by Scott Hale
Again, the girl pleaded, “Edgar?”
This time he recognized, in the slight lisp and soft syllables, a voice he had heard countless times before.
Audra.
It had been Audra’s voice.
He plodded forward, because to go backwards would be a betrayal. The field received him without complaint. When he was fully inside, the wire twisted over the portal and sealed it shut, trapping him inside. The metal thorns ran beside him, under and above him.
With every move he made, they tugged and tore at his skin. His palms were pricked, his elbows cut. The field found where his armor wasn’t, and left gashes on his side for the oversight.
“Audra!” Edgar winced as the barbed wire contracted. Squinting in pain, he spied a quivering body in the metal bindings and shouted, “Hold on.”
His stomach lurched as he saw Audra there, leaking blood to feed the shivering steel. “Don’t move anymore. I’ll cut you free.”
He grabbed the dagger at his side. His sister’s eyes widened behind the melting mask of red she wore.
“Don’t move.”
“I should have died,” she said, dropping her head. “It would’ve been better for everyone.”
Edgar started to speak, but before he could, the entire field rushed inward in a silver blur. He cursed and screamed as the barbs sped past him, slicing his skin as they twisted around the place where Audra was held.
With every pass of the barbed wire, a part of her disappeared. She was trying to speak, too, but the shrill cacophony kept serrating her words.
It only took a moment, but when it was over, the field was gone, and Audra was gone, and all that remained was a puddle of blood and a small ball of steel, and the din of a bell ringing out from the church up ahead.
CHAPTER VIII
Thirty-Eight Days Ago
Edgar didn’t need to remove the Night Terror’s mask to know it wanted to kill him.
The Eel breathed heated, hateful breaths as it knelt before them. Blood dripped from its manacles as it rattled the chains that ran from its wrist to the ceiling. When it came too close, the guard, Brennan, beat it back.
Like all broken creatures, the Night Terror took the beating without complaint, and laughed when it was over.
“Lost its mind,” Vincent said. He stared at the Eel’s genitals. “Have it all, don’t they?”
“Everything but Corruption,” Edgar said, rubbing his right arm.
“They’ve dedicated themselves to murdering humans.” Vincent crouched and reached for the Night Terror’s mask. “And somehow, we’re the villains.”
Edgar’s stomach tightened into a nauseating knot. “They don’t seem much different to us.”
“No, they don’t.” Vincent looked at the guard, and came to his feet. He grinned as Brennan came over and ripped the mask off the creature.
“Huh,” he said, surprised. “Well, isn’t that disappointing?”
The Night Terror’s head didn’t come off with the skull, nor did what lay beneath the mask inspire repulsion or awe. It had the face of a man, the flesh of a man, and it bled and sweated like a man. The creature was no less human than those that stood over it, and because of its likeness to humanity, it disarmed Edgar.
He had been expecting it to be what he had been led to believe it was all his life: a half-man, half-animal abomination; a black-eyed, black-souled charlatan. A demon-fanged, specter-held husk; a nightmare torn from Old World slumbers, or a flesh fiend risen from dark world squalors.
Any of those things would have sufficed, and they would have been far less terrifying than what sat fettered before them.
“What do you think?” Vincent asked, apparently sensing his brother’s unease.
“There has to be something else,” Edgar said. “A deeper difference we can’t see.”
Vincent nodded. He took the Terror by its hair and inspected its facial features. “We’ll find it. The likeness is incredible, isn’t it?”
The Night Terror’s throat tightened. Its eyes became as an eel’s—inky and without conscience.
“I’ll cut it open, and we’ll see what comes out.”
Edgar covered his mouth. He looked to the guard for protest or reassurance even, but received neither. “We’re not treading new ground, Vincent.”
“Feels like we are.”
“No, we’re not. It’s been too long since the Trauma for this to have been the first time a Night Terror’s been captured and studied.”
Vincent released the Eel’s greasy hair and stepped away. “Sure, but where’s the research? Where’s the findings? Seem like good questions for the Archivist to answer, don’t they? After all, he’s the one that got nervous when we first came down here.”
Edgar nodded. They were good questions, and Vincent was right; Archivist Amon had acted strangely that day.
“Why don’t you go ask him?” Vincent signaled the guard, Brennan, to escort his brother out of the dungeon. “Go on, Ed. You know as well as I do that you don’t want to see what I’m going to do next.”
Ghostgrave hummed with sounds of suspicion in the midnight haze. Guards and soldiers patrolled the halls with vacant expressions, leaving no shadow or lock untouched. They stopped serving staff and lesser royalty, and searched them for malice and intent.
The queen’s decree to increase security had lost her some favor with visiting dignitaries, but for a woman who serves murder at her dinner table, favor, like tradition, meant next to nothing.
Edgar moved about his room, relighting several candles that had been snuffed out by the northern wind. He focused his thoughts on Audra’s Crossbreed to avoid the discomfort that came with thinking about Vincent and the Night Terror. He told himself the idea of using the plant was unethical, and the execution of any kind of plan impossible.
While good-willed, tampering with public resources to deliver an inoculation against man’s own misguided devices skirted too close to delusions of godhood. Yet, he found himself considering his sister’s proposition, working out the details and parties involved, and the lies they would need to tell themselves to see the whole thing through.
Someone knocked on his door.
Edgar straightened up and called out, “Yes? Who is it?”
“My lord,” the guard stationed outside his room stated, “Prince Horace is here to see you.”
“Please, come in.” Edgar wrinkled his brow. What did Horace want with him at this hour?
When Horace entered the room, several candles lost their light. “Just making sure everyone is well tonight,” he said.
“That’s thoughtful of you, Horace,” Edgar said, making no attempt to hide his surprise.
Horace nodded at the guards behind him and slowly closed the door. “I have to act the part I’ve no choice but to play. Mother practically rules Eldrus herself because of Father’s indifference.”
“Is everything all right?” Edgar searched his eldest brother for signs of distress. “Don’t get me wrong, I appreciate the visit.”
“The assassination attempt on our family made me reconsider some things.” Horace eyed an empty seat nearby. Had he felt more comfortable with Edgar, he may have even sat in it. “The people are not happy with their rulers.”
“Are they ever?” Edgar cringed. He sounded like Vincent. “Who sent the assassin? Are there more?”
Horace shook his head, reached behind him for the doorknob. “I’m sure. We’ll find them.”
“Horace,” Edgar started, stopping his brother to make him roast a little longer in the flames of cordiality. “Would you mind practicing with me in the yard?”
“You’re fine with a sword, Edgar.”
“I know,” he said, rolling his eyes, “but I can be better. Mother won’t always be there to protect us.”
Horace nodded. “Sure. Tomorrow, then.”
For the remainder of the night, Edgar’s mind was firmly anchored in a mire of worry. He had only slept for an hour total, so when he finally woke to the early morning l
ight, he did so with the sour taste of sickness on his tongue.
Whispers, that’s what had woken him. Bedside whispers, near where his nightstand stood. Edgar got out of bed and lit a few candles. He searched the room for signs of entry or Horace’s return, but all he found were a few piles of dust, on the floor and on the nightstand, where before there had been none.
“My lord,” his guard called through the door. “My lord, Archivist Amon requests your presence in his chambers.”
The Archivist’s tower was tall, narrow, and a pain in the ass to climb. If you were visiting Archivist Amon, there would be no surprising him. As soon as one entered the front door, stepped on the first board, the whole place would fill up with decrepit sounds, like a makeshift alarm system. It wasn’t so much a place to live in as it was a place to demolish. The only thing that kept the buckled barrel of stone together seemed to be Amon himself. If he left, Edgar often thought, then the tower would go, too.
As for the Archivist’s quarters, they were enslaved to cliché, and as far as it seemed Amon was concerned, he would not have it any other way. Books, ancient artifacts, and other oddities of all kinds filled that tower he called home. There was a reverence, too, in the way he handled these items, as though they held for him distant memories or an unresolved longing for their Old World surroundings. Edgar could never make sense of it, and had never tried to.
So when Edgar plodded up that spiraling staircase, the morning sun coming through the cracks in the tower and making his sickness feel sick, the old man already knew he was there.
“It has been too long since you’ve last visited,” Amon cried.
Edgar smiled, caught his breath. He stepped off the staircase and pushed into the Archivist’s chambers. Looking back, the tower seemed steeper than he remembered—narrower, too. Looking forward, the quarters seemed larger than he remembered—scarier, too. For a moment, he had a sense of vertigo as he stared into the room, as though he were staring into some great, dark deep into which he was about to fall.
Archivist Amon waved at him. Edgar snapped out of the dizzy spell. The Archivist was sitting behind a desk; the sunlight coming through the window behind him framed him in a heavenly glow. When Edgar had been a child, he had thought heaven might look something like the old man’s chambers; cluttered but clean, with a million things to look at, most of which Edgar would never understand. He felt the same way now, except this time, he felt as though they weren’t alone. It was hard to tell, because even with the sunlight, the room had its fair share of shadows and hiding places. But there did seem to be something else in there with them.
“I didn’t sleep well last night,” Edgar finally said, shaking off the feeling and forcing himself to go to Amon. He took a seat on the opposite side of the desk and slouched in the chair. “There’s a good chance I’ll fall asleep right here if you let me.”
Amon shrugged. He had a quill in his hand. Before him, his novel, The Disciples of the Deep, lay open. There weren’t many blank pages left in it.
“Almost finished?” Edgar looked around the room as he said this. The Archivist’s plants had taken over the place. The red rooted things were everywhere, growing into everything.
“Close,” Amon said. He set the quill down, shut the book. “Just when I think I’m done, I think of something new to add.”
“How long have you been working on that novel?” Edgar tapped his fingers on the desk. He wanted to look through it, but he knew Amon would never allow that. “Ten years?”
“Oh, no, no. Longer than that, Edgar.” He smiled, and ran his fingers down the cover. “It’s therapeutic, in a way. Truth be told, if I do not give it up, I may never finish it.”
“Can you give me a hint of what it’s about? I won’t tell anyone. I swear it.”
Amon laughed and leaned back in his chair. His eyes glinted as he licked his lips. “Ah, I don’t know. It’s a personal tale. If I tell you what it’s about, and you think it’s foolish, I’ll be crushed.”
“So sensitive,” Edgar joked. He missed spending time with the Archivist. Ever since his adolescent years, their time together had been waning. In some ways, Amon had been there for him more than his father.
“I’m old,” Amon shouted, going red in the cheeks. “I’m senile. I can’t help it!” He snorted. “The Disciples of the Deep. What’s it about? Well, let’s see.” He leaned forward, elbows to the desk. “You promise you will keep it a secret?”
Edgar sealed his lips.
“Honestly, there’s not much to it. It’s just a story about a man in a terrible world trying to do the right thing.”
Taken aback, Edgar said, “That’s all you’re going to tell me?”
“Edgar, it’s almost finished.” Amon took the book and placed it in a drawer. “I’m not going to ruin the surprise.”
Edgar groaned. “You’re killing me. It needs a better cover, at least.”
“It doesn’t have a cover,” Amon said, dully.
“Exactly.”
“Hmm. I think I may need a few more years to figure that detail out.”
“If you take too long, you’re not going to be able to enjoy all the money it makes from being a bestseller.”
Amon nodded and then shook his head. “That’s okay. I’m looking to leave a legacy behind. Something that can’t be melted down and auctioned off when I’m dead.”
Edgar heard something move inside the room. “That’s… admirable. Hey, Amon, is someone here?”
“Yes, actually.” He gestured behind Edgar. “I would like you to meet someone.”
Edgar turned around. Behind him, still as a statue, a man stood, with a smile so wide it couldn’t have been anything but insincere. His eyes were penetrating, and his teeth pointed and sharp. He was handsome, though, and well dressed. To Edgar, there was no doubt in his mind this man was a villain. And just where the hell had he come from?
“My lord,” Amon said, “this is Alexander Blodworth, understudy of Samuel Turov, the Exemplar of Restraint and a high priest of Penance.”
Alexander bowed, and said, “It’s an honor to meet you, Lord Edgar.”
Is it? Why would it be? “It’s an honor to have you in our city. What brings you to Ghostgrave?”
Alexander came around Edgar and stood beside the desk. “Relations. Ours are not great with Eldrus. That is a shame.”
“Worse than your relations with Geharra?” Edgar goaded.
Alexander laughed a boisterous laugh. “I don’t have the strength to heal those old wounds.”
Archivist Amon cleared his throat. “There’s more to this world than Eldrus. Your father, and he would agree, has done a poor job keeping you and your brothers and sisters informed.”
Edgar, trying to remain as respectful as possible, asked, “Why didn’t you call Horace here? I’m last in line. I can’t do anything.”
Amon folded his hands and rested his chin atop them. “It’s always good to be prepared, my lord.”
“Penance needs an ear. We’ve much to offer but none to listen. We’re—and I speak for the Mother Abbess—willing to pay more if the Divide would be opened up to us. Between the current tariffs and the Night Terror attacks, shipping on the Divide doesn’t show much of a profit. It’s not worth the effort.”
“Strengthening the bond between cities would give Eldrus more opportunity.” Amon reached for one of the red plants growing up his desk, snapped it in half, and ate it.
Edgar didn’t trust this Alexander Blodworth, and he was starting to distrust Amon, as well. “This is beyond me, and what I can do. This could be considered treason.” His words came out more confidently than he intended. “Penance wouldn’t send an exemplar’s understudy to discuss these things.”
“You’re right,” Alexander said. He smoothed back his hair. “I’ve come to spread the word of the Holy Order and trade secrets with your sister, the botanist.”
“What? Audra?”
Amon laughed and said, “Certainly not Lena. And Vincent’s not a wom
an. Not yet, at least.”
“My lord.” Alexander leaned forward, one hand on the desk, the mask of confidence he wore now giving way to cockiness. “We know where the assassin came from.”
Edgar made the connection quicker than he could form a sentence, so he blurted, “You? Penance?”
Alexander, impressed, leaned away. Looking at Amon, he said, “Quick, isn’t he?”
CHAPTER IX
The Nameless Forest has always been, and will always be for those who need it. When the Earth turned on itself and all heavenly bodies went to the grave, the Forest stayed. First to leave, and first to return, the women of the Old World rediscovered the Garden and claimed it as their own.
The Trauma had eaten all the children and all their bones, and so the women found themselves elevated, held high by the very hands that had once beat them so low. They repopulated deliberately, mindful of the men they chose and the traits they carried. They studied the past, and by its successes and failures, formed the foundations of the forthcoming future.
Progress, however, was slow, limited by the constraints of the human body and mind. Feeling the burden of their imposed divinity, the women delved deeper into the Nameless Forest for ancient answers. At its center, where reality peeled like paint from a portrait, they found a grandfather clock. It sat atop an island wreathed in red grass, with the clock’s hands permanently fixed on the midnight hour.
After some debate, the women decided to swim for the island, but as soon as their feet left the shore, they found the water was not water at all, but worms, hundreds of thick, long, bruise-colored worms. The women turned to flee, but the worms clung tightly to their ankles and wrists, and held them down, so that they could witness the blue light that rose out of the wriggling mass, and hear the words it had to say.
The women returned and shared what they had learned with the women who had stayed behind. By this knowledge, minds were opened and wombs quickened, and soon the Forest was filled with the sounds of children who had only taken a month to gestate. The offspring of the women were considered blessed, and the hundreds that they bore were given as blessings to the villages and towns that had stayed loyal to the women.
