Transcendence and Rebellion

by Michael G. Manning

  Blinking away tears, I couldn’t help but ask, “Is that really you?”

  My best friend’s wry expression was exactly as I remembered it. “Yeah, unfortunately it is, thanks to your stubbornness. Apparently, I’m the only one you’ll listen to, which doesn’t say much about your judgement, I might add.”

  “But it can’t be you. This is some sort of dream, or illusion.” I spoke to him, but I was reminding myself.

  “That’s the point, dunderhead,” said Marc. “For a genius, you’re really having trouble with this one.”

  I knew it was still the stranger, but his words, his voice, his manner, they were all Marc. “What’s the point of putting on false faces?” I argued.

  “They aren’t false,” said Marc. “Unfortunately, they’re very real. It’s actually me, plus an uncountable number of others. I just happen to be the one who has been put in charge for the moment.”

  Narrowing my eyes, I thought for a moment. “If it’s really you, help me. Stop what’s happening to me.”

  Marc downed the rest of the glass before staring down at his feet. “I can’t. That’s the piece you’re missing. For all that talk about gods and whatnot, I’m effectively powerless. I can do almost anything, here and now, in this tiny moment, but in what you think of as the real world, I have very little control. Dreamer really is the best term for it. The world is me, and I am the world, including you, but things just happen. That’s why I don’t mind dying. Every moment, every life, every joy, sorrow—everything, good and bad—I’m living them.”

  “You must have some power to change things,” I insisted.

  He looked up at me from beneath hair that was just a little bit too shaggy. “It’s like writing a story, or dreaming it. I can push things one way or another, but I can’t do much more. And the one thing I most certainly can’t change—is you. You’ve gone too far. That power inside you, that’s a big part of me, and as it grows, I become weaker. Eventually, it will destroy me, and a new dream will emerge from you, like a butterfly from a chrysalis.”

  “Fine,” I said at last. “What do you think I should do? And by that, I mean you. I don’t give a damn what the rest of the world thinks.”

  My old friend picked up the bottle and, forgoing the glass, took a long slug directly from it, then handed it to me. I did the same. “Well, the answer is the same whichever one of us you’re talking to.”

  “You know me best,” I replied. “You know what I want.”

  “You can’t have that,” he said solemnly, before looking directly into my eyes. “You should enjoy the time you have left as best you can. Do what you want, save Rose, but eventually the end will come. It’s unavoidable. Trust Matthew.”

  Having known him for most of life, I caught his emphasis on certain words. Eventually. A faint hope bloomed in my heart, but then his face dissolved, and Tim was back.

  “That’s enough of that,” said Tim. “Don’t read too much into what he said.”

  I gave him a disdainful look. “Next time you should be more careful who you let do the talking.”

  Tim appeared worried. “You’re only going to make things worse for everyone.”

  “He wouldn’t lie to me,” I responded, “and I already know there’s not a thing you can do to stop me.”

  “What if I kept you here?” he suggested.

  Free now of the despair that had clouded my thoughts, I took note of his phrasing. “You can’t, just like you can’t lie. Otherwise you’d have made that a statement rather than a question.”

  “I know what you’re thinking. It’s a bad idea,” warned Tim.

  Smiling, I answered, “Good, bad, it’s all a matter of perspective in a dream, isn’t it? You made that perfectly clear.” Searching inside myself, I found the pain that had been hidden from me and touched it, letting my power fill me. It ripped through my awareness, searing my soul as though I was burning from the inside out. Exerting my will, I dissolved the illusion around me and then did the same for the private sanctuary I had created to hide within.

  Standing in Lothion once more, I stretched time until the world stood still, and then I took to the air, heading for Iverly.

  Chapter 14

  Rose reached for the longknife strapped to her leg, but she felt as though she was moving in slow motion. It was too late, and the Roach was far too fast. Glen would be dead before she could even get to her feet.

  Then the world vanished, obliterated by a searing flash of light accompanied by a sound too loud to be heard. A wave of pressure ripped through the room, flinging the Roach back in mid-leap. The rogue flew across the room and over the bar, slamming into the wall. The shockwave knocked down most of the other patrons as well, though it didn’t seem to touch Rose.

  Glancing behind her, Rose saw that the doors of Red Tom’s Parlor were gone, as well as some of the wall that had held them. Smoke rose from the street outside. Lightning? she thought. No, it’s too big a coincidence. Looking back, she saw the patrons rising from the floor. They were shaken and fearful, but otherwise no worse for wear. The Roach was rising from behind the bar, a trickle of blood running from his scalp to his jaw.

  Ever quick, she knew what to do.

  Rose remained in her seat, keeping her features cool and composed. As the Roach stalked toward her, new blades in his hands—for he had lost the old ones—she took a sip of her wine. Her eyes were cold when she glanced up at him. “Care to test me again?” she said calmly.

  The wiry thief stared at her and his face began to pale. Putting away his weapons, he scavenged a chair from nearby and sat down across from her once more. “How can I help you?”

  “Since you forced me to such a distasteful act, I’m afraid the nature of our relationship will have to be made very clear,” Rose told him. “You work for me now.”

  The Roach nodded. “What do you need?”

  “First, I need to find some people. Two women who came to Iverly to hide—,” she began.

  Her new accomplice’s face took on an expression of confusion. “You came to me to find missing persons? Am I hearing this right?”

  Rose didn’t bother responding, the look in her eyes was enough.

  “They must be very important,” said the Roach at last, “and you’re seeking to avoid involving the Viscount in this.”

  Her brows went up. “You already mentioned the bounty on my head.”

  “In Lothion,” countered the thief. “I happen to know you’re well connected with the King of Gododdin.”

  “The Iron Queen is even more important. If I put Nicholas in an awkward position, who do you think he will choose to support?” asked Rose. “It’s better not to strain my relations. I’ll solve my problems with the Queen myself.”

  “Fair enough. What do they look like? I’ll need a good description if my men are to find them.”

  “One is young, with light hair and a fair face, the other is older, closer to my age, with darker hair. They aren’t using their own names, but they entered the city with a modest sum. They should have found lodgings and be living quietly somewhere out of sight,” explained Rose.

  The Roach frowned. “That isn’t much to work with.”

  “I have faith in you,” said Rose, somewhat sarcastically.

  “And what’s your plan for them? Are you planning a more permanent disappearance?”

  She grimaced. “I want to help them. Make sure your men don’t expose them when they’re found. I need to see them privately.”

  Red Tom burst into the room then, his face stunned as he saw the destruction. When he found his voice, he bellowed, “What the hell happened here?!” Everyone else had long since abandoned the space, so he marched toward them.

  Furious, he glared at the Roach. “I loaned you the use of the room, I didn’t expect this! Who’s going to pay for the damage?”

  The Roach shrugged. “It was an act of god. I can’t help it if lightning struck your establishment.”

  Rose answered as well, turning a slender finger i
n the Roach’s direction, “He’ll pay for it.”

  The thief’s jaw dropped, and he pointed at himself, silently mouthing the word, ‘me?’ Artfully, Rose arched one brow, and the rogue hurried to respond. “It was my fault. I’ll take care of it, Tom.”

  ***

  Conall feigned interest in the roses, wishing he could be somewhere else. Being knighted and named the Queen’s Champion wasn’t nearly as exciting as he had originally thought it would be. Ariadne, the Iron Queen and sovereign of Lothion stood a few feet away, studying the flowers and occasionally remarking on their colors. Conall fought to avoid yawning.

  Despite the impressive title, he felt as though he wasn’t much more than a courtier these days and considering the state of his family, he couldn’t help but wonder if he wasn’t wasting his time. Dad’s an outlaw, Mom is gone, Moira’s under house arrest, and who knows where Matthew and Irene are, he thought, mentally reciting the litany to himself for the thousandth time. Meanwhile, I’m touring the gardens. He felt useless, and it didn’t help that his siblings probably thought he was a traitor to the family. Maybe I am.

  He had always admired his father. From a young age, everyone had repeatedly told him his father was a living legend and the stories of his battles and struggles against the Dark Gods and the shiggreth had been too incredible not to leave a lasting impression on him, but in the end, his dad was just a man. Conall knew that all too well. Growing up under the same roof, he had emerged from adolescence and come to the realization that his father was fairly ordinary in many ways, and he had plenty of flaws.

  Conall had never known Dorian Thornbear, though, and consequently he had been far more impressed by his tales. Early on he had wished he could become a knight, and being born a mage had seemed rather lackluster to him. It wasn’t until he had come into his power that he had realized how much better it was, but he had still romanticized the nobility of the knights in stories.

  Now he was both, a dream come true, and it was boring as hell. Consequently, rather than enjoying the flowers, he found himself continually reviewing the steps that had led him to where he was now, reconsidering his decisions and wondering if he could have done anything differently. His choice at each turn seemed good and right, but he still felt guilty.

  “Are you bored?”

  Conall’s eyes snapped into focus and he found Ariadne staring at him. “No, of course not, Your Majesty.”

  The Queen growled faintly.

  He hastily amended his statement. “No, of course not, Ari.” She had repeatedly told him to relax around her when there was no one else present. He glanced back at the people following them; two guards, a messenger, and two ladies in waiting—all of them well out of earshot.

  “Even if they were close, servants don’t count,” she reminded him. “And you are definitely bored. What are you thinking about?”

  Conall shrugged. “Nothing of consequence.”

  Ariadne’s lips firmed up. “You’re worried about your family.”

  He said nothing. Conall was fairly proficient with courtly phrases, but he was still terrible at dissembling.

  “I don’t blame you,” she pronounced. “I’m worried about them too. Do you blame yourself?”

  Conall looked at her in surprise. “Not really—maybe, I don’t know. I can’t see that I’ve done anything wrong, but even so…”

  “Multiply that feeling by a thousand, and you’d know how it feels to be a king,” she replied. “You aren’t to blame for any of it. You’ve only acted according to your conscience.”

  Her statement was enlightening, and he felt suddenly selfish for his self-absorbed mindset. Trying to make her feel better, he responded, “The same is true for you.”

  Ariadne shook her head. “A conscience is the one thing too expensive for a monarch to afford, yet still I have one, and it torments me. I have not acted according to it, though; otherwise your father would never have been jailed and convicted.”

  “But…”

  She held up her hand. “I’m not making excuses. If I had acted according to my conscience, I very well might not be Queen anymore, and who knows what state the kingdom would be in now.”

  “I’m sorry,” he apologized. “I didn’t mean…”

  “I just want you to know I understand how you’re feeling,” she continued. “I’ve done what I thought was necessary, even though it required me to act against my conscience. More importantly, it means that you have been caught between your allegiance and your own conscience. It’s put you at odds with your family.” Ariadne moved closer and fixed him with her eyes. “You don’t have to do this. You can go home. I won’t take your lands from you. You don’t have to be here. You don’t have to actively support me. If I had the option, I’d go with you.”

  His breath caught in his throat for a moment. The look in her eyes was heartbreaking. She couldn’t say it, couldn’t even show it on her face, but deep behind those eyes he could feel the pain her inner conflict had created. It was the same as his own, but she had no choice. The Queen was a prisoner here, wrapped in gilded chains and royal trappings.

  And if he did leave, how long would she survive? As much as he respected Tyrion’s strength, Conall didn’t trust the man any more than his father did. Without Conall’s support, and the support of Gareth Gaelyn perhaps, what would keep Tyrion from putting her under his thumb? Having driven out most of the Cameron family, she only had Tyrion and Gareth to prevent the nobles from dethroning her.

  Overcome by emotion, Conall could feel his eyes beginning to water. Dropping to one knee, he took her hand and bowed his head. “Never,” he said, his voice almost hoarse. “When I swore my oath, I meant it. I am your man, through and through, Your Majesty. As long as I live, you will never be alone. You have my strength, my sword, and my power, to support you through whatever may come. Body and soul, I am yours, through fire and storm, I will never desert you.”

  Ariadne was silent for a while after his declaration, and when he finally looked up to see her expression, she had a scowl on her face. “Enough of that,” she told him. “I need a friend, not another vassal. Stop reminding me of the crown I’m forced to bear.”

  Conall regained his feet, feeling somewhat sheepish. “I am your friend, but it’s all true. Don’t forget.”

  She smiled. “I won’t. Thank you. I do feel better.”

  He noticed something strange then. “Did you call for more guards?”

  The Queen shook her head. “No, why?”

  “Several of Tyrion’s special guards just entered the garden,” said Conall. “Just beyond those trees. They’re heading in this direction.” He pointed toward the far side of the garden.

  She frowned. “The krytek?”

  Conall nodded.

  “Is Tyrion with them?”

  “No.”

  Ariadne looked thoughtful. “That’s odd, but he may have sent them with a private message.”

  “That seems likely,” agreed Conall. “But why would he send five? No, wait—seven. Two more just entered from the southern end of the garden.”

  “We will discover that when they get here,” said Ariadne, straightening her back and smoothing her skirts.

  Conall didn’t like it and he didn’t bother asking for permission before creating two shields, one around himself and another around the Queen. They were invisible to normal eyesight and she wouldn’t notice anyway, unless she moved.

  When the krytek arrived a minute later, they appeared calm. They weren’t shielded or showing any signs of overt use of power, but Conall still didn’t trust them. They remained spread out, as though covering any possible routes of escape. “Tyrion needs to see you,” announced the one in the middle. Another glanced at Conall. “No need to take a defensive position. We all serve the same Queen.”

  Ariadne answered, “Give me your message and I will decide whether he needs to attend me. One does not summon a queen. Your master needs to improve your education on human matters.”

  The original
speaker replied, “My apologies, Your Majesty. We are indeed ignorant of your customs. Unfortunately, I do not know what he wishes to speak to you about, only that he is waiting in the council chamber.”

  The Queen sighed. “Perhaps I will indulge him this once.” She glanced at Conall then, and he could see uncertainty in her eyes.

  “We will escort you to him,” answered the krytek.

  Conall’s stomach fluttered. He knew something wasn’t right, but seven of the krytek would be too many for him to handle alone. They were created for battle, without fear or reluctance, while he—deep down he knew he was merely a boy pretending at being a champion. He had saved the Queen once, but it had been a rushed chaos at the time; he hadn’t had time to think. Self-defense in the heat of the moment was entirely different from coldly confronting an overwhelming number of enemies.

  If he let them escort her away, he would be safe. They probably wouldn’t start a fight if they could avoid it. And they are Tyrion’s servants. They couldn’t possibly mean to harm the Queen—could they? That was the coward talking, of course. He knew better. He could feel it in his bones. Sweat began to bead at his temples, his heart was racing, and despite his previous combats he felt paralyzed by sheer terror. I don’t want to die.

  Ariadne tried to take a step and was brought up short by the shield he had placed around her. “Conall, remember what I said. You can go home. Remove the shield so I can go see the Duke.” Her voice was calm, but her eyes were intense, as though she was pleading with him.

  She wants me to save myself, he realized. What do I do? His father had always lectured him on keeping his head clear if it came to battle, but his mind wasn’t just clear, it was utterly blank. He couldn’t think.