by Dave Rudden
‘I can’t believe I’m doing this.’
‘Grey. Doing what?’ Denizen’s legs were too sore for ambiguity.
Grey had pressed his ear to the door, frowning. He looked back at Denizen and sighed.
‘OK. You weren’t the only Neophyte to get a midnight visitor. About ten minutes before I woke you, all the others were herded up and brought down here in their finest cultish chic.’
‘Then why –’
‘Because you, Denizen, weren’t supposed to get a midnight visitor at all. You were not to be included, for the exact same reason he wants you to stay in Daybreak.’
‘To keep me safe,’ Denizen whispered.
‘Exactly,’ Grey said. ‘He is going to kill me. Pull your hood forward. Hide your face.’
Denizen did so, and Grey turned the key.
‘On three.’
For a moment, Denizen couldn’t help but grin at him.
Grey grinned back and swung open the door.
The chamber beyond was searingly bright, the air arid and desert-hot. Looking at the floor provided no escape from the light, and Denizen realized through watering eyes and the sudden hollow clang of his steps that the floor was polished metal.
Spoken steel – forged by a Knight’s fire to burn Tenebrous like a cobweb touched by a flame. Grey propelled him forward, the heat palpable even through the exposed iron of his hands, before Denizen was unceremoniously shoved into a knot of other robed teenagers.
He wanted to turn, but the hand on his back had disappeared and so instead Denizen ducked his head down, shuffling through the group, listening for –
‘I’m just saying – it’s nice to finally get black robes. Magical organizations should have black robes.’
‘You look like a tent with half its poles missing.’
‘Hi, guys,’ Denizen whispered.
They both jumped.
‘You found us!’ Abigail whispered. ‘I tried to go back for you, but they wouldn’t let me.’
‘You missed all the fun,’ Simon said. ‘Abigail has a boyfriend.’
‘Simon, I will punch your neck out the back of your head.’
‘That isn’t possible. Right, Denizen?’
‘I don’t know,’ Denizen said, half because he didn’t and half because the relief at seeing them was a physical pain. ‘But I’d bet on her every time.’
‘Neophytes of the Second Rank.’
Greaves’s voice was still deep and rich, but all the warmth in it had gone. Denizen had always thought him … not soft exactly, but able to hide his sharp corners when needed.
Now he was the Palatine.
‘There are many tests you will endure before you become a Knight,’ he intoned.
‘Your bravery. Your will to fight, and your will to walk away. You will be tested by pain. By loss. By loneliness. Children will recoil from you in the street. Those you love will choose easier lives than loving you. You will live in candlelight, in shadow, in fire.
‘And there will never be victory. I say this as it was said to me, and I didn’t believe it either. There will be a prophecy. Some secret trinket. Some act of resistance snatching triumph from the dark. But no such thing exists. You must understand the work that we do.’
Denizen’s stomach turned. Not from nervousness. No – he knew that feeling. It shook the strings of his heart and, one hand on the hem of his hood to keep it steady, he slowly raised his head.
The chamber was a hexagon, and six great lamps glared from the walls. There were Knights, two in each corner, all armed, all robed in black.
And, above, something squirmed.
The light from the lamps was so bright it was almost solid, but where the beams met it took on a different hue – sickly, colourless … tainted. That, even before his iron eye began to ache, told Denizen what it was.
He’d never seen a Breach like the one outside Adumbral’s walls yesterday. He’d likely never see a similar one again. They were as unique as paper cuts, as unique as the creature they birthed. Sometimes you saw the hole in the air; sometimes you merely felt its effects; sometimes the Tenebrous was just there, like the sudden appearance of a spider.
But this one just hung there, a rippling, bubbling gap.
‘You may know of Os Reges Point,’ Greaves began. ‘Five wind-scoured peaks in a vast and stormy sea. A sacred place where we may consult the Emissary of the Endless King, where human and Tenebrous can speak in peace.’
He raised his hand, splaying dark fingers against the harshness of the light, and Denizen remembered those massive spires, reaching as if to pull down the sky.
‘Five fingers. The fingers of the Endless King.’
Shock breathed silently through the chamber, the Palatine’s words holding them to muteness with the soft power of his voice.
‘That dreadful, mighty creature built a body unequalled by any Tenebrous before or since, and walked this world, breeding legend and terror in its wake, before leaving that body behind. Ossa Regis – the Bones of the King. That walk ended in dark water … but it started here.’
The rupture waxed and waned, twisting like a worm on a hook.
‘A wound that will never heal. A path no other Tenebrous would ever use. A path protected by the reverence of his subjects. And for us, this Breach is a Glimpse of our purpose, a vantage on to our eternal crusade.’
It ached to look at. It ached to be around. It was an affront to everything the Order stood for, and it languished there like a prisoner of war.
‘This too is sacred ground.’
The Palatine’s eyes were stony. He raised a hand, and with a spike of fear Denizen thought Greaves was pointing at him before the hand swung left.
‘Miriam Bell, please step forward.’
A Neophyte approached hesitantly, pushing her hood back to reveal blonde curls and sharp features. The Knight behind Greaves stepped forward as well, a harness and cord in his hand.
Denizen stared at it a moment without comprehending. It looked like … a bungee cord? Bungee jumping had always seemed like madness to Denizen – surely it was bad enough falling off something without still being around to remember it – and it was doubly confusing to see it here.
The cord was dark with etchings. More spoken steel. Knights didn’t go for show – like its wielder, the favoured metal of the Knights looked no different until battle began.
With swift, sure motions, Greaves and the other Knight attached the harness to Miriam’s slim shoulders. Each buckle was tugged on, each strap checked, Greaves even lifting her by it for a moment before clicking the cord into place, just as another Knight wheeled forward a set of steps. The whole process had taken just long enough for the Neophytes to realize its purpose.
Miriam’s eyes were fixed on the Breach. She had gone very, very pale.
‘Miriam Bell,’ Greaves said. ‘Do you want to be a Knight?’
‘Yes,’ she said, and her voice did not waver.
Greaves nodded. ‘You will take fourteen steps. No more. No less. Then tilt your head upwards … and open your eyes.’
Murmurs rippled around the Neophytes before a look from Greaves quelled them. Open your eyes. The one rule of being in the Tenebrae, on the rare occasions the Order braved its depths, was that you never, ever opened your eyes. Knights could see in the dark, but that didn’t always mean that they should.
The floor trembled as another figure entered the chamber – a monster of black armour fully twice as tall as Denizen, its seams drawn in burning gold. Huge shoulders vaned with smoke-stacks loomed over a blunt helm with a cyclopean, glaring eye.
Hephaestus Warplate. One of the Order’s most potent weapons, only unveiled in greatest need. There was a Knight somewhere beneath all that steel, strength and speed augmented by those ancient, Cant-forged plates.
Spoken steel clanged against spoken steel as it lumbered forward to clutch the cord in two gigantic fists, and, as Denizen watched, it braced itself to pull.
‘You will never speak of what you
see there, do you understand?’
She nodded.
‘Then go, Miriam Bell,’ said Greaves. ‘And then I will ask you the question a second time.’
She nodded again and began to climb the steps. Denizen’s heart hammered with every footfall, the Glimpse quivering like a beating heart … and then she was gone, but for a cord hanging motionless in the seething air.
Denizen had traversed the Tenebrae before, fallen through an inky sea so cold it stole thought from your head, but never once had he taken steps. Was there solid ground somewhere in the Tenebrae? Where did this Breach lead?
With a growl of plate and flame, the Hephaestus Knight pulled and, just as suddenly as she had disappeared, Miriam Bell was there again, chest heaving as she frantically sucked in air. Greaves was immediately by her side, helping her down the steps.
Denizen had never seen eyes so wide. She was shaking so hard you could hear it, and a Knight came to her with a blanket and draped it around her shoulders.
Greaves’s voice rang out again. ‘Miriam Bell, do you want to be a Knight?’
Her voice was a shadow. ‘Yes. God help me, yes.’
And then quietly she started to cry.
As Miriam was led away, Greaves turned back to the Neophytes. In fairness, he didn’t look like he was enjoying this either. One by one, the Neophytes ascended the steps and, seeing as Denizen had not been given – or taken, if he were being honest – the chance to get to know them yet, it felt voyeuristic and uncomfortable to see them in this moment.
A short, squat teenager with more scars than Denizen’s mother stepped out with a look of grim confirmation, as if he’d expected the worst and got it. A girl with half her head shaved staggered out and nearly fell, but said yes all the same. A lanky boy whispered something to Greaves that Denizen didn’t hear, before being led through a different door.
And then it was Abigail’s turn. She’d been eagerly watching the process like a crossbow bolt straining against its trigger. She stepped forward when it was her turn, before her name was even called, and Greaves opened his mouth –
And then Grey reached up and pulled down Denizen’s hood.
‘Denizen?’
Only experience with Greaves let Denizen catch the high-speed carousel of emotions racing across the Palatine’s face. Greaves had forbidden Denizen to attend the ceremony, and it mightn’t have provoked too many questions, but now that he was here, and now that Greaves had said his name …
It was a neat little trap.
‘Hardwick,’ Greaves finished, with barely a pause. You mightn’t even have noticed it, if you weren’t expecting it. Or if you were Abigail, who now wore a look of shock and anger that turned Denizen’s heart to lead.
He tried to get his mouth to work, but already the Neophytes were parting, and Greaves spoke again, confident enough to nearly convince you that it was the alphabet and not him that was wrong.
‘Denizen Hardwick. Do you want to be a Knight?’
And abruptly Denizen forgot about Abigail. It was a big question. It was the question. The Knights were deadly serious about not forcing people to join. Forcing people with literally volcanic emotions was a terrible idea. Denizen had seen that with the Croits. Lies always came out, and there were no worse lies than those used to control.
The Order was honest, at least.
‘I do,’ Denizen said, thinking of a little girl in a little garden.
The harness went around Denizen’s shoulders. It had to be tightened a depressing amount before it was snug. He could feel the Palatine’s frustration in every tug of the straps, but then Grey was at his shoulder, clicking the cord into place.
‘I knew you’d pull something like this, Graham,’ Greaves hissed.
‘I’m trying to help. He walks in, he sees what he needs to see and you’ll get the answer you want,’ Grey replied lightly, squeezing Denizen’s shoulder. ‘Good luck.’
The Hephaestus Knight tugged on the tether once, nearly pulling Denizen over, and then it was just him and a set of simple wooden steps. He could feel the Breach like needles raking his skin, snagging on every pore.
You’ve been in the Tenebrae before. He’d even opened his eyes there, just long enough to see the briefest glimpse of terrible shapes, long enough to know he never wanted to do it again.
But the tears in Miriam Bell’s eyes. The tremor in her voice. What was he going to see?
One step remaining, and Denizen’s gaze glitched over a wound in the world, a scar on reality. A tear was clotting at the corner of his iron eye, and he fought the urge to scrub it away. There were a lot of people watching.
Fourteen steps. Do it.
He took a deep breath – and a comet took him off his feet.
Denizen tumbled and in that single weightless moment he heard a voice of silk and storm, a voice he hadn’t heard in six long months.
Mercy’s voice.
Denizen Hardwick, I need your help.
9
Compromised
They hit the ground together. It probably saved her life.
A single lance of flame seared the length of Denizen’s spine, before Greaves and Grey’s voices came as one.
‘Hold your fire!’
That’s considerate, Denizen thought, but even his sarcasm dimmed in the face of the light. Her light – a halo of lightning that felt cool on his cheeks even as it danced scorch marks on the floor on either side of him.
The moment of peace didn’t last long. Footsteps vibrated Denizen’s head against the floor as the Hephaestus Knight thundered forward to yank on the cord. It snicker-slid to where he lay –
– and then came back empty, severed neatly by one of Mercy’s errant, sizzling strands.
To the hulking warrior’s credit, he barely mis-stepped. Faced with a long length of broken cable, he did what any Knight would do and improvised – cracking it like a bullwhip to take off Mercy’s head.
It bounced off Denizen’s Anathema Bend instead.
‘Ow,’ Denizen said, climbing awkwardly to his feet. The fused shield of air dissipated, but he kept it to hand – and only it, despite how many other Cants eagerly offered themselves. There were a lot of weapons pointed at him right now.
At both of them.
Greaves had drawn his Malleus hammer – the most powerful weapon in the Order’s arsenal, able to kill even the most deadly Tenebrous outright. Light dripped from Knights’ hands, danced in eyes, glared from the titanic threat of the Hephaestus, like a volcano about to erupt.
Most of the Neophytes were in fighting stances. So, he noted with pain, was Abigail.
‘Can everyone …’ Each word was the careful cutting of a wire. ‘Please. Calm. Down?’
Nobody said anything. Finally, the Hephaestus Knight reached up to remove its helm, and Denizen’s heart sank beneath sea-level.
Vivian Hardwick stared at the daughter of the Endless King with undisguised hate. She had looked less belligerent with the helm on.
‘Oh,’ Denizen said forlornly. ‘Hi, Vivian.’
‘Stop using my son as a shield,’ she hissed. Denizen felt Mercy stiffen behind him, but before she could do anything words spilled out on autopilot. Life or death. He was almost grateful.
‘LookobviouslythisisasituationbutIdon’tthinklosingourtemperswillsolveanything!’
Silence.
‘Didn’t catch a word of that,’ Grey said, but Greaves had already regained control. He turned to a Knight.
‘Assemble a cadre and take the Neophytes on night exercises.’
Robed teenagers stiffened with shock, but not half as much as Grey.
‘You’re sending us away?’ he countered. ‘Why –’
‘I’m sending them away,’ Greaves interrupted. ‘You, I need here.’ He turned to Mercy and Denizen. ‘My office. Now.’
‘I’m Master of Neophytes,’ Grey said, but Denizen could see he was torn. ‘Shouldn’t I go with –’
‘Do as you’re asked,’ Greaves snarled. For once, he could ha
ve given Vivian a run for her money. His gaze fell on Mercy like an executioner’s axe.
‘You need help? Then talk to me.’
The last time Mercy had been received by the Order of the Borrowed Dark, there had been a certain amount of ceremony and pomp. And yes, weapons, but this was the Order – there were always weapons. But there had also been invitations, and a truce, and a sort of plan.
It wasn’t the usual reception, but, then again, there was nothing usual about the daughter of the Endless King, a Tenebrous never before seen in the Order’s extensive histories who spoke with the Endless King’s authority, but, more importantly, who used that authority to speak of peace.
Funny how one word can change everything.
‘What do you mean, fugitive?’
Greaves’s office occupied the entire circumference of the lighthouse’s highest floor, just a level below Daybreak’s great unlit beacon. Outside the vaulted windows Denizen could see nothing but night.
Hundreds of candles hung in steel lace lanterns from the roof, gently tinkling in the wind so that lattices of shadow chased each other across the marble floor. A constant reminder, as if the Palatine needed it, about what lay beneath.
I believe I am using the word correctly, Mercy said, eyes downcast. She was a girl of fog and witchlight, too faint to see one moment and eye-achingly real the next. Her hair was limned white at the edges by billowing frost, and her features changed with every beat of Denizen’s heart, drawn and redrawn over and over again.
It, Denizen. Not a she, not a girl. A thing. A monster.
But can’t she be both?
Tenebrous built their form from stolen things. Mercy had chosen light – a particle and a wave – so she would never have to be just one thing at a time.
The air was thick with the taste of the Tenebrae.
Knights surrounded her, and Denizen could feel the Cants nocked like crossbow bolts under their tongues. Greaves sat behind a monster of a desk, and Denizen hovered by Vivian, who even out of Warplate loomed like a cavalry charge.
‘I thought you’d left?’ Denizen whispered. ‘Not that I’m not glad to see you,’ he added hastily, ‘but –’
‘Knife.’
