by Aiden Bates
Vilar answered the door, a permanent look of concern painted on his face. He looked me over, and I wondered if I had showered enough to take away the scent of Mikhail. “May as well come in,” he said, and stepped aside.
Somewhere in the depths of the house, I heard delighted voices. Among them, Thelma’s and Markon’s. “They’re doing okay?” I asked.
Vilar nodded as he took a seat on a large leather chair in his sitting room, and gestured for me to do the same. “Shaken at first,” he said. “But children recover quickly for most things. Markon is taking a bit longer. He’s a worrier by nature, though. It’s good that his mother is around. She calms him down. You know she was FDPA?”
I didn’t, and was surprised to hear it. She wasn’t the image of the Federal Department of Paranormal Affairs that I generally had, when I bothered to think of them. “Retired?”
“Mm,” he confirmed. “In protest, actually. After I mated Markon. Said she couldn’t be part of an organization that was systemically opposed to shifter-human pairings.”
“She’s a remarkable woman,” I said.
He smiled. “She is that. Though, having an in-law in the department would have had some advantages, if we needed them. Which I hope we never will again.”
I sighed. “Rezzek spoke with you. Have you approached the rest of the council?”
His smile changed just slightly, as if I hadn’t caught a joke he’d made. “Areela is in agreement that it would be of benefit to open our doors to Custodes Lunae. That this situation needs a final resolution, and we shouldn’t be so stubborn that we bury ourselves. Gidal will vote with her, he always does. And I believe that Senscha is leaning our direction.”
“That’s four of seven,” I counted. “The other three? Does it matter? With my vote—”
“With your father’s vote is what matters,” he said. “And I’m not at all certain I can get that. Which means we need to be unanimous, and we’re not yet there. Might take some time to get that way, if it’s even possible. Even if we can get Danen and Kalto...”
I groaned softly. “Samar worships the ground my father shits on.”
Vilar spread his hands, as if to say that’s just the way it is, son.
“To be political at a time like this... it’s irresponsible,” I growled. “Can they not see that this is not a problem we can solve with fire and teeth and talons?”
“To Roland,” Vilar said, “there’s no such thing. Not as long as he leads the weyr, in any case.”
I frowned at that, catching the change in tone. “Rezzek says he’s recovering,” I pointed out. “That he’s taking over again. He may be weak, but he’s barely a century old, he’ll be his old self in no time, though perhaps not as long-lived.”
“All true,” Vilar said. “But Emberwood never signed the new charters. We still abide by the old codes. And we’ve the right to enact them, if we choose to.”
Even if we hadn’t signed the charters—the compromise that most paranormals made with the Federal Government in order to continue operating in peace and more or less on their own terms—we still followed them. We had a council of seven, we operated democratically, we didn’t execute our criminals, generally speaking, and we participated in the justice system when it was required. We were even called for jury duty.
I knew what Vilar was suggesting. “Vilar... respectfully, I can’t challenge my father to combat. Not in his current state especially; even if I was inclined to challenge him, no one in the weyr would respect my leadership if I took it from a sickly old man.”
“And if he wasn’t sickly?” Vilar asked, leaning forward. “Would you do it?”
“But he is,” I said, “so it doesn’t—”
“Would you have the strength of spine to challenge Roland and take this weyr so that you can save it, Nix?” he demanded.
My jaw worked. “I...”
I was cornered, and I saw it. If I said no, I proved myself unsuitable to lead in the first place, lacking the necessary strength of will to hold the position. If I said yes, well—the weyr needed saving, and so the follow-up question inevitably was whether I was willing to let it collapse, or worse, because I preferred to save my own pride?
“Vilar, what’s the point of saving the weyr that way, if after this is passed, it needs saving all over again?” I asked, instead of giving him either answer. Perhaps there was a third way he was withholding.
He sat back again, regarding me skeptically. “So, now you’re thinking you have to put the weyr first long-term?”
“Of course,” I replied. “Obviously. Always, Vilar, why would you—oh.”
“Oh,” he said. “Yeah, it’s no secret, kiddo. Soon as that little tidbit hit the streets, it spread like the whole place was doused in gasoline and lit with a torch. So tell me—where are your priorities?”
He wouldn’t have asked if he knew that I’d claimed Mikhail, which meant that he didn’t—or that he wanted me to confess it. Reading Vilar was difficult. He’d been on the council since his thirties, and had more experience than anyone else in the weyr being a political animal, carefully controlled and always showing far less than his whole hand.
But the answer wasn’t really changed by that knowledge. Context was changed, perhaps, but not what was important. “The weyr is my first priority,” I assured him coolly. “Mikhail and I were involved. But... that has changed. What anyone witnessed was him leaving after it changed.”
He frowned. “What changed it?”
I waved a hand. “As you said, priorities. It was a mistake made in a moment of emotional weakness in both of us, and I resolved it. Mikhail will still assist us, however. I haven’t fucked us out of a friend with the cabals or anything.”
“Good thing,” Vilar said. “But that only brings us back around to the current stalemate. There are two ways the council can bring in the mages in force in any kind of timely manner. Sure, they may change their minds when someone else dies, but it’s been quiet. They’ve got a patch and they’re happy with that. Areela even suggested we just keep Mikhail on staff, have him re-up every however often it’s needed, until I convinced her that was the dumbest thing she’d ever said. So we need seven votes...” he held a hand out, expecting me to finish the thought.
“Or we need a new leader for the weyr,” I muttered. “Or we ask forgiveness, rather than permission.”
He chuffed softly, dismissing the idea. “Basri may agree with our position, but he’s loyal to your father. He and his people would light them up the second they crossed the border, if Roland told them to. Which he would.”
“Isn’t there any way around... that?” I asked.
“Boy, I have to say I’m a little surprised at your reluctance,” Vilar remarked, studying me. “I know there’s no love lost between you and Roland. We all know how he treated you, before Pendrig died and after.”
“Knew and did nothing,” I said bitterly, before I really thought about what I was saying.
Vilar softened some. “Maybe so. But we all thought when he took ill... maybe it was for the best. Sure, you’ve got some growing to do, but you’re a damn sight better for this community than he is. If not for Kalto and Samar, we’d have removed him years ago. And I saw how relieved you were when he took his turn. I’m not judging you. I’ve known some fathers in my time who had no right to call themselves that, and who eased the burdens of their children and mates only when they finally shuffled off.”
“It’s different,” I said, looking away, ashamed that he knew how I felt. “Sickness takes someone, and it’s natural. It’s the course of things. Nature. I wouldn’t be sad; you’re not wrong about that. But doing it myself...”
“It is different,” he agreed. “But at this point your options are to change his mind, challenge and kill him to take his place, or let whatever’s coming for us come and get us. I’ll leave that in your hands. Give it some thought. But not too much. Your father’s called a council session tonight, and he’ll push a vote. You’ve got until then to figure
things out.”
That was not enough time to decide if I would murder my father. A week wouldn’t have been long enough, or a year—or my entire life. I should know.
The way he said it felt like a dismissal, and he confirmed that a moment later as he stood and tucked his hands into his slacks. “For what it’s worth,” he said, “I’m sorry things didn’t work out with Mikhail. I like the kid. He put his life on the line for my girls, and for that I’ll always owe him a debt. Maybe it’s time this place reconsidered how we deal with the rest of the paranormal world. Old wounds take a long time to heal over, and I’m sure we’ll have scars for a long time. But... I think you know we can’t stay like we are forever.”
I considered telling him who Mikhail was. It felt petty to want that. It was petty. And all it really did was make me sad to even consider it. Mikhail had risked himself for the girls. He’d risked himself for me, for all of us. And it felt childish for me to want Vilar to hate him, to tell me that I’d made the right decision.
“I’ll... consider all the options,” I promised him as I left.
“Nix,” Vilar said as I strode down the walkway from his door to the street.
I turned, eyebrows raised.
“You’ll make a fine leader,” he said. “You just have to be willing to lead.”
My father had said something similar, many times over the course of my life. The way Vilar said it made it sound different. Less derisive. Less of a judgment against me. “I’m not sure I even know what that means,” I admitted.
He shrugged. “It means setting aside the things that don’t matter and can’t be dealt with in favor of the things that do, and can, and dealing with them the best you can. Roland’s made mistakes. Plenty of them. Don’t forget that.”
I gave him a nod and he closed his door, leaving me to contemplate his words as I walked the weyr, trying to sort through too many emotions, with not enough time to address any of them.
22
Mikhail
It was well into the afternoon by the time I had what one might generously call an epiphany. As much as I disliked to do it, I had been trying to think like Ivan might think. If I did not care about consequences, believed myself to above the laws of man, god, and magic, and there was a box that I could not get into, what would be my next move?
It bothered me that there had been no apparent attacks on the protections I had established. If there had been, I would have felt them. My magic was still connected to the spells that prevented foreign spirits from invading directly through the ether, and from crossing into the weyr after manifesting outside of the wards, and from direct applications of necromantic magic sent from somewhere on this plane of existence against the area. Each of those levels of protection had further layers, and any one of them would have resonated across the link I maintained to tell me that they were under assault.
Certainly, Ivan was strong enough to break the wards if he could open a hole to the underworld and push or pull something big through it. So why had he not? He must know that it would take me too long to reconstruct such a large diagram. It would take half a day to rebuild, but only minutes to destroy it.
Therefore. Either his strength was limited, his resolve weakened, or he had something else in mind. Something which would render the protections pointless, and which would take us all unaware.
I began to consider all the things which I had not yet considered. It is difficult, always, to attempt to discover what one does not know. The things that you do not know you don’t know are the most difficult. To discover such things, a person must break free of their usual thinking, and allow the most unexpected or the most objectionable thoughts to arise.
At least it was a good distraction from everything else.
If I wanted to circumvent such protections, I would perhaps open a breach as before, but large enough to swallow the entire weyr. That seemed a stretch in terms of feasible plans, however. Only Hades himself might accomplish such a thing. Still, I put it on the list of things I would have no power to prevent and which would kill us all.
But—it did not seem to be Ivan’s modus operandi to kill everyone here. He wished to inflict pain that would last. That required bringing his targets out of the weyr, or getting a weapon inside. Everyone was now equipped with the proper knowledge—they would not wander outside the boundary of the wards because they heard a child in distress, or a beloved relative, or a lost love calling to them. Nothing could remove a person from inside the wards by force. So, luring or taking a person was probably out as well.
That only left coming inside. But nothing which was spectral in nature could cross the boundary, nor would a necromancer’s power be sustained if something corporeal were employed. A soul-slave would simply lose their link and therefore consciousness. Vampires were very technically in the domain of necromantic magic, though it would be a great risk to exert control over one—it was a thing which, once done, it would be mortally dangerous to undo. But, they would simply be freed of control upon breaching the wards. And massacring dragons would not be a high priority after that.
What was left? Only destroying the wards.
Unless.
My magic worked fine inside the wards. However, from outside of them, I would be no more able to attack the weyr than any other necromancer. The only reason that Gabby had been able to come and go, and manifest here, was because my magic was part of her, it sustained her, and she entered and left with me.
So if Ivan was in the underworld still, and wished to attack us, his one option would be to break the ward. But if he was not, then he did have other means. And he did not believe in consequences, nor did he apparently have need to fear returning to the world of the dead. And if he had not attacked the ward yet...
“He’s here,” I muttered. “He’ll come to the weyr, armed and prepared to carry out his attacks himself.”
It was a habit to speak my revelations out loud. No one responded this time.
I sat up from the bed, swinging my legs off the edge to stand. This changed the situation considerably, and was an angle that I had not considered. If it was another necromancer, one with more humility, or one that was weaker, I would have discounted it. No one with a sense or fear of death would dare assault a weyr directly. Not unless they were certain of their power. And only if they knew that failure would not be permanent.
Ivan, though? It was in his nature. He would come to savor his revenge. He would do so quietly, and he would be well prepared. That meant accounting for defenses against dragonfire, against angry dragons—against me.
That implied certain moves he would have to account for, which meant that his toolset would have to be limited, which forced him into a particular approach. All of that was intelligence that I could use to determine where he would attack, how, and perhaps even when if I was careful enough with my considerations.
I collected my jacket, and my messenger bag—automatically.
For a long moment I held the odd, unfashionable bag. There was nothing in it that I needed to take with me to speak with the others. And now that Gabby was gone, I did not need to keep it with me as her anchor.
Still, I pulled the strap over my head, settled it onto my shoulder, and stroked the old fabric lovingly. Perhaps I did not need what was in it. But I did need the bag itself. My totem, even if the magic itself was gone.
I went to the door, heedless that I still wore Nix’s clothes, excited that I had perhaps finally managed to catch up with Ivan.
So excited that I ran into Nix when I rushed through the door. I bounced. He caught me, his hands firm on my arms. I stared up at him, unsure what would happen next. Would he tear my arms off? Would he place me under some kind of quarantine?
He did neither of those things immediately. “Where are you going?”
I swallowed, and experimentally shrugged my arms out of his grip to see if he would let me go. He did. I smoothed my jacket needlessly. “I believe I know what it is that Ivan plans to do next,” I said. “I
thought it would be good to tell someone, to begin making preparations, if possible. Are you here to throw me out?”
He was not quite looking at me, so much as through me. At first. With effort, he met my eyes. “Not to throw you out,” he assured me. “Ah... what is Ivan planning, you think?”
I stepped back, wordlessly inviting him in. After a moment, he stepped through the door, closed it behind him. He did not move to sit, so neither did I. “I think that he is in this world,” I said. “Resurrected. And I think that he will come here in person to finish his task.”
Nix frowned, his eyes narrowing with incredulity. “That’s... what would possess him to do that? He’d have to know he’d never make it out alive.”
“First,” I said, “that is not much of a deterrence. He did not make it out of your previous encounter alive, either. And I suspect he does not care about the cost to bring himself back.”
“And second?” Nix pressed.
I shrugged. “If I wanted to be sure that it got done, but did not want to alert my opponent, and I knew that my enemies believed such a plan to be too ludicrous to carry out, and so were not preparing for such a thing...”
He swayed back, as if the realization physically struck him. “Shit. We’ve got security throughout the weyr, but there aren’t many of them and they’re focused on keeping people from leaving.”
I spread my hands. “In a sense, they are keeping the fish in the barrel, if you will forgive the comparison.”
“And you’re sure this is what he’ll do?” he pressed.
“Well…” I spread my hands. “I cannot be sure of anything. The point is not to be sure at all, but to be prepared until my master and the others arrive. Assuming that they are invited?”
His jaw clenched, and he looked away from me. Perhaps because he had tried and failed to make this happen, or perhaps for other reasons.
