The Architect King

by Christopher Schmitz

  “I… I’m… what? I didn’t know you could speak?”

  “Everyone thinks that and nobody ever bothers to ask.” Pollando gave her a knowing smile from behind his long beard. He explained, “I made a vow of silence many decades ago. The fact that I am breaking it now—even if in secret—should stress to you the gravity of what I have to say.”

  She nodded. “Please continue. That you would speak for me is a great honor.”

  “We must keep this conversation private,” Pollando said. “I have tried to speak to you before, but my astral voice only echoed in the void. You seemed unwilling or incapable of hearing me. The former did not seem at all likely.” His eyes flooded with concern, assuming the latter.

  Claire’s eyes grew moist and her chest tightened.

  Pollando’s face grew worried, and he continued. “I cannot find you on the astral plane. I cannot sense you at all. It feels as if you do not even exist on the psychic spectrum.” He took her by the face. “Even now, I can’t sense you.”

  She told him most of what she knew, or some form of it, and acknowledged that she’d had some recent problems with her abilities. Bithia hid that she knew the reasons for it and hid that she was Bithia and not Claire from even Pollando; her secret was actually easier to keep without psychic presence. She asked, “What does it mean?”

  He fixed her with a serious gaze. “I can only tell you that I am worried, Princess Claire. First you proved an adept student, but ever since your battle with Akko Soggathoth you have changed. You quickly grew so incredibly strong, rivaling or surpassing even Bithia… but now?” He shook his head. “Something is very, very wrong with you.”

  ***

  Earth

  Shandra reached across and squeezed Sam Jones’s hand. The minister at the front of the room spoke in warm tones. Many of Sam’s previous business colleagues from both the university and the museum were present.

  One of their peers got up to share a few short anecdotes and fond memories. “What can I say about Miles Jecima,” he said. “Miles had a way with words…”

  Jecima’s wife had passed several years ago, Sam knew. He’d been at that funeral as well. But Miles’s son was conspicuously absent at this memorial. Sam didn’t know their history other than that the son was about his age and there had been some kind of rift in the past; he knew they barely saw each other and whenever they did, it usually ended in pain and regrettable conversations.

  He thought hard after it, but couldn’t quite remember the name. It finally clicked after a few moments. Jared… that was it. His son’s name was Jared.

  “…I mean, he really loved words. His wife once begged me to come over and take the door off its hinges so she could get into his study. I guess he’d holed up on some mad endeavor to decode an ancient manuscript that had no known literary cypher…”

  Attendees chuckled softly at the story.

  One of Sam’s old acquaintances leaned over his chair and whispered, “Hey Sam. You know we tried to contact you. We wanted you to speak—after all those expeditions together, you probably knew him better than any of us. You know, you’re almost impossible to get a hold of?”

  Sam nodded apologetically. “Sorry. I’ve been… away.”

  The man shrugged but eyed Shandra up and down as if her presence explained Sam’s odd absence. “Heh. That figures, though. A woman’s always a good reason for a bloke’s disappearance.” He leaned back and the rest of the service passed uneventfully.

  After the minister dismissed the congregation, Sam led Shandra into the foyer along with the small pool of mourners. He shook the minister’s hand briefly while another colleague apologized to the preacher. More than a couple “Jecima stories” had gone well over the line of church-appropriateness. They may have mortified the minister, but they entertained the attendees.

  The minister cut the man off and took Sam by the arm. “Mister Jones,” he said. “I need to make an introduction for you.” He led Sam over to a man in a suit. “This is Mister Rath; he has been trying to contact you now for several days.”

  Rath nodded, and the preacher went back to his rounds with the laity. “I am Donald Rath,” he introduced himself. “I don’t expect you’d know me, but I’m Miles Jecima’s attorney and I represent his estate. Can we chat for a moment?”

  Sam nodded and followed Rath into an office where they all took seats. Rath produced some documents from his briefcase. “I know that you were very close with Miles,” he said, “though you haven’t been around much lately.” His gaze, too, lingered a moment on Shandra who seemed oblivious to the inference that different men had each made.

  Rath turned the papers over for Sam to look at.

  Sam scanned the sheet. “This is… what? He left me something in his will?”

  The lawyer nodded and handed over a pen and some deeds for a signature. “He left you his house and everything in it.”

  Sam’s eyebrows arched sharply. “What about his son?”

  “Apparently Miles and his son had a conversation prior to death. Jared only wanted the cash and a few odds and ends which he has already collected. The house is yours.” Rath turned over a ring with keys that would open the locks. “Miles said he always considered you his second son. And he was very fond of your daughter, too.”

  Sam rubbed his face, almost overwhelmed by the gift. “I guess… I mean I feel like I should have been there more for him, then. I’m kind of a crappy son.”

  “Trust me,” Rath insisted with a melancholy smile, “between you and me, I’ve met Jared. You’re the good son.” The lawyer held up a hand as he took the signature pages. “One more thing. He also wanted to make sure that you got this.” Rath handed over a wooden box that was locked by some kind of turning dial with a series of characters on the rolling sequencer.

  “Thanks.” he said, absentmindedly fiddling with the code. Rath exited while Sam continued working on the password.

  Once the room was clear Shandra placed her hand on the box. “Do you feel it—the aura? Can you tell what is inside?”

  Sam gave her a screwy look. “No. What do you mean?”

  “Darquematter,” she said.

  A moment later, Sam entered the password which had been a code they’d shared long ago back when they’d worked out of the same office; the code had been their password for the door and alarm systems. He opened the lid and found a cluster of amulets similar to the pendant that Sam’s daughter used to wear, accompanied by a hand written note.

  Claire. I started collecting these after your adventures brought you to my door. They reminded me of you. Also, you still owe me for a new door—but you can see your father about that.

  —M. Jecima.

  Shandra read the note and flashed Sam a confused look.

  “When they crossed paths after Claire had grown up,” he explained, “she and Jackie were on the run from Nitthogr. I guess Zabe broke the door down trying to reach her.”

  Shandra smiled. “That sounds like Zabe.”

  Sam nodded and held out his arm. He twirled the keyring on his finger. “Come on. Let’s go check out this famous door.”

  Chapter 8

  The Prime

  Shjikara stood in the courtyard under the shadow of the palace; he oversaw the operations. The AVA had cleared out well in advance of the diplomatic exchange and now the place had sprung up overnight with a growing collection of statues—people encased in living stone. These men and women, frozen by Basilisk, were doomed to remain conscious and in an immobile stasis; time progressed around them but they were helpless to do a thing about it.

  Movers brought even more of the statues in and deposited them in the menagerie that spanned several cultural shifts. The figures displayed older styles of dress through the ages. Curious onlookers meandered through. Many brought printed photos of long-lost relations and ancestors, curious to see if any of them had ended up in Basilisk’s collection.

  The high priest spotted Gita in the distance. She was in her armored uniform as she s
tormed through the castle grounds on what looked to be on an assignment from her Guardian Corps superiors. They’d kept her extremely busy these last few days—too busy for her to get away for any hiking.

  Shjikara motioned for her and headed her way. Gita barely met his eyes as they crossed paths. “My dear Gita,” he said with snake oil charm, “We’d barely gotten a chance to speak since after that dreadful business at the Gates of Koth. I understand that you were wounded in one of the battles?”

  She agreed but downplayed it and tried to move past him. He detained her longer by stepping in front of her. His posture insisted on a conversation.

  “I intended to visit you in the hospital you know. But I was so busy with that Zahaben business.”

  Gita stiffened. “I understand.”

  “No… no. I should have made the time,” Shjikara insisted. “You have suffered so much under vyrm oppression.” He put a hand on her shoulder and flooded his voice with warmth and empathy. It sounded genuine.

  Gita barely held back her emotions. She believed him.

  “But look,” Shjikara told her, pointing to the statues. “I’ve been able to get all of these victims from Basilisk’s rule returned to us. I am still studying how to do it, but I think that, given what I accomplished at Zahaben’s turning, I will eventually be able to unfreeze all of these poor souls.”

  “You… you really think you can do it?” Gita asked. The lilt in her voice bloomed with hope and optimism. “Is that really possible?”

  He hefted his stone paw. “Only I have the power to do this thing. And I would willingly do it. It cost me a hand, but it will be worth it in the end.” He walked towards the collected figures, strolling amiably. “Come. Come… I want to show you something.”

  Gita hurried after him.

  “I have been cloistered away in our mountain fortress for too long. Those AVA fellows might be right,” Shjikara said, “The Veritas have a duty to do more. You will see more of me. I’ve determined that I can have such greater impact down here among the people. It is people who matter above all, yes?”

  Gita nodded. “That is why I joined the Corps. Too many people are helpless and in need. There are those who need rescuing… and I can help,” she said as she looked away.

  Shjikara took her by the face with a palm on her cheek. “You are stronger than you look, Gita, daughter of… of… I actually don’t think I could name your parents. I apologize. I only know that they passed.”

  Something inside her broke and her eyes welled up. “If I tell you something as my confessor, will you keep it a secret?”

  The High Priest embraced her. “It will stay between you and me. I will help absolve you if I can,” he said in a warm tone.

  Gita sniffed away a tear, but several more came. She confessed everything, that her family did not actually die in the sorcerer’s invasion but had been targeted by Basilisk; he thought he could insert a mole where so many shades had failed, She confessed that she was the spy, and that her guilt weighed upon her every day. “I’m so sorry… but I don’t know what to do. You’ll help me, won’t you?”

  Shjikara led her a little way deeper into the collection of statues. “What was the price of your betrayal?”

  “Basilisk said that he would release my family and restore them to flesh if I could get close to Claire or Zabe and reported on them, or at least on their military operations,” she said, wiping her damp cheek.

  “Did he say ‘restore them to flesh’ or merely that he would release them?”

  Gita scowled and looked at the ground. “I got a moment alone with him yesterday. He claimed it was the latter, but I don’t see how that matters. He would have given me a rune to restore only one of them anyway, something he showed me when he froze them, but now he says that he’s lost it.”

  “That is important because my brother does not lie,” Shjikara said. “Falsehood is not one of his tools.”

  “What?” Gita looked at him confused and certain the priest had misspoken. “I don’t understand what…”

  “I cannot absolve you of this crime,” Shjikara led her through a row of statues. “Only she can do that.” He pointed to a tiny, stone form. Gita’s sister stood on the end of the row with her brother’s hand, broken off at the wrist, still attached to her.

  “Shara!” Gita’s eyes widened with panic. “What… what do you mean? How did Shara get here?” She floundered for a coherent train of thought, trying to understand what was happening.

  Shjikara turned on her. His eyes burned with something evil.

  Gita finally recognized the vile gleam in his pupils. She had been only a teen when it had happened, but Gita had been with her family when they were rounded up and forced into a vyrm concentration camp. She recognized that look. Nitthogr had visited her camp firsthand.

  “I now possess that rune,” Shjikara held aloft his stone hand. “It resides firmly within my grip and I alone wield its power. I will release your sister, Shara, in my own time if you remain loyal. As you worked for my brother Basilisk, you will now work for me,” he hissed.

  “No! No, I won’t. I’m going to Princess Claire—she has to know.”

  Shjikara blocked her path. “I see it in your eyes. You think I can’t do worse to Shara than Basilisk has already done.” He playfully fingered the break at her brother’s hand. “Your sister is now the only survivor. I smashed the rest and now she is relying on you to save her.” Shjikara’s eyes burned as they locked with Gita’s. “You are responsible for her fate. She is only a child, Gita… will you really condemn her? From what I know of her condition, she is conscious right now and can hear every word—will you abandon her to reveal a security concern? Would they even listen after all you’ve done?”

  Gita’s eyes poured out tears, and she sobbed uncontrollably. She shook her head. “I… I…”

  “You belong to me. You will no longer report to Basilisk—Shara’s life depends on it, and while Basilisk is impotent to restore any statue to life, I can.” He scanned her broken posture. The outcome was already certain. “Go and confirm that your parents are beyond hope and dashed to pieces. Know that you now belong to Nitthogr. You are mine now.”

  Gita turned and fled, trying to wipe away the salty, wet redness from the edges of her face. Shjikara smiled as he watched her go and then composed himself in a regal manner. He stepped back into the open air of the courtyard beyond the cluster of the statues even as the movers delivered the last of them, several thousand in all.

  Tay-lore paused in front of the High Priest. The android had been walking through on some unknown purpose when he paused to watch Gita rush past, bawling her eyes out. He turned and found Shjikara watching her run… fleeing the priest, it seemed.

  “What is the matter with Gita?” Tay-ore asked him.

  Shjikara drew himself together like he was hiding something. “Oh, she’s just sad.”

  “About what?” Tay-lore turned to address Shjikara.

  “About many things. About Jenner mostly, her friend is in prison and I told her I could not recommend any punishment except for execution after the trial concludes. The books of military code and conduct are very clear on the matter.”

  Tay-lore stiffened and then watched Gita exit the courtyard. The android was historically bad at reading body language and the nuances of human communication, but even so, he knew that Shjikara had been untruthful.

  His robotic synapses ran subroutines and processed data. The result was suspicion and a high probability of danger. He has access to Princess Claire. Tay-lore’s concern rating spiked, and he knew he would have to keep an eye on Shjikara.

  ***

  Earth

  Sisyphus stalked through the woods alone, searching for a specific, rare creature. He’d abandoned the portal some distance back and did not want to leave his enemy with any opportunity to either escape his grasp or to use its magic or misdirection on Doctor Walther; the wizard knew as well as any that Fey creatures could be the most devious of them all.

&
nbsp; Trees towered high above and the lush moss sqwunched underfoot like a magical, living carpet of the forest. It blanketed the vale and silenced the sounds within the natural cathedral where branches and verdant canopy cloistered them away from the world of man and all its woes and technological pacing.

  The solitary human stalked through, keeping his eyes sharp for his contact’s home. I know it was around here somewhere. Sisyphus crested a rise and sidestepped a massive tree trunk on the spongy hillock of peat and old growth. In the lowlands beneath him, he found the little beast.

  A single broken tree stump towered waist-high above a field littered with thousands of plastic cups, lids torn open and their contents licked clean. The pudding cups’ labels identified them as vanilla flavored. Sisyphus shook his head; he’d delivered the tiny monster five pallets of snack cups only a week ago.

  “Just like a little junkie,” he said incredulous and then kicked the stump. “Bwbych! Bwbych, get out here!”

  A tiny door made of bark opened on the side of the hovel and a boggart crouched and then made his way out. He looked like any ordinary house-elf, except his skin tone had greened and his features had pointier ends; he bore an almost porcine likeness and a grouchy face that looked prone to biting. This one had no legs; they terminated in wooden posts where they’d been replaced after some tragic tale of the past.

  “Sisyphus! Sisyphus, my friend. What brings you…”

  The massive wrestler roared and snatched him in one huge paw and then lifted him off the ground. Bwbych was no larger than a toddler.

  “What? What did I do?” Bwbych screeched.

  “You gave me bad information, you little twit! Now I’m here to make you pay me back for all this.” He motioned to the field of empty containers.

  “I didn’t…” the boggart flailed and struggled trying to free himself.

  “The Scholomance! They did not have the mirror, you little liar, and now I have made a powerful, unnecessary enemy.” He shook Bwbych like a rag doll.