by Will Wight
“I represent the will of Othaghor, the Hordefather,” he said, his voice sounding as though his throat had been wracked by the same disease as his face. “He orders the Am'haranai to act on his behalf at the upcoming battle against the vile worms.”
He spat to one side at the mention of Kthanikahr's forces.
“We would be happy to negotiate terms with the Hordefather,” she said, careful to emphasize the word negotiate. “What has he to offer us?”
The delegate made a burbling sound that she was certain could never come from a human. “Offer you? I'd heard talk of the blasphemies born on this island, but this surpasses my imagination by far! One does not negotiate with the raging fire, nor with the Father of Life! It is an honor for you to serve him, and he will honor you as he honors all of his servants, once the world is his.”
“We prefer immediate payment,” the Mistress said.
This was always the first step of negotiating with Elders: hearing about how great and mighty they were. “We will accept artifacts usable by men, invested weapons, tame Kameira, or slaves.”
Once freed from Elder control, former slaves often became skilled and motivated workers. Some of them showed enough aptitude to be inducted into the Am'haranai themselves.
The delegate slashed a hand through the air, and she noticed the webs between his fingers. “The Hordefather does not show any more mercy to gnats than to worms! You will be crushed beneath his heel!”
“If he has not authorized you to offer payment, we can wait for you to return. As I understand the situation, your master is the one who wishes to act immediately. We have an abundance of time.”
The warped man stomped closer, snarling angrily. “Our army will scour this island clean! I will sip your blood from the hollowed skull of your mate!”
Once again, balance needed to be established. With a thought, the Mistress of the Mists stretched out her mind to her Soulbound Vessel.
It hardly took an effort; the power of her Vessel was all around her.
The mist billowed out, swallowing them both. She could feel the Veil pressing down, exuding peace and balance, suppressing Elder influence. The delegate shrieked, and she heard him flailing blindly.
Soundlessly, she pulled one of the bronze knives from the sheath at her back and crept up behind him. The tip rested under his chin for several seconds before he finally noticed, freezing in place.
“If you return with payment, the friendship of my island can be yours,” she said into his mutilated ear. This close, he smelled like rotting fish. “If you return with an army, you will find my hospitality can quickly turn to hostility.”
Some representatives were cowed by this display of force. Some ignored it, more afraid of their Elders than of her. Still others were impressed, even amused, as though they'd come across an exotic species.
Kelarac's last emissary had reacted that way, exposing his gold-capped teeth in a broad grin when she held a knife to his throat. He'd clapped his jeweled fingers together, regarding her from behind a steel blindfold that seemed nailed onto his face. “Very instructional,” he'd said, his voice amused. “I think I'll hire you after all.”
Since that time, Kelarac had been her best client.
But there was another category of delegate—those so wrapped up in pride that they couldn't take a simple threat. Othaghor's fish-man was one such. He blathered and blustered even more after her threat, shouting about the wrath of his master even as a pair of Shepherds escorted him back to his ship.
After a few minutes, the Mistress spoke into the misty air. “We cannot do business with men like that.”
To her left, in the wet grass, a mass of worms swarmed together until they'd formed into the shape of a human roughly two feet high. “It is not only men who have such a nature. Othaghor himself is prideful and vain. He trades vision of that which is distant for that which is close.”
The Mistress was never sure whether she was dealing with a representative of Kthanikahr or with the Worm Lord himself, but she remained respectful either way. “You may consider us your asset for the coming conflict. Our agents have boarded Othaghor's vessel even now, and they will be yours to command on the battlefield.”
The pile of worms whispered a laugh. “Humans are not fit to be the masters of this world, but even the most vile and insignificant of creatures have their uses. A few of you may survive as my servants.”
“May I expect payment delivered at dawn tomorrow?” the Mistress asked.
Another laugh drifted up as the worms dispersed, squirming down into the soil. That usually meant yes, that payment was on its way. But if it didn't arrive...well, her troops were already in place to aid Othaghor against his enemy.
That was the beauty of balance: if you started in the middle, you could move in any direction.
four years ago
Lucan broke away from the memories of the Mistress of the Mists. He took a moment to reorient himself to the present, then scribbled notes of the partial vision he’d just witnessed.
In the year since the Emperor’s death, he had snatched every opportunity to steal clues about the Guild’s long history. He had started off looking at more recent records, hoping for insight into the current High Council’s actions, but the more he dug, the more he became convinced that the true reasons were deeply buried.
Across his table, lit by the steady light of an orange quicklamp, were the fragments of history he had cobbled together to form a single picture.
One, a fragment of a page from the journal of Estyr Six. It wasn’t the original, and therefore held no useful Intent, but it questioned in passing why the Consultants had never appointed another Guild Head.
Based on Lucan’s knowledge of his Guild, that was a strange thing to wonder.
The Council of Architects had been elected when the last Soulbound to Bastion’s Veil had died. As the Vessel was a glass box, there had been no way to appoint a successor. The box could only be used for containment, and therefore it was not a tool that anyone could bind to themselves and inherit, as the Heads of the Imperial Guard and Blackwatch did.
The ancient Architects had considered it impossible, and Lucan himself considered it at best ludicrously unlikely.
Any potential Consultant Guild Head would have had to live with the source of Bastion’s Veil every minute, maybe for years, making it a part of who they were. That would be putting the Gray Island’s greatest defenses in the hands of one person, and even so, the process might not work.
But if Estyr Six thought it was possible for them to appoint a new Guild Head, then it was possible.
The journal fragment was on loan from the Miners’ archives, but he’d found the next item himself. The ancient bone fishhook had been used by an Am’haranai in the time before the Council of Architects, and Lucan had been fortunate to find it buried in one of the labyrinthine tunnels beneath the Gray Island.
It hadn’t been used in two thousand years, so it wasn’t as powerful in Intent as objects of similar age that remained in use, but the significance of an object settled over time. It was still a valuable find.
It carried many fragmented visions, mostly surrounding the act of fishing, but he managed to catch glimpses of deals carried out on the Island. Deals with Elders.
It was common knowledge that the Am’haranai had existed before the Empire, but he had always imagined them working for the primitive tribes of humanity. Though it made logical sense, he had never pictured his ancient predecessors taking contracts from Ach’magut or Nakothi.
The thought sickened him, but after all, the Emperor himself had borrowed Nakothi’s power. Clearly, sometimes distasteful Elder deals were justified. And the Consultants had eventually given up those ways in service to the Empire.
More records and invested tools filled in the picture: an old history book from deep in the dusty corners of the archives referred to the Mistress of the Mists by name, which provided context for some of the visions in his own Gardener’s shears.
&nbs
p; Heavily redacted minutes from old Architect Council meetings—which Lucan had only been allowed to retrieve with Kerian’s permission—gave further clues, until he knew a few points for certain.
First, the Mistress or Master of the Mists was the Consultant Guild Head, and if appointed, could supersede the entire Council of Architects. He was positive that the Architects knew this, or at least the High Council did, but they kept the knowledge to themselves.
It was easy to imagine why. The resurrection of the Guild Head would mean them giving up power.
However, that was too easy to assume. There was also the reality that, as far as he could tell, the Architects genuinely didn’t believe they could confer the power onto anyone. Only Estyr Six had mentioned it as a possibility.
Which was the other thread he was following.
Everyone in the world knew about the Regents, the companions of the Emperor who slept until they were needed to defend humanity. They had shown up five or six times since the Elder War that he could confirm, always to stop a rising Great Elder or to put down a calamitous rebellion.
They were called Regents because they were considered representatives of the Emperor himself. When they spoke, it was as though he spoke through them.
Nonetheless, they rarely governed, usually solving a problem and returning to sleep.
Somewhere.
That was his current question. The fragment of Estyr Six’s journal read: “…wish the Architects would appoint a new head of their Guild. If I have to sleep under the mist…someone to guard my back.”
The gaps in the fragment tormented him, but there was a clear link between the Regents and the Mistress of the Mists.
He didn’t know if this had anything to do with the High Council pushing Shera to kill the Emperor sooner than planned, but it was the most intriguing secret he’d uncovered. He was going to keep pulling this thread until the whole thing unraveled.
No matter how long it took.
Chapter Seven
present day
The armored Champion blasted through the floor with a deafening explosion, sending smoke and chunks of stone into the air.
When Shera could see again, Estyr was throwing a blinding-fast series of jabs into Teach’s midsection, each leaving a solid dent in the armor. The Head of the Imperial Guard tried to sweep a punch at Estyr’s head, but the Regent only ducked and landed an uppercut that launched Teach into the ceiling.
Kern leaped back up from the floor below in that moment, blood trickling from his scalp, but he landed and strode for Estyr with no further sign of injury.
They traded six blows apiece before Teach hit the ground. Each punch filled the room with thunder that Shera knew would be heard outside like a barrage of cannon-fire.
Kern’s fists were glancing blows, but Estyr’s were solid hits, most of which lifted Kern at least an inch into the air. As Teach pushed herself to her feet, groaning, Kern was fully on the defensive.
And Calder Marten was running for the door.
Anger flooded Shera, and she prepared herself to dash across the room. While they were both unarmed, she could kill Calder a dozen different ways before he knew he was dead.
For making her think that cooperation was possible and then dashing her hopes, he deserved it.
“Shera!” Estyr shouted. “My Vessels!” She twisted away from Teach and landing a backhand on Kern’s face that sent the Champion spinning in the air.
Shera watched Calder wrenching the door open while shouting for the Imperial Guard. She longed to put an end to this, to follow him and shove him out of the tower, but ice covered her thoughts.
Coldly, she considered the situation.
Teach was steadying herself and wiping blood from her lip, focused on Estyr Six, but she still stood between Shera and the exit. The Guild Head would intercept Shera, costing her a handful of extra seconds, and each second was precious. Their only sure condition of victory was to get Estyr Six her skulls.
She needed to stick to the plan.
Azea and Calazan Farstrider watched silently from the side, showing no panic at the sight of Champions and Soulbound erupting into combat. Both of them had a hand resting on their candles. They would remember every second of this.
Shera noted that. She would need their testimony later.
For now, the plan.
Bareius had unbuttoned his sleeves and rolled them up, and was tucking his glasses away into his shirt pocket. “I haven’t been in a scrap since I was a boy, if you don’t count exercise.”
Shera didn’t wait to convince him. She scooped him up and threw him over her shoulder as she ran for the eastern window. He yelped in protest but didn’t resist.
She tore open the shutters and leaped out.
As planned, Meia and another Consultant waited below, spreading out a net that had been used in a circus for years. The net would cushion their landing, putting Shera on the ground floor and closer to the Vessels.
Meia’s eyes had turned orange and vertically slitted. She watched Shera carefully, adjusting the net, waiting for the landing.
Shera’s first sign of warning was that Meia’s eyes had widened. Then something tightened its grip around her waist, and she and Bareius were jerked off-course.
As they flew, she looked down to see an ordinary strand of rope wrapped around her midsection, pulling them away from the tower. Instead of landing at its base, she was being drawn too far away. Onto the wall of the Imperial Palace itself.
Where a team of Magisters and Imperial Guards awaited them.
She caught only glimpses of the situation, but she filed away the important information immediately. Three uniformed Imperial Guard, two Magisters, and one body crumpled in black. A Shepherd.
They had either found him and extracted Shera’s exit plan from him or they had Read what was going on during the meeting and anticipated her actions. Either way, they were ready for her.
One of the Magisters was a woman with an iron staff and a skirt of chain mail. A trio of spears lifted from the ground behind her and levitated over her shoulder.
When Shera hit the top of the wall, she released Bareius and rolled into the fall, ending in a crouch.
Bareius just crashed. He groaned in pain, but Shera ignored him.
The Magister with the spears stood over her, weapons hovering in the air. Her partner, a man, had an ice-white staff and a long beard. Paper birds fluttered around him, and Shera wasn’t sure what kind of threat they represented.
The Guards that loomed above were far more threatening, two of them holding pistols and the third a halberd. One had broad gray ears that reminded Shera of an elephant, one had wide inhuman eyes, and the third had arms thicker and hairier than a bear’s limbs.
The female Magister gave Shera a smug smile. “For Maxeus,” she said. One spear shot toward Shera like a bullet, the other two held in reserve.
Shera’s hand shot out, and she caught the spear with ease.
The bear-limbed Guard roared and lunged at her from the side. She turned, slamming the butt of the spear into him. It caught him in the chest, the blow launching him out and over the wall until he made a crater in a wall all the way across the street.
Her thoughts still cold and clinical, Shera made a note: I like this Champion potion. I should get some more.
Bareius, under the effect of an augmentation potion of his own, had risen up behind the paper-folding Magister. He engulfed the man in a hug, squeezing enhanced arms so tightly that the Magister’s arms had begun to break.
Shera heard the snaps like crumbling twigs as the man began to scream.
Shera hefted the spear. She hadn’t practiced with a spear in years, though she had been trained extensively with a quarterstaff. She remembered enough to put the weapon to use, and the enhanced strength and speed born of alchemy took care of the rest.
The remaining two spears launched at her, faster than the first, but still not so fast that her augmented reaction time couldn’t keep up. She sliced one f
rom the air, dodged the second, and swept a Guard off her feet with the same motion.
In two more seconds, she had stabbed one Guard through the middle and crushed the chest of another. The Magister gestured, drawing her spears back to her, but Shera passed the blade of the spear through her neck.
As Bareius released one opponent to the ground, Shera had dropped all three of hers.
“Thank you for the potion,” Shera said.
“Now, I know this isn’t the time, but are you feeling any discomfort or nausea? This is a cutting-edge batch, so I’m looking for trial feedback.”
Shera peered over the wall, toward the base of the Rose Tower. The body of the Imperial Guard that she’d launched away had been found, and shouts were going up throughout the Guard.
It was like throwing a match to a pool of oil.
The sounds of combat coming from inside the tower must have worried those outside, but no one had been certain enough to draw their weapons. Now, though, blood had been spilled.
Luminian knights drew their swords, Blackwatch pulled nails from inside their coats, Navigators revealed pistols.
A shout grew in intensity from the gathered Guilds and the surrounding crowds, like a single voice building up to a scream.
“You’re right,” Shera said. “This isn’t the time.”
Chaos erupted in the streets of the Imperial Palace.
The top of the Rose Tower shook again, rocked by the battle between Estyr and the two Guild Heads, but it was only an afterthought compared to the destruction on the streets. Guns cracked, light flashed as Magisters and Soulbound unleashed their powers, and blood ran on the streets of the Imperial Palace.
Shera stepped up to the edge of the wall, preparing to drop to the ground below. Bareius waved at her to stop.
“Just as a reminder, in case it slipped your mind: the potion will wear off. Soon. It is not designed to last forever.”
“How long?” Shera asked, her mind focused like an arrow on the bottom floor of the tower. The condition of her victory was returning Estyr’s Vessels to their owner.
