then, they may only do so with explicit permission from The Old Queen. Your actions risk the rebellion of all free cities. Nay, all vassal states will see this breach as a—”

Salander collapsed. As did his servant. As did the bowl of grapes. Manar had taught me a few of her Vapor tricks. One such technique involved a quick squeeze of the head with a blanket of force. The shock could knock a man out if he wasn’t prepared. I’d caught Salander and his servant unawares.

“Come now, Wenzel,” I said. “Have you grown so old and powerful as to have lost your edge? Lira was much the same, you know? Her, I expected. You, on the other hand…” I shrugged. “To tell the truth, I’m a little disappointed.” I waved my hand around, indicating the room, the keep, the city, and The Deathly Forest beyond. “And this little dominion you’ve carved for yourself is a little more than a disappointment.” I pointed at her. “Worse of all is that soul of yours. The evils you’ve committed to blacken yourself so thoroughly must be great indeed.”

Wrezel fell back and into the hallway, eyes wide. She stammered, speaking to the ghosts who were the source of her power. A power that was powerless against me and only me—Lorail had the personal power too, but her lack of political sway barred her from acting against a free-city lord with impunity.

“Y-You d-d-died.”

I slipped out of Yabiskus’ form. “Have I? I can’t say I feel dead. Honestly, I haven’t felt so alive in over a century.”

Wrezel got her fear under control. “Why are you here? For Holden?”

“Did you kill the other members of the Regis?” I countered.

“Without the threat of your judgments… I had to quell the chaos your death caused.”

“And solidify your rule, no doubt. And what’s this I hear about you taking over my role as Primus?”

Wrezel’s face drained of color. “I-I had to make them believe we were still protected from the effects of the forest.”

“And are they?”

“None who’ve been tainted by the anguished spirits remain alive to cause havoc.”

“Except you, you mean. Did you not consume them and their taint?”

“There was no other way.”

I barked a laugh. “But to feed upon their souls?”

“My choices were limited.”

“I suppose feeding the city all the negative effects of the naftajars that dwell within you was not a choice either.”

“Better for them than becoming Muds under the oppression of godlings,” she protested. “And they’re alive.”

“Only in the sense that they yet possess a pulse.”

“What would you have me do?” Her protest took on a hint of pleading.

“I expected you to take every living soul and leave.”

“But what of the corruption? What of the responsibility you tasked me with? Was it not you who said, ‘Let not a single soul join the horde of tortured ghosts’?”

I shook my head and then turned to look out of the window. Far, but not so far as to escape past the horizon, was The Deathly Forest. I pointed in its direction. “The horde is as plentiful as it has ever been, fed well by unsuspecting or overconfident travelers.” I shifted my gaze back to her. “And now I see another has formed.”

The Deathly Forest—and, by extension, Holden—was born from one of the more egregious errors of my youth. A trip to the front lines after my graduation from The Academy had seen me consume the most lavish feast I had so far attempted. Too grand a feast, as it turned out. Merkusian, not having known that his queen had sent me to face a throng of Evergreen’s enemies, had come as soon as he’d realized, arriving midway into the battle, by which time I’d massacred half their number. In my eagerness to win The Old Queen’s approval, I had imitated my sister and devoured countless souls. And not merely their sensus or the nebulous essence of their outer souls but the very cores of who they were. Ultimately, a series of events led to those souls being buried in the grounds where The Deathly Forest now stood. The forest went by a different name back then, of course. A second mistake followed the first when I thought the matter had concluded. A man gifted in the Art of Tunnelling laid open the folly of my thinking. This man, Glindard, a commoner with a particularly atrocious namat, found and absorbed a fraction of the hate-filled souls I’d left festering underground. In doing so, he became the first of the collectors and built the city of Holden for one purpose: to maintain the potency of souls in The Deathly Forest. Merkusian sent me to clean up the mess, for he did not have the heart to ignore the rumors of how his citizens’ souls were being trapped and eaten. I deposed Glindard and his fellow collectors, became Primus, and created the Regis, who had, under my rule, become more reasoned and virtuous successors. I had meant to wipe the city and its forest from the map at first. I tried and failed. The disembodied souls had merged with the land, becoming one and the same. Some aspect of their transformation refused them entry into the realm souls entered upon death, and so they were stuck, their pain driving them to madness, their misery calling to be shared.

A cry brought me back from retrospection.

“I cannot die,” Wrezel shrieked. She transformed as she moved. Her skin turned to a grey streaked with lines of black, her jaw separated to reveal a row of sharp teeth, and her eyes turned to orbs of onyx. Faint outlines of screaming, shouting, howling men, women, and beasts formed into smoke around her.

I dashed in, struck her chest with an open palm, and slammed her into the ground. The floor cracked. Air rushed out of her lungs. The matrix lay severed; Holden’s populace was no longer bearing her burden. Her transformation stuttered, then reversed, the mist of the souls she held prisoner dissipating.

I took a deep breath through my nose.

“Holden is mine! Mine!” Madness gripped Wrezel. Broken bones held her still. Without the link with those she ruled, her soul could not contend with the naftajars she’d employed to strengthen herself.

“Quiet, woman,” I growled, and she was.

***

Leahne had redecorated. The walls were painted white. Modest Paintings hung on the walls and played soft melodies. She’d bought and arranged a new set of upholstered furniture in the back room, all dark, cushioned woods wrapped in tight weaves of cotton the pale blue of a clear day.

“A rather lovely place,” Salander commented, “though a little too quaint for my tastes.”

Klisa fell into one of the seats. “Comfortable, at least.”

“Wait here,” I instructed them both. “If she arrives, show her your marks.”

“She?” Klisa asked.

“Leahne. Dark hair, tanned skin. If she doesn’t show you her mark in kind, kill her. The same goes for anyone who doesn’t match her description.”

The basement had seen a similar transformation. As had Ilinai. The priestess was still mad, still mumbled to herself, still jerked around awkwardly and without rhyme or reason, but if you were to look past her senseless behavior, she looked the picture of health. Like the room, she was clean. Leahne had taken further precautions, chaining Ilinai to the wall by her hands and feet, the restraints refusing her movements greater than the length of her calves and forearms so that she had no opportunity to harm herself.

I freed the prisoner from her chains and consciousness, flung her over my shoulder, went back upstairs, threw her into a large burlap sack, carried her outside, and lay her on the back of Qaniin.

Leahne returned a little before sunset, a stack of matrix drawings pinned between her chest and arm. She noticed my presence before she laid eyes on me. I did nothing to hide from her, nor was Qaniin so easy to forget. Leahne entered and dumped the papers she carried on a dining table she’d bought and placed on the side of the room opposite the more comfortable seating Klisa, Salander, and I occupied.

“You’re still teaching at the preparatory academy?” I asked.

“I had nowhere else to go and no other means of living I preferred.” Leahne turned to us for the first time and froze.

“Ah,” Salander exclaimed, “the little Painter.”

“Relax,” I told Leahne. “You both serve me now and the reason for your conflict no longer exists.”

“He ruined my life,” Leahne hissed.

“No,” I said. “Lorail ruined your life, and only until I came to put it back together. But that is neither here nor there. Stand down.”

“What of his previous master?”

“Also under my service.”

Leahne’s tense readiness eased though the hostile glare remained focused on the large collector. “You came for the priestess?”

“And you. Prepare. Gather any belongings you might need for the foreseeable future. We leave as soon as you are ready.”

***

We hacked through the heavy brush of the nameless forest. I’d left Qaniin behind; the other horses had died before the journey’s end.

We were spotted long before we reached the city’s edge by a squad of warriors clad in green camouflage. Their leader recognized me.

“Greetings,” she said. She was a tall woman, slim, hooded, and with a scarf wrapped around the lower half of her face, a bow over her shoulder, a knife at her belt, and a short spear held low in her right hand. “I’ll escort you into the city proper.”

I nodded and followed. As did the rest of my party. Our escort led us to the same tree I’d been to the last time I was there.

“You may enter,” she said. “I’ll arrange food and lodgings for your companions.”

“Subordinates,” I corrected, then ducked into the tree.

The old man was alone. He sat, calm but with a hint of anticipatory excitement.

I shook my head as I took my seat across from him. “I did not come bearing as great a gift as a fettered Leaf this visit.”

The man smirked. “But you did bring a gift?”

“What is your name, old man?”

“What is yours?” His smirk had not left him.

“You may call me Merkus.”

“That is not your name?”

“It is one of them.”

“I am Aelon. That is the only name I’ve ever carried.”

“Well, Aelon, how is my last gift.”

“Useful.”

“Safely contained?”

“I dare say the talents of our people stand equal to your Auger Arts.”

“I dare say I think they are one and the same, by root if not by sprout.”

Aelon frowned. Long, wispy eyebrows made the expression all the more expressive. “I did not think any of your people knew of the theft.”

“Theft is a little inaccurate,” I said. “It isn't like you lost possession of your Art.”

“I suppose you might be right. In any case, what have you brought us this time?”

“An ambassador from the city of Holden.”

Aelon’s face did not reveal any reaction, but I noticed how the hand resting on his cane had twitched tighter. “Collectors? With all due respect, I have already burned much of my influence in allying us with you. An ambassador from Holden will do us no good.”

“Holden and its ruler are mine,” I said.

“I’m afraid that matters little. It might very well give credence to my people’s hesitance to ally with you.”

I nodded without protest, having expected the answer. “Very well. Lorail has returned to her Island.”

“We’ve heard whispers.”

“I’ve brought with me a woman who used to be one of her agents.”

“Free?”

“Of Lorail,” I said.

“I see.” The way he said it made it known he’d caught my specificity. “Will you leave her with us?”

“Yes. She may be of help. The clandestine work she’d performed for Lorail has likely imparted her with information that could prove useful.”

“A spy?”

“And an assassin.”

“Do you wish for her to stay here as a guest or prisoner?”

“Consider her hired help paid in food, accommodation, and possibly in weapons and armor. Also, I expect her to do her work in Halor, not here. I’m sure your daughter will find some use for her—she is a resourceful one.”

“The spy?”

“And Jule.”

Aelon nodded, his faint smile agreeing with my praise. “Very well. Are there any more matters to discuss?”

I stood. “There is another ex-servant of Lorail I want you to watch over for me. She’s most definitely a prisoner, though I’d appreciate it if you’d made sure she’s handled with care.”

“Is she also a spy?”

“Of a sort.”

“Please clarify. Knowing what set of skills she has might help in containing her more thoroughly.”

“She’s a priestess.”

“Oh,” he said, a little surprised. “May we interrogate her?”

“You are welcome to try.”

“What are their names?”

“The assassin goes by Leahne. The priestess is Illinai.”

“You can’t mean Lorail’s head priestess, Illinai.”

“Oh, but I do.”