by JA Hutson
“What happened?” I find that I’m perched on the edge of my chair, straining towards the Contessa.
“The devils came. We called them the Shriven. They poured into Terithia through a doorway they had somehow ruptured. The thirteen tribes united to fight them, and for years our world was convulsed by war. Millions died. For a time it looked like we might drive them back, but in the end it became clear that defeat was inevitable. It was then that Ezekal came to us with a plan.” Her mouth tightens into a scowl at the memory.
“Ezekal convinced us that we must abandon our world. The remnants of our tribe, the Silvers, would pass through the doorways we had long maintained. Then we would lock the doors behind us, trapping the Shriven in Terithia. You have to remember,” the Contessa adds quickly, “that all hope had been lost. The ancient fortress of our tribe was days away from being overrun.” She takes a deep breath. “We did not want to die. And there was something else in the madness of that time. Ezekal . . . he was a scientist, as well as a key master. An experimenter. He had discovered somehow that by drinking the blood of the Shriven injuries could be healed, as if through the ministrations of a weaver . . . and also immortality bestowed. Age would not touch us again if we consumed what flowed in the veins of the demons.” The Contessa drains her glass and bends forward, setting it down on the table. “And so with the Shriven hordes boiling across the plains towards us, we feasted in the great hall and drank the blood of a Shriven lord we had captured. Then we filed down into the depths of our ancestral home to pass through a door into this world.” The Contessa lapses into silence, her empty eyes staring at a scene only she can see. It must have been harrowing, from the look on her face . . . and it also must have been something I once witnessed. The thought chills me. How could such a memory be forgotten?
“What happened after you arrived in this world?” I ask, and the Contessa blinks, as if I’ve just dragged her back into this moment. She leans forward again to pour herself another glass of wine.
“We fractured. The integrity of our tribe could not survive what had happened. Some went insane, certain that the demon’s blood we had consumed had irrevocably tainted us. Others wandered away or retreated into isolation, riven by the guilt of abandoning the people of our old world. The largest group remained true to the Prophet and followed him to find their place in this new realm. As a Master of the Keys, Ezekal had some knowledge of this world and its politics.”
“And you?” I ask as she pauses for another sip.
“I did not suffer from guilt or madness, but I would not serve Ezekal . . . or the Prophet, as he came to call himself. So I struck out on my own. I wandered for a century across the breadth of this world. I was the royal artificer in the court of the Red Padarasha, and rose to the top of the thieves’ guild in the Living City of Belasch. But mostly I sought out the doorways and portals that had once linked the worlds. When I found ones that were still open, I closed them. If any priest or scholar still knew how they could be opened, I killed them and destroyed their ancient knowledge.”
There’s not a trace of remorse or guilt in her voice about the murders to which she’s casually admitting. I’m beginning to have suspicions about the state of her sanity.
She seems to sense my discomfort. “I took no pleasure in ending those who knew about the doors, Alesk. Or Talin, if you prefer. I had to ensure that this world remained safe from the Shriven.” She waves her glass at me, coming close to spilling the wine. “Hide your judgements better. You are responsible for crimes of equal magnitude.” She looks away, quiet for a moment before speaking again. “Thirty years ago I arrived in Ysala. I settled here, and after rising to the top of the Gilded Lynx I adopted the persona of the Contessa.” She meets my gaze evenly. “That is my story.”
I fear the question I’m about to ask, but I must know the answer. “Do you know mine?”
“I do – or, at least, a good part of it.”
“Tell me.”
The Contessa shrugs. “If you wish. You were born in the clan hold of the Silvers, the second son of a great warrior. You were unremarkable, as far as I know . . . but perhaps it only seemed that way because your brother was so exemplary. You must have excelled, if you earned the right to wield a green-glass sword.” Her eyes linger on the hilt of dark wood at my side. “The first time I met you properly you were standing beside your brother’s chair during the first war council that was convened after the Shriven appeared. You said nothing. Later it became clear that you were Talin’s shadow. His closest confidant. His right arm. You were at his side at the Chasm when the great thrust by the Shriven was halted. You escaped with him after Ghevalt’s Gap, when the armies of the alliance were scattered by the first appearance of a Leviathan. And you remained beside him in this world when Talin became the staunchest ally of the Prophet.”
I can’t keep the surprise from my face. “Wait, my brother served the Prophet?”
The Contessa watches me closely, as if looking for something in my reaction. “For a time. I was told by a fellow Silver that Talin and Ezekal had had some falling out, though over what he did not know. The great warmaster of our people had renounced our last Master of Keys . . . and his brother had taken his place at the Prophet’s side. That was the last I heard about you until you showed up in Ysala claiming to have no memory.”
“Why didn’t you tell me this at the time?” I ask, not bothering to hide my frustration.
“Because I did not trust you,” the Contessa says flatly. “Ezekal and I did not part under good circumstances. I thought you might be faking your condition in some complicated plot against me. It seemed so . . . outlandish that you would unknowingly find your way into my schemes. And calling yourself by your brother’s name, no less.”
I slump back in my chair, my mind whirling as I try to come to grips with everything the Contessa has just said. The alethian beneath the monastery had claimed I once served the Prophet. So did the Abbess of the Umbra. But I’d never truly believed it. How could I serve a man who was in league with the Shriven? And how could Ezekal be allied with the demons after what they did to our world?
“This doesn’t explain what I was doing in the red wastes. Or what happened to my memory.”
The Contessa abruptly rises and begins pacing, her hands clasped behind her back. “I have theories, Alesk, though you may not wish to hear them. In fact . . .” She snaps her fingers and with a flicker of movement a small crossbow appears in Fen Poria’s hands, pointed at my head. The feral accomplishes this while still lounging in the chair, her leg thrown over the armrest. She smiles at me, her eyes heavy lidded. I tense, and Deliah stirs behind Bell. My gaze flickers to the shadows, wondering if Xela is poised to intervene.
“Calm yourselves,” the Contessa says, addressing us all. “Merely a precaution. I trust Alesk in his current state, but I’m afraid what I might say now will start an avalanche of returning memories. And I do not have the same faith in the man he once was.”
My heart pounding, I settle back in my chair. “Tell me your theory.”
The Contessa stops her pacing and nods. “Very well. Ezekal is a Master of the Keys, and I am a Mistress. We both have intimate knowledge of the doorways. We can craft keys that can hold open the doors for a short while, and even imprint a particular destination into the stones. At least, we can open the doors for other humans. I have come to believe that the Shriven require something more if they are to pass between the worlds.” She turns to Valyra. “Sorcery.”
I think back to the Voice beneath the monastery as it compelled the weaver to open the doorway. There had been a great shadow swelling on the other side of the portal, coming closer . . . she had been creating a path that the demons could follow into our world. If the shadowdancers’ goddess had not distracted the Voice for a moment and given me the opening to slay the creature, then the Shriven would have found their way into this world.
The Contessa is staring at me intently.
“What?” I say, unnerved by her attentio
n.
“Alesk, I’ve given you all the pieces. Now fit together the puzzle yourself – I know you are a simple warrior, but this shouldn’t be too much for you.”
“You said sorcery is required to open the paths for the Shriven,” I say slowly. “And there’s no sorcery in this world.” At least no one like the weavers and ravelers of the red wastes – everyone I’ve met since being deposited in the bottom of a lake has scoffed at the very idea of sorcery, from Poz to Bell to Auxilia Orthonos.
“There is,” the Contessa interjects quickly, “but it cannot be shaped by the inhabitants here like in our old home. Perhaps once they could, but no longer.”
“So if Ezekal wanted to open the paths for the Shriven into this world, he needed to bring one of the sorcerers here first.”
“A weaver, to be precise,” the Contessa murmurs, glancing at Valyra. “Of which there were none remaining among the Silver refugees. My supposition is that there is something about the healing and mending sorcery of weavers that can make the doorways viable for the Shriven. As if the paths were damaged so that they could not be trodden by the demons, and the weaver’s sorcery repairs them.”
A shiver goes through me. That aligns with what Lahgokep said. “By bringing Valyra into this world I did exactly what the Prophet wanted.”
“Alesk,” the Contessa says softly, holding my gaze. “You were sent to bring a weaver back.”
For a moment, I’m shocked into a numb silence. Then I shake my head angrily. “No. No, I wouldn’t do that.”
The cocked crossbow that Fen Poria has trained on me now makes more sense. I strain to remember beyond my first memories of stumbling through the wastes with the hooked Shriven in pursuit. Had I truly been a servant of the Prophet? Even though I knew what would happen to this world?
“Traversing the paths is dangerous,” the Contessa is saying, but I’m barely listening, lost in my own thoughts. “A few journeys are unlikely to damage a traveler’s memory. But the more frequent the trips, the more likely the strain of the crossing will damage the mind. If I was to hazard a guess, I would suggest that this was not the first time you’d been sent back searching for a weaver.”
“And the time I forget everything is when I succeeded,” I whisper.
“How ironic,” the Contessa says.
“The priest always said the Silvers were the great betrayers,” Valyra says, staring at me in growing horror. “He was right. And you were even returning to betray us again when we found you.” She whirls on the Contessa. “You should have told me!” she says, her copper eyes flashing. “All this time waiting for him to come and save me, and you knew what he was!”
My stomach drops at Valyra’s reaction. “I promise you,” I say pleadingly, “I would not do this.”
“Now you wouldn’t, and I believe that,” the Contessa replies. “Before . . . you were Ezekal’s man.”
My thoughts are racing as I desperately try to find some reason that might exonerate me. Valyra is shaking now, and the revulsion in her face stabs at my heart.
“I know Talin – or Alesk, whatever his true name is – to be a good man.”
I glance over at Bell. The scientist’s daughter has steepled her fingers in front of her face, her brow furrowed in the way she gets when she’s thinking hard. “But whether he was doing the Prophet’s will or not is far from the most pressing question we should be trying to answer. The real mystery is why the Prophet is trying to bring the Shriven into this world.”
We all turn to the Contessa, but she only shrugs. “I cannot begin to fathom it.”
“Perhaps the Voice was controlling him,” I venture. Something else is puzzling me, given what the Contessa just said. “But how was the Voice even here? I thought you said the Shriven could not walk the paths?”
“For that I can offer up an educated guess,” the Contessa says. “You must have noticed that the Voices are the only Shriven that resemble humans . . . they can even pass for humans, if they are shrouded in enough clothes. I believe that these Voices have more in common with us than simply their appearance, and that whatever this aspect is, it allows them to walk the paths. They are the heralds, going forth to prepare the way for the rest of their kind.” She pauses again, her face clouding. “As to why Ezekal would ally himself with the Shriven . . . that is one mystery I cannot unravel. I must be missing some important information.” She stares pointedly at me. “Information you knew once. If only we could restore part of your memories, without also returning you to who you once were.”
“Who he was,” Valyra says savagely, her fists clenched, “was a traitor to my world and my tribe. My brother was right.” With that she whirls and strides from the chamber. I can see tears gleaming on face as she passes me, and then she is gone.
I start to rise, but the Contessa gestures for me to stay seated.
“Leave her. I will speak later to Valyra.” She motions and Fen Poria lowers the crossbow, though the feral keeps it in her lap with her fingers resting lightly on the stock.
For a long time we are all silent, lost in our own thoughts. I feel cold, despite the crackling warmth of the fire. What kind of man was I? Could I become him again if my memories suddenly return?
The sound of a throat clearing softly returns me to the present. The young man who had led us through the manse now stands in the entrance to the room, his hands folded in front of his crisp black doublet.
“Mistress,” he says, inclining his head to where the Contessa sits cradling a fresh glass of wine. “And guests,” he pivots to give a general nod in our direction. “It is nearly time for the parley.”
The Contessa massages her forehead with two fingers, wincing. “The parley. Another useless meeting to take me away from more important things . . .” Her silver eyes suddenly brighten, and she looks at me. “But this time we will see how Ezekal reacts to you.” She turns to address the castellan. “Find this man something suitable to wear. He’s about to meet the emperor of Zim.”
6
The Contessa is quiet for most of the carriage ride to the city gates. She has donned her white mask again, and although I can no longer see her eyes, I suspect that if I could they would be fixed on something far away. I hope she’s formulating a strategy to both deny the Prophet what he wants and also save the city, but I suppose she could also be considering whether she should truly trust me. Though the fact that she’s alone with me in her gilded carriage suggests that she believes I won’t reveal myself to be the man she claims I once was.
The sound of the cobbles beneath the wheels suddenly changes, and she slides open a panel so she can glance outside.
“We’re almost there,” she says. She takes out a small hand mirror and inspects herself carefully. “Things have changed in Ysala since you were last here,” she says distractedly as she adjusts the frilled collar of her dress. “After the Night of Bloody Shadows – that’s what they’re calling the Masquerade where the Marquis made his bid for kingship – most of the leadership of the Trusts was dead, killed by the Red Trillium’s shadowdancer assassins. The new heads of the Trust are young and inexperienced, except for the Baron, who was too sick to attend that ill-fated celebration.” She snaps shut the mirror’s case and slips it away. “They look to me for guidance, and so far my attempts to delay the emperor have proven successful.”
“How have you done that?”
“By claiming that we are trying to find the girl he desires. He doesn’t know that Valyra is actually at my manse. Zimani spies spotted her months ago when I foolishly let her out to explore the city, but they did not realize she was under my protection. We’ve tried to claim that she has since left the city, but the emperor insists that she’s still inside the walls, which makes me believe that Ezekal has some arcane way of knowing this.”
“Does the Prophet know who you are?” I ask, shifting uncomfortably in the tight damask shirt the castellan found for me.
“No,” the Contessa says, and I hear the gloating in her voice. “He has bee
n staring at me for weeks at these parleys and is completely ignorant that we used to sit in council in the cloudspire of the Silver holdfast three hundred years ago.” She pauses for a moment, tilting her head to one side in thought. “I suppose we are lucky, in a sense, that Valyra was recognized so many months after arriving. It had been long enough that she could have traversed the breadth of Zim by natural means. If she’d been found earlier, the Prophet would have realized that she must have used the doorways to arrive in Ysala so quickly. And then he’d start wondering if I was involved.”
“Do you think he’ll be surprised to see me?”
The Contessa chuckles throatily. “Oh, most definitely. I can’t wait to see his face.”
A few moments after the carriage lurches to a stop, the door is swung open by a handsome young man in the red and black livery of the Gilded Lynx. He gracefully offers the Contessa his hand and she accepts, descending from the carriage with her back straight and head held imperiously high. I follow blinking into the harsh daylight. Above us, the late afternoon sun is just visible over the trebuchets perched atop the city gate.
A small crowd of elegantly dressed men and women is milling near the great doors. Half of them are wearing masks, and the others have swords at their sides. It seems like each of the Trust heads has been allowed a single bodyguard at this parley. As we approach, they stop their muttered conversations and turn to us.
A burly man in a black mask sporting two stubby tusks crosses his arms. “Who’s this one, Contessa? Has your weird little feral scampered back to the forest?”
The Contessa ignores his question, sweeping into the midst of the crowd. A few of the other Trust leaders nod respectfully, a gesture she does not return.
“You’re late again, Contessa,” the man with the tusked mask continues. “The emperor will be annoyed.”
“I care about the emperor’s annoyance almost as little as I care about yours, Baron,” she says dismissively, not turning to face the man.
