The Mirrored City

by Michael J. Bode

  Soren smiled. “Me too. And I need to protect it.”

  They embraced one final time. Shannon turned to her lover and outstretched her arms. “Goodbye, Lyta. This may be the last time we ever see each other.”

  Lyta returned a stiff and formal embrace, her features tightly wound around her emotions. “Be safe.”

  Shannon’s eyes were wet with tears, and as Lyta walked toward the breach, Shannon said, “Be safe, too.”

  Lyta nodded. “I’m not afraid.”

  Sword marched toward the door. “No matter how much time seems like it’s passing, we’ll all arrive on the other side if we make it. Don’t panic. Take the time you need. Just remember—they will fuck with you hard. You need to be strong.”

  “See you guys there.” Heath walked to the doorway. It slid open, revealing a long dark hall beyond. He stepped across the threshold, and the darkness swallowed him.

  Heath wandered into an office he remembered from the Rivern Temple. The walls were white marble flecked with gold veins that shimmered in the light of hundreds of candles set along shelves in the walls. It was uncomfortably warm. In the center of the room, framed between two stained glass windows, was a large desk of Maenmarth oak. He saw himself sitting behind it, scribbling into a ledger.

  “This is Bishop Samseth’s office,” he commented, looking at the candles and religious artwork that decorated the chamber. Samseth was the bishop who had sent Heath down the path of the Inquisition.

  The other Heath at the desk looked up from his ledger. “Hello, old friend. Glad to see your eyes have healed. Although silver is an interesting color…”

  His doppelganger had dark brown eyes.

  “So,” Heath said. “You’re my worst nightmare. Can’t say I’m surprised.”

  “The Harrower shows us the most uncomfortable parts of ourselves,” Other Heath replied. “It’s like a mirror. We appear as different things because most can’t face the reality that they are their own worst enemy. You have no illusions about what your demons are and see me for what I am.”

  Heath smiled. “So do we fight, or do we talk?”

  “We always prefer to talk first,” Other Heath said affably. “You’ve borne the touch of the Seal of Mystery and survived a Harrowing, and you’re a Stormlord, so this is more of a formality. It’s very unlikely I’m going to be able to kill you.”

  Heath rubbed the back of his neck. “So if you’re me, then you want to negotiate?”

  “It’s what we do. Convince people to do things. We explain their options, show them the outcomes, and lead them to their inevitable conclusions.”

  “Which would be what?”

  Other Heath closed his ledger and set down his pen. “Voluntarily end your own life now and spare yourself further anguish. It doesn’t matter at this point. The result is going to be the same. Sword is going to kill the Harrower or the Inquisition will with the Eye of Ohan.”

  “Then let me continue on my way,” Heath said.

  Other Heath said, “If you do, there will be consequences.”

  “Such as?”

  “The end of reality.”

  “I never imagined I was that important.”

  Other Heath folded his hands. “Indirectly you are. You are a foreign piece on a complex puzzle board of players—an extra king, neither red or white, but black. You don’t fit in the Grand Design. Neither does Maddox. He’s dangerous to reality in a way that makes this Harrower incursion seem quaint.”

  “He’s dangerous to you.”

  “Yes,” Other Heath said. “He could un-create the universe. Imagine the power of an omnipotent god of gods in the hands of someone like Maddox. He’s harmless now, but when he realizes the full potential of his ability, he could change the fundamental nature of causality. He could bring the Outer Darkness into this universe.”

  “Outer Darkness?”

  “When mortal minds entangle with cosmic forces, it creates gods, for lack of a better term. The ones who help were called Guides by the First Mages. The ones who seek to eradicate life, you call Harrowers, or demons. But there are things worse than demons in the cosmos. A god born of cosmic power and mortal anguish can destroy the boundaries between this universe and the states of existence that lie outside it.”

  Heath shrugged. “What does Maddox have to do with this?”

  “The heart of a Cyst is one of the only places the already mutilated laws of this universe allow Maddox to permanently die.”

  “Fair enough. You want me to kill him?”

  “Sit this one out,” Other Heath explained. “Sword can easily defeat the manifestation on its own. You can remain here in the Dreaming for as long as you like. Time is immaterial, and this world that was created for us to talk is infinite. Live whichever life you choose, and end it when you lose interest. Remain here and let Maddox die.”

  “Fuck,” Heath said. “The human sacrifice… If Maddox dies in the Cyst, he’s dead forever. If I take his place, then he lives. Is that it?”

  Other Heath said, “You die either way. Stay here and you will live forever in a world created to your every desire. If Maddox lives, he could destroy the Universe. You’ve both suffered long enough; Maddox doesn’t even want immortality.”

  “Why should I believe you?” Heath folded his arms. “I also know I’m a very good liar.”

  “The more important question is ‘why would I lie?’ The Harrowers didn’t bring hell to Creation; they just revealed it for what it is. Self-awareness, sentience—it’s a disease, like the cancer growing in your stomach. Misery doesn’t come from chaos, it comes from the desire for order.”

  Heath took a deep breath. “Maybe misery exists for a reason you don’t understand. If there’s an Outer Darkness, then I have to entertain the possibility that there’s something else at work, a grand design to the whole of created existence that’s beyond the Guides.”

  “Faith is a delusion,” Other Heath said, his eyes narrowing.

  “Maybe.” Heath cracked his knuckles. “But if your answer to suffering is a universe devoid of life or consciousness, then it’s already destroyed. If you’re not going to kill me, I kindly request you send me to meet my friends.”

  “You will damn us all, Lord of Storms.”

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  Family Traditions

  JESSA

  My Darling Daughter Jessa,

  If you are reading this, then against all odds, I have been laid low by my enemies and you have become the Tempest. We have had our differences over the years, and I have ill prepared you for the necessities of survival within our family.

  I cannot protect you or your unborn son. That task falls to you, and unfortunately I have little to offer in the way of comfort. I was never that kind of mother. Your father had a much more protective nature. He allowed mammoth witches, your supposed ancestors, to bless your cradle when you were a babe with their superstitious magic. I can only hope that at least one of those haggard crones wasn’t completely full of shit because you will need every ounce of luck you can get.

  We are not close, but you are my blood and you are a Tempest. I want you to survive. So do it, by any means necessary. Kill, fuck, lie, hide… Go to any length necessary and then go further than you can bear to go.

  There is only the faintest glimmer of potential in you. Pray to Kultea it is enough to survive your family. As terrible as you think I am… my sisters are far, far worse.

  —SATRYN

  JESSA AND PISCLATET made their way through the narrow servants’ passage in the Coral Palace. Pisclatet, who waddled behind her, had foresworn his ornate attire for a skimpy black pearl codpiece that covered whatever scaly organs one would find between a fishman’s thighs. Jessa wore a black eelskin jerkin and trousers, with a foil at her side. She’d colored her hair black with squid ink.

  “This way, your majesty.” Pisclatet led her through another tunnel. The rough porous stone was black and moist. Illumination came from sporadic tungsten bulbs powered by harnessed lightning f
rom the Everstorm that raged above Thelassus. It was the only city in Creation with electricity.

  “This place is huge.” Jessa had been to the Palace once as a small child, but she was shocked at how unfamiliar it seemed.

  Pisclatet knew the hidden ways to move through the structure. When they did encounter a servant, a simple flash of Jessa’s silver eyes sent the person scurrying in fear. Even making eye contact with a Stormlord could be punishable by death in Thrycea.

  Pisclatet waved his webbed hand. “There is a bigger palace in Velrailles. And the Diamond Tower in Karthanteum is arguably the largest and most opulent in all creation. But few have traveled as much as Pisclatet.”

  “Your ability to remain unimpressed by anything is itself impressive,” Jessa said.

  He offered a humble bow. “It is the curse of a true artist, majesty.”

  Jessa paused. She felt a presence, a pulsing energy on the periphery of her senses. “I feel something this way.”

  “That is unlikely Nasara. That part of the Palace is the library. Your aunt prefers to have her books delivered as she needs.”

  Jessa pondered. Her mother had had a supernatural insight into the Stormlords around her, a gift that never manifested properly in Jessa. While most of the Stormlords possessed the same powers, she was learning that among the upper tiers of her bloodline many abilities appeared unique. “Let’s continue on.”

  Pisclatet led her through a warren of hidden passages until they reached a door to the war room. Like all servants’ doors, it was small and out of the way. Perfect for meal delivery and espionage. They stepped into an open chamber dominated by a massive table etched with the geography of Genatrova and the Thrycean Archipelago. It was empty of people.

  She made a casual observation of the markers for the positions of the various fleets, noting Nasara’s mistakes as well as her own. She’d learned enough from Warmaster Joy to know what the markers represented. Both she and Nasara had overestimated each other’s naval strength. Have these centuries of pointless war with the Protectorate spread our fleets so thin?

  Jessa walked over to a side door and turned to her companion. “You have gotten me where I need to be. I will not ask you to further endanger yourself on my behalf.”

  Pisclatet breathed an enormous sight of relief. “Oh, thank you, majesty. Pisclatet is too talented to die at the hands of your crazy aunt and her contingent of well-trained guards.”

  She expected more of an objection, but before she could gently voice her concerns, Pisclatet had already doubled back into the servants’ tunnels. It’s probably for the best.

  Jessa entered the Hall of Tempests. At fifty feet, it was far too short to afford an alcove for statues of all of the predecessors. Each Tempest to sit on the Coral Throne had to remove one statue to make room for their own. Some were sacrosanct, but many whose accomplishments had been lost to history had been replaced with more recent descendants.

  Alessandria was there, although her statue looked newer than it should have been. Jessa studied the lifeless monuments of her ancestors, imperious people in glorified poses, holding tridents or, in a few cases, fish nets. She paused at one of the last alcoves. Her mother, Satryn, depicted as a naked woman with wild hair stomping on the globe that represented Creation, was frighteningly lifelike.

  Satryn had been Tempest for a matter of hours. It was surprising to see her represented. In the adjacent alcove was a statue Jessa presumed was her aunt Nasara, an older woman with a pinched face, puffy gown, and lace collar shaped like a seashell, holding a scepter in one hand and a globe in the other. My, my auntie. You’re a bit presumptuous.

  Jessa wandered into the next chamber. It was a circular room overlooking the sea. The exterior wall was exposed to the outside, letting in gusts of rain and sprays of crashing waves. A white-haired male figure stood, hands behind his back, gazing out at the horizon.

  He turned to face Jessa. “Who the fuck are you?”

  Jessa bowed. “Lady Jolanda Corala, ninetieth in line for the Coral Throne. I appear to be lost, my lord.”

  He said, “I’m not an idiot.”

  Jessa straightened her spine. “Then who the fuck are you?”

  “Nerrax,” he said. “Son of the Empress.”

  Nerrax had grown much since her last visit to the Palace, and he was a fine-looking man. By all accounts, Nasara had never been a great beauty, but her son was quite pleasing to gaze upon. He had soft features, without compromising his masculinity.

  She bowed more deeply. “I am quite sorry to intrude, your majesty. I have a message for your mother and was directed here.”

  He regarded her cautiously. “Lady Jolanda has a much darker shade of skin than yours and more pleasing curves. She’s also a better liar.”

  Jessa squared off. “If you’re truly not an idiot, then you should know who I am.”

  He chuckled. “I honestly have no clue who you are—and I wish it to remain that way.”

  Jessa raised an eyebrow.

  Nerrax waved his hands. “Whatever the reason for your deception, it is likely important. I would be wrong to detain you further. She’s through that door.”

  Jessa reached out with her senses and felt a pulse behind the door Nerrax had indicated. But she felt no stronger a sensation than she did from Nerrax.

  “You should announce yourself to her,” Nerrax said levelly. “I’m certain she has no idea you’re here and would be very interested in what news you bring.”

  Jessa paused. “Do you love your mother?”

  Nerrax placed his hand on his chest and smiled. “With all my heart.”

  They stood in silence for a moment as the wind and rain battered the observatory.

  Nerrax bowed slightly. “I’ll be in my chambers if you need me… Lady Corala.”

  Jessa curtsied. “My prince.”

  The moment he left down the hall she marched over to the door and blew it open with a blast of thunder.

  Nasara was an imposing woman, frail looking but tall, clad in ruby silk finery. The rage furrowed across her narrow face showed she was not a person who took kindly to interruption. At the center of an oval room, she stood on the surface of a deep pool of water.

  Courtiers scurried to safety as Jessa strode in. “Hello, aunt.”

  “Jessa,” Nasara hissed. “You’re even stupider than your inbred mother, coming into my palace to threaten me while I carry the Thunderstone.”

  Jessa cocked her head. “You mean the Thunderstone Sireen gave you to kill my mother when she returned to Thelassus? Or one of the many fakes Sireen loves to pass around? Have you actually tested it on any Stormlords?”

  Nasara reached into a hidden pocket in her dress and withdrew a roughly hewn bluish stone spike that crackled with electricity. “Of course I have, you idiot girl. The dear Lady Corala died after but a scratch.”

  So Pisclatet’s cover was already blown, yet Nerrax didn’t mention it.

  “She wasn’t a Tempest.”

  “Neither are you.” Nasara stalked across the water, stone in hand. Her courtiers fled the room. Her Patrean bodyguards took up defensive positions behind sofas set around the pool, arrows readied to fire.

  Jessa threw her hands out and unleashed a torrent of lightning into her aunt’s bony chest. The arcing electricity slid off her like drops of water on oil-soaked leather.

  Nasara sneered and returned the volley. It struck Jessa but felt like nothing more than a tingle.

  The women released their onslaught simultaneously. Nasara prowled closer to Jessa, circling her like a shark. “We’re equals in power, Jessa. The position of Tempest should have been mine by birthright. But you are a child. I am the chosen daughter of Kultea.”

  “Be that as it may,” Jessa backed away, “I come offering a proposal of peace.”

  Nasara glanced at her Thunderstone. “How noble. If you were serious, you would have brought me the heart of that duplicitous traitor Sireen.”

  Jessa said, “I will grant you the title of Empres
s of the Abyss, where you can serve Kultea herself.”

  Nasara laughed. “That is exile. That’s where we put your dear uncle Maelcolm before he and your whore of a mother could spawn any more incestuous offspring. However, I would extend that same offer to you.”

  “I have been there and had audience with the Mother Kraken,” Jessa said. “She didn’t come out and say it directly, but I think she prefers me to you.”

  “Blasphemy! I will gut you with this Thunderstone.”

  Jessa put her hand on the hilt of her rapier. “Tell me, Nasara. Did you ever fence with my mother?”

  “You think a sword of metal can kill the Empress of Thrycea?”

  Jessa drew her blade. “I sparred with Satryn from a very young age. I was never able to best her. Ever. I always thought I was too weak, too gentle to be any good at it. The best I could ever do was fight her to a draw.”

  Nasara glared. “Then she taught you poorly.”

  Jessa tossed the rapier into her other hand. “She never let me win. She humiliated me on a daily basis. But she was one of the best swordsman in Creation and eventually… I could fight her to a draw. My guess is that fighting you would be like a swim in the tide pool.”

  Nasara lunged at Jessa. She stepped aside, letting the blow miss her.

  Nasara yelled back to her bodyguards, “Cut her down!”

  Arrows flew through the air. Jessa’s reflexes kicked in, and she ran as fast as she could around the edges of the room, ducking the arrows as they clattered against the stone walls. She spread her fingers and unleashed lightning, blasting sofas into splinters and sending Patrean bodyguards flying back.

  She paused, making sure the room was clear of all but herself and her aunt before leaving the crouched position and walking toward her. “This comes down to you and me.”

  Nasara backed away. “And Kultea.” She raised her arms, and the pool in the center of the room began to roil.

  Jessa waved her hand, and the water resumed a glassy calm. “Kondole bestowed one gift Kultea does not. I can calm storms in addition to creating them. I don’t need Thunderstone.”