by K. M. Hade
“The shadows!” Atrament shouts over the cracking din of thunder and fire as my crystal shield shudders along my bones. “Get to the shadows. Hold hands!”
I grab someone’s hands—it’s ScatheFire—and somewhere further up I sense Atrament. I split my attention between my shield and my awareness of them, trying to dilate everyone’s awareness of everyone else while Atrament’s tiny familiar leads him into a shadowy corner and hallway to the palace proper.
Smoke releases the acrid smoke, and we cough and wheeze.
“Which way?” Rot wheezes at me.
We’ve come in through the main courtyard gardens, but the hummingbird’s led us to one of the ante hallway access points. Lucky for us, I’ve been through this side plenty of times.
BOOM.
“Damn, now we’ve pissed them off,” Rot says.
Blood holds up one hand, fingers in a delicate arch, like plucking the strands of a harp. “They’re coming this way. More are on the way as well.”
“I’d rather not kill them,” ScatheFire says.
“I’d rather not get killed,” Rot agrees.
I sprint down the hallway, then turn down a side chamber, then another. Up some stairs, around a few more corners, then we burst out through a narrow door into the Grand Hall: a massive open-sided walkway that separates the outer wings of the palace from its heart.
Normally guards line the hallway, but not today, because today’s a little soiree in the Grand court, and it wouldn’t do to have pointy objects among your most illustrious guests.
“Stop!” the two pairs of guards at either end shout.
I stride towards the doors to the Grand Hall. “We are here to see the Emperor and Empress. Stand aside.”
“Pebbles, you’re wasting time on conversation. Allow me.” Blood pulls me behind him with a hand on my shoulder, then sweeps his other hand through the air.
The guards drop.
“What are you doing?” I demand. “I’m the criminal!”
He grabs me by my surcoat and yanks me close. My mail jangles absurdly. “The team is sacred. The team is everything. And we are them.”
He releases me.
Rot strides up to the doors of the hall and kicks them open.
31
CRYSTAL
The imperial court is—as usual—doing its late afternoon tea-and-bullshit session. This session is a bit fancier than usual because it’s the middle of the Autumn Term, so apples and cider and extra bullshit all around. On fancy little plates.
The doors splinter on their hinges. The party stops. Faces turn to us.
Showing up wearing heavy mail with a snake-headed sword over your back is not usually how you show up to the imperial court, but usually it’s not necessary to make such a scene to get the court’s attention. The court is always willing to observe a fool.
The Empress is here. So are my mother and older brother. What a bonus.
And now the Fells will get to see I’m not the Empress’ daughter.
There are also some high-ranking members of the military. Including the officers we had seen at the Pit.
One of them looks like we’ve just caught him with a stableboy’s cock in his ass.
The High Dean is there too, along with some of his lackeys.
The musicians give up their playing.
Silence smothers the chatter. Some golden leaves have come in through the open doors. It smells of cinnamon and apple cider and butter cookies.
I stride towards the warm bodies of courtesans and nobility. Guards push through from various corridors and passages, but it’s the Aethers I sense running up the Grand Hall that prompt me to cast warding circles. Fell thread thumps like horse hooves, and my Aether sings in response, sending my Aether glowing even under my mail.
Hands shift drinks and move to swords. The Empress remains on her throne, watchful, but not panicked. The High Commander holds up a hand to stop the Mages coming behind us.
It’s the High Dean that speaks first. He cradles his cider in both hands, pacing slowly. “Crystal,” he addresses me. Technically, I never graduated, so I still answer to him. “There’s a bounty on your head. Have you come to collect it for yourself?”
I almost laugh at him. My magic surges through Aether and Fell thread, but now it’s like a fiery charger I can trust.
My mother is watching from her place, her eyes huge, face full of fear.
Good. They got my letter.
The High Commander watches us too, wary. One thick hand grasps the delicate glass of his drink. It might crack. The other has moved to his sword belt.
The Fells form a semi-circle around me, Fell thread awake, the magic pooling and pouring through all of us. Atrament’s hair, unbound, slides over the surfaces, shadowy and silky and dangerous.
I want to tell them everything. Everything while they will listen!
Smoke’s murmuring restraint pulls at my sudden desire, while Rot urges me forward.
I struggle to remember the plan.
Blood summons strands of droplets off his wrist.
“Blood.” The High Dean says warily. “I’m not surprised you’ve come to criminal ruin.”
Blood grins and flicks the strand of blood, spiraling it around him in a rotating ribbon of red droplets. His Fell thread pulses hot, coursing power through both of us, all of us. “Criminal ruin? I don’t believe you were informed of how I and my associates found our way into the Pit. Perhaps the other Aethers in attendance here, and the other Fells who may be nearby, would like to know those circumstances. Perhaps I should confirm the rumors are true. It really is quite the story, how my team and I were thrown into the Pit for committing no crime. That was our great reward for our years of service.”
I snarl at him. He’s going off-script.
Trust me, the blood inside me whispers.
There are a few Fells and Aethers positioned around the perimeter of the Grand Hall. They don’t move, but their eyes do. The Empress shifts very slightly to the edge of her seat. The High Commander’s expression darkens slightly. His hand is trembling now. Not from fear, but from rage, but he’s not stupid enough to order Blood to shut up.
Blood continues to spin his chain, and he steps as delicately through his words as his fingers weave. “Myself, Rot, and Smoke were taken to the Pit. We were locked in, as prisoners, and told we would only be released if our Aether friend here could make herself our Shard. If she succeeded, we would be released, with her and ScatheFire, to return to the front, and in five years, they would earn a pardon. The three of us would not get so much as hazard pay. Such a fine reward for our years of service and skill.”
The Aethers behind us suddenly do not seem too willing to attack, and the Fells—a Metal, a Venom, and another Rot—all have very large, hard, gleaming eyes.
“So that,” Blood says, “is how the three of us came to be in the Pit. And what we saw there, what we learned there, is how we came to be willing to risk everything to stand here today.”
That’s your cue, the blood laughs.
Asshole.
The Commander moves to speak. The Empress twitches. He falls silent.
As expected: the Empress had no fucking idea.
I step forward and focus on the High Dean. “You knew what was wrong with me. You knew why I couldn’t control my magic. And you did nothing. You blamed me. You told everyone it was my fault. You sent me to the front for a year as a child to ‘mature’ me, knowing full well why I was not in control. When I couldn’t form the Heart bonds with my second team, you told me to let them do what they wanted to me. That it was my fault, always my fault, always. More Aether, more study, more work, ask nothing of your team, let them abuse you in whatever way arouses them.”
Utter silence.
Now he’s sweating, visibly. He’s looking between me and Atrament. The Empress watches him.
I say, mildly, “You were determined to dispose of me. When the year in the cavalry didn’t do it, when I refused to quit, you decided to just
kill me, and if you had to kill the rest of my Aether team to do it, then that was fine. You didn’t want anyone to know the truth.”
“That’s enough, Crystal,” the High Commander finally finds his voice.
“My name,” I tell him coldly, “is Heart.”
“You are no Heart,” he growls. “Unless you are about to tell me you are a Shard—”
ScatheFire, his fingers wreathed in purple-green flame, smirks. “Oh, she’s gone one better, Commander. She’s not our Shard. She’s our Heart.”
Gasps of shock, shouts of impossible!
The Empress herself stands. “That is impossible, Mage.”
The court falls silent. Rot is stunned, and so am I. The Empress spoke.
Atrament, unimpressed by the Empress, steps forward. Murk swirls and drifts around him. He bows low and graceful, almost not real, and says, “Your Most Imperial Grace, my name is Atrament. I am a Researcher from the Pit. I am also research from the Pit.”
The Empress turns her baleful expression to him. She resists speaking for a moment, then gives in, and says, tone acid, “Research how, Fell?”
The Court gasps again.
Atrament shifts within me, then says, “I was raised in the Pit as the then-Warden’s illegitimate offspring. I was not submitted for rearing as an Imperial Fell Mage. I was kept to experiment upon because I am so powerful. I am both research and Researcher. I could not permit Lady Heart to be… desecrated… in the name of the same research that produced me.”
She frowns, her expression pinching. “Yet you are aware of what her crimes are, Fell.”
“She required more, your most Imperial Grace. The Academy was well aware of what she required. They did not wish to provide it. But they knew.”
“That’s a lie!” the Dean shouts.
“The Academy provided it for me,” he says, tilting his head down and to the side, as if ashamed. “I can show your Most Imperial Grace, if she wishes to see what was done to me, what was learned, and what might have prevented all of this.”
“The Academy provided you nothing!” the High Dean shouts.
Atrament struggles, uncertain and hating this, and wrestling with the lies. I soothe him gently, a soft shimmer rising off my own skin. The Empress glances my way briefly, noting it, then back to Atrament. “Show me, Fell. I am very curious what you claim the Academy provided you.”
“I was Tailored at the Academy, Most Imperial Grace.”
“Lies!”
Without another word, Atrament pulls off his shirt, revealing his exquisite, immense design of Fell thread, and, to the horror of the court, the knot of Aether over his heart.
The High Dean turns green. The High Commander turns sheet-white. The court gasps. A gentleman faints.
“Is that—” the Empress does not finish the sentence. Even she is struck dumb.
Atrament inclines his head, keeping his eyes modestly downcast before her. He caresses his fingers along the knot of Aether. “The Warden who reared me realized my vast and unique talents, and because of the Pit’s close relationship with the Academy—as the Pit produces the specific Blightlings that are requested for all training and trials as well as performs ongoing research—the Tailors of the Academy not only put in my Fell thread, but, when I proved unstable, the scholars and Researchers agreed, based on texts from antiquity, that a small amount of Aether thread may provide the desired stability. It was successful.”
The Empress’ voice cracks in anger. “Who authorized Tailoring a Fell with Aether?! Or spending so much Fell thread on a non-Imperial Fell! And who did not turn this Fell over to be reared as an Imperial Mage?! Who knew all of this and permitted this thievery!”
She directs this at the High Dean.
The High Dean shakes like holiday jelly.
My heart warms with satisfaction and grim delight.
“Hadn’t expected the Empress herself to get involved,” Rot says under his breath, voice weighed with awe.
“Someone forgot to submit some paperwork,” ScatheFire murmurs.
Snickers.
“It is creeping lotus thread, of course,” Atrament adds, knowing that would incense her further.
The Empress’ expression is fury and ice. “And you are saying that my Imperial Crystal Mage requires Fell thread to be stable?”
Atrament continues, head bowed, “When I met Lady Heart, her story was known to me. Based on the Pit’s familiarity with these matters of Mages of unique and extraordinary ability, she was offered creeping lotus thread. She wanted nothing more than her life to be useful, so she agreed. We obviously could not bring her to a Tailor. My skills with the dark needle are passable, and she was able to endure both my stitching and accept the Fell thread.”
The Empress says, coldly, “I am displeased that innocent Mages were thrown into the Pit, I am furious you have Aether thread and resources were spared on you, but as for her? I do not care what the Warden does with his prisoners or if he sources his own Fell thread for his own purposes.”
Atrament glances at me. I gulp and nod. Atrament returns his attention to the Empress. “The Warden wished to use her and I for further experiments that might result in the birth of a monster,” he pauses for dramatic effect so the whole court would know he literally meant birth, “the other Fells helped us escape into the northern ruined lands than risk waiting for the Military to retrieve them. Along the way, she found her magic stable, and that she was not a Shard, but had bonded to the Fell team—and myself—as a Heart.”
The Empress needs clarification. “The birth of a monster. Is he being literal, Aether Mage? Am I hearing that correctly?”
“Yes, your grace.” My mouth is dry as I pick over words. “The Warden wanted to see what would happen if Atrament and I produced a child conceived in the presence of an Old One. We refused. He threatened us with drugs to make us compliant in the necessary ways. The Fells saw it as their duty as Imperial Mages to protect the Empire from the monster Atrament and I, in the presence of an Old One and through means of coercion and violation, would produce.”
The Empress turns a furious eye to the High Dean. “Is anything this Fell said false? Any of it? You knew about Atrament? You knew about my Fells? Did you also know the Warden intended to use the Aether for breeding?”
Nobody dares answer her questions.
“Your Grace,” Atrament recaptures the court’s attention with his soft tone. “I was also the Researcher who helped prepare the Blightlings for the graduation trials. I believe the Academy wanted to rid themselves of Heart. The High Dean requested a BlightWorm for the trials. That was not an accident.”
“Of course it wasn’t,” the High Commander says gruffly.
Atrament says meaningfully, “We do not get orders for Blightlings until a month before end of term, as the Academy does not know what students will be tested. The BlightWorm, because of the size necessary, was brought to the Capital and matured in the catacombs under the arena for six months.”
The Dean looks like he’s going to decay right into the ground.
The Empress, white-lipped with fury, as she sorts through whatever noose she wants to slip around the Dean first, settles for, “If you knew Aether thread could stabilize an Atrament Fell, why didn’t you offer Fell thread to the Aether?”
Now the dean straightened, and he was as pale and clammy as a corpse. “Your Gracious Highness, as you said, it would defile a Crystal and we have no records that it has ever been done successfully. We couldn’t risk—”
“This Empire spent years gathering the reagents to produce her, and instead of sparing any effort to recoup the investment, you disposed of her and sent her to the Pit with Aether intact to be some monstrous broodmare for your friend’s sick experiments?”
I fold my hands behind my back and let the ball roll. More has been revealed than I had intended, but it seems to be moving under its own power at this point.
The Dean, gripping his hands, says, voice shaking, “We’ve never put Fell thread into an Aether
Mage! We didn’t know what would happen and—”
“She was already lost!” The Empress’ tone slices through the room. “Your answer was to just keep stitching Aether into her instead of giving her Fell thread? You claimed the Aether would stabilize her, that she was a worthless student, that she needed the pride beaten out of her. But you actually have seen this before and knew such a thing was possible? What game do you think you’re playing with my Mages?! Were you a gutless coward and afraid to tell her family that she’d need to be defiled with Fell thread? Is that where all this stems from? Your fear of delivering some bad news? Or is there something else here? Something that at least I can respect?”
The Dean wrings his hands.
“High Dean,” the Empress said, voice like glass, “You will answer, or I am going to rip my way through the Academy until I have an answer, and it will start with you.”
The Dean doesn’t speak. The other representatives of the Academy present are almost green with fear.
The Empress isn’t surprised by this. Her lovely face simmers into a deep, vicious scowl. “Leave.”
Once the Academy members have fled, she turns her attention back to us. The High Commander sweats heavily. Moisture soaks into the collar at his neck.
My Fells step forward one by one and kneel before her, heads bowed. She surveys them all with a curl in her lip. “I see four, but ScatheFire comes before me, not in uniform. Explain yourself.”
“Four years ago, Imperial Highness, I was condemned to the Pit for murdering this team’s previous Shard.”
“Ah, so you are that ScatheFire and not a replacement.”
“Yes, Imperial Highness.”
“Then it makes sense why this Smoke, Blood, and Rot were sent to the Pit. You were already proven, individually, to be vulnerable to a Shard’s presence.” Her voice is tart and cutting like that terrible wine we drank at TasselWood, and we don’t have a choice but to keep sipping it. “I am glad to have at least one answer.”
It’s hard to say what’s got her most angry. She weighs the nobles clustered around her and the high-ranking military. Nobody’s moving. Not even the servants. Half the room barely seems to be breathing.
