Retribution, p.30
Retribution, page 30
The room beyond the arch was not large, but the way the light twinkled off the million folds and facets of the ceiling made it look like the night sky opened above me, shining with a purple aurora.
Like the Aurora Constellate in Dicathen, I thought absently, the first memory of that distant phenomena to resurface in my healing mind.
The center of the chamber was dominated by an altar, a slab of charwood-topped obsidian large enough for a man to lie down on. It radiated power.
That’s weird, I thought. I’d never sensed that power before, even though I’d been to the vaults multiple times throughout my life.
Something had changed.
My thoughts turned immediately to the contents of my pocket, the thing I couldn’t bring myself to leave unguarded in my chambers. I recalled, too, the purple lights I’d seen when I’d touched it down in the dungeons, how I’d seen them through the core as if it had been a kind of lens. Although I’d tried to recreate the phenomenon several times, I’d failed.
Almost of its own accord, my hand slipped into my pocket and took hold of the core.
Nothing happened.
The bestowment ceremony suddenly seemed trivial and unimportant. I wanted to investigate this sensation further, but the two mages—officiants of the ceremony—who had followed me down the stairs were on either side of me, reaching for my jacket, then the hem of my shirt, trying to pull the clothing off me.
Anxiety and fear rippled through me at the thought of them finding Sylvia’s core. I wanted to push the men away, but knew it was futile. Whatever was happening here, I had to follow the protocols demanded by the ceremony. These officiants would allow no alteration, and I dreaded to think what Agrona might do if I harmed them in any way. These were no mere researchers hidden away in the dungeons, these officiants were the key to Agrona’s hold over Alacrya, and he would personally flay the skin from any man or woman who crossed them, even me.
Mechanically, I followed their demands. A man I hadn’t seen—distracted as I’d been by the altar itself—moved out of the shadows and into position on the opposite side of the altar. Carved into the obsidian around me was a ring of wide runes, and I knew a similar feature adorned the floor around the third officiant.
The other two guided me to the center of the runic circle, and I kneeled. My hands rested on the charwood surface of the altar, placed carefully over top of two complex sigils, each made of many small, interconnected runes.
Across from me, the officiant lifted his staff. It clacked against the floor three times, loud in the stillness. The other two moved around behind me, each one taking up a staff that had leaned against the sides of the arched entryway.
There was no chant. No guiding words. Nothing but the quiet power of the altar, the subtle weight of the mountain, and the soft but sure movement of the three hooded mages.
Cold crystal pressed into either side of my spine from behind.
In response, warmth and a vibrating, nerve-tingling power rushed into my hands and up my arms from the altar, tracing across my shoulders and setting the hair on the back of my neck standing on end. Finally, it cascaded down my spine to meet the two points of cold.
For an instant, I was afraid. I’d never felt anything like this during a bestowal before.
What in all the hells is happening?
The vibration built and built, developing from a tingle to an ache into outright agony. I was certain something was wrong, wanted to scream at the officiants, but my jaw was locked, my muscles so tight they were unresponsive.
Somewhere very far away, or so it sounded to my pain-addled brain, a reedy voice uttered a prayer to the Vritra.
I began to shake and sweat. I was trembling from head to toe. Then, like a fist releasing, the pain subsided.
The room wobbled, and I would have collapsed except for the strong hands of two officiants. They pulled me upright and clumsily worked my shirt back over my head, then tugged my arms into my jacket.
Suspended between them, I was dragged clumsily up the stairs, one step at a time. Behind me, I heard the flipping of parchment and the muted mumbling of the third officiant.
My core began to ache fiercely.
One held me while the other struggled to force open the huge stone doors by himself. When one side finally ground out of its frame and swung heavily outward, tears sprang to my eyes at the brightness, and I could only blink them back as they trailed warm and wet along my cheeks.
I was hauled out of the stairs into the antechamber. Blearily, I stared around at a semicircle of surprised faces. When my unsteady gaze landed on Cecilia, it caught there and stayed. The radiance of her beautiful hair and her turquoise battlerobes stood out against the rest like the moon in a starless sky. Concern was etched into her features, but she was holding back.
“What’s wrong with him?” Melzri’s voice. The hint of worry.
“Has the bestowment ceremony failed?” A deep baritone. Agrona. Drawling, almost bored. Unsurprised. Like he expected me to fail…
Suddenly I was being turned around, and my shirt pulled up so that the cold air bit at my hot flesh.
Words. More words, but harder and harder to understand.
I struggled to turn my head, looking over my shoulder. Cecilia’s hand was over her mouth, her brows knitted in concern. A series of emotions on blurry faces—curiosity, confusion, irritation—then Agrona’s features coalesced as he leaned forward to get a better look, his expression inscrutable.
A regalia, the officiant was saying, but…something new?
Something not registered in the old tomes.
Then the weariness and uncertainty and the deep, deep ache from my core proved too much, and the darkness reached up for me. Gladly, I embraced it.
400
CHOICES ALREADY MADE
ARTHUR LEYWIN
Spells burst in the air in showers of blue, green, and gold, trailing sparks and popping to an accompaniment of cheers from the ground below. The breeze carried the sound of hundreds of jubilant voices and the smells of roasting meat and sweet pies. A little girl, no more than five or six, sprinted past us, her face red and her grin growing wider with each step. Right behind her, a one-eyed man—a fresh scar, from the war no doubt—laughed as he gave chase.
A smile tugged at my lips as the Dicathian adventurer scooped the girl off her feet, eliciting a delighted squeal from the child. He plunked her on his shoulders, where she continued to giggle and laugh, tipping farther and farther back to watch the magical fireworks that were exploding in a near-constant display high above the city.
“I haven’t seen people this happy since before the first attack on Xyrus,” Helen Shard said from where she leaned against the side of the marble gazebo that housed Blackbend’s only teleportation gate.
Angela Rose was sitting in a patch of grass, Regis sprawled in her lap with his head resting on her chest. “It’s sort of like a veil has been lifted, isn’t it?” she said, absently scratching Regis beneath his chin.
“Beautiful and wise,” Regis said, giving Angela a quick lick on her cheek. “Why haven’t we been acquainted before? It seems like a crime.”
She rewarded him with a honeyed laugh. “I don’t know about this beast of yours, Arthur. Are you sure this isn’t you pantomiming through your summons?” She raised a brow coyly at me.
“If it was, I wouldn’t be nearly as crass,” I said, shooting my companion a glare.
Jasmine had spent the night listening from the street with her back turned to us, her perceptive gaze tracking the many people moving through the streets around us. Absentmindedly rolling a dagger between her fingers, she turned around. “This isn’t exactly a favor you’ve done for us, you know.”
I shrugged. “I know. But I trust the Twin Horns to maintain control over the city without also trying to forge some kind of city-state controlled by the Adventurers Guild. Besides, it won’t be for long, if things go well, and you won’t even be here.”
This caused a stir among the group, everyone’s attention quickly turning to me. Durden, who had barely said a word since arriving in Blackbend, suddenly spoke up. “What do you mean?”
“I was hoping,” I began, looking from Jasmine to Helen, “that Jasmine would come with me to Xyrus.”
Jasmine’s expression gave no indication of surprise but instead shifted into something thoughtful. Still, she said nothing.
Helen, on the other hand, frowned deeply as she pushed away from the pillar she was leaning against. “For what purpose? I can’t imagine having all the Twin Horns, or even all the forces in Vildorial, for that matter, would have made a difference to the outcome here in Blackbend. Forgive me for saying it, Arthur, but the sort of battles you’re likely to have…are you sure you want anyone that you care about by your side?”
Of course, Helen was right. I didn't, not really. If I could have had it my way, I’d have stuck everyone I cared about in a hole somewhere deep in the Relictombs to keep them safe. But I also needed someone by my side who could tell me when I was wrong—who could ground me as my own station continued to rise. Perhaps if I had known this before, in my past life, I wouldn’t have engaged in a war that cost millions of lives as retribution for Headmaster Wilbeck's murder.
But I didn’t say any of that. “I’ll keep her safe,” I told Helen. Then, to Jasmine, I added, “If you’re willing, that is.”
Jasmine lifted her chin, and her red eyes caught the reflection of a distant burst of ice shards. “Of course.”
Helen looked between us, her fingers fidgeting at her bowstring, then she let out a sigh and nodded. “Fine, but I swear”—she threw her arm up over my neck and tried to pull me into a headlock—“if I see one hair on her head missing—”
Effortlessly, I swept her off her feet, cradling her in my arms and making her squeal in surprise. “You know hair falls out naturally, right?”
Her hand hammered on my shoulder. “Put me down, you ridiculous boy!”
Laughing, I set her back on her feet, keeping my hands on her shoulders and holding eye contact. “I understand your worry. This is a war, and none of us are truly safe, not even me, but I promise I’ll keep her as safe as possible.”
Helen hmphed, trying and failing to hide a chagrined smile.
‘Well, you have fun. I think I’ll just stay here with Angela Rose and her—’
Not a chance, I shot back. Come on. It’s time to go.
While Regis finished being a complete idiot and embarrassing himself in front of Angela Rose, I entered the stonework gazebo and began calibrating the teleportation gate to the flying city of Xyrus. Jasmine followed wordlessly.
When the portal hummed to life inside the frame, I stepped up before it, but turned around to face Helen, Durden, and Angela Rose before passing through.
Regis drifted into my body. Angela Rose gave a cheery wave. Durden scratched at the stump of his arm, his gaze settling somewhere to my right.
“Good luck, General Arthur,” Helen said, her knuckles knocking against the carved stone pillar. “We’ll be waiting for word of your success.”
I nodded to Helen and gave a look to Jasmine to say her goodbyes before going through.
The world blurred around me, and I had a brief moment as I was disassociated from time and physical reality to consider the next step.
I had only spent hours in Blackbend, total. Success required a feverish pace on my part, and Xyrus was even more important than Blackbend.
As the most prosperous and defensible city in Sapin, it had become home for many of the highbloods who had been drawn to Dicathen—or at least those who hadn’t dedicated their resources to building holds in Elenoir only to see them decimated by Aldir.
It was also home to many of the wealthiest Dicathians, especially turncoat houses like the Wykes.
My fear was that I faced less a battle and more an extended period of digging out the Alacryans from the city like ticks from a wolf’s pelt. And the more time I spent in any one place, the more time the next city in line had to prepare. I’d already given Agrona far too much time to react and counter my victory in Vildorial.
The world lurched to a halt as I arrived at one of a row of identical teleportation gates.
A squad of Alacryan soldiers stood at attention nearby. The rest of the street was entirely empty.
Jasmine appeared behind me, her hand already on her blades.
A middle-aged guard with a heavy Truacian accent stepped forward. “Welcome to Xyrus City, General Arthur and”—he looked pointedly at Jasmine. When neither of us answered him, he pursed his lips and finished—“honored guest.”
I considered for a moment before responding. The fact that he knew who I was and had clearly been prepared for my arrival yet wasn’t attacking me meant that someone in the city wanted to have a conversation.
“I am Idir of Blood Plainsrunner,” he continued, and this time I caught the slight tremble in his voice. “My men and I are to escort you to the Courthouse to meet with the heads of Xyrus. If you please.”
And if I don’t please? I almost asked but refrained. “And who would that be?” I asked instead.
“The ranking members of the five highbloods given stake in this city are Lady Augustine of Highblood Ramseyer, Lord Leith of Highblood Rynhorn, Lord Rhys of Highblood Arkwright, Lord Walter of Highblood Kaenig, and Lord Adaenn of Highblood Umburter.” I must have given away some sign of recognition at the names Ramseyer and Arkwright because the soldier added, “Powerful bloods on both continents, as you know.”
“And what will this meeting entail?” I asked.
Idir gave a humble bow. “I am just a messenger. I know you’ve come from a battle and are wary, but I can assure you, no Alacryan in this city wishes to cross blades with the man who slew Scythe Cadell Vritra.”
I didn’t doubt his words, but they didn’t exactly put me at ease. Just because a soldier didn’t want to fight didn’t mean he’d refuse when the order was given.
“Fine,” I said at length. “Lead the way, Idir.”
Although the streets were mostly empty, faces pressed against the windows of the many buildings we passed. Of the very few people that remained in the streets, all appeared to be Dicathian working class folks. A few even called out questioningly but were warned away by our escort. It wasn’t until a man in a sweat-stained, colorless tunic shouted out “Lance Arthur!” that I intervened.
A heavy-set woman in armored robes brandished her staff at the man, but I grabbed it. Everyone froze.
Jasmine, already tense, had her daggers half drawn in a blink, but I gestured for her to stand down. “I won’t have you bullying Dicathians in my presence,” I said, directed at the Alacryan soldiers, then released the woman’s staff.
The man was just past middle-aged with shoulder-length hair that was receding at the temples. It took a moment before I recognized him. “Jameson?” I asked, certain he was one of the men who worked at the Helstea Auction House for Vincent.
He nodded excitedly, wringing the front of his tunic. He kept opening his mouth to speak, but stopped every time under the hostile stares of the Alacryans.
“I suggest you return to the manor, Jameson,” I said firmly but kindly. I also widened my eyes just slightly, a nonverbal communication that I meant more than I said.
He gave me a blank, startled look, but didn’t move.
“Jasmine, maybe you should go with him?” I paused for emphasis, then added, “To make sure he gets home safe?”
“But Arthur—”
“Please. Ensure that all is well, then come find me,” I said, interrupting her.
Jasmine nodded, clearly understanding. “I’ll be there soon.”
She grabbed Jameson by the arm, subtly dragging him away. The man finally seemed to come to some understanding, and he bowed clumsily as he half backpedaled, half was dragged, before turning and following swiftly behind Jasmine in the direction of the Helsteas’ mansion.
Uneasy at the thought of being separated from Jasmine after I said I’d protect her, I reached for my connection with Regis, but he had already started moving.
As if my shadow itself had come to life, he leapt out from my back, landing heavily, his claws scraping the ground and startling the soldiers. We shared no manifest thoughts as he trotted quickly after them, since we both understood what needed to be done. Jameson gave a yelp of surprise as Regis fell in beside him, but Jasmine was quick to comfort the man.
After watching them walk away, I leveled a cold look in Idir’s direction. He cleared his throat, spun on his heel, and began the march again.
Although I would have preferred to have Jasmine and Regis at my side, I needed the message to get to the Helsteas that I was in the city. According to Jasmine, they had been helping targeted citizens get out of the city ever since the Alacryan occupation began. That meant they had contacts, a network, people who should know that things were about to change.
It wasn’t a long walk from the teleportation gates to the Courthouse. I was somewhat surprised to find the cobbled square in front of the building—an ornate courtyard complete with well-tended gardens, fruit trees, and several statues of famous mages throughout Xyrus’s history—entirely empty. I had expected a show of force, at least. A hundred battle groups would have filled the space nicely and given it an appropriately militaristic air.
“Our soldiers within the city have mostly fallen back,” Idir said stiffly, answering my unasked question. “Lady Augustine didn’t want to give you the wrong impression.”
We moved quickly across the courtyard, but the soldiers stopped at the base of the marble steps. Ahead and above us, the white and gray lines of the huge edifice called the Courthouse seemed to dominate the city skyline.
Five impeccably dressed Alacryans walked in a stately line out from under the towering archway that opened into the Courthouse beyond, each one oozing highblood authority and grooming with each step.
