by Wight, Will
Which made this all the more confusing, as it seemed like she was setting Shera up to die.
Kerian was a dark-skinned Heartlander woman in her forties, her hair tied in a hundred braids. She leaned on a sturdy cane, which was a new addition to her ensemble. Someone had kicked in her knee only a few days ago, and the alchemists weren't sure it would ever heal correctly.
If Shera could have avoided crippling the woman, she would have, but the thought didn't ease her wounded conscience. She had killed people—killed Consultants, even—and felt less responsible.
“They need to be a threat to your physical well-being, or this would hardly constitute a test.”
“Give them cavalry sabers. Or even pistols, if you're feeling cranky. Don't give them muskets.”
“The Council determined that this would be the greatest measure of your newfound abilities. We're certain that you can perform up to standard.”
The High Councilor raised a hand and touched the white scar that ran down from her hairline to her chin. A nervous tic. Something had distracted her.
“Who gave them the impression that I would be able to defeat twelve men armed with guns, Kerian?”
If she wanted to watch Kerian any more closely, she would have had to raise the spyglass.
Kerian's expression showed nothing, but her response was a heartbeat off. “You have my complete confidence as well.”
Shera sunk to a crouch, resting her head on her knees. At the moment, there was no mission urgent enough to require her. She could be back in the Capital, doing paperwork. Or better yet, sleeping.
But a voice in her mind wasn't quite so relaxed.
“Prey?” It asked, hopeful. Through closed eyes, she felt sixteen lives down in the valley. They were faint enough that she could almost pretend she'd imagined them. All of them were physically strong and healthy, like knots of pure satisfaction in her mind. It was as though she had lived in the desert for weeks, and she could smell water just over the next hill...
But it was the guards that interested that voice the most. They were the healthiest, the strongest, the best trained. One of them shone brighter than the others, and she took that to mean he had some talent for Reading.
“Ours,” her knife whispered, and some part of Shera agreed. Two of the Consultants down there were Gardeners from a different generation than Shera, assassins she'd never met. They might be better fighters than she was.
But she had an Awakened blade. Surely that would give her an advantage. She could sink Syphren's edge into the Reader's chest, turn his own power against him, steal the excess energy for herself.
This is the kind of thing they don't tell you about becoming a Soulbound. The stories all mentioned the incredible powers that came along with bonding an object as a Soulbound Vessel: the impossible feats that you were able to perform afterwards, the supernatural abilities. Shera had met Soulbound that could summon fire, strengthen their bodies, leap fifty feet in the air, bring inanimate objects to life, and probably a dozen other gifts that were too subtle to detect.
None of them had ever seen fit to mention that having a Vessel was like having another voice in your head, constantly complaining.
Shera rested her hand on the blade's hilt, willing it to be quiet. Just because she wasn't a Reader didn't mean she couldn't use her Intent. She just couldn't sense it when she did.
Blindly, she urged Syphren to silence.
Its voice subsided to discontent mutters, but the presence of her Vessel lingered in the corners of her mind. She was still conscious of the sixteen men and women down below. To some degree, she knew she'd feel better, stronger, if she sunk her blade into them. She tried to ignore the thought, but it wouldn't leave.
Kerian's voice distracted her. “Gardener Shera, these twelve men have been sentenced to die by the Imperial Courts. Their crimes are varied and sundry, all deserving of death, and it is the will of the Council that you carry out this sentence. Do you understand the responsibility that has been laid upon you?”
She sounded like she was quoting something, and she likely was. Kerian liked to follow standard Guild procedure where she could, which was why she'd made it to the head of the Gardeners and to the top of the Council of Architects.
“Is there a time limit?” Shera asked, rising to her feet and stretching. Beneath her, in the valley, the last of the prisoners was running into the trees. The four Consultant guards had retreated back to the canyon entrance, blocking it off. And conveniently putting themselves out of the line of fire, should any of the prisoners suffer from sudden dreams of freedom.
“Six o'clock,” Kerian said. “After which, if the prisoners are still alive, you will be shipped back to the Capital by Waverider. If you have completed your task, we'll find a new assignment for you in the morning.”
As usual, Kerian was two steps ahead. If Shera didn't have a deadline, she would have set up a hammock in the jungle and taken a nap. And the punishment was just severe enough to make her want to avoid it, but not so harsh that she'd ignore the consequences on principle.
Kerian tapped her cane against the ground. “I need your answer for the record, Gardener.”
Oh, right, she'd never answered the question. Without permission, Shera reached into the leather satchel that sat next to Kerian’s feet. She rummaged around for a moment and pulled out a stopwatch.
The clock's face confirmed her suspicions. “Four-thirty? It'll take me half an hour to get down there.”
“Right on schedule,” Kerian said. “I'd like your response now.”
Shera had no desire to go through with this “execution,” which was nothing more than an excuse to test her Soulbound powers. But when you cut the matter to the bone, she was still a Consultant.
As Kerian herself had once taught her: “Consultants follow orders. From the Architects, from the clients, from the Emperor…above all else, we follow orders.”
“Yes, Councilor,” she said, turning to the goat path that would eventually take her to the jungle below.
The sixteen lives burned in her mind, like beating hearts she could just hear.
As she grew closer, they grew louder.
~~~
The man beneath her was a Vandenyan, almost seven feet tall, with caramel skin and a missing ear. He placed his musket against the trunk of a tree, taking a swig from a broad leaf. A certain species of plant had been placed in this valley for exactly that purpose: to catch rain, so that thirsty survivors would be lured to specific locations for a drink. The Greenwardens called them “jungle teacups.”
Syphren hummed happily.
I want that one, it said, like a child selecting a piece of candy.
As she understood it, Syphren's “voice” didn't actually come from outside. The knife had its own powers and level of consciousness, but it was using her own thoughts to communicate with her, her own urges. She heard a voice only because that was how her mind chose to interpret its desires.
Which made it all the more disturbing.
Shera dropped from the branch, hanging by her arms behind the convict. He tilted his head back, swallowing the cupful of water.
When she landed, he fumbled for the musket.
Too late. Casually, she plunged Syphren into the man's back.
The day grew brighter. The colors of flowers became more vivid, the smell of water in the leaves filled her nose, and a flock of birds chirped a beautiful symphony somewhere in the distance. Even the feel of meat parting before her blade felt utterly, viscerally satisfying.
Green light played around the blade, drifting up in a wisp of luminescent smoke. It evaporated before it reached her.
The enhanced sensations faded quickly, and Syphren didn't even sigh in satisfaction before urging her on to hunt the next prisoner.
Hurry. More.
For most of the next hour, Shera kept her blade fed. Some hid themselves in the treetops, or burrowed into the undergrowth, but none got a shot off. And each time she killed, she felt a little stronger.
/>
When she'd used the Vessel for the first time, on a group of Elderspawn, their deaths had produced floating green lights bigger than her fist. Some of them were the size of her head, and bright enough to light the room. The rush of life had charged her whole body, and when she'd stabbed the Handmaiden of Nakothi, the ensuing surge of power rendered her unconscious.
In comparison, these men were nothing. Mere snacks beside a full meal.
Murder had never concerned Shera—killing a man was no different than killing an animal, and often easier—but these thoughts made her uneasy. Taking a life with Syphren felt more like cannibalism than execution, and looking forward to it...
Those were the thoughts she imagined an Elder might have.
She drew her second shear, comparing the two. Upon induction into the Consultants, each Gardener was given a pair of “shears”: ancient bronze daggers that had been wielded by generations of assassins since before the founding of the Aurelian Empire. Over the years, they'd stored up so much Intent that they made the actual act of murder almost too easy. They would tear through hidden armor as easily as thin cloth, pierce bone, and deliver wounds that were almost guaranteed to be fatal.
And the blade in her right hand was everything a Gardener's shear was supposed to be: wide-bladed, bronze, battered, each nick and scar telling the story of a life taken.
In her left hand, she held Syphren.
This shear had taken the life of the Emperor, stabbed the Dead Mother's heart, and drawn gallons of blood. Then, finally, it had been Awakened, all of its stored Intent focused into a transformation.
It was longer and slightly thinner than its counterpart, with jagged contours to its cutting edge. Its surface was smoother, showing none of the dings and scratches it had earned when it was merely bronze. But those were incidental details, nothing more than decoration. Something more fundamental had changed in the weapon itself.
Now, it looked like a window into the underworld.
Instead of bronze, it seemed to be made of some sort of dark glass. Tiny hands pressed the surface from the other side, and where the palms met glass, they glowed bright green. Dozens of hands vied for position like a rioting mob, pushing each other aside for a chance to push against the window.
As a result, the shear's light shifted. It danced like the light cast from a sickly green flame.
Shera hefted both blades once more, as though considering them, before hurling the bronze knife into the underbrush.
Shears weren't weighted or balanced for throwing. Gardeners had another tool for that: the spades, small triangles of steel that they carried in pouches. She could have drawn a spade, but she hadn't wanted to alert her target.
The shear tumbled through the air, smacking into a bush. She caught a glimpse of black cloth.
“I wonder if there's someone there,” Shera said loudly.
I taste him, Syphren hissed.
A Consultant stepped out from behind the bush, palms up to show that he wasn't carrying his weapon. Two hilts poked out from the back of his belt, showing that he carried shears of his own.
A Gardener.
“I was at fault, Gardener Shera,” he said. Standard Consultant philosophy: the one who failed was in the wrong. “The High Councilor asked me to observe you, but I lack the skill.”
He didn't even complain that she had thrown her shear at him. It wasn't a throwing weapon, but the knife was still heavily invested; a single awkward tumble could have slit his throat. But instead of protesting, as Shera might have, he bent and picked up her weapon, holding it out to her hilt-first.
With a few specific exceptions, Shera had never gotten along with Consultants particularly well. The Guild tended to produce interchangeable parts, each a precise copy of the others. Shepherds, Masons, Miners, and even many Architects followed orders exactly to the letter, spoke only when spoken to, and never voiced an opinion until a contract required it. They were like spades: sharp, disposable, and minted a dozen at a time.
She had never thought of Gardeners that way, but she only interacted with four other Guild assassins. Meia and Lucan were members of her own team, and had been intentionally spared most of the Consultants' standard training per the Emperor's command. Kerian and Ayana, the two older Gardeners, were simply exceptional. They had been trained the same way as all others of their order, but stood out for one reason or another.
There was no reason for it, she supposed, but she had expected all the Gardeners to fall along similar lines.
“You’re observing me. You can’t help?”
“I’ve been ordered not to directly assist you, even if you were to coerce me.”
“Answer a question for me, then. How much longer do I have?”
“Thirteen minutes,” the stranger said.
Shera didn’t comment, only headed after the last remaining life she sensed through Syphren’s power. Even the knife didn’t seem interested anymore. It whispered to itself as though distracted, murmuring words she couldn’t catch.
The remaining prisoner had his musket raised and his back to a tree. He shouted, “I know you’re there! Just leave me alone, you hear? Leave—”
Shera threw a spade at a trunk to his left. When it hit, the prisoner panicked. He spun toward the sound and jerked the trigger. An explosion echoed through the forest, gunsmoke clouded his face, and he staggered back.
Though the prisoners did have guns, at least they’d only been given one shot. Shera jogged up to him, ducked his wild swing of the musket, and drove Syphren into his shoulder.
As expected, the man sagged after only a few seconds, and the world around her brightened. Phantom wisps of green rose around the blade, and her Vessel let out a satisfied sigh.
The experiment confirmed something she’d only suspected: she didn’t have to stab a man in the vitals to kill him. She only had to hold the knife inside long enough. A casual cut wouldn’t do it, but as long as she could drive her weapon into an arm or a leg, she could kill them.
From here on, her missions would be over much faster.
“That’s everyone,” she called. “Tell Kerian I’m going to sleep.”
She began to walk off, but the Gardener materialized in front of her. He shot a brief, apologetic bow.
“I’m sorry, Gardener Shera, but you do have another target remaining.”
Her Soulbound powers were new and strange to her, and she didn’t like the way they made her feel. But she had already learned to trust them. If she sensed no one else in the jungle besides the two of them, then there was no one there.
“Check again,” Shera said, brushing past him. Syphren went back into his sheath, where he kept mumbling. She found herself wondering if anyone would miss this unnamed Gardener, and imagining how his vitality would strengthen her body. He was so much stronger than the prisoners, after all…
He cleared his throat and followed her, keeping pace through the underbrush. “I don’t mean to contradict you, but there were twelve prisoners, and we’ve recovered eleven bodies.”
As a matter of habit, Shera typically kept an accurate count of her targets during missions. He was right; of the twelve original prisoners, she’d killed eleven.
“Maybe one of them killed the other. You’d better find his body before it gets dark.”
Instead of arguing, as she’d half-expected, the Gardener bowed and vanished.
Boring.
Consultants may have been the most effective and reliable of all the Guilds, but there was no reason efficiency had to be so boring. Meia and Lucan were just as effective, and at least they were interesting.
At the thought of Lucan, Shera’s mind turned toward him, as it often did. She could go see him, now that her test was over. He wouldn’t like what she’d done here today, but he’d be happy to see her, and full of questions about her power. He’d be worried about her injuries, healed as they were in only a few days. Worried for her, as no one else ever had been.
It would be simple to reach through the bars, slip
a paralytic needle into his wrist, and drain his life away. He was a Reader, and therefore much more powerful than the prisoners she’d just killed. Maybe she could steal his life with only the brush of her hand. It worked on Elderspawn, so it should be possible…
Shera stopped in her tracks. Syphren wasn’t whispering, but his thoughts had slipped into her own. His dreams were bleeding into her mind, so she couldn’t tell the difference between them anymore.
She gripped his hilt because he didn’t have a windpipe to crush.
~~~
Jorin Maze-walker, Regent of the South, chewed on a long-stemmed pipe as he wrestled with a jar of wailing souls.
It was a painted clay jar that looked like it had survived for five thousand years, and Jorin was currently struggling to shove its lid in place. Bright purple smoke resisted him, boiling up from within the jar with a chorus of shrieks and screams. Gaseous faces shouted at him, spectral hands pushing the lid against him.
He clenched his jaw around the pipe, settled the jar in his lap, and shoved with both hands. “I planted this box of wollycobbles…almost a thousand years ago…just to sneak a peek at the wild card. Who knew it would be such a…pack of boiled bees!”
Shera stared at him. She’d only known the Regent a few days, since he’d arrived on the Gray Island, and in that short time she was lucky if she understood one in three of his words. Apparently people from the dawn of the Empire spoke like madmen.
Jorin finally got the lid pressed down, cutting the wails short. He tucked the bundle under his chin to free up one hand, which finally found a roll of cloth. With swift, awkward movements, he wrapped the jar in strip after strip, keeping the lid closed.
When he was finished, he heaved a sigh and pushed himself off the ground and into a nearby chair. The entire chamber was packed with dusty furniture, splintered crates, burlap sacks, primitive quicklamps, and buckets of what Shera could only describe as junk. The floor was so cluttered that she barely had room to walk, and the whole of the room looked like the attic of an Aurelian drug-smuggler.
