Eve of Destruction

by C. E. Stalbaum

  “Me, either,” Eve whispered. She glanced once to Zach, and it was perfectly clear what the young man thought. It was just as clear, however, that in the end he would go along with whatever she wanted.

  “If that’s a yes, then I’ll start making arrangements for the trip immediately.”

  “That’s a definite yes.”

  “I’ll book a train in the morning, then,” Danev said. “For now, why don’t you head back inside? I’ll have the girls whip up a nice dinner, and we can all get a good night’s sleep before the trip.”

  She nodded once then turned around and headed back inside. Zach glanced darkly between the other two men, and his eyes lingered on Aram for a long, awkward moment. Then finally he sighed and followed her in.

  “You say she’s like her mother?” Aram asked after a few seconds.

  Danev smiled and nodded. “Yes.”

  “Then I can see why you used to fancy her. She has your reckless streak.”

  “I prefer to think of it as ‘proactive.’”

  Aram grunted. “We’ll see.”

  The bodyguard followed the others inside. Danev turned back to the city and took in a deep breath.

  “Yes,” he said to no one in particular. “We will.”

  ***

  The double doors to the Hall of Innovation swept open, and Amaya Soroshi strode briskly inside. The building was colossal, easily the largest in all of Cadotheia, and given the impressive size of the city that really meant something. Chaval had erected it a decade earlier as a monument to the greatest inventors of the generation. Originally, he had turned it into something of a museum highlighting the best and brightest discoveries of the past thirty years, and while it still fulfilled that purpose, it also now served as his unofficial headquarters. Cadotheia was his town, a beacon of industry situated squarely in what he liked to call the “heartland” of Arkadia.

  But Amaya was not here to see the displays or chat with the dozens of afternoon patrons, reporters, and campaign staffers littering the halls. She knew exactly where Chaval would be, and she headed straight for the upper levels of the building. The cadre of guards simply nodded at her as she passed them. She didn’t want to create more of a scene than was necessary; rumors of his “Talami mistress” were annoying enough already.

  The uppermost level of the Hall was, to her initial surprise, a huge arboretum. Flora from all across the country and even overseas were brought here and meticulously cared for by Chaval’s gardener—and Chaval himself, when he had the time. He liked to come here when he sought seclusion or felt the need to bask in the sunlight under the great glass dome crowning the Hall. The entire thing was a striking juxtaposition to the cold, mechanical feel of the rest of the building.

  As Amaya slipped inside, she saw Chaval standing alone, one hand behind his back as he inspected a dark green weed of some type.

  “Few of my employees in your situation would return to me at all, let alone stride up here as if nothing had happened,” he said the moment the doors swung shut behind her. He didn’t turn. “Most would have fled to the east or even left the country. But then I remembered you were Talami, so if you thought you failed badly enough, you might just kill yourself and spare your family the dishonor.”

  Amaya stopped about ten meters behind him and waited patiently. He could vent all he wanted; once he learned what she had to say, everything would change. She’d only sent him the briefest of messages before leaving Vaschberg, a very basic “mission failed” and little else. She hadn’t even bothered to use her sending stone. This was one story she wanted to tell in person.

  “So then, the question changes,” Chaval continued. “It becomes: why are you still alive?”

  “DeShane has a guardian.”

  He grunted softly. “Yes, we know that. A mysterious protector who killed our men in Lushden and—”

  “It’s a Vakari.”

  Chaval froze. Even the plant he was tending seemed to petrify at the mention of the word. “You’re certain?”

  “She was shot several times at point blank range,” Amaya told him. “No human would have survived that.”

  He finally pivoted around to face her. She noticed he had a thick, tattered book in his right hand.

  “You saw her blood, then?”

  Amaya nodded. “Yes. It was difficult to miss.”

  Chaval eyed her for a long moment, his face unreadable. “Well, my question remains valid: how did you survive?”

  “I ran,” she said flatly. “I sent the wire and came straight here.”

  “How good of a look did you get? Any details, features?”

  “Not really,” Amaya admitted. “She wore a nondescript, full body coat you could find on a few thousand people outside. She also had a red scarf wrapped around her face. And she was tall—probably 180 centimeters or more.”

  “Weapons?”

  “She had a sword, of all things, and a bandoleer full of throwing knives.” Amaya paused and took a deep breath. “She was also a mage.”

  Chaval’s jaw tightened and he slowly paced back and forth. He’d undoubtedly come to the same conclusion she had: the Enclave had finally gotten involved. She wasn’t sure what had taken them so long—the election was only weeks away, and Chaval seemed to have it under wraps. The odd thing was that Vakari were typically used as assassins, not bodyguards. So why had this one been defending Tara DeShane’s daughter? Why hadn’t she come after Chaval herself?

  “Curious,” he said eventually, idly tapping the back of his book. “They must already know, then.”

  Amaya frowned. “Know what, sir?”

  He smiled crookedly, holding up the book. “What’s in Tara DeShane’s journal, of course. It has proven to be every bit as enlightening as I hoped.”

  “So she really was a prophet?”

  “I never doubted that,” Chaval said. “I simply wondered how relevant her most recent visions would be to us, especially given the last message she sent me.”

  Amaya nodded. He had never told her exactly what DeShane’s message had said when it arrived a few months ago, but he had hinted at the fact it was a not-so-veiled threat against his presidential campaign. It was what had prompted his move against her in the first place.

  “In any event,” Chaval went on, “this Vakari may have done us a favor.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “It seems Tara was a haunted woman,” he explained, a trace of amusement creeping into his voice. “While she was still carrying her daughter, she had a terrible vision about her child’s future. Namely, that unborn Evelyn would grow up to become a Defiler.”

  That term Amaya understood well. In Talam, they were called Rukoya, and they were the reason she was here serving a man like Chaval. The legacy of the Lo’sai Dynasty was a testament to their unbridled ambition, and her barren country was the result of their destructive power.

  Amaya’s hands balled into fists. “You told me once that the Enclave abhorred Defilers.”

  “Its original purpose was to stop them, in fact,” Chaval said. “By any means necessary.”

  “So that’s why they sent the Vakari after the girl, then,” Amaya reasoned. “But if their Prophetess believed her own daughter would become a Defiler, why would the Enclave not just kill her outright before she became a threat?”

  “Not everyone in the Magister’s Council believed Tara was really the Prophetess, and others are simply squeamish. They will wait until the girl Defiles before they take action.”

  Amaya shook her head. She had never been particularly religious, but she knew most of the magi were. If they really did believe in their Goddess and the legend of her Prophetess, then why wouldn’t they take action? They were probably just like so many other alleged religious folk she’d met in her travels—namely, big on talk and light on action.

  “Did the journal say when this would happen? Or how?”

  Chaval leaned back against the nearby railing. “The when is rarely clear, unfortunately, but likely in the
not-too-distant future. It must have been a harrowing experience for a mother to believe her unborn child would become such a butcher.”

  Amaya pursed her lips as she thought back to what Chaval had said before. “You said the Vakari might have done us a favor. What did you mean by that?”

  A self-satisfied smile stretched across his face. “It means we’ve been approaching this the wrong way. Tara might have been a threat to us, but her progeny is not. Evelyn may prove herself quite the opposite with the right motivation. Why take her out of the picture when she could give us another Kalavan to work with?”

  Amaya’s muscles stiffened, and she had to shuffle to keep her balance. She’d spent her life around corrupt clan warlords, and she still wasn’t sure if she’d ever heard a more heartless proclamation in her entire life. Even in a world overflowing with war, death, starvation, and any of a hundred other blights, Kalavan had been special. By all accounts, one mage had done to that island in a day what it had taken Lo’Sai Rukoya centuries to accomplish in Talam. To willingly wish that devastation on others…

  “You don’t mean that,” she whispered.

  “I realize how distasteful it sounds, but you have to look at the bigger picture. Kalavan galvanized the population against the magi in a way few people ever thought possible. It finally opened their eyes and made them realize that the magi are not their benevolent protectors. If they had to endure another similar tragedy…” Chaval shrugged. “The ultimate truth would finally be laid bare. The magi—all of them—are our enemies.”

  Amaya’s stomach churned. Maybe it was because he hadn’t actually been to Talam or Vakar. Maybe he didn’t fully appreciate what he was saying….

  “In the end, it will save more lives than it costs,” he soothed, reaching out and placing a hand on her shoulder. “Unfortunately, change often requires bloodshed.”

  Yoki shozaka: change is painful. She had heard the cliché many times in her childhood, spoken by all sides in their civil war. It was a glib way to rationalize death, but then that was part of her job: she was here to kill people for a foreigner so that she could send money home to her family. She lived with that decision every day, and it hardly gave her moral high ground to stand on here.

  But he wasn’t talking about murder. He was talking about a massacre.

  Amaya swallowed heavily. “What would you have me do?”

  “For now, nothing. We have more practical matters to attend to in the next few days. DeShane will undoubtedly have Danev watching over her now, too, so our options would be limited anyway. Our people should be able to keep us apprised of his movements well enough. When the time is right, all we need to do is find the proper catalyst.”

  “Such as?”

  He didn’t smile this time, but Amaya could still hear the amusement in his voice. “The heart of a young girl is such a fragile thing, especially one who just lost her only family member. Now imagine the loss of someone else close to her…”

  “Like her consort?”

  “Maybe,” he said. “Wounding might be sufficient. We’ll have to see how it turns out.”

  “I see.”

  He chuckled. “Don’t worry about it. For now, you and I need to plan for my trip. Janel’s rhetoric has been heating up, and I need to be out on the campaign trail every day I can.”

  “If the Enclave is getting involved, it might be dangerous for you to leave,” she warned.

  “It would be dangerous not to,” he insisted. “I’m not going to show fear this close to the election. The people need to see that I’m still there, ready to look out for them….regardless of what may or may not happen. Come, let’s head to my office and discuss the details.”

  Amaya nodded obediently and followed. A few days ago she’d found it easy to stifle her pity for the young DeShane. Now…well, it had suddenly become a lot more complicated. Perhaps it would have been best for everyone if her men had killed the girl back in Lushden or on the train.

  Amaya tried to tell herself that she had never placed much faith in visions or superstitions. In all likelihood, Chaval was reading too much into this, and they were harassing a hapless girl who was no more important than any other nineteen year old. Besides, the girl hadn’t even finished her training at the university. How powerful of a Defiler could she possibly become?

  Chapter Ten

  Shaedra Nafal opened her eyes and gazed out at the gloom of the Vaschberg skyline. Dawn was coming soon. She could smell the change in the wind. She could sense the vermin in the waning shadows scurrying for cover. She could even hear the birds shuffling, preparing to sing their morning tune.

  This decaying city still had a pulse, a distantly throbbing heartbeat, despite all the damage the Industrialists had done to it. She could smell it, hear it, taste it…and all the while the hunger inside her stirred like a hibernating beast waking from its winter slumber. Soon it would need to be sated, or the pangs would drive her mad.

  For now she tried to keep her attention focused on the train station just down the street. Danev had purchased tickets to Cadotheia, of all places, and soon he would be escorting the girl and her consort here to catch the eight o’clock rail. The very thought of stepping into that Fane-forsaken place nearly made Shaedra wretch, but at least it helped her concentrate on something besides her appetite.

  “You really are a mess,” a soft male voice said from behind her.

  Shaedra grimaced. “Thanks for noticing.”

  “Someone has to remind you,” he replied. “Goddess knows it’s been a long time since you looked in a mirror.”

  She swiveled to face him. He stood at the center of the alley, his lip curled in disgust as he glared down at the piles of refuse. He was as well-dressed as ever, if perhaps a few centuries out-of-date. His dark blue vest, brown trousers, and ruffled white cuffs were even more striking when set against the squalor of Vaschberg rather than the organic greenery of eastern cities like Lushden.

  “What do you want this time, Alex?” she asked tiredly. She’d learned long ago that trying to ignore him was futile. He was just as persistent in death as he had been in life, and sometimes he chose to follow her around for days, constantly berating her about the past. If she just confronted him directly, usually he would speak his peace and then vanish once again into the recesses of the Fane.

  “I want you to look around,” he said softly, “and tell me this was worth living to see.”

  She snorted. “You can’t blame me for this. They’re doing it to themselves this time.”

  He sniffed idly at the air. “I’m surprised you can survive here.”

  “Cadotheia will be even worse,” she warned. “Perhaps for once you shouldn’t try to follow.”

  Alex smiled thinly. “You can’t escape your conscience that easily.”

  “Is that what you call yourself now? You’re more like a gnat buzzing about my face while I try to do my job.”

  “Your job,” he sneered. “You mean working for the Enclave?”

  “Screll the Enclave,” Shaedra hissed. “I’m here for Maltus.”

  “Ah, that’s right. The magister you mysteriously choose to obey. I was part of the Magister’s Council, too, and yet I don’t recall you ever obeying me.”

  She clenched hard at a loose piece of soot-covered brick on the wall. “I was your wife, not your servant.”

  “Were you?” Alex asked, taking a step forward. “Eighteen years and you never bore me a child. I barely saw you for a month out of the last five.”

  “We’ve been over this. Many, many times.”

  “Yes, but it makes me wonder why you’re really here. You claim to abhor the Enclave for what you insist they did to Vakar, and yet—

  “They destroyed our home,” she growled, spinning to glare at him. “You destroyed our home!”

  He cocked an eyebrow. “Did I? As I recall, you were the one who spent months in that library trying to find a way to pervert the Fane and destroy the Lesseks. You were the one who refused to surrender and instea
d watched as our soldiers were slaughtered at Zulusgrad. You were the one—”

  “The Enclave could have saved us,” she insisted. “Instead they sat there and watched as our people were conquered. All their supposed power and they refused to lift a finger in our defense.”

  “The Enclave does not fight wars,” Alex said in that smug little tone she hated so much. “It protects the Fane and those who touch its power. The Council was more than willing to shelter us and any other magi during the fighting. We could have resolved the situation peaceably and retained most of our lands.”

  Shaedra ripped the chunk brick from the wall. It sliced open her palm, and she stared down at the stream of blue blood in her hand. The wound closed within seconds, and she clenched her fist together until the blood gushed out from the sides.

  “They invaded us, Alex,” she said. “And you wanted to surrender.”

  “I wanted you to recognize that magi shouldn’t care about something as petty as national borders. Such trivialities only exist to coddle the infantile torbos.”

  “They were our people—our soldiers. And they were dying…”

  “And so instead of surrender, you destroyed them all,” he reminded her. “I fail to see the improvement.”

  She turned back to glare at him again. “Do you have a point to make, or are you just here to torment me?”

  Alex tilted his chin up slightly. “I merely wish to understand your purpose here, Shaedra. Why do you care what happens to this girl?”

  “I told you before that Maltus believes she is special.”

  “And so you watch her,” he said. “You protect her, even. Is it some type of penance, perhaps? For all the death you have wrought?”

  “If that’s what you want to believe, don’t let me stop you,” she muttered.

  “It’s either that, or a personal favor to this magister. I know he saved your life once, but we both know that was hardly a blessing. You’d be better off dead.”