Maewys
“When I die, I will become molecular.” Master Olohone stands apart from Maewys, face blurry and indistinct. He’s wrapped up in plain vestments with loose threads dangling from where old adornments once clung to the fabric. How strange for Maewys to remember every loose thread and seam of the man’s clothes, but not his face.
Olohne strokes his chin. “No. I will become atomic. All is dust, and dust all will become. And when I am broken down into my base elements, they will come for you and make use of your parentage.”
Maewys kneels on the floor, hands on her thighs, fingers brushing the indentations left by the straps of leg braces. She’s getting stronger now. Soon she won’t need the leg braces at all.
“And then we shall meet again.” Olohne’s featureless face twists into a kind of warmth. “You will become atomic too, Maewys Bloodwyn. You will become the most wonderful, resplendent thing the world has ever seen and will ever see. And then you will die. All is dust.”
It’s dust all the way down.
Maewys opens her eyes to find that the sultry Nuaranthian night has coated her skin in a sheen of sweat. Gone are the perfumed streets of the Holy City and the dry air of the inner wasteland. The coast keeps Nuaranth cool year round, but the innards of the place grow sticky with humidity.
Maewys sits up on her sleeping mat and rubs the back of her neck. She hasn’t thought about her death prophecy for a decade, or about her legs since the last time she took the braces off. She stands and stretches, casting off her damp, sweat-soaked shirt in a single motion. Maewys will need a darker uniform for the bitter work ahead.
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The streets of the Upper City lay bare before Maewys as she looks on from on high, using her dust Elemnistry to keep her rooted to the ledge of a House Amareas pavilion. Above her, on the grounds of that High Council House, a party quavers while string instrumentation mixes with low murmuring voices. It’s been a month since the Elemnist has slain the Merchant Councilor Hayvris. She’s killed more since then, a third son here or there, perhaps a fourth daughter, to amp up the scandal. Anything to remind Nuaranthian nobles and patricians of their vulnerability. She will kill again tonight, too. Under the fulgent lanterns of crystal lights, she’ll stalk her quarry and strike them low, fashioning a crude blade from her own arm bones and slitting throats.
Her shadow quivers in anticipation. It’s her escape plan should things turn south, courtesy of Kuna.
Ephel provides the dust, glass darkened with paint so that only an arrow-like shaft of their glimmering core peeks out like a scanning searchlight. They are looking for someone in particular tonight. Several someones, in truth, but Maewys finds it hard to believe that Gwydolin sett Talivar would deign to appear at a House Amareas function. But Shoryne sett Amarros, the Garrison Commander’s niece? Maewys discovered the young woman’s extensive efforts to curry favor from her superiors.
The nobility rarely travelled alone before Maewys started her killings, an occurrence she exploited in the first week of her one-woman war. But now? They travel in groups of five or more, pooling together their resources to have a veritable army platoon’s worth of Praetors encircling them. Maewys adapted, making meals of chicken bones to shape through Elemnistry.
The Elemnist sucks a deep breath, scanning the lit streets. She resembles a gargoyle, so anyone who chances a glance upward may very well look past her. Still, she could strike and flee amidst the chaos. The bones sit heavy in her stomach, sharp and aching for tender flesh. Maewys lays eyes on her target, Shoryne sett Amarros, head trussed up with stolen blonde hair, a curious lack of jewelry gracing her neck and arms.
“She thinks she’s Gwydolin,” Maewys muses, noting the distinct lack of adornments that the Lady Talivar prides herself on. “A bold choice of look, considering House Amareas’ standing with the girl.” She won’t be alive long enough to know of her mistake.
Shoryne is at the head of her travel group, three other ladies and the young men courting her, a wall of black armor surrounding them. Maewys churns the bones in her stomach, using her Elemnistry to mold it with her flesh and move that osseous mass through her bones and into her free hand. A horn grows from her palm, straight and rounded sharp. Maewys breaks it free and holds it like a knife. With practised ease, she throws the boney blade and sticks Shoryne in the side of her head. The young noblesse falls over dead like a stack of bricks.
The rest of her bejeweled group scream out in terror, the Garrison officers escorting them, whirling around and directing their Praetors to scour every corner and nearby alley. For a moment, Maewys contemplates dropping on them and continuing the slaughter. But it’s a tremendous risk since she hasn’t killed a Praetor without lightning. Maewys leaves before the commotion in the streets draw too many onlookers from the garden party above her, using her dust Elemnistry to carry her down to a lower street, gliding down the smooth glass like a bearing on a rail.
“Shoryne’s murder is likely to draw the attention of the Garrison Commander,” Ephel says once Maewys lands. The paint peels away from the Espreth’s glass skin in large flakes, their molten core burning bright against the glow of the Upper City.
“That’s the intention,” Maewys huffs. Her hair has recovered some of its length since she first sold it, shaggy and uncomfortable. She attempted to use Elemnistry to lengthen or balance her hair, only to learn that hair falls outside the domains of blood and bone. Hair is not flesh, so it must be fiber. That discovery reminded Maewys of Zacaer again, and she ended up breaking a mirror in frustration.
“He divides his attention,” Ephel states. They walk—Ephel floats—down the street toward the planned meeting spot with Kuna, trying to put distance between them and the scene of the crime. “The Garrison is trying to apprehend two ne’er-do-wells, both of whom are singular persons, judging by their lack of progress in either regard.”
“Is there a point to this Ephel?” Maewys rubs her scalp in agitation. Despite the progress she’s made in undermining the Nuaranthian government, she still feels hollow inside.
“I think we should meet this other person,” the Espreth states.
They stop beneath a tangle of walkways, busy with the Garrison’s activity. Yet no one thinks to look down. They pass and silence falls over the night.
Maewys’s shadow wriggles and lengthens, allowing the passage of her Shadowarch guest. A tall woman stretches out from the darkness, languid in her motions, dark eyes observing the Elemnist. Regni, as Maewys knows, makes a habit of staring at her. The Shadowarch’s boyish hair results from harvesting. No doubt her ebon locks grace the scalp of a minor patrician’s daughter. Regni applies lip balm to her thin lips, puckering up and spreading it around, before flashing a warm smile at the Elemnist.
“I must admit, I’m a little disappointed you didn’t need my help there.” She crosses her arms. “It’s not every we take the fight to the High Council.”
Maewys rolls her eyes. “You’re my escape rope, not my bodyguard.” She glances around. “I thought Kuna was meeting us here?”
“She is.” Regni rubs the back of her head. “But we still have a little time…”
Maewys is unimpressed. “Regni, we have something nice going on. Don’t ruin it by trying to get in my pants.”
“Who, me? I’d never!” Regni throws up her hands. “Just testing the waters.” She coughs into her fist before pulling the cuff of her sleeve down. An inky fluid glops out from the dark space inside, pooling on the ground. Kuna emerges from the puddle, stepping up as if climbing a pool edge. The older woman, standing straight, tilts her head to the side and pops her neck.
“I presume the Amarros girl is dead?” Kuna pulls a wide-brimmed hat from her sleeves and angles it back on her head, running a finger across the brim.
“Deader than dust.” Maewys grimaces. “I couldn’t chance killing the others.”
“A real shame that.” Kuna’s expression is unreadable. Maewys frowns at the ambiguity of her words. “Forgive me. I was a mother, once. And she was a child.”
Maewys snorts her displeasure. “Are you pitying them? She’s a Bright Caster and nobility besides. The architects of your despair, as I recall.”
Kuna gives her a wry smile. “I remember being that hateful. It makes killing so much easier. But no amount of killing will bring my children and their father back. It’s a terrible thing to outlive one’s children.”
“I never pegged you for a bleeding heart,” Maewys says.
Kuna stifles a laugh. “Just feeling sentimental, I suppose.”
“If I may,” Ephel interjects. They repeat what they said to Maewys earlier.
“I’ve been meaning to contact this rogue myself,” Kuna says, stroking her chin. “Slippery little fish. Runs a gang out in the Lower City. And he’s a Shadowarch.”
Maewys arches an inquisitive brow. Either he’s an outsider who’s returned to Nuaranth, or he’s come from wherever the men are being held in secret. She says as much, and Kuna nods.
“One of Nuaranth’s biggest mysteries.” Kuna looks off into the middle distance. “It’s unlikely to be the exiles. Their work is… far more sensitive.”
“They help me smuggle weapons into the city,” Regni says, earning an admonishing glare from her clan mother.
“You must forgive my idiot clan daughter. She’s not like this when…” Realization dawns on Kuna’s head and another wry smile finds its way on her face. “For the love of God Almighty, do you need yet another girlfriend, Regni?”
Maewys rolls her eyes. “I’m not interested.”
“Ouch,” says Regni.
Kuna rubs her face with her open hand. “I’ll talk with her later. For now, I’d like you and your Espreth to divide and conquer. Ephel might have an easier time tracking down our mutual friend in the Lower City. As for you, Maewys, you’ll stay the course. House Kinkara hasn’t canceled their banquet plans, and the venue is looking for temporary staff. I have on reliable authority that she plans on making a special announcement. I’m curious about the attendees’ reactions.”
“And then I get to kill them? Lady Fenoiryne herself and any House Talivar guests would be on my hit list.”
Kuna and Regni exchange a glance, Kuna shaking her head as they communicate through their gesturing eyes. “No, I don’t think that’s worth the risk. Councilor Gwydorian would be in attendance, and security will be tight.” She looks back to Maewys. “I still have a use for you, Elemnist.”
Maewys concedes the point. Although, she resolves to see what might be possible.
Kuna claps her hands together. “Let’s circle back to Midtown. Sevlin smuggled in some of that ‘hot honey’ you’ve raved about, and I don’t have the foggiest idea on how to eat it.”
“Much obliged.” Maewys watches as Kuna takes off her hat and directs Regni inside. Once the younger Shadowarch is in, a thin line of shadow snakes out from the depths and wraps around Maewys’s ankle. The Elemnist takes a deep breath before getting pulled into the abyss. She can’t stay forever, being an Elemnist, but Kuna can navigate across the city before she’ll need to resurface.
All the while, she thinks about the task ahead.
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House Kinkara, faced with the recent string of murders, maintained their decision to hold their banquet off the grounds of their noble spire. They’d rather risk their guests getting slaughtered than expose the inner secrets of their dining hall to outsiders. At least, that’s how Maewys understands things.
“Far be it from them to take the high road,” she thinks, choking back a bitter bile as she dons the uniform her employer had provided her. Being a woman with a physical body, the skirt of her dress dangles at her mid-thigh and she’s forced to wear under-wire that holds breasts aloft. Maewys plans to slit the throat of the man who caused this atrocity. She almost struck her employer, a portly man with a receding hairline who rubbed his lascivious hands together as the Elemnist held up the garment. Once the night ends, she may dispose of him in Water Downs, as is Nuaranth’s tradition. Her “friend” in the Lower City seems fond of disposing of their killings in such a manner. But before she can entertain such thoughts of vengeance, Maewys must entertain her future prey.
The banquet hall is as spacious as House Hayvris’s, though lacking a second floor and a balcony on said second floor. House Kinkara, in a diminished capacity, sits at a grand table at the head of the dance floor, sitting upon an upraised platform carved from pale marble and lit with bright crystal lights. Since not all their numbers are in attendance, they share the table with their close allies. House Talivar is conspicuous in their absence, their sole representation being the siblings Lady Gwydolin and Lord Gwydorian.
Maewys finds Gwydorian’s presence unnerving as she approaches the table carrying a silver serving tray overburdened with delicate wine glasses and a heavy carafe of pale gold wine. He stares into the middle distance, dismissing Maewys with a flick of his wrist, not uttering a single word. When Jontonvair, the scion of House Kinkara, speaks, Gwydorian nods or shakes his head without a word.
Sitting between Gwydorian and his sister is the Lady Fenoiryne sett Kinkara, projecting elegance while unbothered by the rush of rumors clouding the atmosphere of her banquet. She’s an older woman approaching her middle years, her face wizened and weathered by recent stresses. Unlike the youths of her social class, Lady Kinkara eschews shaving her head in favor of wigs, letting her dark hair tumble down her shoulders and making no attempts to hide the salt in her peppery locks. Her eyes are intense, though, boring into Maewys’s eyes as she reaches for a filled wine glass. She blinks and the Elemnist flinches as though such a minor action told the noblesse everything she needed to know about Maewys’s deception.
“If you could,” Fenoiryne says, taking a sip of wine. “Lady Talivar will have something else to drink. Something sparkling and sweet.” Despite her word choice, Fenoiryne is not making a request. Maewys can feel the authority in her voice.
“A delicate palate for a delicate flower,” Maewys says respectfully. It’s how everyone refers to Gwydolin. She’s delicate and aloof, a rare treasure to safeguard at all costs, for she would disintegrate if the sun lingered too long or the wind blew too hard. It’s nauseating. Yet, Maewys can’t help but wonder how Gwydolin feels about her treatment. She’s a grown woman, after all.
Regardless, the Elemnist retreats to the kitchens where the other waitstaff mill about and run trays of food and drink to the waiting tables. The house slaves, unlike with the engagement party a month ago, unwind in the kitchen. It’s a scarce opportunity for them to relax, one they exploit to the fullest by plucking wine and stuffed vegetables from passing trays while lighting smoke pipes and dealing cards. Though slaves, being owned by the greater Houses gives them a certain standing above lower class riffraff. They wear jewels and speak on behalf of their masters, extensions of noble personages at the expense of their own. A slave who steals from the food tray can expect swift retribution. But Lady Talivar’s attendant and confidant Tessn? It’s only right that she can take what she wishes without asking, lest the host draw the ire of House Talivar.
Tessn herself is present, leaning against a wall and watching a game of cards unfold on a short table in front of her. She seems despondent, the upper buttons of her concentric triangle patterned shirt undone, her overlarge sleeves pushed up to her elbows. A haze of smoke clings to the air in the kitchens and whenever a thick plume of the stuff wafts in front of the Shadowarch, she wrinkles her nose and brushes it away with her hand.
“Tell us the story again, Tes,” another house slave says, a thin-looking gentleman with a waxed head and thin mustache. His armband bears the green and yellow colors denoting his port of origin: Lemlat. With expectant eyes, the others murmur in agreement, gazing at the tall woman.
“What’s there to tell?” Tessn says, brushing them off. “Lady Talivar stipulated the broadside was to be published and distributed, but I believed that making her letter to Tulvaryne public would have a greater impact.” She examines her fingernails. “Lo-and-behold, I was correct.”
“As always,” the bald man says, earning a murmur of agreement. An engrossed Maewys perks her ears, gathering intriguing details while lingering as long as feasible. “Half the wit attributed to House Talivar comes from you, Tes. You may very well be responsible for House Amareas’s fall from grace.”
Tessn scoffs, brow furrowing. “Please, if House Amareas were to fall, my lady’s words and the stroke of her pen would strike it so low. I simply handed them to the right people.”
“Right, everything you do is always at your lady’s whim,” another voice says, belonging to a petite young woman who then huffs on a curved pipe, billowing smoke.
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“As it should be,” Tessn says, earning a round of groans. “I am nothing if not her most steadfast and stalwart companion.”
“She will not sleep with you, Tes,” the bald man says.
Tessn bristles, blushing. “I beg your pardon?” Even though she’s asking a question, Maewys can feel no small amount of hostility in her words.
“It’s always ‘my lady’ this and ‘my lady’ that,” the short woman says. “Droning on about your most beloved Gwydolin. ‘Yours,’ as though she belongs to you. You are property, like the rest of us.”
“I don’t know what you're talking about,” Tessn says, crossing her arms.
“You’re enraptured like the rest of them, caught in a nobles’ web,” the bald man says. “Alas, poor Tessn finds she rather likes her masters and works with devotion, under the delusion that she can be anything more than furniture.”
Tessn straightens, the others shrinking beneath her glowering pressure, but then she spots Maewys looking on from a distance and directs all that vitriol against the Elemnist.
“Can I help you?” Tessn asks, voice dripping with venom. “I thought House Hayvris has swept up the likes of you.”
“I would have,” Maewys says, “but Councilor Hayvris is busy being no longer being alive.” The house slaves chuckle at this, save Tessn, who returns to her leaning. “Lady Talivar requests juice, and you know her best.” More chuckling.
“Believe you me,” the short woman says, “she’d love to know her more intimately.”
“I never said that,” Tessn huffs, pinching the bridge of her nose. “But I will say that if you wish to excuse the time you’ve wasted gawking at me, you could at least put some ice in her sparkling blood orange juice.”
Maewys nods and leaves to do that. She is, however, aware of the Shadowarch following her.
Tessn watches as Maewys fetches a bottle from where they keep the juice. She watches her fetch the ice and deposit cylindrical pillars into a fluted glass. And she especially watches how Maewys pours the drink. Her eyes scrutinize everything, wide and unyielding.
“Can I help you?” Maewys says with condescending levity. “Or do you enjoy staring at pretty girls in short dresses?” She wiggles her hips to embarrass the Shadowarch, but Tessn narrows her glare.
“They are right,” Tessn says, voice soft, eyes relaxing. “I do rather adore my mistress.” She leans forward and touches Maewys’s copper red hair. “I don’t like it when unwanted riffraff comes sniffing around her skirt.” She grabs a fistful of hair. Not enough to hurt, but Maewys feels it. “And you’ve been hounding her since before the Praetors took the trash out. I don’t like how you look at her, treating her like a piece of meat. I don’t care who it is, be it an assassin or ‘artist’ or the fucking Commander of the Garrison. None shall touch a hair on dear Gwydolin’s head. Least of all you.” Tessn releases Maewys’s hair and takes a step back. “Don’t keep her waiting, ‘Mavis.’”
Maewys gets the distinct feeling that Tessn knows that she’s not a Lemlati artist. It would seem to her that no greater obstacle stands between the Elemnist and Gwydolin than the lady’s stalwart companion. Honeyed words won’t seduce or sway one who is that suspicious. But such seductions are Corvinet work, grim and secretive. When the time comes, Maewys will stick a blade between Tessn’s ribs and rip out her blood, then use that blood to smother her precious Bright Caster with it. Maybe then she won’t feel so hollow inside, and that thing stuck in her craw will fade.
Maewys returns to the banquet with Gwydolin’s juice and presents it to the young noblesse. Again, she wears her white wig, with her hair unadorned by jewelry, though she links the silver bangles on her wrists to the solid herringbone necklace at her collar with woven, pale gold cables. Her lilac eyes are unfocused, staring at something that isn’t there, delicate looking finger tracing little circles around the spot where her jaw meets her neck. Looking as she does, Maewys can see why everyone else considers her fragile like glass. Gwydolin embodies melancholy.
“Thank you,” she says, voice a murmur, taking the fluted glass of effervescent juice and bringing it to her soft lips. She sips at it like a hummingbird before setting it down, returning her finger to her circle tracing. Experiencing Gwydolin this close up, her gentle fragrance tickling the Elemnist’s nose, Maewys finds it difficult to maintain her anger.
“She’s a Bright Caster,” Maewys thinks, stoking the flames. “A noble. Her father killed so many Elemnists, Zacaer included. She doesn’t even know.” Maewys turns back to her duties, and her scheming, only to be stopped by a light touch on her elbow. She returns her attention to the Bright Caster, a quizzical expression on her face. Gwydolin, eyes now focused, searches Maewys’s eyes as though trying to communicate through telepathy.
“May I ask you a question?” Gwydolin asks. Unlike Fenoiryne’s veiled command, this seems a genuine inquiry, and Maewys finds herself taken aback by the earnestness of those uttered words. A noblesse asking for permission? To speak? Absurd.
“Of course, Lady Talivar,” Maewys says, bowing. “You may ask whatever you wish.” Likely for a particular flavor of juice, or maybe a salad without dressing because the vinegar hurts her little tummy. The old bitterness is seeping back into Maewys’s thoughts.
“How much is a loaf of bread?” Gwydolin asks. Maewys blinks. That is not the question she expected, although it exists on the level of unawareness the Elemnist expects from the upper class. Perhaps Gwydolin sett Talivar is as ditzy as her reputation makes her out to be and Tessn is, in fact, the architect of House Amareas’s previous lambasting.
“I’m afraid I don’t understand the question?” Maewys says. “Fresh breads cost different amounts.”
“I’m aware,” Gwydolin says. Is that sharpness in her voice? “White bread in the Upper City cost two gold marks per loaf. Expense comes from the fineness of the flour, and the pains mills go to making it fine. There’s no nutritional value to white bread. It largely serves as a vehicle for butter.”
To make a point, Gwydolin holds up a thick slice of buttered white bread, although the point remains unknown to Maewys. “The common folk do not eat white bread. No, as of late, I find it hard to believe that most common folk could rub two gold marks together and still be youthful. My question persists: how much for a loaf of bread to you, the one who sees it as a full meal with grains and nuts? Butter not withstanding.”
“Lin, dear,” Fenoiryne interjects, leaning close to the two, “is it really necessary to bother ‘the help’ with your esoteric inquiries? She brings you food and drink. She’s not entertaining your suppositions and mathematical pursuits.”
“I often think about these things,” Gwydolin says, crossing her arms and straightening her back. “The work you give me offers little mental engagement, so I find other ways to entertain myself.” The older noblesse rolls her eyes. It’s the familiar tale, in the end. “I believe House Ruvero is inflating the price of grain so that they can sell less to Nuaranth and more outside of Nuaranth. As the chief supplier of grain and flour to Midtown bakeries, this would require bakers to raise bread prices for profitability.”
“And why would House Ruvero do that?” Fenoiryne asks, planting her chin in her hand.
“Because their ally, House Foilyn, already owns a third of the bakeries in Midtown,” Gwydolin says, sipping more juice. “If their competitors can’t turn a profit because wheat flour is too expensive, then House Foilyn can buy them out. And when they own a majority, they can set the price of bread to whatever ludicrous standard they wish and wring the purses of the common folk dry. Nuaranth would suffer an unprecedented economic disaster, unable to recover.”
Gwydolin looks at Maewys. “I ask again, what’s the cost of bread?”
“Don’t answer that,” Fenoiryne interjects. “Lord, nothing escapes your ministrations. Alright, deary, the High Council will investigate House Ruvero and House Foilyn’s dealings in the grain market. We’ll rectify the situation before it becomes a crisis, although I can’t promise we’ll get to it before someone murders Edgin sett Ruvero.” A dark chuckle rumbles in her throat and she dismisses Maewys with a wave of her hand.
Maewys considers the entire exchange bizarre. People pay for bread? Do “grain mongers” exploit the people? Currency was a mistake of mankind. But she counts her blessings. Fenoiryne disclosed the man responsible for degrading basic human needs. Edgin sett Ruvero’s time is nearing its end. Maewys will meet with Kuna later and draw up plans to bring him down.
Fenoiryne sett Kinkara taps a fork against her crystalline glass to gather the attention of her banquet’s attendees. When the murmuring subsides, she stands and addresses the entire crowd, including staff.
“Friends,” she starts, arms raised, “allies, and guests of no ill rapport. Our city has entered troubling times. We must hold fast and hold close those dear to us, for thicker shields are not so fragile. The Elemnist will face justice as we purge Nuaranth of all evil.”
Maewys sees the irony of the Councilor’s words, for the Elemnist is in fact purging evil men from their government.
But Fenoiryne continues. “Many questioned my decision to continue holding this banquet, and off the grounds of House Kinkara. ‘Fruit in a basket, ready to be plundered,’ as the Garrison Commander put it. The Elemnist would be a fool to consider breaking in.” Maewys finds it very tempting to chuck out a shaped bone dart and prove the Councilor wrong. “The moment she makes a move against me, the power of my son’s Bright Casting will strike her down, and I would become a martyr for my cause.”
“However, that’s not my banquet’s purpose. In truth, the position of Administrative Councilor has weighed down on me for decades. I feel older than I am and I feel myself slipping as the months go by. I have made mistakes, month by month at first and week by week in recent times. It’s a significant decision for me to step down as Administrative Councilor before these mistakes continue daily. My son, Jontonvair, will succeed me in the interim period.” She gestures to Jonton, who stands up and waves at the guests before taking his seat. “The change won’t be instant. I will still act as Administrative Councilor as he takes over my responsibilities. One day soon, I won’t be on the High Council. Instead, you will find me devoting myself to more humanitarian work. The city is diseased, the ghetto is a stain on our prosperity, and the mistakes of the current regime weigh heavy on my mind.”
The Councilor is now the center of attention, especially for Gwydorian, whose intense gaze threatens the Councilor. “I played a significant role in shaping Nuaranth’s current state and I will continue to contribute to shaping its future. I bid you all a goodnight and beseech you to ask yourselves this one question: how much does a loaf of bread cost? The answer will surprise you.”
Fenoiryne leaves the grand table, followed close by her House Talivar guests, while Jontonvair remains to entertain the uproarious questions from the now surging banquet guests. Maewys, noticing an opportunity when she sees one, slips unnoticed from the dining hall and follows the three nobles. She shapes the chicken bones in her stomach with her Elemnistry, keeping three needle thin blades stuck in the spaces between her knuckles. Three needles, three targets and the lion’s share of the High Council’s power, all within arm’s reach. Maewys’s vengeance is at hand.
“—carelessly spit on my father’s ambition,” Gwydorian says, his voice a hiss between his teeth. It seems Maewys has made it in time to catch the tail end of an argument.
“Die mad about it, young sir,” Fenoiryne says. “He promised to raise Nuaranth higher than any city in the world, yet he spends his days rotting on that beloved throne of his. He’s a changed man, worlds apart from the person I once followed twenty years ago.”
“You risk this alliance to soothe your own soul,” Gwydorian replies. “You’d risk the security House Talivar provides all so you can make petty comments.”
“I risk nothing,” Fenoiryne retorts. “It’s clear that the Elemnist is targeting Houses of dubious reputation, thieves and cheats all. It’s only a matter of time before House Talivar falls in her crosshairs, if they haven’t already. So, regardless of our personal and professional relationship, it is in our best interest to remain allies so that our beloved family members are safe.”
Maewys raises her hand, readying to throw the darts, threading the needles through the sinew in their necks. However, tight, wafer thin threads snake up her limbs, causing her arm to freeze mid-movement and locking up her body. A shadowy presence falls over her, and the Elemnist finds she can only move her eyes. The threads close in around her throat.
“I’m a terrific judge of character.” It’s Tessn, of course. Only she would stoop so low as to use Shadowarchy to save the lives of her oppressors. “I can read all those petty emotions in your heart, all those chemical releases in your thoughts, all of which exist in the thrumming of your shadow. I have told you already, Elemnist, that I will not let you touch a single hair on my beloved’s head.” Maewys seethes, feeling out for any dust at her feet. The banquet hall is not as clean as House Hayvris’s personal hall, and she starts the arduous process of linking the chains of dust so that she may counter Tessn’s Shadowarchy.
“I will not kill you,” Tessn says and Maewys can feel herself sliding further away from her quarries. “My mother used to tell me stories about blood Elemnists, how they could keep themselves alive even when reduced to paste and pull themselves together by their blood vessels. She told me about bone Elemnists and how it was impossible for them to break their bones. Those stories kept me up at night.” Maewys has never tested the validity of those claims. As an Ordo Melikinara combat medic, her duties were to keep other people from dying, which is best done when she’s not injured herself. She’s built up enough dust from the floor to reach Tessn now. If she only knew the Shadowarch’s location. “No, I think I’ll just leave you with a warning. Stay away from my dear Gwydolin. You can rage against whoever you wish. I truly don’t care. But step to her and we shall test the validity of my mother’s stories.”
Tessn crosses in front of Maewys’s vision, back turned, intent on rejoining her precious mistress. Like a viper, the Elemnist strikes, particle thin dust chain lashing out and bridging the Elemnatic gap between them. Tessn freezes, her muscles unable to tremble beneath her skin. The shadow threads around Maewys tighten, sinking into her flesh like string around clay, but her own internal Elemnatic connections keep her body from falling to pieces. The skin knits back over the wounds and blood vessels reconnect or reroute to safer parts of her body; blood flows unimpeded even as the threads slice her heart into chunks. All the while, Maewys teases each nerve in Tessn’s spinal column, trying to puzzle out which synapses control the shadows. Short on time and failing to decipher the inner workings of Shadowarchy, the Elemnist settles for pantomiming the removal of Tessn’s tangible darkness, the House slave compelled to follow.
“You seem like you know things,” Maewys says upon freeing herself, shuffling her internal organs back in place. She walks up behind Tessn and grabs the back of her head, not willing to risk their dust connection breaking. “You must know I’m not a ‘Librarian.’ You also know that it’s only a matter of time before the Ordo Elemnata buries Nuaranth to rubble and liberates your people. So why try to stop me? Why… what’s the word… delay the inevitable?” She relaxes her Elemnistry to let the Shadowarch speak, ready to silence her again should she make the mistake of screaming out.
Flexing her jaw and realizing that the Elemnist will allow her to speak her mind, Tessn doesn’t scream. No, she’s all too calm as she speaks. “I’d do anything to let Lin feel loved. Anything to let her know… I love her.”
“Wow. That’s the saddest thing I’ve ever heard. I should kill you right now and spare you the agony of watching her die.” Maewys flexes her hand, fingers sinking into Tessn’s skull.
“It won’t work,” Tessn utters. Maewys stops, using her Elemnistry to keep from destroying her brain. “The Elemnist invasion. The city is impregnable while the Garrison has its Praetors. Elemnists will fall in droves. Then Gwydion’s plan will have reached its terrible conclusion.”
Maewys remembers that day at the Ordo Labrythyne sanctuary, how the Praetors rebuffed her Elemnistry like mud against a wall. “Ah, so it is true. You can’t touch them.”
That damned Shadowarchy. It’s almost like Tessn can read her thoughts through her emotions. Yet, she hasn’t discovered that Maewys is alone in this endeavor, from an Elemnist stand point.
“Explain,” Maewys says, voice harsh. “What is Gwydion planning?”
“That I don’t know, but I know he holds no love for Elemnists in his heart, what’s left of it. He holds no love at all, but it’s the Elemnists he has a particular hatred for. Hence the Praetors.”
“How do I stop them? They must possess a weakness, an exploit. I’ve searched everywhere in reach, but I have found nothing.”
“If I tell you, will you leave Gwydolin alone?” Tessn says. Maewys a disgusted noise in her throat, but agrees. “I need your word—your honest word to the Lord Almighty—that you will allow no harm to come to her. Swear upon your ‘Ordo Elemnata.’”
“I swear I will not touch a single misbegotten hair on her pretty little head,” the Elemnist huffs. “I can not speak for the others of my Ordo, but the Masters love their bureaucracy.”
“That will have to be enough.” Tessn releases her held breath. “I don’t know the exact details of their construction, but the Garrison makes Praetors on site at their headquarters.”
“Praetors are living men, though,” Maewys says.
“That is just a component,” Tessn says, insistent. “They are constructs—fabricated organic automatons without minds or wills of their own. House Harros oversees the procedure. I’m sure you could also find notes of their construction at their Harros’s spire, but it’s the Garrison headquarters that manufactures them. There you will find the secret to defeating them.” Maewys releases Tessn, and the Shadowarch falls to her knees, reeling from having her flesh altered. Maewys is out of time. Gwydorian and Fenoiryne have left Gwydolin behind, their argument over, and Maewys wasn’t paying attention enough to pick up on its conclusion.
“I hope you break free of your delusion,” Maewys says. “She will never love you. She can never love you, such as she is.”
“You don’t know her,” Tessn says, rubbing her chest. But Maewys is already gone.
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Maewys sits with her forehead pressed against the bar-top in some sleazy tavern where laborers come to drown their sorrow. She’s surrounded by empty glasses scuzzy with foam and wraps her hand around the dark bottle of cranberry wine. It’s unaged and finished fermenting today, sour like vinegar and unbearably tart. But it’s strong enough to let Maewys’s liver work before she replaces the organ wholesale. She bangs the bottle against the bar: her signal for more drink.
“I think you’ve had enough, girlie,” the barkeeper says. He’s a stout man, red faced and freckled. “You’ve paid my rent for the month already. Can’t have you dying on me now.”
Maewys grumbles and slinks off her bar stool, soaking in her drunkenness as she stumbles toward the exit without complaint. Thunder rattles the windows.
When she steps outside, a pair of hands grabs onto her, keeping her upright. Maewys looks at the man responsible, a dark uniformed Garrison lieutenant both alone and off duty. Rain falls, turning to a deluge in the blink of an eye.
“Why don’t you come with me, miss?” the lieutenant asks, pulling her where he wants to go. Maewys feels the hand on her waist slide down her hip and grab onto her butt. She sighs and flexes the area just behind her eyes.
The lieutenant’s spine bursts out from his back, pulling a couple of ribs with it before tearing free from his neck. Maewys uses her Elemnistry to keep his body locked upright as his innards spill out the back before dropping his corpse and stumbling down a rain slick alley. She blinks, the memory of the event replaying behind her eyelids from the perspective of the deceased, the event etching itself into her memory and soul. Maewys blinks again, reliving her murder of the former Councilor Hayvris and so many others besides, with the blood memory of each watching her as she performs her murders with dispassionate coldness.
Maewys wanders for a while before coming to a cliff overlooking the coast, a gravel beach sitting below a steep drop. She creeps closer to the edge, swaying from side to side as the toes of her boots peek out into nothingness.
“Maewys?” Ephel floats in from behind, their glow a warm comfort as the rivulets run down the Elemnist’s face. Thunder claps in the distance, arcs of lightning flashing across the clouds. The wine-dark sea churns in anger.
“Ephel, my life…” Maewys brings her bottle to her lips and drinks down another mouthful of sour wine. “It’s all just some cruel, divine prank, isn’t it? I’m too late or too weak to do anything other than kill. Even back in the Ordo Melikinara, all I did was kill. Men, boys, women, children. And worse, still, I’ve only ever felt nothing after these killings. Except shame for my lack of feeling, maybe. If I’m drunk enough.”
Maewys brings the wine to her lips again and tips the bottle back, drawing out a mere drop onto her waiting tongue. Brow furrowing, she chucks the bottle over the cliff before stumbling forward. She can feel Ephel reel her back in with a woven tree root rope, and the Elemnist lets the Espreth drag her back from the edge. She tips back and falls onto her rear before splaying herself out flat. With the rain pouring onto her face, Maewys closes her eyes and turns her head to keep from drowning herself.
“You’re a sorry sight.” It’s Kuna. Even though the older woman blocks the rain, Maewys keeps her eyes closed.
“Kuna, how long have you been here?”
“Long enough.” She sits down beside the Elemnist and brushes the waterlogged hair from her face. “Were he still alive, my son would be about your age. I shudder to think he’d drink himself half to death.”
“How do you do it, Kuna?” Maewys opens an eye and looks at the Shadowarch. She’s sitting cross-legged next to Maewys’s head, her wide-brimmed hat blocking the rain. “You’ve lost everyone and everything, despite how hard you fight. Why do you persist?”
“Give me a reason to carry on,” are words that go unsaid.
Kuna considers her words. “I have given up. There is no future for me.” Maewys opens her other eye, turning her head to better watch Kuna’s expression, stoic and unmoving. “But Regni was born into this world. She grew up on stories of our past splendor, having never experienced it. She was a fighter from the beginning. It’s too late for me, but I can give her the future she deserves.” Kuna looks off into the distance, eyes glazing over. Maewys follows her gaze and sees nothing. Still, she strokes Maewys’s hair.
Kuna continues speaking. “Yes, every time I look at her, I think to myself, ‘I will never stop fighting for your life.’ The world is a cruel place. It has made cruel people. Regni is a lot of things, but she is not cruel, and that is worth preserving.” Kuna stands up and helps Maewys to her unsteady feet. “Let’s get you inside, Elemnist, lest you catch your death.”