KNITE:
They came with the first rays of dawn. I’d waited long enough to question what I had planned. And for good reason: What I planned only worked if my promises allowed.
Two men—twins—trailed a woman. All three were Duroses, ready matrixes active. All three were Triplers of House Bainan, the hint of meaning in their matrixes revealing the natural deception their dusky hair and lean figures intimated.
I lay across the street on a slanted roof with my arms and legs crossed, watching them approach the grim building the Taragats called home. The wide double doors parted before them, revealing a silver-haired woman kneeling, her aureate dress blooming around her like the petals of a flower.
“Rise, Jivron,” said the leading godling.
Taragat’s matriarch rose but kept her steely gaze low. “You honor us, Your Grace. I cannot say there has been anything we’ve done in recent times that would merit us the gift of your visit.”
“Unless you remember to use your sense of hearing,” the godling said, “I will take it from you. Either you wish to make your irritation at my decision to leave the family known, or you think so little of me as to think I do not sense your ridicule. Either way, I shall not stand for the disrespect. You may be my mother, but I am a godling, and you are not. You’re no longer even one of my father’s concubines. Address me as ‘Your Grace’ again, or offer me mockery hidden in flowery words of submission, and I will have you flayed, stuck on a pike, and left in a skeleton cage for a cycle of the moon. Am I understood, Jivron?”
“As you say, Lady Klisa,” Jivron answered, her composure immaculate. “What brings you here this day?”
“We have issues to discuss. Lead us to a quiet room so we may do so.”
“Of course.”
I infiltrated the grey building much the way I had the first time, making my way through several hallways and flights of stairs, ignored by all who crossed my path. My targets had settled into a room on the fifth floor somewhere in the back of the building. A rich carpet spread across the room, nine plush chairs arrayed into a semi-circle, Paintings hanging on each wall, and an Alchemy matrix wafting the pleasant scent of lilacs about the golden chamber marked the room fit for purpose—any Root who might need to entertain a visit from their patron godling had one such room prepared. Klisa sat in the central chair, the twins taking theirs to her left and right. Jivron remained on her feet, standing across from Klisa as though she were a subject who’d come to see their sovereign. I stayed near the door in a cocoon of Painter and Zephyr matrixes.
“Someone attacked the Grifals last night,” Klisa said.
Jivron looked up from the floor for the first time, the faintest of tics escaping her curated facade. “Who?”
“If house Elur is to be believed, we did.”
“Us? None of mine have ventured into their business or territory. We’ve not faced them directly since our foray into Lorail’s church.”
“Nor have we,” said one of the twins, his faint smirk seeming to be a natural part of his resting expression. He ran his hands through his hair, tucking the loose strands behind his ears.
“Do you know a man by the name of Augutle?” asked the other twin. He wore his hair shorter—short enough to see his scalp. If not for that and the subtle differences between their souls, little could separate the two.
Jivron looked back down. “I know two men with that name. A father and son. The former is a nephew of mine.”
“Where is he?” Klisa asked.
“Missing.”
“Since?”
“Last night. Him and his… servant.”
Klisa scowled, rightly inferring the significance of Jivron’s pause. “Consider him dead. The assailant who attacked the Grifals wore his face and mark.”
“His face? A Painting?”
“A Reaper, they say. A Powerful one at that—few Reapers have the fine control needed to imitate a face.”
“If we find his remains, can we not—”
“No. They already know he was not the real Augutle. The man abducted Elur’s youngest. I doubt any of your brood could subdue a Leaf, even one as young as Olanda.”
Jivron stepped back, eyes wide. “Olanda? My hou—erm, my family, are they in danger? Are you here to protect us?”
The long-haired twin laughed as his brother watched Jivron’s hysterics with featureless disdain.
“House Lorail will not come after you themselves,” Klisa said. “They think such things are below them, not knowing power is the only thing that sets you above or below anything. We, however, do know and would, in their position, have annihilated you all, which is why they think us the culprits. That and the man used our Arts to commit the deed. If you must worry, worry about the Grifals.”
Jivron sighed, comforted. For her and her family, facing the Grifals was dangerous, whereas facing the godlings was a death sentence. “Then I am curious, Lady, as to what has brought you here.”
Klisa frowned. “As are we, but unlike you, we do not question our betters.”
I felt Jivron's soul flare bright. She was well-versed in restraint. Few had the self-discipline to stop the anger she felt from leaking into their countenance. “Apologies. I only wished to discover how to best serve.”
Klisa got to her feet, leaving her apology unacknowledged. “Our grandfather has bid us to search for this imposter. I doubt we’ll find anything of use, but it’s best we go about our task assiduously. Take us to where Augutle was last seen.”
Klisa was right: I did not leave anything. Not a drop of blood, sensus, or anything else that might hint at my presence. They inspected the room thoroughly and, two turns later, having found nothing of note, made to leave. I followed them out of the drab building, hoping to discover who this grandfather of theirs was. A Fiora, certainly. Elur’s counterpart in this game of subterfuge? Likely. Whoever it was, I hoped they took after their father in more than Arts and looks.
As expected, we climbed to the city’s next plateau, crossing the gate into The Branches. It had been some time since I’d last set foot there. Besides having more sensus-molded buildings and marble constructs, an older—though younger looking—and healthier population, and far more sensus-related conveniences, The Branches suffered the same disparities The Roots did. I followed the three godlings past the outer and poorer regions where the ascended lived and to a Branch version of the Grifal estate—a more prominent, greener, better-constructed place built up and against the cliff face of the next plateau. Oddly, the main house, which also hugged the cliff face, traversed upwards, thinning into a peak that ran up and over the peak plateau and into The Leaves. I’d never seen the like. Indeed, it had been constructed after my fall from grace.
I lost sight of the godlings when they entered. My Painting was not up to the task of letting me follow. Subverting the cliff and gate extended protections more commonly seen in The Leaves to the estate. I skirted the outer walls—spike-tipped, metal things ten times my height and three paces deep—and watched for any weaknesses in the bundles of matrixes veining its insides. Jumping over, forcing through, or digging under the thing was impossible without alerting those within. Ultimately, the weakest links—the two parts connecting to the cliff face—weren’t all that weak. The disconnect between the formation Merkusian had built into the plateau and the lesser wall design afforded a slight discrepancy. A discrepancy that’d still take me time to take advantage of.
Hours later, with the sun dipping past the horizon, I slipped in, using Telum Arts and the many preparations I’d made to mold past the wall.
I came upon a pond green with algae and frogs. A broken fountain in the shape of a rearing horse dribbled droplets of water, the ripples swaying the lotus leaves resting on the surface. The small area was surrounded by trees, cutting off the view of what lay beyond. I remained unseen.
Recasting my Painting, I went forth.
He was alone, reading. A Fiora. Old. Powerful. I knew him. He shared a mother with Bainan’s favorite son, Muraad. From the strength of his soul, he’d followed in his brother's footsteps.
I slipped in through the open window of the top floor of the estate and into the only room it held. His office was small. Bare. Only as big and furnished as was necessary. It had instruments of convenience but none of luxury: no art, no rugs, no matrixes for cooling or heating or scent, just four lanterns hanging from each wall, and an unpadded chair sitting before a sturdy but simple desk. He sat behind the desk, his back to a door I knew led to his estate in The Leaves.
“It’s rude to enter a person’s home uninvited,” he said without looking up from the scroll he was reading. He was a big man, square-jawed and handsome. I disliked him back when I’d met him first. Not much had changed.
I let go of my Painting. “I know.”
“Brave of you. Have you come to assassinate me?”
“Yes.”
“Ah, that goes beyond courage and into the realm of idiocy.” He looked up, frowned his heavy brows, and began to furl the scroll he’d been reading. “Idiotic of Elur, too, to send anyone but herself. Moreso for having sent a Named. I shall be having words with my sons and daughters when we are done here. There’s little excuse for them to be bested by a mere commoner.”
“You know, I don’t rightly remember your name.”
“I doubt that.” He stood to his rather formidable height, revealing the muscles of his bare torso. The upper part of his pale-yellow tunic hung down from the brown belt he wore low around his waist. “But I’ll introduce myself all the same. I am Yabiskus kin Bainan. And you are?”
I sat on the window ledge, my cloak fluttering as it caught the wind. “It’s odd.”
“I suppose you have no reason to be courteous, knowing your death approaches. Very well, I’ll play your game, if only to break from the tedium and discontent of managing my house. What is odd?”
“Ever since my return, I find myself thanking my enemies.”
“How so?”
“Because your souls have yet to disappoint me. Not once. I suppose I owe you thanks, too, for allowing me to do as I wish.”
Yabiskus kissed his teeth. “Your nonsensical spiel is boring me, boy. Let us be done with this.”
He was fast. His fist connected—a grazing blow, but a blow nonetheless. I spun to the side. A kick followed close behind. I blocked the strike mere inches from my neck. My fingers dug into the thick leather of his boot. Tips of bone grew to dig deeper and pierce fresh. He tried to pull back. He couldn’t. His eyes narrowed. A matrix formed from meaning undid my bone claws, crumbling them to dust. The sensus tried to go further, targeting the bones of my hand. My sensus refused him. He jumped back.
“Duros Arts? But your Painting? Ahh, you're our mysterious provocateur. Are you one of Lorail’s experiments? She’s achieved far more success than I thought possible. First Nikal, now you. I knew I was right to find and kill all those shells.”
Ah, I thought—the man behind Merkon’s mask. Or not. He has no talent as a Painter. An ally?
“We’d met once, you know?” I said.
Yabiskus’ eyes narrowed. “When?”
“Long ago. You were still a Leaf candidate back then.”
“I haven't been a candidate since…”
A smile grew out of the spark of fear I suddenly tasted in the air. “Your father was bragging to me about your brother surviving a battle against one of the Golodanian gods.” I scoffed a derisive snort. “As if I weren't the one who rescued him from certain death. Bainan always was a little dense.”
Yabiskus took a step back, eyes wide. “Kn-Knite? But you died?”
I shrugged. “As you can see, the tale of my downfall has been greatly exaggerated.”
“Why are you here?”
“Ah, yes, that. Well, I’m afraid you won’t like my answer.”
“My soul. My sins. That is what you were thanking me for.”
“As black as Lira’s. Impressive, really, given she’s so much older than you.”
Another step back had him against the edge of his desk. “A bond?”
“Worse.”
“What’s worse than a bond?”
“I’d rather not say. Not until the fight is out of you and you’ve lost hope of escaping your fate.”
I dashed forward. Yabiskus reached out to push me away. I flowed past his arm and dug a fist into his gut. Two of my fingers broke. The bastard was wearing Telum-crafter armor beneath his skin. He swung his elbow down. I leaned back and kicked up, finding the underside of his chin with my heel. He flew back as I rolled to my feet.
Yabiskus stood, fearful but determined. He took off his belt, letting his tunic fall to the ground. His legs and feet bulged, ripping his pants and boots off of him. But instead of seeing his nakedness, his lower half was clad in bone. It slithered and stretched over Yabiskus, covering him until an eyeless, noseless, mouthless, hairless creature had replaced the man.
“I see you’ve adopted your brother’s fighting style,” I said. “Were you hoping to inherit his Title?”
Yabiskus attacked. Muraad was worth imitating. The bone armor his Title was named after did more than protect. The man had interwoven tendons between the seamless joints, improving speed and strength on top of hardness.
I dodged, escaping the grasp of his sharp claws, then dodged again, avoiding the two-fingered strike he hoped to plunge into my heart. He kept attacking, his strikes fast and endless and strategical. Much as others ridiculed House Bainan for their brutish conduct, they were far from the mindless berserkers many thought them to be. In the end, how mindless can they be if their House specializes in the complexities of bodily vessels?
The rapid succession of attacks drove me into a corner. With my retreat blocked off, Yabiskus towered over me, his size affording me no passage of escape.
The sounds of feet clambering up the stairs reached my notice. Time was running out. I had to make my move.
I bore down on Yabiskus. He stood his ground. The lance of pain—the purest and deepest I’d made since my rebirth—stabbed into his soul. The agony stole his concentration, and the rigid lines of his bone armor lost some cohesion, the lines and curves of its structure slackening. My fist landed in the center of his featureless face. His head whipped back. Half his armor fell to pieces. He staggered. I did not relent. I rained blows down on him. Not a moment was given for him to recover or form a defense. Finally, a blow to his temple cut the strings of his resistance, and he fell into unconsciousness.
A knock came. The handle moved, but the door remained locked. Voices called for Yabiskus. Shouted for him.
I dove into my nephew’s soul. His body was unconscious, but he was a godling, a Fiora, a Leaf; he could construct a basic avatar of his brain to house a fraction of his consciousness. A grander version of this talent was why gods were considered immortal.
‘Did your brother ever tell you how we knew all we did about the Golden King and his army?’ I thought at him.
‘Nooo—' The screams of his soul ceased when I crushed his avatar and dispersed the infantile collection of thoughts he’d cobbled together.
I went deeper. His core was neither bright nor flaxen. He had as much talent for Reaper Arts as he had for Surgeon. His decision to follow his brother’s path was a blunder.
The pounding on the door grew louder. More frantic. I shook loose from the distracting observation.
Without my divinity, it took nearly thirty of the strongest soul attacks I could muster to scratch his core. It took another thirty or so to crack the surface. He died then. No, he ceased to be. The metaphysical matter of his presence seeped out of the core, fizzling into the ether of the world. His core remained, his power, even his memories, but he, the being who was Yabiskus, was gone, wiped from existence, or, more accurately, dispersed so far and wide as to achieve the same result.
I took all that I was and funneled it into the crack. The divine parts of my soul had to go dormant to fit. This ability to make less of myself was the very reason I was the only person capable of wearing another person’s skin and core. Merkus, son of Farian, was grown out of a granulated core I’d taken from the Root The Old Queen had assigned as my jailer. A Named. One of the most talented to have ever graced the Evergreen empire. Yabiskus’ core, being that of a Fiora’s, left much more of my soul active, including all of my memories and skills, so well hidden to fool even Lorail herself.
The door gave way and flew open. A man barged in. “Father!”
“Did I give you permission to enter?”
I turned to face the Bainan Fiora, plucking his name from Yabiskus’ memories—mine now.
Lugel. A tall and lean boy. The square jaw and pronounced cheekbones he shared with me made him handsome. The dark hair he’d inherited from his Kolokasian mother contrasted with his pale skin and made him less so. He was my son. One of many. I’d raised him with violence. He’d felt the back of my hand often as a child and learned to relish the abuse as many of his siblings had. Beatings were a sign of my appreciation for their potential, a gesture deeming them worthy of my attention. Those I ignored faced worse fates. They died or spent their lives under the cruel heels of those whose suffering came by my hand. I was proud of Lugel because he allowed me to be proud of having him as a son. He was the only child of mine close to being Titled. All the others had failed. None of the newer generations came close. Dozens of wives, hundreds of offspring, and only one hope. Still, anything but utter subservience was unacceptable.
I crossed the room in one Duros-charged step, wrapped my hand around Lugel’s throat, and slammed him against the wall. Being his father’s son, the black of his soul did not call forth the restraints of my promises. He smiled down at me as I held him up. Gurgles and whistles escaped his crushed windpipe. I let him go.
“We heard a commotion, Father.” His injury was healed before he got back to his feet.
“And you thought I required your aid?”
Lugel went to one knee. “No, Father. I thought to relieve you of a tedious chore.”
I smirked at him, knowing Yabiskus would appreciate the boy’s answer.
Lugel glanced over at my old body, the shell of my greatest mask. It lay there, lifeless yet uninjured. “A Named?” he asked.
“Once,” I said. “But no longer. Gather your brothers and sisters.”
“He was allied with a House Lorail?”
“Once.”
“Are we finally disposing of subterfuge in favor of more overt strategies, Father?”
“No. I doubt Lorail would let a civil war break out. However, henceforth, our intentions will be more… apparent.”
Lugel’s only reply was a bloodthirsty grin.
***
“Sneaking in is unlike you,” Polerma said, seeming unconcerned by the sudden appearance of Yabiskus kin Bainan.
“It’s unlike all of Bainan’s children,” I said. “At least those who survive their upbringing.”
Polerma frowned and stood from her new throne. Being a daughter of Grono, and with my having returned to her the intrinsic strength of her lineage, the throneroom she’d built for herself was a manifestation of her talent, a perfect marriage of function and beauty. Large but not too large, the lines of stone pillars, domed and painted ceiling, intricate tapestries, and gilded sculptures lent the room a baroque quality that bordered on garish but was otherwise rescued by the abundance of matrixes she’d covertly incorporated into the design.
Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.
“Where are my guards?” I asked.
“Guards?”
“Where are they?” I asked again.
Polerma held her hands behind her back. “You come into my city uninvited and make demands I cannot fathom. Tell me, Yabiskus, do I seem the same broken woman you saw when last we’d met?”
I sighed and observed my new body and the pretentious armor I wore to keep my newfound progeny from realizing I was not who I appeared to be. Black sensus leaked from my pores. A tug on the link we shared pulled on Polerma’s soul, bringing her to her knees.
“Now that we’ve established that, where are my guards?”
***
Helena stood to my right, Roche to my left. Both wore masks. I knelt on one of only two stone columns still standing in Muraad’s now roofless great hall, fingers knitting the threads of my concealment matrix around a cylinder of suspension and aching at the delicate precision. Slow progress scratched at my patience. I let it. They had arrived, and time was against me.
All three of his most capable had come: Deedmo “The Masochist,” Togan “Festuur,” and—half the reason we’d come, the second name besides Muraad’s I’d heard and postponed all else for—Halga “Ironblade.” News had come that Muraad was returning to the capital, rewarded with respite for having killed a lesser god from a kingdom subordinate to the Af’titalan empire. With him came another gift he’d gotten for the last lesser god he’d managed to slay. Halga. My Halga. Sister to Sanas. The final member of my Quinary. And so here we were, laying in wait, having rushed into Muraad’s estate and massacred dozens of his servants and children.
“Find my brother,” Muraad roared.
I heard a reply, faint against the pounding of my heart. I ignored it. Muraad’s voice pulled at me, at my attention. I looked down at him, sight fixed, matrix forgotten, the phantom of my past injecting a gluttonous hatred I seldom felt into my mind that threatened to consume my control. Muraad’s long locks of hair and chiseled features looked much the same, though the ugly scar ruining his handsome face was new. Beige silk hung loosely around his broad shoulders, held in place by a golden breastpin. My breastpin. Pristine leather of dark brown rose above his low-cut collar, and I knew my endeavor would be more demanding for it—another gift from Elonai. Standing tall and proud before his chief subjects, Muraad’s sense of superiority radiated from his very presence. An affliction I will soon rob you of, I thought.
Memories flashed through my mind.
He was there when it happened. Knew it had happened before. Thought it would happen again. Figured it would always happen again. I could forgive him the first, but not the second or third. The fourth I loathed him for. The fourth had sealed his death, and I would soon deliver.
Wolves do not nibble on grass; rabbits do not hunt for blood. Fighting your nature is a pursuit destined for failure, Boy. The thought was my own; the words were Elonai’s. She forbade me from killing him, demanding I protect him instead. Like the servant I was, I did. Twice, I’d prevented his death. Separating my thoughts from her lessons was difficult. It fed my anger, remnants of the last dregs of pain and fear remaining in the husk of my cold soul roaring forth. My jaw clenched. My hands went rigid. Muraad would die, and the rest would follow. I’d slaughter their allies, dancing a dance of blood to their screams. I’d hang them from their entrails and watch as they slowly choked on their last breaths. I’d torture their souls until the pain was all they knew.
They will all die!
The thought hammered against my cold control. My cold, fearless logic, built from stubborn habit or habitual stubbornness—I could never tell which. This anger that I had gone so long without burned hot, a heavy and forceful reminder of my purpose. My jaw clenched tighter. Teeth pushed hard against gums. Blood wet my dry tongue and welled to escape the corners of my mouth.
A firm hand fell on my shoulder. I seized the wrist, rising as I turned, ready for violence and blinded by rage. Helena stood before me. Unafraid.
My anger whimpered.
Helena looked up at me, shoulders slouched, eyelids low like it took effort to keep them up. She leaned towards me, a stone wall against my blistering rage. “Best to sharpen the blade ‘fore cutting the throat, my Lord,” she said.
“Not if you want to make it hurt.” I tightened my grip and felt her bones grind against one another. She remained unfazed.
“Then I’d sharpen it for the soft parts.” Her head tilted, and she regarded me curiously. “Doing more for the same is never a good idea.” She waited a moment, eyes fixed on mine like she was trying to find the source of my anger, like she could trace it back to its origin. And then she winked. The bitch winked. At me. At my anger. At my control. The audacity of it caught me off-guard. Fury flared, then settled just as quickly. My jaw loosened. Patience, you fool, I told myself. I had almost lost control. Almost. Control was paramount. Without it, I would fail. I refused to fail, not least because it would make me a liar.
I was no liar.
“True,” I replied. Then I smiled. I smiled a bloody smile. A cold, taut, joyless smile. She smiled back—a toothy, child-like smile—and I was me again. The cold me. The unfeeling me. The dangerous me. The me I needed for what followed.
I turned back. My gaze ran across the expanse of Muraad’s hall. The rubble spoke of a fierce battle. If I weren’t a participant, the blood would’ve told me of the carnage. The silence that throbbed in my ears tried to say it was over. I had other ideas.
Kneeling, I went back to my matrixes, Muraad and his guard relegated to the peripheries of my focus. I conserved my energy, going slow as I manipulated strands. Timing took precedence over speed. Preparation could kill gods. I would use it to kill six. Muraad was but an appetizer.
Deedmo began to scan the room with his Auger senses. He started with the largest pile of rubble the roof had broken into, conspicuously near a man moaning in pain.
“Move on,” Halga admonished, her deep voice reverberating off the broken walls of the tattered palace. She leaned over Deedmo’s shoulder at the half-dead Tripler Roche had brutalized.
Halga was not a patient woman. Only in the chaos of battle did she find her restraint. Only in reaping death was she calmest. I missed her. Missed her like I’d miss a comfortable pair of greaves or a reliably sharp blade. She was mine, and like the breastpin, like everything else they’d taken from me, I would take her back.
“Mmm,” Deedmo moaned quietly, gleaning pleasure from her reprimand as though he pilfered it. The pale skin of his cheeks flushed with his arousal, fanning the flames of Halga’s anger.
Halga raised her left hand. “You insufferable, asinine imbecile.”
A violent surge of force met Deedmo’s face and carried him nearly twenty feet before he struck the brick wall of the spartan hall, cracking the surface and raising a cloud of debris. He slumped to the ground in ecstasy, screaming obscenities in languages only the old and powerful could decipher.
I remained atop the pillar and above the cloud of activity. Deedmo’s buffoonery stole some of my attention, and I afforded him a glance.
He was a pale man of common traits: average height, average build, dark hair, sunken eyes above a crooked nose, and thin eyebrows next to small ears. Only his fleshy, red-painted lips set him apart, seeking attention on the plains of his face like blood on snow.
“He got me again,” Halga exclaimed, throwing her hands up in defeat. Despite her inclination for further violence, she fell silent, knowing her anger only encouraged the fiend's masochism.
Deedmo’s emphasized moans pierced the air as the three others waited for the regression of his most peculiar eccentricity—all were confident in the grand matrix that kept any within its boundary from exiting. The dark of night provided no light in which to see but for the green of the royal spires, though, for those in attendance, this was not a hindrance of note. Eventually, Deedmo’s expressive pleasure waned into intermittent, short, jerky movements, and his lascivious exclamations ebbed into soft moans.
“Let us return to the matter at hand,” Muraad said. “The sooner we know, the sooner we can put an end to these shenanigans. Besides, I am curious as to what drove my brother to move against me.”
“I don’t understand the concern,” Togan said. She slouched into her makeshift seat, wide hips and delicate shoulders crushing the stone beneath. Her obsidian complexion shamed the darkness into a grey unworthy of light’s absence.
“Let us speak candidly,” Deedmo responded, his voice nasal, his tone clipped. He leaned forward from the wall and crossed his legs. “You, sister warden, would not be here if you did not agree with us in this matter.”
“I’m here because our lord decreed it so.” Togan ran two fingers along her collarbone and down her chest before they came to rest lightly between her breasts.
“Yes, Festuur, true enough,” Deedmo agreed. Festuurs were mythical creatures of the woods who granted you a wish if you captured them. Given Togan’s dangerous beauty, her Title was well chosen—the enticing wishes Festuurs were known to give always ended with death or insanity. “You must admit that we needn't argue why we are here. Since we are, however, we might just as well resolve this. For as much as I love pain, you know I prefer control.”
“Not power?” Togan asked, an eyebrow raised.
“Not pain?” Halga added.
A soft smirk played on Deedmo’s plump lips. “Who needs money if you don’t have to buy anything, for power is the cost of control,” Deedmo answered Togan. Then, in a smooth, eerie contortion of his upper body, he turned to Halga. “And who would want to satiate only one vice if you can have them all, my love, for pain is just the best of many.”
Halga exhaled as she leaned against a fallen pillar. Togan, used to Deedmo’s antics, remained in her position, observing the entire area with practiced ease. Muraad stood perfectly still, armored in his customary apathy and wearing an amused grin.
I slid the last strand into place and completed my preparations. The suspension cylinder broached the matrix and created a gap in the concealment, the integration sending a ripple over the dome of influence. Helena and Aki jumped back at the sign, running towards the lateral sides of the wide pillar as I activated the bypass and spoke.
“Welcome—”
Muraad exploded in a vortex of movement. His sword descended on the pillar, cleaving the structure into halves, sundering my primary matrix, and rendering my harmonic concealment useless. The speed of the attack and the sharpness of his sword were such that the pillar, despite the brittle fragility imparted by our battle with Muraad’s children, remained erect, a smooth, half-inch space running down its length.
Helena and Roche leaped off the column and disappeared behind it. I was already moving, diving towards a perpendicular wall. My left hand purchased support, digging into stone. My left foot followed, bracing the force of my momentum.
Deedmo’s head snapped in my direction as he jumped to his feet. Halga materialized a spear and took a defensive stance. Togan’s arrogance kept her seated, derisively calm. Muraad’s form was obscured behind a mist of stone at the foot of the pillar.
“No need,” I said, gently shaking my head. “We are not here for your lives. Else, you’d have lost them already.”
Togan snorted. Years of safety had eroded the prudence I knew her for. She used to be Elonai’s best. Few knew—a testament to her skill. I wondered how Elonai would react to them both if she saw them then. I imagined she would laugh her laugh. Imagined her laugh crackling. Imagined the barbarous punishments it foretold. Then I laughed at the evocation, at the irony, at them all. Punishments indeed, I thought.
“That concealment was a multi-tier Painter matrix! Things are not what they seem. Togan! Wardens! Stand ready,” Muraad ordered, his face contorting into a mixture of unidentifiable components.
Togan and Deedmo sprang into action. Years of subservience had them conforming without thought, obedience becoming instinct. It was that loyalty that earned them their positions. They were under the greatest illusion The Old Queen had cast: a mirage of freedom, power, and authority. Their greed had turned their chains to gold and blinded them to their slavery. Fools.
I pulled my grip from the stone wall and reached out, linking to the matrix hidden near the broken entrance to the hall. My body vanished from their sight, my speed traversing the folds of space. Involuntary gasps of surprise rang out, and wide eyes scanned the room in convulsive haste. Despite the nausea, I smiled. As perverse to others as it was natural to me, I missed the growing fear of an opponent as they realized they were in a web they could not escape, that every move brought them closer to their demise. My anger softened at the anticipation.
Muraad found me sitting in his royal seat. “There! Positions!”
His guards fell into formation. Halga and Bainan faced me head-on. Deedmo and Togan arced behind me. My mind reacted in recognition.
“No need. As I have said, I am not here for your lives.” I waved away their efforts as though they were the tireless antics of spirited children. They continued their approach. “By the by, an unwise choice. The fang-tail formationis impossible to execute when used against an opponent with superior speed. You should know this, Muraad.”
My nephew froze a spear’s reach from me. His vassals stuttered, following his lead and slowing their momentum. Halga stood half a dozen feet behind Muraad. Togan and Deedmo stood a full dozen behind me. They looked to their leader, and his uncertainty was reflected in them. I could feel the fear. Taste it. They had never seen their lord falter, not against anyone but a god.
Muraad’s tongue left the enclosure of his mouth and rested against his bottom lip, like a newborn or those vacant prisoners in Rainbow’s Arse who powered the grand matrix protecting Evergreen. I had seen him do so before. Bainan had struck him every time he had. I felt the need to do the same.
Muraad was deducing theories. He was the least of my enemies, simple compared to his uncles and aunts, an oaf compared to Elonai, but he was far from dense. Few knew the formation. Even fewer could recognize it. Yet fewer knew its weaknesses—not even Yabiskus, who he thought me to be. Soon, he would whittle theories into truths.
“When did you become so powerful, brother?” Muraad asked, the tethers of his emotions uninhibited. He appeared weak, and the glee of my anticipation suffered for it. I wanted a man who resisted fear, a defiantly proud man I could break.
“Come now, Brother, there’s no need to climax so early. There’s no fun in that. Well, there is, but not nearly as much as there could be.” I leaned into the rigid backrest of Muraad’s ceremonial chair. “Before that, I have a little story I want to share. A prelude of sorts… Toka Muraad.”
Muraad’s eyes widened, nostrils flaring, mouth agape. He wrestled with the possibility, unable to shrug it off; he knew who I was. I knew he knew. He had trouble accepting, but he knew. I could see it in his eyes. Fear. Incredulity.
I activated the modified pain matrix. It lay dormant on Muraad’s sword, attached since he’d broken the concealment. The matrix flared to life. Lines of white lightning crackled across his skin. Blue-tinged offshoots jumped off into the air. Pain blossomed from his every sense. His spine arched as he fell to his knees, a low-pitched roar forcing itself from between stretched lips.
I approached. Halga backed away. I walked to stand before Muraad, leaned in, grabbed the back of his neck, and pulled him closer. Our cheeks met. His spasms shook against my grip. His screams filled my ear. Satisfaction soothed my soul.
“Seems I couldn’t help myself,” I said, sure only he could hear me. “Though there’s no need to spoil it for the others, is there, little Toka?”
I released his neck and leaned away, then snapped my fingers. The matrix I placed on the back of Muraad’s neck glowed and stifled his cries. His mouth hung open in a horrid expression of agony. No sound escaped. He hunched forward. I saw his eyes dart around the room, panicked, hoping to find reprieve. There was none.
“I must insist you do me the courtesy of being quiet,” I said. They could all hear me now, and though I faced Muraad, I spoke to them all. “I’ll get back to you in due time, I promise. And you know I always keep my promises.” My voice rumbled, deep and clear, contrasting the sharp howls of the now silenced Muraad.
I stepped back to the throne, sat, raised my right hand above the throne’s headrest, and beckoned Togan and Deedmo to join us. Their eyes went from Muraad to me to Muraad again, distracted by his prone position and enjoying his anguish. Loyalty is never born alone. If birthed from fear, it calls hatred a brother. Now, their loyalty scurried behind his survival and their hatred stood against it. We all knew which of the brothers was stronger.
Warily circling me from either side, Deedmo and Togan arced back into view, preserving the distance between us as they closed in on Halga.
“Relax,” I intoned, feeding calm into my voice. “He will behave. I left him no choice in the matter.”
“What have you done to the lord? Who are you?” Halga asked. “You cannot be Yabiskus.” She remained rooted in her position, calm, alert, and patient, a thin suit of armor clinging to her like a second skin, the black metal polished to a sheen. Engravings patterned the suit in a maze of interconnecting lines, humming with the red flame of her soul as sparks of static flittered across the surface. Halga was ready for battle. She always was.
“In due time, my good soldier. All in good time.” I gestured again at Deedmo and Togan. “So come, sit, rest while I tell you why we are here. You must be curious. Or have they, in the long years spent molding you into perfect slaves, stripped you of that most wonderful of instincts? It would be a shame if they had.”
Deedmo stopped his advance. His eyes narrowed. “Do you seek our presence by coercion or by invitation?”
I smiled. “That is an odd question. Are you not here?”
Deedmo spat at the ground, a brave test of my patience. As were the words that followed. “Spare me your games. I asked if we remain by choice?”
“I’ve answered that question, Masochist. You must learn to hear what remains unsaid. For your blunt mind, let me, in turn, be blunt. Guest, prisoner, or corpse, you will remain. Am I understood?”
“Coercion then. Yes, I understand,” Deedmo said.
Rarely had I seen a man's speed quicken so. In that aspect alone, he almost rivaled the slowest of Leaves. But I had expected his escape attempt and planned against it. He hadn’t finished a handful of strides when Roche’s wires bit into his ankles and sent him sprawling to the ground.
Togan crept backward, hoping to use the distraction and bleed away into the night. Before she finished her second step, Helena was behind her, Pin’s tip held at an angle to the back of her neck.
I clapped, amused. “I had thought I made myself clear.”
Deedmo rolled away from Roche and into a crouch as soon as the latter had retracted his wires. “Apologies… Yabiskus, was it?” he asked, unsure. I made no sign to correct him, and he continued. “You were clear in intent. I was simply ascertaining the strength behind the intent.”
“An expensive gamble,” I commented.
“Better the risk of death than the certainty of regret,” he replied.
I was starting to like him, or rather, dislike him less. I could sense his fear, yet his actions spoke of none, a sign of a brave man. If there is one quality I hate and respect in my enemies in equal measure, it is bravery.
“Ah, yes, regret. For the most part, I agree. You see, much depends on the level of risk and the strength of the man,” I said, testing his judgment.
“Regret eats away at a man, wholly if given the time.” Deedmo shrugged his shoulders, oblivious to my warning.
“Yes. It is slow, cruel, and comes in many forms, some of which reach beyond death,” I said, holding his gaze till he saw my meaning. “I trust we have settled your concerns?”
Deedmo nodded and ambled towards Halga. The hesitation was gone from his stride, a languid resignation replacing his coiled tension.
“Lord,” Togan called tentatively, her eyes glued to Helena’s blades as they caressed her neck. She appeared far removed from the Togan I remembered. Almost too far. Maybe this was all an act, I thought. Prudence demanded I presume so, but killing Muraad’s guards would be a waste. They could prove useful, and I had a fondness for useful things.
“Helena, kindly remove the daggers and let our guest join the others,” I said.
Helena looked at me and then at her blades.
Deedmo and Togan stopped an arm's length on either side of Halga. I raised my right hand. They watched me intently, my dominance against Muraad urging caution, their ineptitude against Roche and Helena cutting away illusions of escape. I snapped my fingers. All three flinched. Good, I thought. The measure of fear does not always match the extent of its effects. I snapped again, activating my penultimate trap.
The Pondus matrix dropped them with a thud, forcing them to their knees. Halga, daughter of a Fiora, grunted but did no more. Deedmo squealed in pleasure, then blanked in consternation. Togan yelped in fear. None made the effort to stand. Weak as the gravity force had become after the initial surge, the gentle pressure of the matrix was far more fragile than the nullifying force of fear I nurtured in them. Fear, however small its dark light, can be blinding in the emptiness of hubris.
I watched their faces, searching for their attention. I had it. “So…
***
Helena held the reigns. Her dexterity went beyond the deadly grace with which she used her infamous Pinmoon blades, and given the treacherous landscape we traversed, we had need of her deft touch. Deedmo, Togan, and Halga lay haphazardly in the back, unconscious. Despite Helena’s admirable efforts to keep the horse and carriage level, the jagged terrain translated exaggerations of its uneven surface up and into the wagon bed, violently jostling the bodies of my captives. They did not wake. The earth could split in two, and they’d remain in slumber. Unexpected as it was, my Tunnels had hit them hard and fast.
Roche leaned forward from where he sat beside Helena. He turned to me, sparing a glance down at Qaniin as she trotted comfortably alongside the wagon. “I’ve got to get me an evolved horse.”
“You haven’t the patience for it,” I said.
“And you do?” he asked, then belatedly added, “…Sir.”
“The time it’d take you to instill obedience into the beast would grate on you long before the task is done. There is no act of rebellion an evolved beast can levy onto me that would require my patience.”
Roche’s handsome smile added to his handsome face. “Evolved, you say. Are you hinting at something, Lord?”
I leaned down and patted Qaniin’s shoulder. “Yes, Roche, I am. You and your fellows—particularly you and, in more recent times, Sanas—are most definitely not evolved beasts. Your capacity to strain my patience is proof enough.”
Metal strings jumped into the air before Roche and wove into a gleaming semblance of my true face. “But we’re worth the hassle,” Roche said, his expression purposefully smug, “aren’t we?” Then he made his construct nod.
“Sanas will be once we return. You’ll have to wait and see what the future and I hold in store for you.”
Fear flashed through Roche, tickling at my hunger. I made sure to avoid gazing upon his soul. Shaking himself free, he turned to the other subject I’d broached.
“She’ll be elated,” he said, his anticipation vibrant.
“Indeed,” I agreed.
Sanas stood on the rampart of the city, scanning for us. The bright red of her hair was easy to spot among the dark-haired Roots who stood guard along the grey walls of Snowliar. Though I’d left her ignorant of my intent when I came to collect Roche and Helena, I’d left instructions for her to be notified half a day after our departure. Polerma had, as expected, done as I’d ordered.
I knew the moment Sanas saw us; her figure leaped off the not-inconsiderable wall, propelled by the firey gusts of her namat. She blazed towards us, each step carried further by a puff of fire and wind, a trail of smoking footsteps left in her wake. Giddy as a child who’d been presented with a wrapped gift, Roche hopped into the back of the wagon, picked up Halga, and jumped ahead of the carriage so he could deliver Sanas’ joy. Sanas faltered as she spotted her sister's limp form.
The two came to a stop five paces apart.
“She’s alive,” Sanas said.
Roche took a step forward, grinning from ear to ear. “She is.”
“Bound?”
“Not for long. Our lord will see to that.”
“And what of her… scars?”
“Does it matter? She’s—”
Sanas’ gaze flew up to glare at Roche. “Yes,” she said through gritted teeth, “it does. Trust me.”
Roche grew less excited and more aggrieved. “Sanas, I know you have not yet healed from… I know you’ve not yet healed, and I know you worry for Halga, but please do not talk to me as if you are the only one who’s ever been scarred.”
Sanas’ glare softened. “I’m—”
Roche shook his head and grinned. “Say no more. As I said, I understand.”
Sanas took Halga from Roche and carried her sister like a mother might cradle her child. And like that, she took her younger sibling back to the inn. We followed.
Sanas lay Halga on her bed, dragged over a chair, and sat beside her, holding her hand. “How deep is the bond?”
“She isn’t bound,” I said, standing beside Roche at the foot of the bed.
Sanas pulled her gaze away from her unconscious sister and looked at me, hope and fear warring across her expression. “How?”
“She serves Bainan.”
“Not for long.”
“He is not Lorail.”
“I know.”
“Much as he’s capable, he loathes using Auger Arts.”
“Then how had he bent her to his will?”
“With pain and fear,” said a voice near the open door. Kip. “A soul can only endure so much before yielding.”
“You didn’t yield,” Sanas said. “Nor did I.”
“Not to make light of the hardships you’d survived, but an army of godlings performing myriad experiments of pain for millennia cannot compare to what Bainan can do in but one night. I only survived his workings because of the traits my Golodanian heritage afforded me. You’d do well not to underestimate the suffering Bainan can cause with his Surgeon Arts.” Kip nodded my way, his cheerful disposition muted by the morose ambiance. “More than even our leader here, he is the foremost expert in bodily pain.” I disagreed. He did not know the full extent to which I could wield pain. Few who lived did.
Sanas pointed glassy eyes at the sleeping Halga. “So what do we do? Will she run back to him?”
“Unlikely,” I said. “Fear is not the best hand with which to wield your subordinates; loyalty is. It is loyalty that inspires, that encourages bravery, and that gives you all of their power. That or a soul bond.”
“Odd,” Roche said, “for such words to be coming from you.”
“Fear is not all I inspire,” I said. “Each of you has reasons for giving me your loyalty, reasons that align our goals and fates. It has not, however, earned me your obedience. Only respect and fear can procure obedience, which I happily admit to utilizing. And make no mistake, loyalty is not equivalent to obedience.”
Sanas wiped the tears from her eyes. “So… how do we proceed?”
“Time or scars?” I asked.
“I don’t understand.”
“Either we leave her to deal with the ordeal she’d suffered, which will take time, or I exorcise the memories of the pain he’d inflicted, which will leave scars.”
“You did not give me that choice.”
“I didn’t need to ask to know your decision.”
“And her?”
“I sensed some of what Bainan had done. Kip is right; her trauma runs far and deep.”
“Then wake her and ask.”
“It may run too far and deep to trust she’ll see the right of it.”
“And so you’re asking me?”
“Who else?”
“You.”
“Do you wish me to?”
“Yes.”
“Then let her grow stronger from the memory. Tell Aminy to aid her. She is—or they are—experienced with matters regarding wounded souls.”
Sanas nodded, her expression determined. I watched her with soulsight, seeing how the state of her sister sparked into being the Sanas I remembered. The Sanas I wanted. Gone was the nihilism, the doubt, the fear; in their place came her passion. Yet what had remained was her anger and hate and whatever else ailed her naïve sense of righteousness.
Roche went to stand by Sanas, his hand resting on her back as a sign of support. She didn’t need it, I knew.
Waking Halga was as easy as snapping my fingers. She bounced awake and popped up into a sitting position. Her eyes began to scan the room. They came stuck the moment they laid upon Sanas, flaring.
“Sa-Sa-Sanas!”
No other words were spoken for a time. The sisters embraced, squeezing each other as if to meld into one being and eradicate any chance of anyone ever separating them again. Tears ran freely, joined by ludicrous smiles and cathartic shivers.
“You’re free,” Halga said.
“As are you,” Sanas replied. “We both are.”
“We are?” Halga loosened her grip and scanned the room. Her eyes came stuck once more when they landed on me. She released her sister and called upon her sensus. “Yabiskus!”
I opened up my new mask, just a fraction, a slither, and let my voice and sensus leak into my words and presence. “It is good to see you have managed to keep your life in my time away, Halga.”