by Daryl Banner
After giving a quick look at Lionis and Athan, Wick nods. Yes.
She nods back, “hearing” his response. “I’ll go in first to ensure that my sister is still away,” states Arcana. “If she’s returned already and is up there, our situation may become … complicated.”
“How so?” blurts Lionis, his brow furrowed.
“She is a powerful Psychist. The most powerful in all of Atlas—and we have met hundreds. She can easily suppress Legacies and manipulate minds. I can communicate to her through my own Psychomentalist ability, so I will tell her not to rob you of your powers. I will tell her that I trust you. All of you.”
“That trust has come quickly,” mutters Lionis dubiously.
To that, Arcana simply lifts an eyebrow. “Have you forgotten my Legacy already? I’ve danced through each of your minds. I know what thoughts and secrets and resentments you hold in them. And I know your intentions are just right for our purposes, each of you.” Her face hardens. “And if we are strong enough, we can make the madness mean something. Together.”
“You’re risking a lot to do this,” Wick states suddenly, pulling the concern directly from Arcana’s mind and laying it out plainly for the benefit of Athan and Lionis. “Impis is unpredictable, but so is your sister Axel … in her own way.”
Arcana agrees with a tightened nod. Then she tilts her head. “We may not have much time, so I will hurry inside first. When I am back, I will retrieve you and take you to him. Oh, and about those charms you’ve been planting everywhere,” she adds, “I wouldn’t waste the thought. The Lifted City is guarded by a sort of protective magnetic barrier. Your friend Arrow will hear next to nothing with those tiny things you brought, unless you happen to have a charm in your pocket that’s the size of a person.”
“Would have been nice to know before,” mumbles Lionis.
“The laying out of your charms was a welcome distraction from the tension in your minds,” she explains. “It put you at ease. I could tell. It would have been unkind of me to rob you of that comfort.” Then, she gives a short bow. “Now please do excuse me. I will return shortly to receive you.”
Then, after taking a short breath, Arcana lays her palm against a small electrical pad, which causes the enormous doors to slowly yawn open. She enters the tower alone, and then the doors shut behind her with a loud, resounding boom.
Slowly, Wick feels her Legacy slip away. He didn’t realize until now the strange, fuzzy noise of opened brains everywhere speaking and hissing secrets at him until Arcana has left his field of influence.
“Waste of charms,” spits Lionis, all the so-called comfort turned into annoyance right away. “We are truly alone now.”
“We already were before,” mutters Wick. “What exactly would Arrow do if he heard anything anyway?”
“He should’ve made stronger two-way charms. His earpieces.”
“He didn’t have time and it wouldn’t have mattered anyway,” Wick says less than patiently, “unless you think a charm the size of a person can fit in your ears.”
Lionis rolls his eyes and looks away, arms folded.
Athan bristles suddenly. “I don’t know if this is a good idea.” He gives Wick an apologetic wince. “I’m sorry, I know, I know. We all talked about it and … and we had the choice to stay, but now that we’re here, I just—”
“We didn’t have the choice to stay,” says Wick plainly.
Athan blinks. “W-We did.”
“No, we didn’t. If we stayed, her sister Axel would have found us. They were both looking for us because Impis is gathering every missing person from his list of Nine, remember? We were not safe at my house. Now that we’re here, no one will go looking for us there. Well, more accurately … now that … I’m here.” Wick’s jaw tightens. “Really, it’s just me he wanted. Which means that you had the choice to stay. Lionis had the choice to stay. I … did not.”
Athan’s face becomes hurt by that fact. “Anwick …”
“I should have left less of an impression at my Legacy Exam. I should have kept my mouth shut.”
“Being on Impis’s list saved you when you were arrested by your brother Halves,” Athan reminds him. “So you were taken to the Windstone Academy instead of the Keep. And because of that, we reunited. You can’t blame any one thing for where we are now, for how far we’ve come or not come. Everything that happens is a … a delicate series of unpredictable events. This is just another event. You and I can make it through this.” Athan takes a deep breath. “I’m sorry for my doubts a second ago. I’ve found my confidence again. I don’t feel the panic in my blood. We are meant to be up here.”
Wick nods, desperate to believe in Athan’s reassurance.
“And no matter what happens,” Athan goes on, “I love you.”
Wick gives Athan a quick, impulsive kiss on the lips, his body too nervous and his mind too fretful for much else. “Thank you, babe.”
The tower doors yawn open so suddenly, the three boys nearly jump with surprise. Arcana struts out of them, her needle eyes going from boy to boy as she observes them waiting. Then, with a little lift of the corner of her lips, she says, “Are you ready to meet the King of Madness?”
Wick nods. “Let’s see him.”
Arcana winks, then turns, her long straight ponytail swishing like a whip as she leads them inside. There isn’t much to the first floor of the tower, its inside expansive and empty. The chrome floors are so polished, they’re reflective, casting bits of moonlight up at them from whatever pale light comes in through the slits of windows around the perimeter of the enormous space. A spiraling staircase in the center of the room is where they go, and for countless metallic steps, the boys ascend behind Arcana for three full eternities. The stairs never seem to end, and countless times they pass by a landing with doors, then only continue up, not stopping at a single one of them.
“My legs hurt …” hisses Lionis from behind.
“Keep going,” Wick grunts, suppressing the tightness and aches that plague his own thighs.
One more flight turns into two turns into seven turns into ten before they arrive, at long last, upon a landing that opens into a long, long hallway. Arcana continues to lead them. The hall bends around the perimeter of the tower, lined with benches on one side, above which is an occasional slit of window in the wall, letting in the pale moonlight. A tall, narrow opened door comes within view, the light from within spilling out in one bright stripe that paints itself over the tile, up the wall, and across the ceiling.
Arcana stops at the door and points in with a flat hand. “This way, my friends,” she murmurs gently.
Wick excuses the odd pageantry, figuring it to be how Arcana acts before the King. He listens for any secret thoughts she may be trying to send him, but hears nothing.
“Let’s go,” urges Lionis with a tightness in his throat, coming up to Wick’s side.
When Wick turns his head, he is staring down the long, long, long throne room. He can’t believe it’s even physically possible for the throne room to be so long, knowing how the outside of Cloud Tower looks. It is also shockingly bright, every surface of the room appearing to be made of mirror or glass or crystal.
Before Wick realizes it, he’s already started to move his feet, walking down the aisle of the empty throne room toward the end where a sole figure sits on the throne. Even from this far away, Wick recognizes the colorful attire of the former Marshal of Madness, Impis Lockfyre. Standing at his side by the throne are two people, one of them familiar and one of them not. The familiar one casts a wave of fear through Wick’s body, as it is Metal Hand, the man who is encased in armor from head to toe—complete with gauntlets on either of his hands. One single touch from his bare finger destroys a person instantly, wiping them from existence. Wick has watched it happen several times on the broadcast, the latest of which was Dran, the one who was blamed for Rain’s blue ink at the Weapon Show. That feels like ages ago. The other is a fit and naked man whose body is wet, from his soppin
g hair to his shins. He looks miserable.
When the doors to the throne room shut far behind them, the sound is a deep drum that rushes to meet them with such a daunting force that Wick stops to face it. Arcana is many, many paces behind them, slowly catching up with her unhurried saunter. Lionis and Athan stop too.
“Come!” calls a playful, happy voice from the throne.
Wick turns around again, resuming his walk. Lionis and Athan do the same, joining him for the long walk to the throne where the colorful Impis Lockfyre awaits them. He wears baggy silken pants with one leg violet and the other teal. He wears a white doublet from which a nest of vibrant multicolored feathers burst out from his left shoulder. His arms are covered by a skintight golden fabric that glints in the light like twenty thousand tiny diamonds. His face is powdered white with crimson color tracing his eyes, tiny red wings fanning out on either side toward his temples. His white, red-tipped hair is decorated in a chaotic nest of braids and ponytails and knobs and twists and spikes that stack twice the height of his head, appearing as if he’s wearing a large headpiece.
Twice in Anwick Lesser’s life, he has been overwhelmed to the point of staggering by Impis’s mere presence.
Impis leans forward, giving Wick an unwelcomed closer look at his eyes—one of which has a black iris, the other of which has no iris, whited out to make the pupil look like a black pinhead. That must be Impis Lockfyre’s eye of mania, the one that starts and ends the madness he is so infamous for.
“Nothing,” he whispers at Wick, smiling to show a brief spread of teeth. His lips are pale white but for a dab of crimson in the center, nearly giving him the look of being permanently puckered.
Wick lifts an eyebrow. “Nothing?”
Impis giggles, not explaining his word of greeting. “I have been looking for you for quite some time. Oh, but sweet Arcana brought you to me. She said she had spoken to you, yes? About my plan?”
Arcana has now taken a position on the other side of the throne away from Metal Hand and the wet, naked young man. She studies Wick with a tightly closed mouth and unblinking, curious eyes. Plan? asks Wick in his mind as he looks intently at her, curious if she is sending him thoughts. She isn’t.
“Yes,” Wick finally says, turning his eyes back to Impis. “She said you are gathering your nine.”
Impis nods eagerly. “Yes, yes, yes. My favorite word: yes. You should know that if we’re going to be friends. Also, I enjoy not having a plan. That is my plan. Oh, and I hear you can sleep? Is that true? You know the answer. Say it, say it, say it.”
Wick tries on a smile, despite his mounting anxiety. “Y—”
“YES!!” screams Impis, nearly leaping off of his throne. “You can sleep! Oh, but why, Anny-Anwick?? Why did you say you could smell things? Like … what’s in my pocket? Or a lemon blossom root beneath my chair? Why, why, why?”
It was a cherry blossom root. “It was not my intention to lie. Well, I mean, it was really my family trying to protect me. They thought—”
“Show me!” shouts Impis, his eyes wide. “I want to see it!”
Wick blinks. “Uh … show you?”
“Sleeping! Sleep for me! Do it! Oh, the last time I saw a baby, oh, was it my dear sweet brother?? I had a brother twelve years younger than I. He was so cute when he slept—all gurgle and guuurgle and—oh, oh, I miss the sound! Sleep for me! Sleep for your Marshal!”
Arcana speaks. “You are King, now.”
“Yes, yes, yes. I forget. Yes.” Impis giggles. “Forgive me, Anwick. Anny-Anwick. I—”
“He has more ability than that,” says Arcana, her eyes on Wick. “He is a mimic.”
Impis gasps. “A MIMIC?!” He jumps to his feet, then lifts the flat of a hand up and, with crazed eyes on Wick, draws a circle in the air. When Wick does nothing, Impis pouts. “Not a very good mimic.”
“He is not a mimic of body,” explains Arcana gently. “He is a mimic of Legacy.”
Impis scurries down the three steps from his throne so quickly, Wick nearly trips himself backing away. “You can really take others’ Legacies??”
“I … can share them. I don’t take them.”
“Can you make me feel …? Anwick? C-Can you …” Impis takes another step closer. Wick takes another step back. “C-Can you make me f-f-feel …” Giggles dance in Impis’s throat as he tries to get out the question. He circles the three boys, coming around them, his eyes unblinking. He comes to a stop beside them. “Can you make me … feel the mania??”
Wick is not comforted by the idea of touching Impis’s Legacy. He has heard his whole life that Impis’s very possession of his power is why he is the way he is. If I touch the madness, will I go mad too?
“Careful,” murmurs Athan.
Wick turns to him, the fear evident in both their eyes. Then, he turns his gaze toward Arcana, figuring he’d appeal to her for help. What should I do? he asks her, his eyebrows lifted.
Arcana makes no reaction on her face, staring at him.
Wicks eyebrows pull together. Something is wrong. He glances back at Impis, then attempts to listen to the madman’s thoughts.
Nothing.
He turns his face back to the twin. “You’re not Arcana,” he says suddenly.
She smirks and tilts her head in the exact way that Arcana does, her ponytail swishing to the side. She’s even dressed like her from head to painted toenail. “A smart one, this Anny-Anny-Anwick.”
Wick takes a step away from Impis, bumping shoulders with Athan. “Where is Arcana?” he asks them, trying to mask the worry in his voice—and failing.
The woman, who must be the twin Axel, answers, “Occupied.”
“Is he afraid?” asks Impis to his friends, yet keeping his crazed eyes on Wick. “Don’t be afraid. I like you. You’re my new toy. And I don’t damage what’s mine. I’m a good boy. Good, good, good boy.”
I don’t damage what’s mine. Wick stands tall. “I mean to be more than just a toy,” says Wick, trying to keep his tone playful. If Impis wants to play, then I must play with him. He is of a child’s mind, and a child must be constantly distracted, and thusly, managed. “What do you do for fun up here in Cloud Tower?”
Impis giggles, then points at the fit, wet young man. “CHAOS!” he screams delightedly for an answer. “Don’t we have so much fun?? Chaos, show them your power!!”
Up close, Wick realizes that the miserable young man is not just wet from a pool or a shower; he is drenched in sweat. He seems to experience a moment of desperately needed relief. Chaos—his name, Wick must assume—throws his hands into the air, every muscle in his slick, sweaty body flexed and tensed up in the effort.
The next instant, the world flashes bright red, all the windows glowing for one fraction of a second, and a crackle of noise explodes. Wick, Lionis, and Athan all slap hands to their ears, flinching away.
Just as quickly, the light and the noise are gone, and the sweaty man is on his knees, breathing heavily. Wick lowers his hands and watches him, concerned. Was that the Finger of Madness we just saw? Did our demonstration just destroy a house, or a building, or a ward?
“Such power, so beautiful, Goddess-given, yes,” Impis purrs, his hands against his face as he stares up the three glass steps at Chaos, who breathes so heavily, he sounds like he’s dying of thirst. “Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes.”
Suddenly, another person appears near the window with a snap of sound, seemingly out of thin air. His skin—from his neck to his wrists and ankles—is made of metallic scales, giving him a glossy snake-like appearance. “King Impis,” the man calls.
Impis lifts his chin, happily responding, “Dregor! You’ve news?”
“Not of the good variety,” the man—Dregor—responds. “The girl is missing.”
Impis tilts his head, all his little bits of hair wiggling from the tiny movement. “The girl?”
“Ruena Neth—”
Before he even finishes the name, Impis sucks in the greatest, sharpest gasp of scandal, a
hand slapping to his chest. “THE GIRL?!” he screams out, furious in an instant. “SHE IS MISSING?! HOW DID THIS HAPPEN!! WHO WAS WATCHING HER??”
Dregor seems very uncomfortable, his eyes wet with a mix of fear and annoyance. “There are not enough of us. You sent eight of your Chaots off to comb the streets for survivors. Four are in the slums recovering missing members of your Nine. We had two on duty in the King’s Keeping, but one was found dead and the other is, well …” He gives a smirking nod at Axel across the room.
“Dead?” Impis brings his fingers to his lips. “Dead-dead?”
“Yes. With your permission, I’d like to—”
“SHE MUST BE FOUND!” Impis screams out. “She has valuable information! She has Sanctum secrets! She has powers! She has … oooh, this makes me so, so, so, so, so, so, so, so, so—”
“Impis, King …”
“—so, so, so, so, so, so, so, so, SO MAD!!” Impis stomps on the tile and scrunches up his shoulders, fists tightened at his hips. “All of them. Send all of them to the streets and FIND THE GIRL!”
Dregor gives Impis a curt nod, appearing somewhat vexed, then vanishes before their eyes.
Impis marches back up to his big throne and unceremoniously plops himself down, scowling, his left eye twitching. Wick feels its effects right away, his chest turning light and a dizziness chasing its way through his brain. “King Impis,” Wick says quickly.
It works, cutting off the moment of growing madness at once when Impis sits forward and lifts his chin. “Oh. I’d forgotten you.”
“You do not need the Netheris girl,” Wick states. “If there are any Sanctum secrets here, you have all the powers of your … Chaots … and the people you’ve found here in the city. Between us, we—”
“It was you,” Impis murmurs suddenly, his eyes wide.
Wick freezes, unsure what he means by that. “Me?”
“You freed her. You planned a scheme. You made this happen.”
