by Daryl Banner
He won’t know if it was all his words as a whole, or just the uttering of those last two. But at once, Korah looks affected greatly. She places a hand on the windowsill, as if her own petite body weight suddenly became too much to hold up. Her eyes close, her lips press shut, and an unsettling calmness possesses her.
Wick feels her fear. She fears Cloud Tower. She fears the Lifted City. She fears Sanctum and those in power, the people who can take everything away from her with just a few careless words and a touch of a fingertip.
Her breathing has changed, too.
Perhaps Wick’s words transported her right back to the top of Cloud Tower where it likely happened.
And so Wick takes his chance, free of fear and stupidly reckless as he may be. “We can live out here forever, Korah. It’s safe. It’s nice. It has its own host of dangers, sure, but it’s nothing like Atlas. Out here, it’s a completely different, free … beautiful world.” He comes around the table. “But I know what it is to dream. And I know what dreams mean. I daresay I know better than anyone on this planet what dreams can do to you.” He is at her side. She shakes with the memory of Cloud Tower. “By that same token, I know the significance of waking up.” He puts a hand on her shoulder. She doesn’t move. “Korah. We need to wake up.”
Then she opens her eyes, almost slowly. Her chin lifts as she looks up at Wick’s face, her grey, knowing gaze flitting back and forth between his left eye and his right, as if searching.
“Fearless,” she whispers. “You’re fearless and I’ve done nothing.”
“The lack of fear isn’t just foolishness. Perhaps one lacks fear when they’ve a strong enough conviction. A person once told me never to underestimate a Legacy, and to always dream big, and that the belief in oneself is a power greater than any Legacy the Goddess Three can bestow. Belief. Simple, pure, convicted belief.”
Korah lifts a soft hand to his cheek, caressing him. “Wick.” She lets it drop to her side, then, her voice unchanged, says, “Go on your way, Wick. Take a party of those who share your … zeal. And take supplies for a week of survival for as many who join you.”
Wick’s lips part with surprise. “Korah …”
She places her hand now on his chest, her eyes focused there as well. “You don’t go with my blessing, Wick. You don’t go with my permission.” Her eyes meet his with meaning. “Somehow … I don’t think you need it.”
0309 Erana
It will happen in the King’s Chambers.
At precisely high noon.
And it will be perfect.
Umi will be watching over Impis Lockfyre while he sleeps his eternal sleep, as she always does. She’ll have dancing about her hair her will o’ the wisps, which Lyth will enter the chambers to admire, as she suddenly realize it’s been a long time since she’s seen them.
Aegis will stand at the other end of Impis’s bed with his arms in shield formation, under the guise that he is protecting Umi from the harsh sunlight coming in from the balcony as a sort of courtesy to repay her endless devotion to their former King.
In the Barracks at the other end of Cloud Keep where Axel is commanding (and threatening and scolding and reprimanding) their makeshift Sky Guard, Kellen will arrive with a mention that Dregor has been acting strange. Axel will be reasonably annoyed, but she will agree to accompany Kellen to see what’s going on with Dregor.
And this is where Erana enters her own plan.
“Now,” murmurs Erana to Dregor and Yoli.
Dregor assumes his position on the bench, bent over with his face buried in his hands. He sighs and sighs, as if coming out of a great cry. Erana rubs his scaly back, which she can only rub in one direction, as the other direction is razor sharp. Yoli simply sits on the other side of the bench, acting uncertain of what to do.
“What is this?” Axel demands as she comes up to them in the Cloud Keep courtyard, surrounded by gardens and flowers and one pool next to which the bench sits. “What’s wrong with Dregor?”
Dregor lifts his weary face. “I cannot stand it anymore,” he says, his voice tired, his words strained, his eyes wet with forced tears. “I cannot stand not knowing if he’ll ever wake up.”
Axel’s eyes flit between Erana, Yoli, and to Dregor. She seems unsure of what to say. Perhaps an overemotional Peacemaker was not exactly what she expected to encounter.
Kellen stands tall at Axel’s side. “There, there, Dregor,” he says, almost mockingly. “You’ll get your lover back in time.”
Dregor’s eyes turn deadly, in exactly the way Erana coached him. “He is not my lover. He is my idol. He is my King.”
Axel, in precisely the way Erana predicted, steps in with a sigh that does not well hide her annoyance. “Impis is not your King. He is your former King. We,” she says, wagging a finger between him and herself, “are the King now. We own Atlas. We are Sanctum.”
“I think we should end his misery,” announces Dregor, his each and every word quivery and pained and dramatic.
Erana pinches her lips.
Perhaps he’s overdoing it a bit.
“Oh? Is that our solution?” Axel gives a loud and demonstrative sigh, then looks between the others. “Really? Is that our consensus? Kellen? Yoli? Dregor?” She doesn’t even regard Erana. “We’re going to end Impis Lockfyre’s life? End his dreaming? End his breathing? End our former fucking King?”
There is no answer. All of them stare at Axel expectantly, each of them looking more sad and pitiful than the next. Even Yoli plays the part well, his eyes big and his head inclined with sadness.
Axel’s expression changes. “You … You aren’t strong enough to end him yourselves. You want me to do it. That’s why I have been called here.”
“I … didn’t mean to deceive you …” Dregor starts.
“Who else knows of this?” barks Axel, lifting her chin. “Umi, no doubt, as she lives by his side. And Aegis, too, I imagine, who loves Impis so dearly much that he was jealous of Chaos’s prestige. Aegis would probably think this is a mercy of some kind.” Axel scoffs at that. “All of you should be ashamed of yourselves.”
Still, no one speaks. Dregor slowly buries his face back into his hands. Yoli looks away, playing his role of discomfort exquisitely.
Axel lets out one short breath, then finally gives right into the trap. “Take me to him,” she demands.
Oh, we will, thinks Erana darkly.
The five of them—Axel, Kellen, Dregor, Yoli, and Erana—climb the countless steps of Cloud Tower. The steps seem to take a lot longer today to ascend than normal, Erana notes. Perhaps it is the frightful hammering of her heart that makes time seem to slow down. Maybe fear is like a viscous fluid that slows the brain and encloses about the heart, paralyzing, sticking, stopping.
They reach the door, and at once, it’s thrust open by none other than Axel herself, welcoming herself inside the King’s Chambers. In exactly their right places, she finds Umi sitting by the bed with Lyth admiring her colorful wisps of light floating about her hair. Axel also finds Aegis shielding Umi’s eyes from the searing noon sun, which is at just the right angle to cast its bright yellow beams into the room.
Impis Lockfyre, just as he’s been for the past six months, lies on the brink of life and death and dream, upon his Kingly bed.
“So?” inquires Axel as she brings herself up to the foot of the bed to stare down upon the Mad King. “Is it your wish, too, Umi?”
Umi, a part of their master plan, blinks innocently. “My wish?”
“To end the life of our former King? Do you see his death as an act of mercy? Ending his eternal nightmare, as it were? Answer me plain and answer me truly.”
Just as they rehearsed, Umi stammers, glances up at a sad-eyed Lyth, then back at Axel. “I … I suppose it is a sort of kindness.”
“A sort of kindness?” questions Axel, stern and iron-hard.
“It is mercy.” Umi swallows hard. “He … He should die.”
Axel glances at Kellen, who has come up next to her, t
aller than her only by an inch or two. Dregor stands at the door, which he’s closed with his back. Yoli is at the opposite side of the bed to Umi, his bald head shining and made nearly glossy in the noon light.
“Well.” Axel exercises an unexpected casualness. “I guess it is decided. Perhaps we have waited long enough.”
“How should we do it?” asks Umi softly by the bed. “Mercifully. Gently. No blood.”
“No blood,” murmurs Axel. “Well. One small puncture oughtn’t make much a mess, do we agree?”
Umi pretends to consider it, then gives a doleful nod. “One. Just one. Just one tiny … tiny puncture.”
Kellen bends his arm and points his elbow downward. From its point, a protrusion appears, long and white as bone—a long needle of a sword, made of bone, thanks to Kellen’s unusual Morph Legacy. He catches the handle-less sword in his other palm, then points the long, spindly weapon toward the bed.
“Does anyone wish to say any final words?” asks Axel calmly.
Then the woman turns to face Erana.
“Erana?” asks Axel, the one word like ice. “Any … final words?”
And then Kellen slowly turns his sword from the bed.
And calmly aims it right at Erana.
Erana’s mouth opens, soundless.
Yoli slowly moves from the bed to come to Kellen’s side, and his head is inclined toward Erana, ready to use his telekinesis. Umi rises from her chair and comes to Axel’s other side, Lyth following, both of their eyes upon Erana. Aegis withdraws the shield of bone into his muscular arms, and with the yellow sunlight cast harshly through his brilliant blond hair, the boy stands next to Lyth, staring at Erana.
And then Dregor, last to come, joins the others in facing off against her. “I’m so sorry, my Queen,” is all he says, the only one not under Axel’s control, as the whole seven of them unite.
Erana feels a cold and dreadful shiver of regret in her bones.
She can’t even breathe.
“Stupid, stupid girl,” sings Axel, so very satisfied with herself. “I am rather impressed with how very stupid one girl can be. You truly believed you could turn the whole Posse against me?” A nasty grin curls her wide, crooked lips. “Dregor owes me his life. And as for the rest? Each and every one of their brains is mine, you fucking idiot.”
“A-Axel,” stammers Erana once, stupidly. She takes a step back.
All seven of them take a step forward.
Has my heart stopped? Is this really happening? Even Dregor …?
“Yes, we’ll end a life tonight,” sings Axel, almost playfully. “But it won’t be Impis’s. I warned you, stupid girl, that I could take all control from your body. Every bit of your brain and your soul. I was generous, wasn’t I? I gave you the chance to have your own will. But you’ve abused my generosity. You’ve abused my kindness.”
“A-A-Axel, I’m … I-I-I’m sorry … I …” Erana trips over her foot, rights herself, then lifts her hands in surrender. “I … I-I’m sorry …”
“And now, I will put your mind into the deepest, darkest prison where you will live in permanent emotional torture. No one will be able to free you. No one will be able to find you. And if they ever do, the Erana Sparrow they knew will be long gone, and the only thing that will come from your lips is a blubbering, whimpering, pathetic moan of nonsense. Do you like tiny hanging glass cages?”
“P-P-Please. D-Dregor?” Erana pleads uselessly with each face of the men and women she thought she could trust. “Aegis? Umi …? P-Please, I d-d-didn’t mean to … to …”
Erana’s back meets the wall.
Axel and the others stand before Erana. “Good night, my Stupid Girl Queen. May you sleep forever in your worst nightmares.”
Tears at once escape Erana’s face. Her lips quiver as the first tiny fingers of Axel’s Legacy take grip of her mind. Even now, the blinding sunlight of the room begins to shrink, like steam departing a hot bathing chamber the moment a door’s opened. Had I known this was to be the last sunlight I’d ever see, perhaps I’d have enjoyed it more.
Queen of Lies, Shit, and Nothing.
Erana Sparrow, the Queen of—
“AAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”
Kellen drops his sword and spins around. Axel, too. Aegis and Lyth and Umi and Dregor and Yoli all turn at the sudden noise.
Between the tall bodies of Axel and Kellen, Erana stares at the bed of the Mad King.
The Mad King … who is sitting upright on the bed.
His hands clawing at his face.
His hair undone and in mad, frizzy tangles.
And screaming.
“AAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”
In his scream, Erana scrambles to the floor and grabs hold of Kellen’s sword of bone, then points it at the back of Axel Icarade. She will finish the job. She aims where the vile bitch’s heart ought to be.
But the sword has already spent its short, brittle life—as all of Kellen’s bone-swords are fated to do—and before even one thrust can be made, the frail thing falls apart in three, and the only bits that remain are bone-crumbs and nothing in Erana’s clenched fist.
No one even noticed her move.
Not with the Mad King screaming in his bed.
And as Axel stares at that Mad King, screaming, screaming, her hold on the others lets go like a giant bird’s talons slowly opening, releasing its prey. Each of them looks as if they’d just come out of a great and troubling thought—Umi rapidly blinking, Aegis too, Kellen and Lyth squinting at one another, Yoli staring at his hands.
Then at once, Impis stops screaming. He stares ahead at Axel, only Axel, and his eyes are wet and unblinking. Softly, he murmurs, “Writer,” titters once, licks his lips, then just as softly asks, “May I have a glass of water?”
ACT 4
0310 Arrow
Everything is the same.
Arrow attends mealtimes with the Penlings, all of the neighbors nearby in attendance, from three houses next to the Lessers to the three across the street, and sometimes the house behind the Lessers with the strange old man who stares at things too intensely, and the loudmouthed grandson who always wants seconds.
But inside Arrow’s body, everything is different.
He’s reminded of it each time he glances up from his plate and finds Ivy looking his way.
I wish she wouldn’t look at me like that when I’m trying to eat. She makes me think of things not appropriate for the dinner table.
In his current atmosphere, however, it’s difficult to discern what exactly would be deemed inappropriate at all. They’ve been eating upon erected tables on the hard-dirt lawn of a neighbor’s. The noise of training and children playing echoes from down the road. Chatter dances through the air from others’ yards and big open-windowed houses. The noise of talking and laughter at their table dies down only when a person has another new tale to tell, hushing everyone up so all pay attention.
The only tale Arrow knows is one of an eleventh boy and a sixth girl who made love in a room one house over.
He replays the tale over and over in his mind.
He wonders if Ivy does the same.
It only happened once. They haven’t done it again, though the thought has crossed Arrow’s mind many times. He wonders if any part of her might regret what they did. Perhaps it was hasty. Perhaps it was in the passion of the candlelight that night. Arrow only knows that were the chance to arise when Ivy once again gives him that impatient look, like her insides are all knots and the only thing that can free her from the pressure is his cock, he would leap on it again.
Ivy looks up from her plate and catches his eyes.
Arrow swallows his bite, watching her.
She looks away.
He bites his lip and looks off toward the nearby tree, frustrated.
Playing the waiting game is not something I’m used to in the least.
The only waiting game he can handle lately is the one up in the room, the one he heads to immediately a
fter mealtime is over. Ivy looks busied talking about something with Arcana anyway, so he makes his way to the Lesser house, up the narrow staircase, and into his “Charms Headquarters” he likes to call it, logging into the system and tracking everyone’s movements.
Athan and Edrick both agreed to have tiny chips placed in them. Locke was less enthusiastic and insisted he had a fear of injections, to which Arrow smirked, but did not lay pressure on him. My trust for Locke may run thin, but he still has yet to prove his loyalty wrong. Besides, he has a sister here. Isn’t that proof enough? His blood?
Then again, there was that long hiatus when he had nothing to do with her or the ninth. Anything is possible when all your work is done in shadows and mysteries.
The computer beeps. A dot appears.
Athan and Edrick are together, right at the edge of the Core, close to the first. They’ll make it sometime today.
Arrow bites his lip and nods, proud. He picks up a mug he’d left on the desk this morning, takes a sip, then recoils at the lukewarm, stale taste of his water. Maybe the pipes are in need of a cleaning …
“You should have sent me.”
It’s Prat again. “I kept you back for a good reason, Upgold. The maps I brought back from the Noodle Shop, they need compiling.”
“Oh, so you’re my boss now? You weren’t my boss in Rain. You weren’t my boss at the Noodle Shop. We were partners. We’d work together. Or did I annoy you so much back then as well?”
Arrow doesn’t feel like getting into it today. It’s much too early, and he still has so many valuable hours he can spend working on a hundred other things. “It is only a suggestion,” mumbles Arrow with as much enthusiasm as a doorknob. “Do as you wish with your time. The maps will be there still, compiled or not compiled, finished or unfinished, I don’t care.”
Pratganth comes to the window, his tall, lanky shadow cast over Arrow most annoyingly. “You’ve always hated me. Is that so?”
