by Daryl Banner
Ames goes to the door, shuts it, and locks it, annoyed at his tiny oversight.
That tiny oversight gave Link and Kid just enough time to situate themselves within the room, standing right by the screen of the broadcast, out of the way of Ames and the Cold Boy.
Ames gets to work right away. With the tray set down on a tiny table by the wall, he starts to offer one forkful of food at a time to Kendil who, dead-eyed and somber, accepts each bite one at a time. It seems to be a struggle for him to eat, as the cuff about his neck is so thick, it digs into the bottom of his jaw and chin with every chew.
Kid, much to Link’s exasperation, slowly starts to edge around the room. Link can only follow, trusting her with his every footstep, unable to ask her what she’s doing. Only the gentle hum and noise from whatever’s on the broadcast—some Sanctum thing or a slum show or something—masks their movement. Still, Kid moves with such painstaking slowness, it’s a wonder if they’ll even cross the tiny room in an hour’s time.
Mercifully, they do, and when Kid arrives at her destination, a certain key goes missing off the table where Ames left it.
She catches a glimpse of Link’s eyes, which beam furiously at her as if to say, ‘Don’t you dare,’ but Kid is the one in control right now, and she knows exactly what she wishes to do.
Ames doesn’t speak nor carry on any sort of conversation with the Cold Boy as he feeds him one miniscule bite at a time. Ames has no emotion on his face as he performs his duty, and neither does Kendil as he slowly, awkwardly chews, his drowsy eyes on the small screen of the broadcast.
Ames misses one bite, and a little mashed potato drops onto Kendil’s chest. “Sorry,” mumbles Ames, gently dabs the offending bit of potato away with a napkin, then resumes with the next bite. It is as if Kendil didn’t even notice, his bored eyes watching the screen and paying nothing else any mind.
Ames gets a forkful, feeds Kendil, waits a moment.
Ames gets another forkful, feeds Kendil, waits a moment.
Kid waits and watches, studying the rhythm.
Ames gets another forkful, feeds Kendil …
And Kid quickly knocks over the cup of water on the tray.
Ames turns to it suddenly, confused. He glances down at his own coat, curious if he’d somehow knocked it over, perhaps. The cup rolls across the table, so Ames makes a quick move to catch it before it falls to the floor. “The fuck …?” he mumbles to himself.
Kid rushes to the wall and, fumbling with her one hand holding the key, hurries to get it in one of the cuffs.
Her efforts, of course, are not helped in the least by Link, who tugs on her other hand, beseeching her with his eyes, and mouthing the words, Stop! What are you doing?? Stop! Don’t! No! No!
Kid doesn’t listen. In the seconds that Ames takes to collect the cup and hastily investigate the tray, Kid tries one cuff, doesn’t fit the key, then tries another—and it slips right in, twists, and undoes the cuff on Kendil’s right hand.
Kendil’s eyes, for the first time, pull from the broadcast and peer downward at his hand, his gaze slow and weary. After a moment’s observation, a look of puzzlement enters his eyes.
Ames turns back to Kendil right then. “I’m sorry, your water’s tipped over, I’ll need to get you another.”
Kendil appears to be working something out in his head. The fingers of his freed right hand slowly curl, flexing, then relax.
Kid and Link have backed away to the wall, watching, curious. This is the moment, Kid decides. This is the moment Kendil will get out of this place, and then we can unite with him, and the three of us will be unstoppable in saving Faery.
Link won’t act as fast or as recklessly as she does.
Link has taken too much time to deliberate, to watch, to study.
Kid won’t bear to wait another damn day before they take some serious action in finding and releasing Faery from Sanctum’s hold.
I survived on the streets as a six-year-old, and my one and only tool at all times that never failed me was my gut.
Ames sets the fork down on the tray. “I will be right back, and then we’ll finish your lunch.” He turns and goes to the door, then stops. He pats his pockets, confused. He peers back at the table, his eyes searching, lost.
“Where’d I put the …?” he mumbles to himself, still patting his pockets, squinting all around him.
Then his eyes fall on the opened cuff.
His mouth doesn’t close as he stares at that one freed hand of the Weapon of Sanctum.
Kendil, all this time ignoring Ames’s fussing, at last lifts his right hand from the cuff, then observes the red abrasion that the cuff has left on his wrist with wonder. With his upper arm still restrained, he only bends his arm at the elbow to bring his right hand within view, studying it with a strange, faraway curiosity.
“N-Now, now, now …” murmurs Ames, lifting one of his own hands, like he’s trying to pacify a tooth-baring dog twice his size. “It is alright, it is alright. The chemicals in your system are … are what is making you confused. It’s just confusion. You can …” Ames swallows hard. He is terrified. “You can put your hand back, please.”
Kendil, as if curious, curls his fingers into a fist, then seems to flex his whole arm, like he’s testing something.
At once, tiny gems of frost appear along his arm. The gems then coalesce into a sort of sleeve of ice, which slowly envelopes the cuff at his right upper arm and neck. He grits his teeth, shifts his neck a bit to the side, then gives himself one jerk of his body.
The cuffs break, as if made of pure, fragile ice, the strength of the metal disregarded.
Kid sucks in a breath. She’s shivering. Link, too. They cuddle in the corner right under the broadcast screen, holding one another as they watch the scene unfold.
“I-I-It’s alright,” says Ames, reaching back and fumbling for the door, which is locked. He pats his pockets again, this time far more frantically. “I-I-It’s alright. Y-You can … l-l-look, just stand there, and we’ll … I’ll …”
Kendil places his right hand over the cuff on his upper left arm, freezing it at once. He wears a curious expression, as if each time he freezes something, it’s a discovery. The slow, tired, nearly confused way he uses his Legacy makes his actions seem less threatening and more innocent. He tries to move, then finds the last cuffs remaining on his legs, which he gently starts to deal with.
Ames, while peering over his shoulder at Kendil, is desperately beating a fist against the door. “I need some help in here!” he shouts out. “Help! A little help, please! Please, some help!”
The final cuffs break apart just as the first did, and then Kendil is standing there, freed from the wall, and peering at his hands in misty wonder, as if it’s the first time he’s seen them.
It’s because of the chemicals and the medicine they put into him, Kid knows from all their observations and what they’ve overheard. The chemicals are somehow meant to subdue him so that he is never a threat, in case of emergencies or happenstance.
Such as this one. “Help! Help, help!” cries Ames.
Kendil looks up, as if noticing Ames for the first time, even though the boy had been feeding him not one minute ago. His cold, black eyes narrow, suspicious.
Ames stops and flattens against the door. “I’ve … I’ve misplaced the key.” His every word shakes. “Please don’t hurt me.”
“Where’s my mother?” asks Kendil calmly.
The question is likely the last thing Ames expected to be asked. His eyes search, lost, as if unable to comprehend that Kendil even has a mother.
Kendil doesn’t even lift a hand when, at once, the temperature in the room plummets to something shockingly uncomfortable. Ames feels it at once, and when he gasps, a swirling tuft of mist escapes his warm lungs—warm no longer.
“Where’s my mother?” repeats Kendil, half a note firmer.
“I-I-I don’t know. I only feed you and take notes. I feed you and I t-t-take notes. I don’t know where your moth
er is. Sanctum, I guess. Or some special place in the slums. Sixth, perhaps. Or the C-Core.”
“Will you help me?” asks the Cold Boy.
Ames’s eyes flash. “H-Help you? I’m … I-I’m here on a special agreement. From the King. If I b-b-break that agreement, then I’ll be sent to the K-Keep. I’ll be sent to the Keep for life!”
When Kendil takes a step toward Ames, a thick, rigid sort of wind, almost like cotton, presses against the boy, and Ames screams out once before shivers steal away the rest of his voice. Ice is built up all over his chest and arms, some of the ice sticking him to the wall much in the same way as Kendil was, except his binds are made of cold and not steel.
“I want to find my mother’s body,” states Kendil, almost softly. “And then I want to find Obert Ranfog. And the women who take hold of my brain, the twins, Axel and Arcana. And I want to find the doctor who calls herself Aphne.” The Cold Boy is upon the freezing body of Ames so close, he could lick a line of frost up the shivering boy’s pale, scarred cheek. “And I want to kill them.”
“Obert who? What d-d-doctor?? I don’t know these people. The t-twins, perhaps, b-but I … I d-don’t know where—”
“You’re not affected by my cold,” observes Kendil.
“I’m PLENTY affected by your c-c-c-”
“But it cannot kill you? Are you a strong Morph? Are you a boy who cannot die? I hear things, note-taker. I remember things, even if they are a bit …” Kendil squints. “… confused.”
“I c-c-cannot die,” Ames confirms. “Please don’t test it. I can still feel pain. Plenty of pain.”
“I don’t want you to hurt. I want you to obey me.”
“I’ll obey you. P-P-Please. P-Please release me. I … I …” Ames is having more and more difficulty speaking.
Kendil takes one gentle step back from him, then stares, his eyes sunken and lethargic. Ames, after a moment’s struggle, breaks his hand free from its ice prison on the wall, then desperately hugs his own body as he shivers and rubs his arms.
Kid cuddles her father tightly while watching this scene unfold from the farthest corner. She tries not to breathe with her mouth, for fear that her misty breath may not be something she can hide with her Legacy. I hope Link is as smart to do the same.
After a short moment has passed and Ames seems to get a grip on his shivering, Kendil sways to the left, to the right, blinks firmly, then mumbles, “I’d like very much to get out of here.”
“I … I misplaced the k-key.” Ames gestures toward the floor. “It should be around here s-somewhere.”
Kid peers down at her fist where, in its tight grasp, sits the very key Ames is seeking.
Kendil frowns. “What’s the key look like?”
“It’s an All-Lock. A small, sharp thing that locks the d-door as well as your …” Ames gestures at the cuffs on the wall. “And s-some other things.” He keeps rubbing his arms, unable to get warm.
Kendil, unbothered, moves to the door. His movements slow and clumsy from his drowsiness, he squints at the door handle, then grips it tightly. The metal slowly turns white, and then with one soft pull, it breaks clean from the door, and the thing slowly swings open.
“Please.” Ames still shivers, but now there seems to be a tear or two in his eyes. “Please. If you g-g-go … they will blame me. They’ll send me b-back … b-b-back to the Keep for life. I’ll never be free.”
Kendil turns to the boy. “If I don’t go, I will never be free.”
Ames swallows, casts his gaze to the floor, and seems to have nothing to say to that.
But the Cold Boy does. “So with our predicament considered, I suspect your only option is to come with me and help me.”
“Please, oh please …” moans Ames, in great distress. He gives the tray of food one last, fleeting glance, as if an answer to his prayers will be written in the mashed potato. Then, with a sigh, he pushes on and beckons Kendil. “This way.”
The two depart—as well as Link and Kid, who hurry behind.
They follow them down a corridor, slowly and keeping their distance, and through two locked doors, which Ames permits them through with the use of a tiny keycard.
It’s at the second door that they find trouble. “What’s this?” asks a Sky Guard, then lifts his neon when he realizes who he’s standing before. “S-S-Stop right there!”
A blast of ice blinds Kid, and the two of them are thrown back.
“STOP! FUCK!” screams someone—Ames or the Guardian, Kid can’t tell—and then there’s a loud cracking noise, and Kid is blinded again by white frost and swirling winds that feel like liquid needles cutting through the air.
She lifts her arms, shielding her face.
When she drops her arms, Ames and Kendil are racing around the bend, nearly too far down the hall to see. Forgetting herself, she lets go of Link’s hand and races ahead, desperate not to lose them.
She doesn’t even notice the frozen corpse of the Guardian she leaps over on the way.
Before she can reach the bend in the hallway, an explosion of white light is seen, followed by a rush of frigid air that courses down the hall and blasts over her face. She only squints against it as she runs, unafraid, fighting her shivers.
When she comes around the corner, the next blast of ice-cold throws her against the wall, and she screams.
Her eyes flap open. She’s on her hands and knees, shivering. A lift of her trembling chin, and she sees a hallway blanketed in frost and mist and the frozen corpses of no less than seven Guardian men and women.
Link catches up to her right then, helping her off the floor. “Kid, we can’t follow them. It’s too dangerous. We need—”
“WE C-C-C-CAN’T L-LOSE THEM!” she cries out through her violent shivering, then wrestles herself out of his grip and runs. Her motions are so frustratingly slow, her muscles and bones stubbornly cold and refusing to move when she wants them to. Her nose stings, red as blood. Her eyes are nearly closed, wet, shielding themselves from the frigid air.
She trips over the frozen leg of a Guardian, which breaks upon her kicking into it. She lands on her face with a shout, then struggles to get back to her feet. Her legs don’t seem to work.
Get up, stupid! she cries at herself. Get off the floor!
She can’t move. She shivers and shivers and shivers.
Link grabs her right then, gathers her up in his long arms, then hurries down the hall toward the stairs. Kid curls up against him, her teeth clattering, every inch of her skin prickling and stinging from the cold. It is the worst pain she’s ever known.
And yet still her first thought is: They can’t get away. They can’t. We’ll never see Faery again. We have to follow them.
0307 Forgemon
Forgemon surveys the door they’ve built. He’s been surveying it with a frown on his bearded face for the past ten minutes, unmoving. He’s become a door himself, as stiff and rigid and emotionless as the steel and wood before him.
“Sir?”
Nothing about the door eases him. Is it his fear of Geoff and the man’s unspoken intentions that unrests him? Is it the fear of what evils Geoff can (or already has) brought into his Undercity? Is it the way the very people before Forge’s eyes are slowly, subtly changing?
“K-King?”
That door won’t hold them back, Forge realizes as he stares, as he scrutinizes, as he nitpicks and frustrates and aggravates. That door won’t hold back an army led by the tyrant of Geoff’s former Keep.
Surely Geoff is leading the tyrant to them. Maybe he is secretly sending him information. Nothing can escape my attention. That must be the man’s hidden purpose. He is like a poison of complacency, disarming everyone in the Undercity so that when the tyrant raids them, they will be too calm and unready to defend themselves.
No, you are paranoid.
No, he is not. Forge knows it is true. The math is plain, even if parts of it are still foggy. There are only six other reasons why Geoff could be here, and not one of them will Forge bo
ther to entertain. Geoff infiltrated us, and he is dismantling us by the very core.
Geoff must be stopped.
And this fucking door won’t do the trick.
“Sir?”
Forge at last turns to the mining supervisors. “It needs more.”
One supervisor glances at the other, concerned, then back at Forge. “More what, exactly?”
“Steel. Both sides. And we need to make a design of camouflage for its outside. A person on the other side must be able to walk past it without knowing it’s even there. We need a strong adhesive and the proper stones to adhere to its wood and metal. Our entrance must be hidden, unseeable by human eyes. And by any Legacy’s eyes, too.”
What Forge asks of them is insurmountable and not likely to be fulfilled. Still, he asks it, because he knows that pushing them to outthink themselves is the only way he’ll encourage improvement and creativity on any of their parts.
“I suppose … I suppose we can put together a team,” offers one of the supervisors. “To brainstorm.”
“We might borrow minds from the other agencies. Some of the forgers might be … better knowledgeable of the types of rocks we ought to use, yes?” suggests the other, nodding quickly.
“We’ll get on it,” the first insists. “Is there anything else, Forge?”
Forge stares at the door darkly, arms folded. “There’s always a thing else. Always, many things else.” After a moment of the two supervisors sputtering, unsure what to say, Forge puts them at ease. “We are finished here, however. Though this door may not yet be adequate, it is a fine start. Give the miners an extra three hours of rest today.”
The supervisors become elated in seconds. “Why, thank you! That is a very generous—”
“No,” Forge says at once, changing his mind. “No, sorry. Not just yet. Get the work done first. This is a time-sensitive issue. We work now, rest later. Yes, that’s what we’ll do.” He nods at the supervisors, whose faces have deflated. “Assemble a team to work out the details of the camouflage. You have my direct permission to pull from other agencies for this task. It is now our top priority over all else.”
