Dross (Sphereworld: Joined at the Hilt Book 2)

by Caleb Wachter

  “What I understand,” Randall spat, stopping just short of the door as Phinjo seemed to glide through it, her bell-shaped dress silently swinging left and right as only the barest sound of her footfalls signaled her passage, “is that I’m being roped into something I wanted no part of. I’m not interested in whatever game it is you’re playing with the Federation; I’ve got my own problems to deal with.”

  That would be ‘we,’ Randall, Dan’Moread chided, to which he waved a hand in silent concession.

  “Oh?” she asked, turning halfway and regarding him with a patronizing look as her wig of bright red hair framed her features as perfectly as any portrait Randall had seen. “And what problems might those be?”

  The kind that usually end in bloodshed, Dan’Moread growled.

  “The kind that are of no concern to you,” Randall replied, ignoring Dani to the best of his ability. “I did what you asked and now I want to leave.”

  “And where would you go?” she asked, turning the rest of the way to square herself to him. “What would you do? Who would you see? How long would you remain ‘free’ to roam the world and seek out whatever pleasures, adventures, or experiences tease and tempt you from the horizon? These may sound like the most interesting questions to one as young and short-sighted as yourself, but I can assure you there is nothing to be gleaned from discovering their answers except sorrow and loss—primarily a loss of time, which is and will forever remain our most precious commodity. You are part of something, great grandchild of mine,” she said as she turned and resumed her walk toward the massive, stone doors at the palace’s front, “and you can no more remove yourself from it than you can remove my blood from your veins. Come…I would show you something.”

  What a bitch, Dan’Moread muttered, to which Randall promptly replied.

  “No shit.”

  “What is this?” Randall asked after following Phinjo into the same tower which had housed him during his previous stay in Greystone. They had ascended to the floor just below the rooftop, and within that chamber was a large table with what looked to be false geographical features all across it.

  “Surely you have seen a map before?” Phinjo asked as she moved to the far side of the elaborate map—one which Randall soon realized stretched all the way from the Binding Chain to the Rydian Sea. He saw markings for Greystone, Three Rivers, and even the barest hints of blue-colored sand could be seen at the southern edge of the map.

  “Never one that wasn’t scratched on paper,” Randall muttered.

  “This one is more detailed, and will explain your role in what is to come far more effectively than words ever could. Do you recognize this mountain pass?” she asked, gesturing to the very pass which he had meant to investigate, but which Lazeros—Phinjo’s supposed brother—had denied him the opportunity to do so.

  “I do,” he said, deciding it was best to withhold Lazeros’ message for the time being. He was sick of being led around by the nose, and the only way he could possibly escape that fate was by learning as much as he possibly could of what was transpiring in this high-stakes game Phinjo and the Jarl were playing with the Federation.

  “Good,” she gestured to the pass, “then you see that there is a vast lake in these mountains.”

  He nodded, seeing a bowl-sized reservoir of water behind the pass he had seen in his dream.

  “Perhaps your eyes are not quite keen enough,” she said leadingly, “but there is a wall of false stone which spans this gap, and it is that stone which holds back the water—water which, for thousands of years, ran along the very river you recently investigated.”

  “But that river is dry,” he cocked his head dubiously.

  “That is incorrect,” she said serenely, “it was dry.”

  “But…” he trailed off as she moved to stand near the mountain lake on the map.

  “Look here,” she gestured with each hand, one to the west and one to the east of the lake before her, “do you see these two rivers?”

  He squinted at the map and did indeed see a pair of rivers flanking wide from either side of the so-called False River—a river which she had just said was no longer dry and, therefore, no longer false. “I do,” he said impatiently, though his curiosity was piquing to the point that it nearly overcame his irritation at this whole cryptic situation.

  “The Treaty of Submission signed by the Last King of Greystone,” she said, waving a hand at the three rivers—the westernmost of which flowed from its own unique source further up the Binding Chain mountain range, while the False River and the easternmost river were supplied from the mountain reservoir in front of Phinjo, “clearly states that the sovereign territory of Greystone shall extend westward to the eastern bank of the river which is supplied by this lake. The Federation negotiators cleverly worded this clause with the full knowledge that they meant to dam up the so-called False River,” she gestured to the lake and traced the path of the eastern river with her finger, “and divert all of its waters to the nearer White River, which was originally the smaller of two rivers to spring from the lake.”

  Randall shook his head in confusion, “You mean…they stole the land based on a technicality?”

  “Not exactly,” she allowed, “for the Federation made no direct claim on that land. Instead,” she gestured to the vast, open tract of forests and rolling hills between the ‘False River’ and the White River, “they simply aimed to deny Greystone the agreed upon region, knowing that by doing so they were cutting her off from her former allies to the west.”

  Realization dawned on him as Randall examined the criss-crossing roads—several of which led to the very bridge which he had visited—and saw that Greystone’s ability to conduct traffic was badly limited by the White River border.

  “Good,” Phinjo said approvingly, “you begin to understand. And now,” she waved her right hand airily at the ‘lake’ in the mountains, “let me show you why the good ambassador was so irate.”

  A trickle of water began to flow down from the mountain lake and with painful deliberation it slowly made its way down the dry, winding riverbed until finally reaching the junction of all of these waterways: Three Rivers.

  He retraced the White River’s path and realized that Three Rivers’ name had been inaccurate for as long as he had lived within its walls. The truth was that it was sourced by three rivers only by the most literal definition of the term ‘river.’ The White River, which at the junction of Three Rivers itself was the southernmost river of the three, actually fed the very end of the False River by what was clearly an artificial channel dug across a relatively narrow patch of land.

  “The city of your birth will be Three Rivers in name alone no longer,” Phinjo said, and there was something in her voice that made Randall’s hair stand on end. “By now, the floodwaters have already wiped out the dam and channel which tenuously supported this act of theft by the Federation. It was a theft left unaddressed for far, far too long, but now we have put matters back to rights.”

  “Why show me any of this?” Randall asked after taking a few minutes to absorb the magnitude of what she had revealed. “What you’re talking about is a war—a war with an army that has never been defeated,” he added pointedly.

  Greystone’s walls are thick and firm, Dan’Moread interjected, but there is no wall which cannot be brought down given enough effort.

  “Indeed,” Phinjo nodded, “but the Federation is not alone in having never tasted the bitterness of defeat on the battlefield. The Nation is likewise virginal in this regard.” She stood to her diminutive, but somehow commanding stature and cocked her head, “You have acquaintances in Three Rivers, yes?”

  Randall bristled, “How is that any concern of yours?”

  “I never off advice freely since doing so only devalues it,” Phinjo said as she made her way around the map until coming to stand before him, “but in this case I will make an exception. Call it an act of matronly affection if you will, or think of it as a rare mistake made by an old woman; as fa
r as I am concerned there is no difference between the two so in these circumstances I would permit you the opportunity to select whatever illusion best suits you.”

  “If you’re threatening to hurt—“ he began

  “Come now, dear child,” she scoffed, “I can assure you that the opposite is my intention. After your investiture tomorrow morning, you would do well to ride back to Three Rivers and collect whomever would willingly accompany you to your new abode.”

  “My new abode?” Randall repeated incredulously. “I don’t think we’re communicating here, so let me be as clear as I can: I want nothing to do with any of this,” he waved his hand at the map. “Whatever plans you have in mind for me, find someone else to play the part. I just want to leave this place and, gods willing, never return for as long as I live.”

  “Such goals are not incompatible with my own,” Phinjo said coolly.

  This is pointless, Dan’Moread said.

  “I agree,” Randall snorted.

  “Good,” Phinjo clapped her hands, “then rest here, in the Towers, and marshal your strength for the journey that awaits you.”

  “Even assuming that I wanted to take my friends out of Three Rivers,” he threw his hands in the air, “why in the Maker’s name would they want to leave? How would they live? The Federation doesn’t exactly open its arms for people like them—people like me,” he jabbed his thumb into his chest emphatically, “and while their lives are far from ideal in Three Rivers at least they aren’t fighting beast men and Grey Blades and running into hostile Twilight Walkers—“

  “Twilight Walkers?” Phinjo interrupted. “Where did you hear that?”

  Randall’s mouth snapped shut as Dan’Moread’s voice filled his head, That was tactically regrettable. You surrendered the initiative to her.

  He shook his head irritably, “I ran into someone who claimed to be your brother. Dan’Moread,” he patted her hilt, “said they were Twilight Walkers…whatever those are.”

  “Your blade knew they were Twilight Walkers?” Phinjo asked appreciatively, casting an appraising look on Dan’Moread’s hilt as she slowly nodded. “Impressive…and Grey Blades?”

  Randall gritted his teeth, deciding against revealing every detail of his trip to her just yet, “I ran into a pale warrior at the bridge. We fought him and Dan’Moread sundered his Grey Blade, but we were knocked unconscious for three days afterward. That was part of why we were late returning.”

  Phinjo tapped her chin contemplatively for several seconds, “Did my brother give you a message?”

  She really does think we are nothing more than her lackeys, Dan’Moread huffed, and, given our conduct of late, I see little reason for her to think otherwise.

  “Maybe he did,” Randall jutted his chin out defiantly, grinding his teeth at Dani’s suggestion.

  “Then maybe you would do well to relay it to me,” Phinjo said, her oversized eyes narrowing dangerously.

  “He said,” Randall sighed irritably, “that ‘the waters will no longer be denied, and that soon not even a rushing torrent may quench the forest’s burning rage.’ I have no idea what any of it meant, except…” he trailed off as he hesitated in silent deliberation. He had no wish to tell Phinjo about his emerging ‘gifts,’ which apparently included borderline-meaningless dreams which might possibly contain some sort of prescient messages. He knew that if she came to suspect him capable of such foresight there was a strong chance she would tighten her grip on him and, if that happened, there was no chance he could escape with his freedom as he and Dan’Moread had hoped to do.

  “You forget,” Phinjo tapped her temple lightly, “your thoughts betray you via our shared blood. Your freedom is, and has ever been, naught but illusion—an illusion which afflicts each and every one of us. You have a part to play, but even I am uncertain as to what part that might be. Even if you do not trust me,” she stepped forward, her slender frame betraying the aura of command and control she projected, “then you would be wise to learn to believe me when I speak with you directly and in private, as I do now: I am not your enemy, Randall. I wish nothing but what is best for you, best for the Nation, and ultimately what is best for anyone who is not affiliated with the Federation. If we shared no other bond of importance to either of us, that one alone ought to be sufficient to bind our purposes in the coming days.”

  Randall’s hands had turned to fists at his sides, and he forced them open as he drew several deep, steadying breaths. “We’re family, Phinjo,” he said angrily, “and I haven’t had family since my mom died. Somehow you and I get reunited and I think for a moment—a fleeting, bitter moment—that maybe, just maybe, I’ll be able to regain a piece of something I lost a long time ago. But you treat me like I’m your errand boy and you show me all the love that a snake shows to a mouse!”

  Unexpectedly, Randall saw a flash of what could only be sympathy in Phinjo’s eyes. But it was short-lived and vanished while she shook her head and her expression hardened, “You are young, Randall, and I would spare you the pain of learning several of life’s lessons—first among them being that one can never regain something after it is lost. Your mother is gone; I cannot replace her. You should waste no more of your life attempting to replace her for she is, was, and will forever be irreplaceable.”

  “You can’t possibly believe that,” Randall growled.

  Randall… Dan’Moread warned.

  “No,” he snapped, knifing his hand through the air, “she let her go, Dani, while she stayed safe and comfortable up here in her tower!”

  Phinjo’s large, doll-like eyes betrayed none of her emotions as Randall turned to sweep his arm over the map of the lands between Greystone and Three Rivers.

  “This is all some kind of game to you—all of it!” he yelled, his voice rising to a crescendo as the bottled-up anger he had repressed came roiling through the surface of his consciousness. “My mother, me, the Jarl, the Federation; I’m not even going to pretend that I understand what you’re planning. But I do understand,” he jabbed his finger down on the small marking which represented Three Rivers, “that my mother died in Three Rivers and you survived up here in Greystone. I don’t care how you slice it or what words you hide behind—you didn’t love my mother enough to save her when you clearly had the means to do so. You only cared about protecting yourself. If for no other reason,” he stood, his hand unconsciously going to rest of Dan’Moread’s pommel as he regained control over his emotions, “that would be enough for me to want to put as much distance as possible between us. Family either means something or it doesn’t, and it’s obvious to me that it means more to me than it does to you. Letting you run my life would only be supporting you and your values.” He shook his head adamantly, “I won’t do that.”

  Phinjo’s lips twisted into an amused smirk, “That took courage, young one. It was, unfortunately, misspent in this instance but I assure you that I can understand why you would choose to give vent to your colorful feelings. But we are not merely feeling creatures,” she said, her hands remaining clasped before her narrow waist as she stepped toward him purposefully, “we are thinking creatures, seed of my womb. Learn not only to suppress such outbursts in the future, but to reflect upon them to learn from them.”

  “You would teach me about my feelings?” he spat. “That’s rich.”

  “No,” she said with an equally gentle and unyielding quality to her voice which briefly disarmed Randall of his anger, “I would have you teach yourself about your feelings. I can never know them as you do, nor can you ever know mine as I do. Suggestions to the contrary are foolish—and I would not have you be a fool again since the rest of the world is far less forgiving of such effrontery than I am,” she said with chilling indifference. “You will remain here until dawn, when you will receive your investiture. If you would return to Three Rivers to visit your loved ones—perhaps for the last time, depending on your choice in the matter—then hold your tongue long enough for the ceremony to be completed so that your understanding might ta
ke firmer root. Good night,” she finished, turning to make her way out of the room.

  “Am I a prisoner here or can I go out into the city?” he demanded.

  “You are free to come and go as you see fit,” she said without breaking stride or making eye contact, “and such freedom is not restricted to the confines of the city. Do with yourself as you would, Randall,” she opened the door before turning and making eye contact, “for I do not have the time nor the inclination to hold your hand and wipe away your childish tears—even if it is what some of my ‘feelings’ would have me do. Too much is in motion for me to attend such trivialities.”

  “How can you be so heartless?” he demanded bitterly.

  “When the heart rules the head, the head becomes irrelevant,” she chided. “I would never permit such a condition in myself—and I would discourage it in those I choose to call ‘friend’.”

  She closed the door behind her, but not quite enough to cause the spring-latch to close.

  That was brave, Randall, Dan’Moread said with what sounded like muted approval before adding, stupid, but brave.

  “I think we should go give our thanks to Yorys,” Randall muttered, uncertain if there was any bravery in his ill-advised outburst—an outburst which quixotically had seemed to engender Phinjo’s respect rather than her ire.

  Agreed, she said solemnly.

  “What do you mean ‘he doesn’t work here any more’?” Randall asked of the Dragon’s Tooth’s head smith.

  The smith, named Hostettler, glowered at Dan’Moread’s hilt—which now sported a significant portion of the Dragon’s Tooth’s precious, eponymous material—for several seconds before grunting, “He wasn’t authorized to sell some of the Tooth’s inventory, so he was released before his apprenticeship could be completed. It won’t be enough to hold him back from getting his license, but it’ll be a stain he’ll bear for years to come—a stain he earned by overstepping his station.”

  “You’re talking about his using,” Randall’s hand went to Dan’Moread’s pommel, “the tooth material on this sword?”