XXXI.

Desire

Throkos sat alone in his dark, unlit chamber. There was no furniture besides the drab bed, no personal belongings or treasures or even bare necessities. Just Throkos himself, and the colorless shadows all around. And through those depriving shadows, he was sure he could see — likely not the same truth that Ivalié saw in dense shadows and dark alleys, but his own truth. And he could hear — though not as Okella heard minds, not as precisely. And likely not with much accuracy at all.

He was sure he could see Rithi in those shadows. Even beyond his death, the man's image still tormented his mind.

(Bastard,) he thought, and much worse. His mind filled with curses and anger and hollow victory. (How I would have loved to be the one to wipe out Thelani, in the face of it all. I’d like to go ravenously hunt down the rest of their fake kin and slit their throats one by one, watch their faces constrict and burn against my venom, watch them bleed out and gasp their final dying breaths as their families and children are burned down all around them. I should have kept him alive. Long enough in short just to watch everything be taken away, while I crack his joints with hammers and pluck his teeth with tongs and picks and…)

He shut his eyes.

(He had an Etherian. He knew that slight of my pain. Though, was it any more severe than the ‘cure’ he imposed upon me?)

When he opened his eyes again, he was elsewhere—a dimly candle-lit chamber built of stone. There were small, slitted windows inches beneath the high ceiling, too high to look out of, which choked out the light of the sun. Then there was the neat bed. No other furniture to speak of. A steel door with a slit for eyes. It squealed open.

“Hello.” said the man who entered. He was young, black-haired, and soft-faced. He held a purple book in his hands. Some sort of lengthy tome with no title etched into it. It was fairly ornate on the covers and spine, had a gold trim to it.

“Hi.” Throkos responded, but he was Throkos no more. His voice was a quiet, shy whisper. His respirator was not to his face, and his clothes were plain and simple. He was a doctor's patient, he supposed. But it was so long ago, now.

“You are Falskar, yes? My name is Rithi.” The boy got closer and closer. Too close and the disease would spread.

But nonetheless, the boy named Rithi came right up and stuck his face nearly against Falskar’s. He took a good look into his eyes and at his deep tan complexion, at the cracks that were forming around the young Falskar's lips. A disease with no name. A horrible disease.

“I work with Thelani.” A smile. “I’m going to cure you.”

The dream ended all too soon. Throkos intervened and lunged at the boy, but the lucidity of it all fell away like the snap of his fingers. His hands still twitched, hoping they were around his unsuspecting neck. Hoping he could feel the wretched gasps and the beat of his heartbeat as it slowed down. Hoping he would feel… something.

And then a pulse upon the ley.

(Someone’s entered Haketh.)

His flail summoned unto his hand...

X

Crimson ice. She used blood magic. She left her own aspect, even if only momentarily. Is she… unstable?

{{She's perfectly stable, but we're treading new ground here — such an event would have been unprecedented in decades prior. The same can be said of Serkukan's unexpected self control. The least stable Etherian by far was Algirak after his reign ended. It seems that the status of gods is shifting once again.}}

I wonder…

It was no great task to breach the doors of Haketh. In lieu of subtlety, Cedric stood directly before the museum’s ornate, yawning door and, with Dyosius, ripped the leylines asunder. He could feel the Eye of Tartys behind him, in the blackened and lightless mid-day sky.

But it didn’t matter anymore.

Not even Kogar would dare. Would he?

Cedric swept through the doors. He hadn’t quite devastated the leylines, but merely merged the worldly ley of the door with the eseran ley of Haketh. In other words, the door would no longer lead to the museum. Only Haketh.

But it didn’t matter anymore.

After tonight, this place will collapse. I’ll burn it out from the inside.

His black robe fluttered behind him as he entered the corridor.

The walls were made of large black stones, with violet candles up high on the pillars every eight paces or so. The arched tunnel went straight ahead, where it seemed to curve around a central, great-doored chamber (the meeting chamber, he knew) into two branching hallways. He began down one of the halls.

{{Haketh's labyrinthine construction lends itself well to defense against intruders.}}

But we won't get lost.

{{No, we won't.}}

It was as though Cedric knew exactly which way to go through the gaping corridors, even through corridors that reflected different corridors and false space and turns that led through ways he was sure he'd already been. Haketh was a space that was perplexing, and often overlapping. It seemed nigh impossible to map.

{{We're near the library, now. Through there will we find the chamber which holds the schematics.}}

There was a sudden tightness in Cedric's throat. He grabbed at his robes.

[Wait, that's…]

{Poison!}

The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.

Cedric's limbs were stiffening. The poison had already spread throughout his body as he reached a corridor which connected eight tunnels into one point.

From one of the tunnels approached the man in black and green — Throkos.

Then down another tunnel appeared another. And another. Until there were eight of him, approaching from every angle.

Cedric spun. His head throbbed. His heart rate began to accelerate.

And so it begins.

X

The jungled campsite was full of smoke from the fires, and busy with soldiers milling all around. They were to keep to their own, not to mind the other camps littered around the area. There was one for the purple men, the sel, up on the higher ground over their own camp. Further north of that, there was one for the exca, the handless birdmen, who scouted and patrolled from well over the treetops, where few men could meet. Another camp to the south for them, one on either side for the azar, and some frex littered between, the little draconian lizard creatures from Harth…

There were apparently frey and fae to speak of as well, though she didn’t see any here. And she hadn’t bothered to ask. Fae were common to Cylenia, the old islands off Kylinstrom’s coast. Gold-haired short men and women, who rarely clothed besides leaves and moss that would naturally grow upon their luminescent bodies. They were often considered the first steps in the evolution of elves and men, but none could truly see back far enough in time to know.

Faunia thought of the history books she’d purchased in Calamon. Expensive, made affordable only by the invention of the Magus Quill some decades ago, unlocking the capabilities of scholars to duplicate their books without the strain of a copywriter. She just hadn’t had the time to read them…

There were more camps than that, of course, but those were the squads she’d been instructed to keep mind of. Those were her most immediate allies. Her company.

She had just finished tying her silver hair above her head when Lezat approached. They were in the chain armor of the other soldiers by then, with their red scarves tied up at their necks and waists. They had longswords, not rapiers or halberds or spears, or any of the weapons most of them would have preferred. And no bows. Those were for the sel, to keep them out of danger until a threat met the criteria for them to intervene.

“I’m still hoping one of them will croak early and give up their bow.” She nodded to the camp above the rooted, vined cliff, where purple-skins looked out over them.

Lezat sighed. “No jokes like that, please. We need them most of all if we’re to survive this war. And they’re in dreary number.”

Faunia raised an eyebrow to him.

“They’re the antithesis. That’s what they say is all, that’s their, uh, purpose as a species. ‘Dun Vaka Solast’ - ‘Reason to Be.’ The men are for metal, the elves for land, the sel are the daemons, who cut down the damned.”

She blinked at him in further confusion.

“They’re a strange lot, is all. Got their rhymes and their speeches. Wordy fuckers. When they say antithesis, they mean to say that they’ve got the opposite of Etherian ley. Curious shit. I can’t be bothered, but they can shut down an Etherian real fucking fast.”

“Shut them down? If they can disable esera…” Faunia put her hand to her chin in thought.

“The dead ones of ‘em they turn into devices. How do you explain, uh…”

“The Etherian devices are souls bound to physical forms of tools and weapons. There was one that Cedric used, named Grivonym.”

“Cedric? Not Cedric Castelbre, that lunatic up in Freiya?”

“The very same.”

The Grand Marshal seemed to lose his composure somewhat at the thought of him. “I’d heard about it. Frost dragons scare our people south, one lone Sylvet comes north to fight them back. Lunatic. Damn psychopath.”

He didn’t come up for the frost dragons. I’ve found the limit of your knowledge.

“Didn’t know he knew a thing or two about that. Thought those frost dragons and Etherians were different in a way. Lambert dos Crue suspected the same. One of those black-gowns. Never heard what their colors symbolized. Silver for the north, bronze for the midland, dust for the south… gold for Calamon?”

“Hm.” Faunia thought about it. She’d never heard about the black uniforms, but she wouldn’t admit a gap in her knowledge to Lezat. She understood the need to keep her cards close. And her allies closer.

She saw Eson milling about the camp, delivering waterskins to those in need. The jungle heat would kill some, certainly. Or at least their bowels.

“This world is full of chaos and strife.” Lezat spat onto the ground and continued. “These sel people, purple-skins I call ‘em, they’ve got this big shitshow up around Llueves, the elven capital. Guess they’ve got some special magic, they show off 'slates' to each other, these big illusion spells that show how advanced you are in your studies or whatnot. Heard about it from some girl, here. The elves, I mean. The sel were just their slaves. What’s her name… Tiana! Girl back in Tresalaide, lovely red skin…”

Faunia scoffed in disgust.

“Not how I meant it. Anyhow, she was a slave before some elven lad came ‘round and saved her. Fuck if I can remember his name…”

Eson finally reached the two of them, and held out waterskins to each. They graciously accepted them. Lezat drank immediately.

“Slate War, that shit in the Inner Jinn, Kylinstrom, Calamon, our shit up here… World’s a bucket of piss. And we’re drinkin’ it.”

“The heat’s driven you mad, Lezat.” Eson chuckled as he approached.

He cleared his throat. “I’m woeful to agree. Don’t let me ramble your ear off anymore, Faunia, you’ve busy to be.”

“There’s nothing now except sharpening my blade.”

“Mm. Go take Eson for a little patrol beyond our perimeter. Grab some squirrel or boar or whatever shit walks these jungles. I’m hungry.”

Eson interjected, “Isn’t that the frexian’s job?”

“Shit, right you are. I’ll find one of the little bastards. Faunia, keep these people happy and motivated. Eson, keep ‘em hydrated.”

They both saluted with a fist over their chests. He stumbled off.

“He’s slurring like he’s drunk…” Faunia remarked.

“He probably is. Drinking water is damn scarce of late. The Calamity reached that first.”

She minded her waterskin.

“It’s safe. Tested it myself.”

“No backwash, I hope?”

He shrugged. “I spit into it. Lezat’s, I pissed into. Why else does he think he’s 'drinking it?'”

Gross, she thought. But she drank the water, and gratefully nodded. Then, she turned. “I’m off to sharpen my sword.”

“Mind if I join?”

I do, actually. Her eyes narrowed for just a moment. “Fine. But don’t drop my sword this time.”

“Oy, I didn’t say I’d do the sharpening…” he protested.

But Faunia only smirked, and started towards the grindstones…