Jast
A gentle sunbeam lays across Jast’s face as the steady rush of the receding surf echoes with a dull cadence off the dilapidated walls of an abandoned boathouse. He’s graduated from a sleeping mat on the cold pavement to a sleeping mat draped over the moldering, sunken in bed found inside the pearled hull of a forgotten sail boat. He’s traded in stolen awnings for a leaky roof and chilly nights for annoying drafts and feels all the better for it. Sometimes, he dreams, his shattered memories pulling themselves together into a haphazard jumble of misbegotten visions and distorted lectures.
Jast blinks awake, pushing out the fractured images from his mind, sitting up and knocking his head against the boat’s ceiling. Kenni and Nevryne found the place for him, having made a home of it for themselves down by the docks, where the old highborn families used to keep their ships. Those ships dock near the cliffs now, House Kinkara making use of the decades of gravel they’ve stockpiled from various construction projects and building a new beachhead. An old, forgotten location like this boat house is far from the prying eyes of the Garrison.
Rubbing his head, Jast exits the confines of the boat. The innards of the old building sag to one side and the gentle lapping of dark waves cast reflected light across the ceiling. It dances like spiderwebs twinkling in the dark, light shadows cast by the cruel sun and illuminating the boathouse with a dreamy candor. Jast plants his foot on the prow of the boat and leans forward, sifting through his shattered mind.
Score marks line the floor, each a failed attempt at controlling tangible darkness. Though he’s told the girl countless times, Kenni always tries to force the shadows into compliance, squeezing the mass in her tight fists.
Jast sighs. “A feather touch.” He strokes his chin, clean shaven for the first time since his calamitous disinterment from his Praetor armor. The straight razor used for the task dangles from a cord tied to the inside of his jacket, a keen blade with a thirsty edge.
He hears the girls before he sees them, Kenni’s voice a mix of screeching and laughter. She’s carted in a wheelbarrow, Nevryne panting from the effort of hauling the waif and whatever payload they bring. Kenni rolls out of her seat, foot catching on the lip of the wheelbarrow, falling flat on her face and knocking her cap askew. Nevryne rattles the wheelbarrow, dislodging the smaller girl and sending her tumbling heels over head.
“Mornin’.” Kenni sits up and straightens her cap. “Kenni’s got something for ya.” Nevryne coughs into her fist. “Well, Netti found it, strictly speaking. Wanted to throw rocks at it but Kenni said ‘Jast will want to look at this.’ So…” She trails off and makes a grand double armed gesture towards a burlap tarp slung over the contents of the wheelbarrow.
Jast scratches his chin. “What is it?”
The Shade glares at the tarp before flashing the Shadowarch one of her winning smiles, grabbing the edge and ripping the covering away.
A glass orb rolls around inside, bearing a glowing core of molten metal. Light doesn’t reflect off its surface, the inner glow is too bright, and a multitude of patterns shift and flow beneath the thin crystalline skin. Jast tilts his head to the side, then draws in a sharp breath as the orb rises. His muscles clench and a hardlight arm blade shoots out, pointing toward the glass sphere as it draws closer.
“Be not afraid,” the orb says, voice a flat monotone with an untraceable accent. Its candor arcs like lightning in Jast’s mind, awakening brief flashes of a life stolen from him, of similar orbs hovering around the shoulders of his indistinct family. And above his crib. Espreth. House servant.
“I don’t like your kind, orb.” Jast keeps his arm raised and ready to strike. “The Garrison makes use of you as sentinels in the upper city.”
“Hence ‘be not afraid,’ my friend in low places.” Jast detects a note of sarcasm. Espreth don’t often speak outside their duties, so he remains silent. “The Garrison is not your friend, that much is certain. They are not friends of mine or of my associates, so we have common cause.”
“Hard to believe,” Jast says.
Nevryne chimes in, a crooked glare on her face. “Yeah.”
“Yeah!” Kenni jumps up, fists raised.
The Espreth makes a sound like sighing, core burning white hot before firing a slug of molten metal into the ceiling. The girls gasp, Nevryne jumping over the wheelbarrow and shoving Kenni behind her as debris rains down and splashes into the water.
“Killing is a simple thing.” The Espreth’s core cools down to a molten red. “I’ve aided in the deaths of over a dozen nobles in the Upper City, all while under the gaze of the Garrison. And here I am, speaking words with you with no small amount of civility and respect. Be not afraid.”
Jast retracts his arm blade, dropping his arms to his side. “So, if not my head, what do you want?”
“Your name, for one. I’ll go first: Ephel, an Espreth in the service of Maewys Bloodwyn.” Ephel drifts closer, as slow as an ocean breeze over still waters. Jast doesn’t realize they’ve closed the distance until the orb is within arm’s reach. “And she is operating under the council of the rebellion.”
Jast’s mouth hangs open, but Kenni speaks first. “You mean the Shades from the ghetto?”
Ephel contemplates her words. “Yes.”
Jast furrows his brow, picking through his defiled memories. As a Praetor, his handlers relegated him to Midtown and the lowest dredges of the Upper City. He kept an eye out for Elemnists, and those orders never mentioned a rebellion.
“They are your people,” Ephel says, drawing Jast from his reverie. “You’re better off among them, right?”
Kenni jumps up, enthusiasm etched on her face. “Yeah! Kenni thinks we meet them, Jast—” she claps her mouth over her hands, shrinking beneath Jast’s icy glare. That was a secret he was saving for later, his one bargaining chip. But his look softens. Ephel wants something, and that is enough to bargain with. He thinks.
“May I call you Jast?” Ephel is closer now, molten core dim, allowing Jast’s face to reflect off the thin glass skin that enshrouds whatever arcane secrets keep the thing afloat. He nods. “Don’t you think you should meet your people, Jast?”
It’s a tempting offer, but he’s cornered in a sea of unknowns. If Ephel wanted him dead, he’d be dead. That much is clear. Ephel strikes him as pragmatic. Jast doubts he’d be able to keep Kenni and Nevryne from harm’s way if a fight breaks out.
“Who is this Maewys Bloodwyn?” he says. Ephel’s core shifts in thought. It’s a split second motion beneath the surface. Jast doubts he’d notice it if Ephel was further away. Jast doubts he’d see that miniscule shift without his Praetor conditioning.
“She is an Elemnist from the Holy City of Durduna.” Ephel drifts in a lazy circle around Jast’s head. “Her master’s sent her here to die. Yet she persists and has found a higher purpose.” Ephel stops at Jast’s eye level. “I can tell you know the feeling.”
Jast pushes the orb aside. “You know nothing.” He leaps from the boat and lands in a crouch, grunting from the strain before straightening out. He doesn’t know what he’s doing, but he looks to rid himself of the Espreth.
“I know that every Shadowarch in the city is a woman,” Ephel says. Their voice is loud, but not shouting. Espreth are incapable of shouting. “Except for you. I know that whenever a male is born, the Garrison takes them away. Except for you or, maybe, including you. You know what has happened to them, Jast. Sons, fathers, brothers, all taken away and kept under a veil of secrecy. Genocide, and you don’t even care.”
Jast clenches his teeth and spins around to find Ephel is already within arm’s reach. He steps up to the Espreth, pressing his nose to the glass, searching for eyes that aren’t there.
“I care so much.” He spits. “I will kill whatever Bright caster I can lay my hands on. Break them down. Dismantle them, one after the other, until the bloody work is done. Until I’ve wrung the life from House Talivar’s pretty little scions.”
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“Best of luck from down here.”
Jast steps back. Ephel is right. All he’s accomplishing by digging around in the mud is thuggery and petty violence. He’s never had a plan since the beginning.
Jast swallows down his fury. “What do you want?”
Ephel doesn’t hesitate. “I want to help you. And Maewys. And all the Elemnists that have died at the hands of Gwydion sett Talivar. I care just as much as you do.
“Alright.” Jast feels the tension slip from his bones. “But I want to meet this Elemnist first.”
----------------------------------------
“So, Kenni has a question.”
Jast glances at the girl. He thought it best if she and Nevryne go with him, to keep them out of trouble while Ephel guides them to the Elemnist. They disguised the Espreth as a ball of refuse, using mud and ocean scum to stick various bits of trash to their glass skin. It’s a process Jast took glee in.
“Not now, Kenni.” Jast feels Ephel’s weight in the crook of his arm. He considers it a beacon drawing all kinds of unwanted attention as they traverse the crooked streets of the Lower City, though that could be his imagination. Ephel came up with a method of wordless communication, shifting a heat from within around toward the direction they want Jast to follow. Sometimes, they grow a little too hot for hands. Jast imagines Ephel takes delight in searing his skin.
“Nevryne has a question too.” Nevryne pokes and prods at Jast’s shadow with her own. She knows better than to try immobilizing him. But she’s grown the exceptional skill of becoming an annoyance.
Nevryne doesn’t wait for Jast to respond. “I want to know who you are, Jast. I think Kenni and I deserve that much.”
Jast lets out a long breath. “I was a slave. A soldier. A Praetor. Bits and pieces come back to me and leave all the same. But I know this much: Gwydion sett Talivar stole me from my mother and turned me into a weapon against my people. Our people—” he locks eyes with the girls “—and I will see him dead at my feet.”
Nevryne lets a small smile creep at the corners of her mouth before she shoves her hands in her pockets, looking dead ahead. That’s the most Jast will get out of her.
“Kenni wants to know something.” She peers up at Jast with widened eyes. “Do you think your mama is still alive?”
“Does it matter?” Jast looks away, but he can feel Kenni’s eyes peel away his defenses. “I doubt she lives. And it would be better if she isn’t.”
Jast comes to a stop, teeth clenching as a large Garrison patrol comes walking toward them from the far end of the street. Kenni and Nevryne each tug on one of his sleeves.
“Jast, they’re behind us,” Nevryne says.
“I know.” Jast holds up Ephel. “Orb, care to explain this?”
“It’s not my doing.”
“Then kill them.”
“As you wish, but I hate to disappoint.” Ephel pulls themself from Jast’s grasp, the refuse glued to their surface burning up in smoke as their core grows molten hot. Slugs of molten metal shoot out from the Espreth’s depths, piercing through a handful of the young men pressing closer from either end of the Lower City street. “Satisfied?”
Jast tuts his disappointment. “I thought you were capable of more.”
“I’m built for accuracy, not slaughter. But if you allow me, I can get someone who is.”
Jast grunts. The Garrison patrols have drawn close enough to brandish their arm blades. “Make it quick. And if I die, I’m haunting you.”
“Ten minutes at most.” And then Ephel shoots skyward, disappearing among the sprawl above.
“Alright, girls,” Jast says. “It’s time to put your training to use.”
Jast thinks a bitter thought. Is that what he calls it now? “Training?” He spits his disgust on the ground and spies Nevryne, hands still in her pockets, as her shadow stretches out behind them. She ensnares the Garries, slowing their movements to a crawl as though they’re wading through waist-high syrup. Too many to stop at her skill level, but it will buy them precious time. Kenni stands behind Jast, eyes clenched tight, hands clapped together, attempting to force the tangible darkness between her fingers.
“It needs a feather touch, Kenni.” Jast demonstrates his ministrations, unspooling a length of ink black darkness from within his sleeves, letting the threads dangle before whipping them in an “X.” Deep gouges erupt in the ground, the stones scored with unkind sharpness while a thunderous crack rattles the windows in their frames. The patrols stop, faces grim with apprehension, and an officer steps forward. He awakens a fresh memory in Jast: he was the lieutenant crying bloody murder during Jast’s escape, so many days ago.
“I finally found you, Jast.” His face is hard and cold, lips peeled back in a grimace. “The Garrison Commander demands your immediate surrender.”
“I’ll just have to kill him, too.” The Shadowarch doesn’t wait for a response, whipping his black tendrils out at his closest targets. They slice like snapped steel cable, ripping and tearing limbs and bloody chunks from the young men, leaving them to bleed out in moaning heaps on the ground. The officer snarls, stepping back while pointing his finger at the Shadowarch. The men under his command charge, brandishing twin arm blades, while volleys of hardlight arc in from overhead.
Kenni makes a sound like a wounded prey animal, tangible darkness leaking from the cracks between her fingers in thick ribbons. Kenni’s streamers shoot out in random directions, fluttering in the air and bouncing off buildings, tangling together in a knotted web that blocks and catches the explosive volley. Behind her, Nevryne makes a grabbing motion with her hands and pulls down. Those caught in her extended shadow sink into the ground, ankle deep if they're lucky and waist deep if they’re unlucky. She allows a smirk to curl the corner of her lips as an officer sinks down to his neck.
Maybe the kids are alright after all.
Jast uses his black whips to cutdown as many as he can, crimson blood spraying the street lights and walls in misting sprays. A young, baby-faced upstart gets within melee range, stabbing with one arm blade while swinging in with the other. Jast’s implanted Demesne, Unlabored Flawlessness, activates and moves Jast out of harm’s way. The Shadowarch’s arm blades extend themselves and he drives them into the chest of his attacker, raising the young man off the ground before pulling his blades free. Unlabored Flawlessness moves Jast out of the way again, a pair of Garrison duelists working in tandem on his flanks. He’s already surrounded.
Through the haze of blood and adrenal rush, Jast finds himself separated from the girls. Kenni and Nevryne stand back to back, the taller girl building a small zone of control with her shadow, drawing a circle around them that slows and subsumes anyone who steps foot into her abyss. Kenni’s shadow snakes out from the circle, striking faster than the Garrison can react, pulling their feet out from under them. She keeps one hand clenched in a fist, razor sharp ribbons of tangible darkness whipping around them with wild abandon. A severed foot goes flying, striking the lieutenant square in the jaw.
He reels back, hand over his nose, eyes possessing a crazed rage in his pupils as thick blood pours from between his fingers. The lieutenant points a finger at Kenni, a large hardlight needle firing from his fingertip. The needle, as thick as a flower stem, pierces Kenni’s abdomen, right between her gut and ribcage.
Kenni stumbles back, blood spraying out from her mouth. Her free hand clutches the needle while her fist goes slack. She stumbles again before crumpling at Nevryne’s feet.
Nevryne makes an indistinct screaming sound, strangled and hoarse. Kenni sinks into her shadow as Nevryne whips into a frenzy, her circle exploding in size. Such is her fury that ribbon-like tendrils whip from the ground, attacking anything and everything without discrimination.
Jast turns on the lieutenant again, murder burning in his chest, but his fury evaporates as he sees the other man’s hands locked together, fingers splayed out straight like the crest on vertebrae.
“Demesne,” he says, “Crystal Lattice.” Hardlight spears erupt from the ground, starting at the lieutenant’s feet and rushing forward through the bodies of the fallen and wounded alike. Jast can feel his implanted Demesne work over time to evade the encroaching spears and while he evades impalement, crystal spears interlink in a prison that keeps his limbs locked in place. The light they emit banishes all shadows and all hope of escape.
Nevryne is not so fortunate. She doesn’t notice the spears erupting from the ground behind her until they skewer her through the back. Her legs buckle and go limp, her spinal column severed, and Nevryne screams through clenched teeth. She grabs the crystal shaft with her hands, but smaller spines shoot out from the surface, impaling her through the palms. There’s only one person in the whole of Nuaranth that delights in such cruelty.
Jast’s fractured memory stirs. Crystal Lattice is Commander Harros’s Demesne. Seems he’s implanted it within his officers.
Similar barbs burrow in Jast’s flesh, anchoring him in place. His arm blades grow dim and dun, their inner light sapped by the Garrison Commander’s foul essence. The lieutenant sets his broken nose, wiping the blood off on his pants before approaching the captured Jast.
“This nightmare is finally over.” He stops, eyes wide and body trembling. The whites of his eyes burst into crimson red before his head pops like an overripe melon. Jast blinks as the viscera splashes against his face, clearing his eyes to find a clenched fist where the lieutenant’s head used to stand. The body, still trembling, breaks down into a soup of liquid flesh and fragmented bones, shooting to the side in a thick rope of human meat and impaling another officer across the street.
Standing before the Shadowarch is a woman with fire-red hair, short and wild about her shoulders. She meets his gaze with tempest eyes, wild and dark and crazed. Within those eyes lies a spark of madness, and Jast knows without a doubt that the Elemnist is like him. She has known violence and despair. She has rage enough to move mountains and wrath enough to murder men, slaughter them like prey without a shred of humanity. Jast sees this and knows that he holds the same look when he killed those Garrison guards, fueled by cold detachment.
Jast blinks and so does she in response, the madness leaving her eyes. The madness, but not the tempest.
“I’m Maewys,” she says. Maewys doesn’t need to move to exert her Elemnistry. A blood stained man approaches with arm blades raised and he dissolves into a greasy puddle. Ephel floats in from behind, following the gore and bones that left in the Elemnist’s wake.
The Espreth shoots projectiles at the spears keeping Jast in place, snapping them and allowing the Shadowarch to fall free. He rubs his wrists, but finds that no wounds remain.
“We need to leave,” he says, rising. “The girls need—”
Maewys ignores him, walking toward the remaining Garrison patrol. He watches as thin lines of blood snake out from the puddle at the Elemnist’s feet. Every single person who comes into contact with her blood trails dies. Limbs snap, rib cages pop, heads come loose and smash against the ground. She leaves the street in a bloody mess of viscera and fluids. Maewys is an angel of death, a goddess of murder.
Maewys is the woman of Jast’s dreams.