Riven bemoaned the state of the world. The sky was clouded over and threatening to unleash a torrent, yet umbrellas were a luxury here, as they were everywhere. Fine enough when there was rain, which was so rare that it was unthinkable to ever expect anyone to carry an umbrella around, but they would provide absolutely no protection against a barrage of Sept. Septstorms were equivalent to tornados, cyclones, and other such natural phenomena. When one hit, it was best to bunker down and hope it passed without causing too much trouble.
The car dropped him off at the post office in the western precinct, shuddering to a halt as its wheels screeched against the asphalt. Riven relaxed his grip on the armrests beside his seat. The chauffeur had been going a little too fast. Cabs weren’t great shelter against Septstorms.
“Here you go,” Riven said, handing over the fare. “You can keep the change.”
The chauffeur snatched the money, shuttered his window, then drove off in a rush as soon as Riven got out and closed the door.
Sighing, Riven went into the post office. It was a squat little building, single storey of faded brown walls holding up a grey-slated gabled roof. A lone chimney poked out from the middle, though it was smokeless now. Closed for the day because of the Septstorm.
Viriya had already arrived, and she was questioning the post officers.
“When did she come to steal letters?” she asked. Impeccable as ever in her Essentier uniform and with her hair in a bun, she was leaning on her Coral cane, too proud to ask for a seat to rest on. Pride comes before the fall. Fitting words for her tombstone after her damn pride killed her.
The officers both glanced at Riven when he entered They wore light blue uniforms, though both were a bit rumpled and worn—their cuffs were shabby, the brass buttons dull, and their boots lacked polish. For all the importance of the post officers and clerks, Father was still keeping them underpaid.
“This is my fellow Essentier and partner in the investigation,” Viriya introduced. “Riven Morell.”
They blinked, immediately shifting their attention to him as though he was a famous painter or playwright. All they were missing were little napkins to take a signature.
“Please, sir,” the paunchier of the two men said. “Make yourself at home. Excuse our shabbiness, we are about to close down due to the Septstorm coming in. Can I offer you some tea? It will only take a minute to warm it up, I promise.”
Riven raised a hand, smiling a little. It felt nice to be doted on. “Please, don’t got to such trouble. This is an official investigation, and while I am grateful for the kindness of your offer, we need to be about our business as soon as we can too. As you said, a Septstorm is coming.”
The other officer nodded, his long beard wagging along. “Of course, of course.”
Viriya took that as a sign to interject. “As I was saying, when did you see the Spectre coming in? The exact time would be very helpful.”
“A Spectre is stealing letters?” Riven asked.
“Yes.” Viriya said nothing more, though the twitch of her lips promised she had a lot more in store. Probably something along the lines of him not being so dense and slow to pick things up from context.
Riven didn’t say much beyond that. Stealing letters? He had learned that Deathless were more complex beyond a mindless need to ascend to the Beyond, as proven by his encounters with the Spectres near Coral Fort. But what in the world could a Spectre find in letters?
The paunchy officer looked at the shorter, bearded one, who found the flash post device resting on a distant table to be extremely fascinating. “Er, yes. It was in the evening of course. Perhaps seven o’clock? Give or take?”
Viriya stared at the officer. “Give or take… a few hours?”
“No! No, of course not. It had to eb around that time, I assure you Essentier Rorink. We leave around eight, and I could swear we spent an hour watching the Spectre steal the letter and then read it. So strange!”
“Very” Viriya agreed. “Where did it happen?”
“Second floor. Where we have most of our letters stored in filing cabinets upstairs.”
“Then I suggest you leave immediately.”
The officers tried to look taken aback at that but failed. Relief won over, and they didn’t muster the effort to protest. Instead, they hurried to the door, where the paunchy officer paused.
“Please be careful, Essentiers, and thank you for looking into this matter. I imagine this must be a very mundane occurrence after what’s happened. Nevertheless, we appreciate it greatly.” He nodded at Riven with a bright smile. “Please give our warmest regards to your father, sir. Appearances can be deceiving, and you will see that we keep our business in tight order. We’ll be happy to help any way we can. Good luck.”
The door shut as the officers left.
“Well, that was weird,” Riven remarked. He offered Viriya a little grin. Something to take the edge off their last few days. “I almost feel like royalty.”
“That’s because you are. In Providence, at least. If you know where to look.” She held his eyes for a moment, and Riven stared back. Her voice was humourless, her face still that mask that she had left with in the morning. “Did you bring the crystal?”
“I did.”
Riven placed a hand inside his jacket and drew out the offending piece of Sept. it glowed dark again, the gloom swirling and shifting like a collage of restless shadows. When had he last held it this close? Somewhere back in the Frontier perhaps? Ah right, with the Cataclysm, when it had been glowing and blinking as though impossibly excited to be so near him.
All he knew was that this thing, this piece of a Scion, was holding him back from using his Essence. But why? What magical property made it act like that?
Viriya took it from his hands, inspecting it all over with her uninjured hand. “It doesn’t look like much.” Her voice was low. Too low. Riven almost had to lean in to hear. Did she think the very walls or the floor were spies? “You called it a Sept crystal, and then you said again this was a piece of a Scion. They can’t be one and the same, unless you’re suggesting Scions are made of Sept. Or that a part of them divulged from their main body fossilizes into Sept.”
“I think that can only ever be idle speculation on our part. The only observable things I know to be true is that it gives the Deathless power, and it prevents me from using my Essence.”
“So, there isn’t much we know on why.”
She looked at the dark rock critically, a jeweller finding it more stone than precious gem. Nowhere near worth all the fuss made over it. Riven shoved his hands into his pockets to fight the urge to snatch the Sept crystal back. If Viriya didn’t like it, Riven could keep it for himself. He understood its significance.
“It’s also partly why I want to go to the research facility as soon as I can,” Riven said. “Someone over there might be able to shed some light. Though of course, we’ll have to be very cautious about it.”
This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
Viriya looked around the little office, and Riven followed. Sheafs of papers and letters were arranged haphazardly on the four tables, along with pens, pencils, letter-openers, and seals, half-filled trash cans standing beside every desk. A large clock on the far wall marking away the time with loud ticks. The flash post delivery system lay dormant, though Riven had no wish to approach it. Its heat still wafted through the air, turning the air balmy. Humid. There was a burning scent in the air too. Hopefully, it wasn’t anything too serious. The last thing they needed was the office burning down on them while they were still inside.
“Let’s go up,” Viriya said.
“Are we going to wait out the storm?” he asked.
“Let’s hope it doesn’t strike while we’re still here.”
#
They waited for an hour at the very least. All of Riven’s multiple attempts to keep track of time without using any clocks or watches ended around the five or six minute mark. He couldn’t stop himself from botching up the count, regardless if it was his heartbeats, the way his feet kept noiselessly tapping away at the floor, or small huffs of Viriya’s breaths.
Riven was also getting tired. His position had made his legs turn to lead and his neck threatened to creak whenever he next moved it. Viriya had directed Riven to crouch behind a large safe, while she had wedged herself between the far locker cabinet and the wall. If the Spectre pushed, Viriya would be squeezed and burst like an overripe tomato. Really, she should have been smarter than to corner herself like that.
Unless she was expecting Riven to distract the Spectre or something. He wasn’t sure. They hadn’t gone over any plans.
But the Spectre came just as the officers had said, walking up the stairs from the first floor with soundless steps. She was a woman of that dubitable age between the end of youth and the onset of middle-years, her shimmering outline smooth as glowing silk. Her dress and general air were quite well-to-do. Maybe she’d been a rich lady while she’d been still alive, or at least well-educated. The Spectre didn’t look anywhere. Didn’t even check to see if there was anyone else here. She arrowed straight to one of the lockers and started fiddling with the combination to open it.
Good. She didn’t suspect that anyone would be here. It made their job so much easier.
Riven saw nothing of Viriya behind the cabinet she had selected as her hiding spot. Drats. They should have gone over a plan, formed a backup one in case things went awry. Miscommunication was going to kill them one of these days.
No time to waste. Riven took a deep breath, pulled out his pistol, and stood up. His back did creak, and his legs gave a nasty wobble, but he righted himself as the Spectre turned with wide eyes to stare at him. “Hold, Spectre. Any sudden moves, and I won’t hesitate to shoot.”
The Spectre seemed to be on the verge of jumping back. Her back arched, her face set with desperation, eyes darting everywhere as though she expected more Essentiers to pop out of the locker cabinets.
She froze, eyes going wide.
“No. Sudden. Movements.” Viriya was standing right behind the ghost, her gun aimed at the back of its head. “Slowly, raise your hands. Slowly.”
The Spectre visibly swallowed. Did they even make spit anymore if they didn’t have to eat? She raised her arms until her fingertips were pointing at the sloping ceiling. “Who are you?”
“Essentiers,” Viriya said. “And that’s our question. Who are you? What are you doing here, breaking into Demesne territory and stealing public property?”
“Public property? I pay for this locker. Whatever is in it should be mine by rights!”
“You’re a Deathless now. You can’t pay for anything, even if you wanted to. Not anymore. You’re nothing more than a nuisance to the workers trying to keep this place running and a thief to whoever this locker has been given to.”
“Wrong!” The Spectre didn’t turn, but it was obvious she wanted to. Her whole body trembled at the need to face her apprehender. “This locker is still registered under my name. There are papers downstair that prove it. As I said, I have every right to the contents of this locker.”
“Who in the world are you, Spectre?” Riven asked, stepping closer. He kept up his aim. No telling what trick the Spectre had up her sleeve. “Let’s start with your name. Then where you used to live, what you used to do, and so on.”
The Spectre focused on him. Her eyes were a soft hazel, shining bright as her shimmering outline. “I am Sareth Calliper. I used to be an activist, if you must know. I went around to different factories and refineries and made sure everything was in the proper condition for the workers involved. I lobbied for their rights, for better pay and treatment. For better contracts. I was even chief of the factory workers’ union for a year! Does that satisfy you?”
“How did you die?”
“Killed by irony.” The Spectre laugh a mirthless laugh. “A faulty crane collapsed and I was under it. There happened to be an enormous amount of Sept nearby, and I found that I hadn’t died. At least, not in the traditional sense. I’d become this—this Spectre was everyone calls them. Let me tell you, it’s not fun being chased around with shouts of death and worse hounding your steps when you thought you’d be relieved for still staying in this world.”
“That’s a very tragic story.” Viriya wasn’t saddened in the least. “Now, what are you doing here?”
“Why, trying to get a hold of some letters sent to me, of course.”
“Why haven’t the officers assigned your locker to someone else yet?”
“I paid for several months in advance, and I still have a few months left on my contract. Can you believe it, they don’t have a termination clause upon death in the contract. Just a single line that said the next closest relative would decide.”
“I imagine it’s because no one ever pays for several months in advance,” Riven said.
The Spectre actually flushed. “I don’t believe in hoarding too much money. Save some for emergencies, and some for the future so you don’t become a burden on your children, but that’s it.”
Viriya cleared her throat. “I’m sure we can find another time to appreciate your personal finance lessons, yes? What exactly is a ghost looking for in these letters?”
“They’re my son’s. He keeps sending me letters all the time, one after another, and it’s the only way we can keep in touch.”
The Spectre was trembling, and Riven’s gun dipped. Naïve of him perhaps, but his heart was telling him it was the right thing to do. Spectre she might be, yet this woman was still a mother who only wished to see her son. Deathless weren’t just monsters bent on the idea of ascendance, even though it certainly seemed that way at times. They were capable of more. He knew this to be true first hand. Those Spectres back at Coral fort proved it.
“I understand this sudden… passing is difficult to accept.” Viriya’s voice was quiet. Sad. But her gun didn’t waver. “But you need to realize it’s time to move on. Your son will come to terms with his grief eventually. You cannot be with him or do anything for him now.”
“Can’t I? You don’t understand, my son isn’t just coming to grips with the fact that I’m dead—”
“Deathless,” Riven corrected.
The Spectre ignored him. “He’s actually struggling to live. We were never rich, always living from paycheque to paycheque, and the occasional donation, and our landlord was an arse. With me gone, he’s evicted my boy and packed him off to a horrid orphanage. He’ll end up dead there. They’re an orphanage in name only, and the kids who survive whatever they do there end up rotten to the core. I have to save him!”
“This is the context we need,” Viriya muttered. “Not an expose about your job.”
“Already, I’m struggling to maintain my position here. Often, my thoughts aren’t even my own.”
“What do you meant?”
“I—I’m not sure how to explain it. I feel this tremendous need to move, and get away from here, like I don’t belong here at all. I feel restless and trapped, like it’s another meeting with a bunch of bureaucrats. You have no idea what happened when that Scion came down, and all I could see was this beautiful world clear as crystal, not this blurry, distorted mess I’m stuck in. Scary this is, that’s where I felt I belonged.”
Blurry and distorted world? That Cataclysm had brought down a similar feeling, and the Spectres back in Coral Fort had said the same thing. They were stuck in a world that refused to reveal itself. Had the Essentier who had turned into a Fiend struggled much the same too?
Riven stared at Viriya, and her eyes confirmed that she understood too. That she remembered.
“Please,” the Spectre said. “You must let me go, at least until I can help my son for a while.”
Viriya slowly shook her head. “Impossible. I’m sorry, but under current circumstances, Deathless can’t be allowed to roam freely in the city as they wish.”
“Then will you kill my son too? He’s just a little boy.”
Riven’s heart squeezed tight as the words broke in the Spectre’s throat, and she choked to a halt. “Is your son a Spectre too?”
It took a moment before the Spectre regained enough composure to answer. When she did, her voice jerked out like a train on rusty tracks. “The last letter said they wouldn’t keep him if he became a Deathless, so he’s figured out how to turn himself into one. He’ll kill himself!”
The Spectre broke down into dry, heaving sobs. Behind her, Viriya’s gunpoint had lowered, though no way to say if it was because she sympathized with the Spectre’s plight or because the ghost had leaned forward and bent over a bit in her desperation and despair.
“But we can help your son,” Riven said quickly.
He looked at Viriya past the Spectre’s head. Her aim was still true, the barrel was still at the back of their captive’s head, but her glare had become a little less stony. A little less cold. That mask of hers had given way to momentary sadness. The same pangs that struck his heart.
“Where’s the orphanage?” Viriya asked.
The Spectre did her best to gather herself and answer. “It’s the Little Lore House on Barnam Way. Not very far from here. I could show you the way if you wanted.”
Riven pleaded with Viriya using his eyes. They had to go. The poor woman’s little boy was lost in a deadly orphanage, and if they didn’t help, then who would? They couldn’t let another Deathless tear everything apart. He couldn’t allow another Darley on his conscience.
Viriya took a deep breath, then let it out in a little sigh. She pulled back her gun and thrust it back into her jacket. “Lead the way,” she told the Spectre.