The Pit of No Return (The King Henry Tapes Book 6)

by Richard Raley

  “Great,” I said, “We’re fucking avatars.”

  Other names, other titles for mancers that I’d never heard before. Some blank just like the Darkwatcher, with lists trying to find an answer to who held that power, that mantle. Who was the Greatest Power? And what does it mean to be the Greatest Power?

  Lightninghand, Enchanter, Noheart, Monster, Poisontongue, Memory, Thousandface.

  Poisontongue? Floromancers get an awesome title for once while all I’m doing is breaking glass, what’s up with that shit?

  Thousandface had a name I recognized: Isabel Soto. Confirmed, Unrecognized, Undeclared, Corrupted.

  Corrupted? One way to put it.

  Saw some others on the lists for possible replacements that I recognized. Keith Gullick for floromancers, Mordecai Root and Welf for necromancers. Sabine was at the bottom of the field for when the Lady finally keeled over. Catherine Hayes had second best odds if something happened to Ceinwyn . . .

  “So they don’t know,” Val said what I was thinking. “It can go to anyone.”

  “Stronger you are, the more likely,” I decided, “only one per discipline.”

  “But what does it mean?”

  “More power, more ability.” I pointed to my title of Glassbreaker. “I’m the only geomancer I know who can work with glass. That has to be some of it.”

  “Unrecognized, undeclared?”

  “Haven’t a single fucking clue, Val. Never seen this movie before either.”

  She rolled her eyes at me, picking out one of the books beside the chalkboard. “Lineages . . . family lines, who has bred with whom.”

  “Would it kill them to just have a simple description on a post-it note for once?”

  Val’s only answer was to snap a picture of the chalkboard with the camera.

  Guess it would have to be enough for now.

  I’m a Maximus.

  Vis Maximus

  The Greatest Power.

  Glassbreaker.

  Confirmed.

  How’s a fellow go about getting recognized and declared now?

  And what are the consequences?

  Secret handshake and a flying bison?

  [CLICK]

  Turns out I didn’t have to fix the mountainside back into being it’s normal, everyday Geo Realm equivalent.

  My message for Val had been wiped out, erased, like it never was, but in its place . . . was a second message in giant, fifty-foot-tall golden letters. Not in English this time, but in the Sawaephim tongue. So all who saw it in this Realm would know its meaning. Poug was happy to translate.

  KNOW THYSELF, KING OF DIRT, AND KNOW YOU ARE MINE.

  Session 68

  Some days at the Asylum go by in a flash.

  Weeks.

  Even months.

  Get sucked into the daily grind of it all.

  Wake up, eat, teach, eat, spend seven to eight hours with Plutarch, eat some more, have a nice shit in your toilet, shower, shave, sleep. Do it all over again. Might be a magic school, still makes you feel like a cog most of the time. Flying on by, doing what they want you to do. Being a good little boy. Suck on that teat. Learn. Grow. All that positive reinforcement shit.

  Other days . . . other days never end.

  Other weeks never end.

  Those are the kind of weeks I like telling you about, kiddies.

  Special weeks. Weeks your life changes so clearly you see the fissure between the before and the after. Like a scar on your face. Nothing can hide it. Anyone looks in your eyes they can see it there, see the change, see the difference. Asylum tries so hard to make sure none of those weeks come about.

  No scars, just constant and contained growth. Eat-your-veggies-and-have-a-glass-of-milk-with-dinner kind of growth. None of that dangerous scar shit. They try really hard, but sometimes . . . they fuck up. Sometimes it ain’t enough.

  Sometimes those million little mistakes add up to a single splat.

  Splat down on the pavement.

  Kind of week, kind of day where I don’t even consider going about my usual routine, meaning I skipped class with Plutarch.

  Maybe he’d chase after me and stick my ass in the dirt again, don’t know. The fairy that kept stalking me through the years couldn’t even make me feel more frustrated than I already was, so . . . guess it’d be a welcomed nap.

  Frustration.

  Frustration with the million little mistakes.

  Frustration with Victim Number Splat.

  Frustration this murder mystery shit was harder than it seemed on Murder, She Wrote. Which I’ve watched about five-hundred episodes so far this year thanks to Plutarch’s obsession with Angela Lansbury’s drooping jowls.

  Frustration . . . cuz none of the pieces went together. Kept glaring at them, trying to mash them down. Didn’t even consider maybe I was trying to solve the wrong puzzle.

  Mentimancy fit, damn it! It made the most sense. How I would do it if I wanted to frame someone. But the evidence wasn’t matching up with how I’d do it. Sometimes it ain’t the most sense that ends up being the truth. Don’t I know it. Just barely working up the courage to ask myself the hard question: how you any better than Root if you just stick to what you think should make sense instead of what actually happened?

  Didn’t like the answer. Especially if I had to give up my Mentimancy angle. Especially since Catherine did seem involved somehow.

  I was sure as shit of that.

  Somehow.

  She was just too pleased with herself not to be.

  Did something, but what if not the mentimancer theory?

  Plus, there was Teresa’s frustration and apparent relief. Not often you see a Queen acting guilty about anything. Maybe if I got her alone I could . . . like . . . I don’t know, get my ass burnt again probably. Teresa made it through an interview with Root and got herself through whatever Catherine had planned to begin with, but it was almost like . . . had something gone wrong?

  Maybe Leo wasn’t supposed to die.

  Maybe they were just going for a second try at the original plan. Embarrass Welf’s honor and all that patrician bullshit. Simplified it all even, beat up Leo and blame it on Welf instead of beating up Vicky and using that to lure Welf. Maybe they were hoping Leo would gather up some boys and start a war between ‘09 and ’08 in retribution? Only it went wrong and Leo slipped over the railing . . . which made Catherine just as happy, improvising to fuck Welf still, but made Teresa edgy, that it?

  Miss Strange was a bust.

  Three Queens were a bust.

  Decided it was time to find Ceinwyn Dale and hit her up with my mentimancer theory. She was one of only two people at the Asylum who knew about Catherine’s reason to hate the Welfs, so maybe she’d be more receptive. Stupid secrets, always causing problems like this. Exactly why I hate them so much. Even when they’re not mine to share they feel like crap stuck on your asshole in need of some extra wiping.

  Not the only person playing hooky from class.

  Given how crowded my walk through the Park was, it seemed like more of the graduate students were skipping out than were actually attending. Finally the revolution begins! Tear down the doors! Form barricades! Rebel! Defiance! Guillotine time! Kill ‘em all! Wait . . . where was I?

  Ran across Isabel going the opposite direction, still rocking that leggy, super-tall, blond girl look. She smiled at the sight of me, despite all her vigor in blaming Welf for this mess earlier. “Like what you see?” she asked, just like she always did. Always sounded oddly impersonal, more like you would ask about a piece of abstract art than about your own body.

  “Not bad,” I gave my stock neutral answer. There was a new body for her every three or four days now. Don’t know how she did it. Don’t know who she was trying to impress with them either. Maybe herself. “Trying to look like Miss Dale? Hair’s a little short, but the legs are nice.”

  Isabel’s chiseled, model-esqe face darkened. “No, not her.”

  “Hope?”

  More frown. �
��No,” she said simply, without further explanation.

  “Okay, well . . . I need to go check on something; so . . . see you at dinner, I guess.”

  Awkward? Oh. Fucking. Yes. It. Was. Still haven’t figured out how to tell her to stop giving off the stalker vibes and leave me alone. What’s a Price do in the face of emotions? Repression. Or call ‘em a fucktard. Guessing that calling Isabel a fucktard would make her leap off the deep end and start boiling bunny rabbits, so . . . repress, repress it all away.

  “King Henry,” she asked like a child trying to understand something far too adult and complex for her, “do you really think your whole mentimancer conspiracy is likely?”

  Yes. No. Fuck if I knew any more. Knew I wanted it to be truth. Hypocrite. “It’s my first idea is all. Trying to prove it as best I can, even if it’s off to a rocky start. Might take awhile to get to the truth, but whatever the truth is, it ain’t gonna be whatever rumors Catherine is spreading around.”

  Isabel pursed a fantastic set of lips as she thought this over. “I suppose. I still don’t think she did it . . . and neither does Mr. Root.”

  “Root can investigate the way he wants and I’ll investigate the way I want,” I growled a bit of bravado I wasn’t exactly feeling much. “Already talked to Strange, talked to Catherine, and I’m gonna talk to Miss Dale next. Something will shake loose I start banging hard enough.”

  Isabel seemed more alarmed than put at ease by this revelation, her mouth turning into a giant ‘O.’ “You . . . you shouldn’t get involved, King Henry. Welf isn’t worth anyone’s effort, especially not yours. He thinks he’s better than everyone. He’ll never understand that there are people at this school a lot more special than he is, no matter how much money he has or how many mancers he’s had in his family.”

  Crazy: yes. Wrong: no. “Don’t disagree. Welf was born a douchebag and he’ll die a douchebag, but he’s my douchebag, ya know? Plus, I don’t think he’d hurt Leo like that. Besides, he ever gonna throw someone off a roof, he would’ve thrown me off one years ago.”

  “Maybe it wasn’t Welf or Catherine,” she hedged, again like we were talking about something naughty we might get in trouble for.

  “Maybe,” I had to admit. “Still think Catherine is involved somehow . . . talked a mentimancer Blackjack into doing it,” I kept at my bone. It’s my bone. Fuck off! Yeah, it’s got hair all over it now and a little bit of mildew, but it’s mine!

  “A mentimancer Blackjack,” Isabel whispered to herself, darkness fading from her expression like an idea had dawned on her. “It could be one of them, couldn’t it? Well . . . good luck with your search then, King Henry. I . . . need to take care of something too.”

  She was acting odd, but she was Isabel, so of course she was being weird, right? “Yeah, see ya around,” I said, happy she’d be elsewhere, bugging someone not named King Henry.

  On I trudged once again!

  For about thirty seconds.

  Crossed paths with Vicky next. She booked it through the Park with a purpose until she saw my blocky ass. Diverting her path instantly, she threw her arms around me in a trademarked Vicky Surprise Hug, so strong and heavy it almost knocked the both of us to the floor. No escaping it. If anything, there was something extra to how tight she clasped onto me this time.

  “Sorry I haven’t found you sooner,” I apologized, patting her on the back. Think that’s the kind of thing you’re supposed to do in this situation. “Figured that saving your idiot brother was more important than letting you pop the air out of my lungs.”

  “He’s not an idiot!” Vick fiercely defended him by yelling into my shoulder. “And he’s not a murderer!”

  “Didn’t say—”

  She pulled away from me, only her hands grabbing at my geomancer’s coat. Vick’s a big girl with some serious hips and size to her, but she’s never been athletic, so at least she didn’t have the strength to rend the fabric Old Testament style. “Don’t believe everything you’ve heard, King Henry! It’s just . . . so awful! The way people have turned on him, have turned on me. I had someone spit on me.”

  My face immediately proclaimed that someone needed to have their arm broken in retribution. “Who?”

  “Don’t cause more problems than we already have,” she warned, even as her hands released their grip, a single finger stretching out to poke my chest. “We need to find a way to prove Brother is innocent. What we don’t need is you running around punching everyone who disagrees with said innocence.”

  “Working on it,” I told her just like I had Isabel.

  She blinked, the little bit of hope in her bright blue eyes representing more responsibility than I ever wanted to bear. “How?”

  “Right now I’m assuming it was a mentimancer Blackjack. Confused Leo, made him think it was your brother. All while it was really some Blackjacks or the Queens doing the deed. Catherine’s claiming she didn’t do it herself and that’s probably the truth. Don’t mean she wasn’t pulling the strings. Only thing I am certain of is that this will end messy . . .”

  “Catherine again?” Vicky breathed out a sigh of exhaustion, her shoulders slumping and some of that hope fading. “Why does she hate us so much? I’ve never done anything to her . . .”

  I only grunted.

  “I would love to stay and talk,” she apologized with more manners than I’ll ever have, “but Mother’s arrived and they’re finally allowing me to see Brother. I didn’t even get to see him last night, what with the curfew, and now he’s taken away at breakfast while I’m stuck in class! It’s been very unfair and I don’t expect it will become fairer. As you said: messy for all of us. Still, Mother is here now. She’ll do something. Meet with the Learning Council or . . . I don’t know. Something. He can’t be guilty, King Henry, he just can’t!”

  I got another Vicky Surprise Hug. Gave her head a pat along with her back this time. Whole thing felt like being molested by a cheery, blond Care-bear. “He ain’t guilty, I’ll prove it. Just watch me do it, Vick. Go and see him, tell him . . . well, if even I don’t believe it then that means plenty of smarter people won’t either.”

  “But what about the dumb people?”

  “Unless one of us can pull some Sherlock shit out of our assholes, he just might have to live without their good opinion.”

  “Even if he’s expelled, King Henry . . . the shame might kill him,” she worried aloud.

  “Go,” I urged her. “Don’t let your mom push you around either.”

  She laughed at me despite the mood of the day. “I said no more fights. Not another Great War!”

  On I trudged once again!

  For even less than thirty seconds.

  Last to cross paths with me was Athir, who I found on a bench at the edge of the Park. He was deep in thought, doing the whole hand-on-chin thing with a very troubled expression on his perfectly shaved, bronze-skinned face. Don’t think I’ve ever seen him looking anything but immaculate or being anything other than the perfect, polite student. Weird because of the whole mentimancer thing, but politely weird . . . always.

  Now . . . there he was out of class.

  Breaking the rules like one of us common plebs.

  Doing him some lonely ass ruminating.

  Still like that word, kiddies.

  Ruminating . . . Athir did some, all alone on a bench. Good place to do some ruminating, if not the place I’d pick. Suppose we all have our different benches. Athir’s was next to a pond, surrounded by trees and bushes. The blue and black trim of his colors made him fade into the shadows of the midday, despite the May sun blazing fiercely over our heads. Always shady in the Park, why some of the sciomancers liked hanging out in certain places. Makes the floromancers pissy. Floromancers get along with spectromancers. Sciomancers with faunamancers, especially predator-types. For obvious reasons I suppose.

  No sign of any of those disciplines just now . . . only a troubled mentimancer.

  Who no one likes.

  “You okay?” I bothered
to give a shit for once.

  Athir blinked for a bit before he recognized me. “Fine, King Henry, thank you for asking.”

  “Steal some memory of a pretty girl taking a shower or something?”

  He considered this. “The world is lucky that you are not a mentimancer,” he finally said.

  “I know, right! I’d have had Welf thinking he was a pretty princess by the end of Single. Rather just live in a world where I get to punch him in the face every six or so months. Far less complicated, ya know?”

  Athir went back to frowning with worry, but said nothing more.

  “Welf who you’re thinking about?”

  “I just wonder . . .” he stopped himself before curiosity won out over manners, “could one of us really have commit this atrocity?”

  “Us? A mancer?”

  “I know a mancer could, which is why we have the Cleansing Sphere of Reform. But now, I speak of our class. The thirty of us. Could one of us really be a killer? I did not think so yesterday, but today . . . I wonder.”

  “Stop with the introspections and start looking at the Blackjacks,” I advised him. “You’re in the same Mindmaster class as some of them. You should know them better than any of us, don’t you think they could be killers?”

  Athir shook his head slowly. “Not really. I have shared memories with them. They are not as fond of the Queens as you might assume. Fond or not, they are stuck with Catherine, so they give way before her. Some of them even miss the other girls . . . the ones who were expelled. Or transferred as you found out. The Blackjacks all took heart that they were still okay . . .”

  Well, I’m depressed now. You depressed now, kiddies?

  Yeah, I just left Athir there to his thoughts, his and any other’s he might have been given.

  Back to the trundling!

  [CLICK]

  Ceinwyn wasn’t at home.

  Shocker.

  Seriously, kiddies, you find Ceinwyn Dale in her house during the middle of the day and you’ve managed a miracle. Once in a lifetime event. Rarer than Halley’s Comet or a black person not getting voted out of Survivor first.

  No one home.

  So I broke in with a simple blast of geo-anima.