by L. Penelope
They were alone in the auditorium—the only ones conscious, at any rate. The possessed Physicks had done a lot of damage to the survivors of the onslaught. Darvyn considered healing them but thought better of it. There were others far more deserving of his power.
Kyara looked at him cautiously. He raised his hands in a defensive position. “If I were dead, I’d be attacking someone like all those others, right?”
Her brow furrowed. “You could be biding your time. I saw you die. I killed you.”
“What? No.” He took a step forward, longing for nothing more than to bring her into his arms, but her rigid body kept him at a distance. “Why do you think that?”
“Everyone died that day in Sayya. I killed them all!” she shrieked.
“No, you didn’t. Myself, Farron, Zango, all of us on the street, we woke up that day to find everything smashed to pieces, but no one died. There were cuts and bruises, some broken bones, but nothing more serious.”
She stared at him in shock for a moment, then crumpled in a heap, tears streaming down her face, desperate sobs wrenching themselves from her chest. Darvyn sank down beside her, holding her up and pulling her against his chest. Slowly her arms found their way around him.
“I’m flesh and blood. I’m real,” he whispered into her hair. “I’ve been looking for you.”
She looked up, hope shining in her eyes.
“Someone’s coming,” Roshon said from near the doorway, his voice low. Kyara took several stuttered breaths and then withdrew from Darvyn, still staring in awe as if she couldn’t believe he was real. She stood on wobbly legs and turned toward the door. Darvyn placed himself in front of her protectively, but she settled a hand on his arm as if to remind him who she was and then moved next to him.
Racing footsteps drew closer, and they stood side by side to face the new threat.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Ayal found the serpent staring back at her when she first opened her eyes. “Where does this tunnel lead?” she asked, noting the branching routes underground.
“Any course you take becomes your own. Make of it what you will.”
—THE AYALYA
Kyara’s heart beat rapidly, throbbing against her ribs in a stuttering rhythm. Her shoulder touched Darvyn’s, and the contact made her buzz. Darvyn! Alive and next to her. She still couldn’t bring herself to believe it. They were far from out of danger, but she couldn’t stop glancing at him every few seconds, to assure herself that he really was there.
A figure appeared in the doorway. She, Darvyn, and Roshon tensed as one. But the girl standing before them held her hands out. Her violet eyes were wide with shock as she took in the carnage around them. This was the same girl who was related to Asenath, the one who’d provided the medallion from the graduation ceremony.
“Come quickly,” she said, ushering them forward while peeking back into the hallway. “Everything is in chaos now, but they’ll be sending more guards shortly.”
Kyara moved to follow, but Darvyn grasped her arm. “You know her?”
“In a way,” she answered. His brow furrowed, but he nodded, trusting her, and began to move.
“What’s your name?” Kyara asked as the girl directed them down the empty hallway. Her red robe looked old and worn, unusual since it should be new as she was a recent graduate. She paused at an intersection, fingering the medallion around her neck, then darted to a door around the corner and led them in.
“We should be safe in here for a short while,” she announced, then held her finger to her lips. Footsteps thundered past outside as what sounded like a squad of guards ran by.
Kyara turned to find they were in an empty classroom, much smaller than the auditorium. The stale smell indicated it hadn’t been used in quite some time. A few broken, wooden desks lined the wall, but otherwise the space was empty.
The girl stood near the door, still listening. “Did Asenath send you?” Kyara asked.
With a smile, the girl fingered her medallion again. Then she uttered a phrase in a low, guttural tone. The language Kyara recognized—it was the tongue of blood magic—but the words the Physicks used for their spells were foreign to her.
Before her eyes, the girl, who appeared no older than Roshon, transformed. Her skin thinned and sagged, her form hunched over. Within seconds, the resemblance between her and Asenath had become clear. They were the same person.
Beside her, Darvyn stiffened, and Roshon cursed.
Kyara scrutinized the woman. “Which form is the true one?”
“Sadly, this one is.” Asenath shook her head and settled into a creaky chair beneath a shaded window. “You will find that nearly all Physicks of any experience have true appearances vastly different from those we present to the world. Such is the price of amalgam magic.”
Darvyn’s voice shook. “I don’t understand.”
Asenath took a deep breath and rubbed a gnarled hand over her face. “Many years ago, after Saint Dahlia passed from this land, her followers—the physicians and healers she had taught and cared for—sought a way to continue without her guidance. They traveled across the world, studying other forms of magic. In the east, they learned blood spells. In the far north, necromancy. They came back and combined this knowledge with the magic of the saints and turned it into something the world had never seen before.”
Her eyes took on a faraway look, and she leaned forward in her chair. “The Great Machine was built two hundred years ago when they had finally found a way to reliably combine Earthsong, Nethersong, and blood magic to create these.” She pointed to her medallion. “The Machine produces a substance known as quintessence, or Dahlia’s breath. This is the source of our magic. Each amalgamation made in the factories contains a small quantity of quintessence. The more an amalgam has, the longer it lasts. But these…” Her fingers stroked along the worn edges of her old medallion. “The quintessence in our medallions is connected to our own life and death energies.”
“The blood,” Kyara said, recalling the ceremony where the new Physicks were initiated.
Asenath nodded. “During the rites of passage, we gift our blood to the Machine. So the quintessence we use draws from our own natural stores of life and death. It pulls them both from us, shortening our lives and then extending them very unnaturally, and our bodies can’t keep up. We live longer than most, but age much more quickly. After only a decade or two of using amalgam, this is the result.” She motioned to her face.
“How old are you, Asenath?” Kyara asked softly.
“Forty-two,” she said with a smile.
Kyara’s eyes widened slightly. She had thought the woman perhaps thirty or forty years older than that.
“That is why they seek answers from the World After. The current board of directors believes the key to eternal life—and youth—can be found by communing with the spirits. They have interpreted Dahlia’s prophecies to mean that there are spirits waiting to share their secrets with us, and then amalgam magic can undergo yet another revolution. One without such drastic side effects.”
“Looks like the side effects of talking with the spirits were more than they expected,” Darvyn said.
“Yes. I’d wager they never thought that all the people they’d killed would be waiting for revenge,” Kyara said bitterly. A chill moved through her, but she pushed her dreams far from her mind. At least none of the spirits waiting on the other side of the portal had been there for her.
“Those spirits were all killed by the Physicks?” Roshon asked.
Asenath looked down. When her head rose again, her eyes were filled with tears. “Their deaths fed the Machine. Obtaining life magic was always much easier. At first they used Earthsingers, captured from within Lagrimar. Then they found the Bright One and trapped it. Nethersong was always far more difficult to obtain. True Nethersingers are exceedingly rare—we’ve never known more than two to be alive at the same time. The Physicks spent a long time experimenting and perfecting the right blend of diseases and cures to crea
te a continuous supply from the population, but it was always difficult.”
Roshon shuddered visibly.
“When a Physick is close to death, he can often commune with the spirits. It was one such spirit who first alerted us to the existence of the death stone—a powerful supply of magic created by trapping the Song of a Nethersinger. It was everything we had ever wished for.” Asenath shook her head. “When that could not be retrieved and you were brought here”—her gaze met Kyara’s—“there was much rejoicing.”
Kyara shivered, pushing away all thoughts of her time on the stone table. “When did you break with them?”
“Not soon enough, I’m ashamed to say. Becoming a Physick is a great honor, especially for the daughter of servants. I went along with all they were doing for many years. Too many,” she said with a wince.
Kyara felt a pang of anger and then sympathy. She certainly had no right to judge another when she was guilty of so much.
“Now that they’ve seen what comes through the portal to the World After, do you think they will keep trying?” Darvyn asked. He stood close to her. His presence was a comfort considering all she was learning.
Asenath took a deep breath. “I believe they will. A few angry, vengeful spirits cannot be allowed to stop progress. Especially when the Physicks have convinced themselves they are serving Saint Dahlia’s will.”
“And what of those, like you, who believe the prophecies were perverted? That what they’re doing is a mistake? Is there any chance you all can talk some sense into the others?” Kyara asked.
“Perhaps after today there will be more wanting to join our numbers. But some will only ever be self-interested. No one wants to grow old so quickly, and it becomes more difficult to hold the glamours—the appearance of youth—as you age, especially with weaker medallions. The strongest are always reserved for those in charge.”
“But I saw the initiates getting the new medallions,” Kyara said. “The instructor said they would last the rest of their lives.”
Asenath pursed her lips. “Pretty lies. They were switched out for weaker ones after the ceremony. I managed to hold on to the one I gave you, but barely.”
Darvyn crossed his arms and began to pace. “If they continue to use the Machine, they will need a new source of Earthsong—and Nethersong, once we get Kyara out. If the Physicks managed to enter Lagrimar in the past, there is nothing to stop them from capturing more of my people.” His fingers curled into fists. “I can’t allow that to happen.”
“What do you want to do?” Roshon asked.
Kyara met Darvyn’s gaze and instinctively knew. “You want to destroy it.”
He nodded. “The Machine, the building, the whole bloody island. It all needs to go.”
Asenath looked up at him, but her surprise was quickly replaced with resignation. She nodded. “Saint Dahlia would not have wanted these travesties to continue.”
“Is there another Machine somewhere?” he asked.
“No, this is the only one. It is the full source of the power of the Physicks. Its loss would be devastating.”
“Devastating enough that it might prevent the war among the three worlds?” Kyara asked.
The old woman stroked her chin. “Perhaps.”
“Then we have to get Dansig and Varten free and find a way to wipe it out,” Kyara said.
Asenath struggled to her feet, and Roshon rushed over to aid her. She gripped her medallion again and with a few whispered words, changed back to her youthful form. Kyara flinched internally, wondering what that had cost her. How much life, how much of the function of her body? Her younger form moved more easily, but now that Kyara knew what to look for, she could see its slow speed and the pain Asenath tried to hide.
“I will show you the servants’ passages to the prison floor. You should be able to get down there unnoticed and free the others. Getting out will be the hard part.”
“We’ll find a way,” Kyara assured her. “What are you going to do?”
“I will gather whoever I can and destroy the Machine,” she said. “You will have to move quickly. The entire Academie will still be in upheaval after the attack. Use that to your advantage.”
She leaned toward the door and closed her eyes, listening. Kyara strained her ears and heard nothing, but Asenath stayed motionless for several moments before opening the door and leading them briskly down the hall to a staircase. In the middle of the steps, she paused and opened a hidden door.
“Before this was a school, the castle rulers never wanted servants to be seen in the main hallways,” Asenath told them as she led them through a cramped and narrow passageway with low ceilings. “Some of the corridors have been blocked off and most aren’t used any longer. They’re easy to get lost in, so be careful.”
Darvyn shuffled in front of Kyara and grabbed her hand. The corridor narrowed so that they had to walk sideways to fit through the tight space. Soon enough, they came to a fork in the path.
“That way leads to the prison floor,” Asenath said, pointing. “It will let you out just before the guard station.”
Kyara peered down the other path. “And you’re headed down there?”
The now-young woman nodded grimly. “The Machine is that way.”
They stood silently for a moment. Kyara was deeply afraid that she would not see Asenath again.
“Do not worry,” Asenath said. “Dahlia will guide my steps.”
Kyara nodded, her gratitude too much for words.
“Thank you,” Darvyn said simply.
“You are most welcome. May we meet again before the end of things.” With that, she shuffled away into the darkness.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
The seeker chose a passageway and crawled underground for quite some time. Her lion’s paws shifted the dirt, but her bird’s legs scrabbled for purchase. Frustrated, she looked up and decided to forge her own way out.
—THE AYALYA
Kyara followed the ball of light that Darvyn had conjured to illuminate the depths of the Academie. The temperature lowered steadily and the floor slanted downward, descending as a chill invaded the air. She wished she, too, could access her Song, but when she reached for it, she was met with the agonizing pain of the blood spell carved into her chest. Though she felt like it was almost in her grasp, she stopped trying, panting until the pain faded away.
Ydaris must have believed that Kyara could overcome the spell since she had made a point to reinforce it every few days. Perhaps with enough effort she could do so, but it would be exhausting and they had little time to waste. Still, traveling blind and powerless made her uneasy.
They stopped in front of a doorway. With her Song, she could have detected the presence of any guards on the other side. She never thought she would miss her abilities before.
“There are four of them,” Darvyn announced as if reading her mind. His eyes were shadowed in the low light, making his face fearsome. Behind her, Roshon shifted and muttered under his breath.
“Hold on,” Darvyn said. He inhaled deeply and let it out slowly. “All right. They’re down.” He pushed open the stubborn door. It complained on loud hinges. It likely hadn’t been used in decades. Kyara tensed, hoping the noise wouldn’t bring more guards. Then again, the chaos upstairs had probably pulled all reinforcements.
They walked out still hunched over from the tight space and stood upright in the gloom of the entry chamber to the prison cells. Through the doorway, the bodies of four men lay slumped over—two on the ground, two at the main desk.
Roshon rushed forward and scrambled for the key chain attached to one of the fallen men. After only a few tries, he located the proper key and wrenched open the door to the cell block. They ran inside and stopped short to see Dansig sitting on the bed and cradling Varten’s head in his lap.
Kyara sucked in a breath. “Is he…? Are we…?”
Roshon stepped up and began trying the keys, searching for the correct one. He let out a curse after the third try and slapped the
bars with his hand.
“Let me,” Darvyn said, gently pushing the boy aside. He brushed the lock with his fingers and the door snicked open, the scent of burning metal singeing the air.
Roshon charged inside and dropped to his knees before his brother. Varten’s chest rose slowly, though he looked so near death that Kyara’s heart ached. She stayed outside the cell, knowing there was nothing she could do to help.
Darvyn knelt next to Dansig. “You are a Singer?” he asked.
Dansig pointed to the red bracelets adorning his wrists that prevented him from accessing his Song. Darvyn nodded. “We need the key for the bracelets. Is it on the ring?”
Roshon flipped through the many keys in his hand. “They all look too big. The keyhole is so tiny.”
“My son doesn’t have much time left,” Dansig said to Darvyn. “Can you heal him?”
Darvyn placed a hand on Varten’s forehead and closed his eyes. Within moments, the teen’s color returned. His freckles faded once his cheeks lost their pallor, and the dewy sheen on his skin disappeared. His labored breathing eased as his eyes blinked open.
Darvyn dropped his hand and propped himself up, nearly keeling over. Kyara rushed forward to assist him. “Are you all right?”
He nodded but allowed her to help him up.
“Darvyn?”
“I’m fine, I’m just…” He rubbed the back of his neck and seemed to pull himself together. “Let’s get out of here.” Kyara eyed him suspiciously. If one healing had him so weak, his Song must have been taxed more than he was letting on.
Dansig and Roshon propped up a still-unsteady Varten and helped him out of the cell. Kyara thought she heard a noise. She held up a hand to halt their progress, straining to listen. “Footsteps on the stairs. Can we make it back to the servants’ passage?”
Darvyn squinted, tilting his head to the side, listening, and shook his head.
“I’ll hold them off,” she said. “You help the others.”
She ran forward and picked up a cudgel from one of the downed guards, then raced to meet whoever was coming down the staircase. She wasn’t certain how the weapons operated, but a tiny dial on the side displayed five levels. She set it to level three and hoped for the best.
