“We have much to discuss, Son. I am Neratiri, the Lady of Twilight, ruler of Nexus, daughter of the goddess Sabyl and the immortal being who calls himself the Engineer. As such, my talents are a heritage from both. I know not the extent of your own abilities, but you likely are imbued with some of my and some of your father’s talents.”
Taren could only stare dumbly at her for a long moment but then picked up on something she’d said. “The one who calls himself the Engineer? So he yet lives? I thought him slain during the Battle of Nexus.”
Nera smiled. “I’m pleased to see you have your father’s sharp wits. The Engineer’s death is a common misconception, one I try to encourage to flourish. He yet lives, as does his brother the Architect.”
“Both still live? Aren’t they too dangerous for any dungeon to hold?”
“Aye. That’s why I’ve made special arrangements.” She walked to the window with Taren beside her. “See all the magelights out there lighting the streets? And there, the foundry endlessly powering the Machine of Nexus, to keep the planes in alignment? These are merely some of the fruits of their penance—the city functions by using their mana. I quite enjoy the irony after all the harm those bastards have caused the city with their aeons of fighting.”
“And what of my father?” he asked after a long moment. “I know practically nothing of him, other than he was a powerful mage… and died a hero.”
“Malek of Hollowbrook, from the plane of Tyndaria, a Prime plane much like your own Easilon as I’ve heard. He was the son of Alistor, a great mage from a place known as Valirial. My mother, your grandmother, spirited Malek away as a babe, saving him from the demise of Valirial that he might grow up and play his role in fulfilling her schemes. His people, corruptors as they were unfortunately termed, came to an end. I know not what they called themselves. But I digress… Malek was your father, whom I loved. He died much before his time by staving off the mighty turmahr in the Abyss, that the rest of us might survive.”
Taren’s mind whirled, thoughts of all the wondrous things she was telling him filling his head and begging numerous questions. “So my talents… Are they like his or yours?”
“That we shall find out soon enough.” Nera winked. She had reverted to her plane-cursed form, which despite her bizarre appearance, seemed more natural and comfortable for her and him as well—strange and exotic yet less intimidating. She was also somehow shielding her supernatural presence now that she’d reverted to her other form.
Nera began pacing around the chamber. “What can that bitch be plotting, I wonder?” Taren’s thought that the question was rhetorical was confirmed a moment later when Nera continued talking, fiddling with an earring dangling from the tip of one horn. “Nesnys. She must be stopped, whatever her plots might be, of that I have no doubt. Her schemes will likely try to influence me in some way. You said these inquisitors were definitely seeking you out specifically?”
“As sure as I can be. That piece of dung Tellast said I was the one they sought—also, that fiend in Ammon Nor, summoned by a Nebaran lieutenant.”
Nera pursed her lips, looking at him a long moment. “May I look in your memory at all you’ve seen and done of late? Then I can better understand.”
He swallowed, suddenly nervous that his mother was studying him as if he were some cryptic puzzle to be solved. “I, uh… I suppose so.”
“I won’t bite,” she assured him. “Not my kin, at least.” She gently placed her fingers on his temples, her skin hot as if feverish. “Just relax…”
“…and allow me to see.” The final words were spoken directly into his mind.
She’s a mind-bender too, he thought, surprised.
“Aye. You may be also though your talents may have yet to be unlocked. Now, still your thoughts.”
Taren did his best, and memories flickered through his mind as if he were glimpsing illustrations on the pages of a book being rapidly leafed through. He saw again the stranger following him and Elyas on the road, the attack on the farm and Wyat’s death, their flight and encounter with the Inquisition, Egrondel, Ryedale and Yethri’s murder, the attack on Ammon Nor, their escape to the Hall of the Artificers, then meeting Sianna and reaching Llantry. He sensed Nera taking great interest in the Hall of the Artificers in particular, the thoughts slowing as she rifled through them.
When she withdrew from his mind, she had tears in her eyes. Her love and sorrow over Wyat’s loss was a powerful thing, amplified through their mental connection. She hugged him fiercely, and he returned the embrace, instinctively liking this mother he had never known. He had to wipe his own eyes.
“Ah, but it’s hard to imagine Wyat gone. You’ve had a trying journey, my son, but you are safe now. I shall train you and help you discover your true strength.” She snapped her fingers, and a tankard of ale appeared in her hand. She chugged it back as adeptly as any soldier would’ve.
Taren finished off his goblet of wine then filled it again halfway from the decanter. The wine was truly of superb quality. “What of Nesnys and her plans?”
“That is what is concerning. I see Father’s touch in this Hall of the Artificers, and my instincts tell me it is something to do with that.” She thought for a long moment then snapped her fingers. “Yosrick,” she muttered.
“Pardon?” The word meant nothing.
A gnome suddenly popped into existence before them. Taren started, spilling some wine on his tunic. The gnome looked as startled as he, stumbling backward and nearly landing on his backside, had Nera not nimbly snatched a handful of his tunic to prevent him from falling. She smiled at the gnome, straightening out his tunic affectionately and releasing him.
“By the Sage’s beard, Nera! I hate it when you do that,” he grumbled. The gnome looked to be middle-aged and wiry of build although he was developing a small potbelly. He had a shock of thinning orange hair sticking up on his head and a scraggly beard covering his chin. A keen intelligence filled his eyes as he glanced from Nera to Taren.
“My apologies, old friend,” Nera said with a gentle smile. “Pressing events necessitated the summons. Meet my son, Taren. This is Yosrick Sparkspinner, my old friend and comrade in arms.”
Yosrick recovered his poise quickly, as if sudden teleportation was a frequent occurrence. He stuck out a hand and grinned at Taren. “Pleasure to meet you, Taren. Arron speaks highly of you.”
He gripped the gnome’s strong hand, suddenly awed. “The pleasure’s all mine.” He now recognized the name from Wyat’s old war stories. Yosrick was one of the Heroes of Nexus and a companion on their journey into the Abyss—a sage, enchanter, and warrior of great renown.
“The Hall of Artificers,” Nera said abruptly. “What do you know of it?”
Yosrick stroked his beard, thinking. “I recall mention of such a place in some of the Architect’s tomes I studied in your library. The Engineer had a secret facility in which he and his ilk were rumored to be experimenting with alchemy, metallurgical research, and even matter transmutation, as I recall. The Architect’s Mystic Legion raided it and slew many of the inhabitants there although some escaped through a portal, which the Legion was unable to activate for further pursuit. They never recorded the true purpose of the hall, if it was ever discerned. What of it?”
“My harpy of a half sister is fomenting war on the plane of Easilon, which is coincidentally where both Taren was placed to live with Wyat and this Hall is located. It doesn’t take a great leap of logic to suspect her of being sent to capture or harm Taren and meddle with that facility. As to what end, that is what I must know. See what my son has seen.” She touched Yosrick’s temples as she had Taren’s.
Yosrick went wide-eyed as he experienced what Taren and the others had seen. After a few moments, he grabbed Nera’s tankard of ale off the table with shaking hands and took a long drink. “Most fascinating! I wish I could study it further and discover its secrets. That lass that got changed to an automaton is a friend of yours?”
Taren nodded. “I was hopi
ng some cure could be found for her condition.”
“I’ll be happy to study her, of course.” Yosrick absently handed the tankard back to Nera and rubbed his hands together eagerly. “Uncle Flurbinger might have more insights into all of this since he has some of your father’s memories and all.” He glanced at Nera.
“Good thinking. Will you see to the lass? Ferret is her name, and she’s a good friend to my son.”
“Aye, certainly,” Yosrick replied.
“She’s having a tough time with her situation,” Taren warned. “If you could just keep in mind she’s a girl, a couple summers younger than me, and not just some fascinating object to be poked and prodded, I’d appreciate it.”
Yosrick nodded solemnly. “I’ll treat her as I would if she were my own daughter.”
“When you see Flurbinger, let him know I’ll need to speak with him soon,” Nera said.
“Aye, will do. Anything else from me?”
“Nay, old friend. My son and I will need to speak to Mother.”
“I’ll see to the lass, then. Nice meeting you.” Yosrick waved and left the room in a hurry.
“He’s excited at having a riddle to decipher.” Nera smiled as the door closed behind the gnome. “Come, let us go meet your grandmother.”
“How will we do that, exactly?” He swallowed, suddenly nervous at the idea of meeting the goddess.
“Exactly? Well, I’ll take your hand”—which she did—“then I shall astrally project us to the Temple of the Night, her demesne.”
Nera’s grip was hard and unyielding. Glancing down, Taren was shocked to see her left hand was not flesh at all but instead some type of black metal, which he hadn’t noted before. It joined seamlessly with the flesh of her wrist and was warm to the touch.
“Your hand,” he said in wonder. “Abyssal iron?”
Nera raised his hand in hers, the matte-black metal a stark contrast against his own pale skin. She flexed her hand, and he marveled at it. Whereas Ferret’s hands were crafted of cleverly interjoined and finely tooled machine parts, Nera’s was one seamless, flexible piece, almost like a glove of liquid metal.
“That bitch Nesnys cut off my hand in the Abyss. I was forced to craft a new one with the material at hand—Abyssal iron, as you noted. A skill inherited from my father, your grandfather. Perhaps you’ve inherited some of that talent as well. But we can explore that later. Come, enough tarrying.” She squeezed his hand more tightly.
The room suddenly darkened ominously as if a bucket of pitch had been dumped over it. Viscous, impenetrable shadows flowed across the ceiling and down the walls, covering everything within seconds until Taren felt untethered from reality as he had once before in the entry cube to the Hall of the Artificers. The sensation faded after a moment, ambient light brightened, and he looked up to find a brilliant banner of stars more impressive than any he’d ever seen in his life stretched overhead, its scope stunning. He felt a moment of dizziness, as if he might float away into that nebula of lights.
“Focus, Taren.”
A firm squeeze on his hand brought him back to his senses. Nera led him forward, crossing a smooth onyx floor that reflected the sky above, and he got the impression of the darker void of columns blotting out the starlight around them. The grandeur of the temple was impressive, yet it felt welcoming somehow, not cold or forbidding as he might have expected. His mother had returned to her natural form, tall and graceful and beautiful.
“Greetings, my daughter.” A rich voice seemed to reverberate from all around them. Shadows evanesced like wisps of smoke before them, revealing a tall, stunning woman with porcelain skin. Her resemblance to Nera’s true form was uncanny, yet this woman’s eyes were as the night sky above, twin nebulae threatening to draw Taren into their depths.
“Mother.” Nera bowed her head respectfully. “I’ve brought—”
“Your son, Taren. A pleasure to finally lay mine eyes upon you.” Sabyl, Mistress of the Night and goddess of luck and rogues, smiled and took Taren’s hand, and warmth and succor flowed into him.
“Lady Sabyl.” He started to fall to his knees in awe, but she drew him back to his feet.
“No need for that, Grandson. You’ve had quite a long journey thus far, yet I fear it’s barely begun. Your courage and resourcefulness make me proud, and I’m sure your mother is also.”
“Very much so.” Nera grinned and smacked him on the shoulder as she would a comrade-in-arms. “The reason we’ve come is because Nesnys is free of the Abyss and is meddling on the plane of Easilon.”
“Yes, I am aware of such activities,” Sabyl replied. She waved her hand, and the darkness to one side of the temple brightened, vague swirls of colors coalescing into the image of a raging battle.
A ragged and vastly outnumbered Ketanian band doggedly struck at the marching column of a superior imperial army. Taren watched intently, hoping to see some sign of Elyas among the fighters. They struck rapidly, an ambush, and in the time the Nebarans took to set their defenses and bring cavalry in to pursue, the attackers were already falling back into the tall grass covering the terrain’s rolling hills and gullies. Farther north, the bulk of the demoralized Ketanian army plodded along, perhaps three or four thousand troops remaining at best.
“Do you know of Elyas’s fate?” he asked suddenly, the sight making him worry anew over his cousin.
“Your cousin fought bravely but was defeated. He fought a duel with Nesnys herself and was then imprisoned. I’ve not seen what has happened to him since.”
“He fought Nesnys?” Taren asked wonderingly. Although he feared for Elyas, he felt a flash of pride for his cousin, practically a brother to him.
“I like him already,” Nera chimed in. “He takes after his father.”
Sabyl regarded the two of them sadly, Taren thought, but said no more.
“What must we do, Mother?” Nera asked after a time.
“Taren must master his talents and return to aid his friends and fellow Ketanians. Above all, Nesnys must be defeated and Shaol’s plot thwarted. But you both know this already. Your place remains in Nexus, Neratiri, as does Arronessalesyth. This battle must be fought by others.”
“Arron will want to aid them,” Nera insisted.
Sabyl shook her head slowly. “That is not his fate, nor his fight. He must remain to support you until the danger has passed.”
“This war is but a screen for what Shaol and Nesnys have planned,” Nera said. “I am certain of it. It makes little sense to wage war upon one Prime plane—there is some ulterior motive. We need to discover their real intent and put an end to it.”
“I think it is clear they mean to use Taren as leverage against you, Daughter. That is why his training is of paramount importance. Once he can effectively defend himself and lend his talents to aid the defense of Ketania, the threat will be diminished. Yet that is not all. Failing to capture or manipulate Taren, they mean to activate a weapon devised by the Engineer back in the time of the Planar War, I fear—one never used before because of its awful finality.”
“What weapon?” Taren and Nera asked in unison.
Sabyl shook her head. “I have no knowledge beyond the whispers that such a plot was created in the waning days of the Planar War as the Engineer’s forces grew ever more desperate. Fortunately, this weapon was never used. It is said its use will destroy all order throughout the multiverse.”
“Knowing that they want Taren so badly, won’t it be too dangerous for him to return?” Nera was eyeing him with worry. “Perhaps he should stay here under my protection until this threat passes.”
“No, I must return to aid my friends!” he protested. “I can’t simply leave them behind to fend for themselves.”
“Admirable loyalty.” A smirk spread on Nera’s face, and she bumped him with her hip. “By friends, your emphasis being on a pretty young queen?”
Taren flushed. “No… Well, I suppose in part. She’s the rightful heir to the Ketanian throne now and can unite the kingdom behin
d her. I seek to support her claim and stand with her.” At Nera’s grin, he felt uncomfortable. “She’s royalty… I could never even think…” He waved a hand in frustration, not wishing to continue discussing the topic.
“You think your bloodline is not good enough?” Nera asked in astonishment. “Look who you stand here with!”
Taren looked at Sabyl, uncomfortable with the conversation.
The goddess seemed to be listening to the exchange with amusement. “Let Taren follow his instincts, Daughter. He is wise for his age and has a good heart. Wyat raised him well. He’ll be fine.”
“That girl should see him for who he truly is,” Nera muttered.
“Taren, above all, you must discover Shaol’s true plans and put a stop to them. The fate of the kingdom can sort itself out after.” Sabyl regarded him gravely, the power of her gaze again making him feel the desire to fall to his knees.
He doggedly resisted the urge, fierce loyalty causing him to protest. “But I can’t let Nesnys’s army continue to slaughter and pillage its way across all of Ketania.”
“No one is saying to leave them to their fates, but if you are not careful, you may die or be captured, only to have their true plan come to fruition. Whole worlds could perish as a result. Such is the way of the Balance. You are he whom they will come to call thaumaturge, Taren. You were born to this fate.”
“The Weave and Balance again,” he said bitterly. “Is that my whole reason for being? To serve some destiny I never asked for?”
Nera regarded him with sympathy, and he realized his own plight wasn’t as bad as hers, forever bound to a throne she had never truly desired, according to Wyat at least. “What aim would it serve to fight against your fate?” Nera asked gently. “Such would play right into the hands of our foes. They’d like nothing better than for you to stand aside and let them prevail. Your friends need you to do what you are meant to, as do all people.”
Sabyl placed her hands upon his shoulders then, and he felt a sense of her tremendous power. “It is natural to have doubts, for that is free will. Taren, know that in a magic-poor world such as Easilon, you shall stand well above all other mages. Your unique and powerful talents are needed to defeat this threat.”
The Way of Pain Page 31
