CHAPTER 80

Planning, in the words of Dala, is just figuring out what thread to pull. Different people will pull different ones, with different results. Some are able to identify the weakest thread, give it a yank, and unravel the entire thing. Others pull on al they see and less efficiently, and getting a lot angrier in the process, arrive at the same result. Most people need to try various threads, pulling one at a time, seeing what works and what doesn’t. With enough persistence, we can all turn our problems to so many piles of yarn.

And then there are those with a knack for, whatever thread they pull, tying both their hands together and setting fire to the whole thing. It’s my mother’s opinion, gently given, that I’m one of these people, and that this inclination comes not from an inability to see the whole picture, but from an incapacity to restrain myself, to not pick the most direct approach each time.

Well, I’ve grown since last I saw Dala. Matured enough to, at least, recognize that it’s a problem, and that I must stop and think, and not simply wait for the best time to, say, pack my bags and leave for Red Harbor in search of Katha.

I have two sets of problems.

I want to rescue Medrein, I want to solve my Secret , and I want to take Hilde away from Meriana.

On the other hand, I want to escape Red Harbor and make my way to Hollow House, find out what happened to Lysander.

These two worlds do not intersect, not as far as I can see. What’s more, Lysander is distant. Maybe. To go to where he was last seen, I would have to travel there or, in the best of circumstances, break into Valkas’ office and steal Lysander’s amulet. Which would come with its own drawbacks, and possibly stop me from ever setting foot in Black Sword Keep again.

Of course, antagonizing one of Valkas’ right hand Godtouched by breaking into her secret lab doesn’t strike me as a particularly friendly way to uphold a good working relationship with the guild leader.

Two threads. Pulling on one will get the other hopelessly tangled up, and vice versa. I’m about to pick which thread I like best, ready to sacrifice the others, when I stop, think of Dala’s words, and remind myself to focus, to think.

Everything is hopelessly tangled. I decide the trick must involve an expert weaver, if only to tell me where to pull if she doesn’t want to do it herself.

“Malco?”

“Hmm?”

“You’ve been staring at the door for a while now,” Rue buzzes. “Don’t you want to make more potions?”

“Hmm?" I give my head a shake. "Yeah, you’re right.”

Wyl is impossible to find at any point in the day. Hilde I can feel in her private darkness, a silence of busy activity and focus that I’m loathe to interrupt, especially if it will get her in trouble. Essa can reliably be found in the practice yard, swinging her sword around in precise yet elegant movements. Each time I see her I’m surprised that her gift isn’t related to fighting. Her 'talent' is all sweat, like she says. When I ask her where Wyl is, she shrugs. It seems Wyl comes and goes as she pleases.

I even ask my shadows, Teryon’s guardsmen, since watching Challengers is such a large part of their job. They declined to answer, which I suspect was partly because they didn’t know.

Then I remembered Wyl asking me where I could be found, and decided to just wait in the agreed upon place. The books on potionmaking pile up on my worktable, a testament to how I’ve been occupying my time.

Trying out new recipes has proved useful and instructive. I finally managed a working stoneskin potion and restocked on strength and healing potions, two of each. Those are the total of my material accomplishments. The rest came in the form of practice and a lot of broken glass.

As I turn again to the worktable, Rue wraps himself more firmly around my wrist and extends a few tendrils outward.

“Ready?” I ask.

“Ready!” he buzzes, shaking my arm down to the elbow.

I reach my left arm to the open recipe book and let Rue extend and turn the page. We enter a new section, one the tome calls Exploration Potions. Rue flips another page and we find the first of the bunch: a water-breathing potion.

“Is it good?” Rue asks.

“Try thinking it,” I suggest. We need to get better at this too, communicating without overwhelming each other’s thoughts. Rue has complained that my own thinking is too rigid, that it makes him nervous.

Well, it makes me nervous opening up to his deluge of notions and half-baked ideas. I do it anyways.

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Is it good? The question comes on top of a slither of whispers and hums, but it’s understandable as a single unit. It’s slow, but we are getting better at this.

Yes, I try. We have all the ingredients. Needs to sit overnight, so we’ll only know tomorrow. But let’s do it.

I stand and walk up to the shelves of ingredients and reagents, now severely diminished. Without Lysander, I’m not sure who to ask in order to replenish it. Mentally, I direct Rue towards which leaves to pick, extend my left arm, and let him do it. It’s strange to use my left arm for anything after so much time, and it’s slow going for Rue. The tendrils are uncertain and delicate. But eventually he manages to transfer each ingredient we need to my right hand, and we return to the worktable with a nice collection of leaves and roots.

Grinding usually means trouble. Rue complains that he can’t exert enough strength when more than half of him is wrapped around my wrist. This is when I stop and ask him to turn into a weapon.

Immediately, he reconfigures. His dark, oozy form turns hard and sharp, every little bit of his surface altered to resemble that of a dagger, down to the pommel and the screws. Which also means I have to catch him with my right hand before he falls to the floor.

Alright, I think. See how strong you are? Now wiggle.

The Rue-dagger twists a bit. Little tendrils extend from ball of the pommel, reaching for my wrist. After a mighty effort, they contract again, absorbed into the dagger.

It’s hard, he complains. This shape is easy.

It’s not strength you’re lacking, I say. It’s control. Look at you now. I couldn’t bend you if I stepped on you.

Please don’t step on me, Malco.

It’s an expression. I wouldn’t—

“Malco?”

I turn, Rue in hand. Wyl is leaning against the wall by the door, which remains closed. She’s wearing an unassuming dark green wool coat.

“How did you get in?” I ask, dumbfounded.

“How’d you think?” she answers. “Through the door.”

“That thing squeaks like a bag of rats whenever I try to open it, how—”

Wyl smiles. I realize I’m just giving her an opportunity to show off.

“Right,” I roll my eyes. “Fine. Don’t say. I was wondering if you would ever show up.”

“Waiting for little old me? Well, I—”

“Wyl,” I stop her. “Please. Enough games.”

She frowns, then saunters into the room and sits on the only chair. I lean against the table.

You can come out of that shape, Rue.

Are you sure, Malco? He asks. What if we need to kill her?

What? We’re not— Just come out, alright?

“Serious talk, then?” Wyl asks. “Let’s hear it.”

I smile as Rue returns to his regular shape and slithers up to my shoulders. Wyl offers no comment.

“You’re hard to find,” I say diplomatically.

“Maybe I’m trying to stay away from you,” she suggests. “Until I have something to say, that is.”

Wyl’s watching me expectantly, eyes a little narrowed, as if waiting for me to do… something.

Oh.

“Beyond the White Door, I met Arbiter.” I say it haltingly, half-expecting to find that we were really being listened to.

Wyl smiles.

“My lessons weren’t a complete waste, it seems,” she says.

“You said you have something to tell me?”

“No,” Wyl lifts a finger. “I said I wasn’t planning on coming until I had something to tell you. When I heard you were looking for me, I decided to come down all the same.”

Silence descends while I consider this. Rue’s buzz comes in halting waves that rumble down my shoulder.

“Lysander’s in trouble,” I say. Best to get this over with. I can either trust her or I can’t, but there’s only one way to know. “He disappeared and he hasn’t returned, and everyone who went after him has gone missing too. Something went terribly wrong. I know it.”

Wyl nods. “And?”

“And, like I told you, Lysander is going to be a part of the war that’s coming. Without him we lose the Dungeon, we lose one of the few Godtouched worth a damn. The only one with a plan.”

“How do you know?”

I pause.

“What?”

“How do you know he has a plan?” Wyl insists. “Did he tell you what it was? Do you know what’s going to happen and exactly what went wrong? Are you even sure that he’s missing, that he didn’t just order everyone to go back home?”

I open my mouth to answer and close it again.

“No,” I admit. “He never shared it with me. I know he wants to free himself from the three level barrier the Godtouched all suffer from, and I know some other Godtouched are involved. But I don’t know…”

“You don’t know what the plan actually is. What he intends to do, and for what purpose,” Wyl supplies.

I hang my head, cheeks burning. Even with all my care trying to circumvent my bullheaded inclinations, I still find myself having jumped off a cliff with no idea of where I’m going to land. Nothing beyond the choice I made not long ago.

“I decided to trust Lysander. When Arbiter asked me.”

Wyl laces her fingers behind the back of her head and stares at me without a hint of mercy.

“That’s your problem, Mal,” she says. “Deciding to trust, instead of getting all the facts first and then coming to a decision. You decided to trust the elf, you decided to trust Arbiter. Why?”

Because they promised me Katha. It’s a thought I shield even from Rue. I don’t need Wyl reinforcing her opinion that I’m a selfish bastard with no sense of the bigger picture. Even though I’m starting to see her point.

“You don’t trust the Watcher?” I ask.

“I don’t trust anyone. I just rely on their motivations. Try being born mixed in Red Harbor and you’ll get it.” Wyl flicks her own ear, pointy as an elf’s but considerably smaller. Then she leans forward, resting her elbows on her knees.

“My issue with your plan – let’s call it – is that it doesn’t address the problem at hand. You trade one brand of Godtouched, the assholes who run the Challenge, for another, the assholes who’re looking for the old Dungeons, who don’t mind risking their lives for more power.”

“How do you—?”

“But,” she barrels through my question unimpeded. “But you’re still led by Godtouched. They still have all the advantages. Even if you get rid of, say, seven for every ten that go into a Dungeon, that still leaves you with three that are now considerably stronger than you are after running the same Dungeon.”

“Lysander has Champions among his people. People like you and me, from the old days.”

“Sycophants and cowards,” Wyl says, dismissing them all with a swipe of her hand. “Who’re only trying to eke out a living in their world instead of taking it back for themselves. We need more. We need revolutionaries. We need Champions who want to kick out the Godtouched, not just live under their shadow like puppies grateful for attention.”

I shake my head. She’s speaking madness. Lysander has the information, the access. The most direct way to Katha.

“Where would you even find those people?” I ask.

Wyl smiles.

“When are you free?”