The Queen of Lies

by Michael J. Bode

  A hand gripped his shoulder as the current washed over him. The water was clogged with the dead and the ruins of Rivern, but the looming murky shapes jaunted to the side moments before he collided with them. The water exploded into a splash, and he blinked his poorly made new eyes.

  “I feel her power,” Jessa said. “Kultea remains.”

  “Sword?” Heath called out, but there was no answer.

  “Kultea knows I’m unworthy of her,” Jessa muttered spitefully.

  Heath grabbed her shoulders. “You’re a Tempest. No one in Creation can match your power. You can do this. I believe in you.”

  Jessa laughed nervously. “And I thought my mother was the Queen of Lies.”

  Heath held Jessa’s hands. “I believed in something once, and it turned to shit. The priests of Ohan used my mother’s death to turn me into their assassin. I had no faith, when all I wanted was to believe in something. So when I say I believe in you, I fucking mean it.”

  She shut her eyes.

  “What do you believe in Jessa?” Heath pleaded. “Even if it isn’t true, what’s worth believing in anyway?”

  She gazed up at the turbulent clouds and scowled. “Not this.”

  Heath grabbed her hand. “Then make that real.”

  Jessa threw her head back. “There’s truth to the claim that the world is a savage place. And perhaps it’s a fiction that we tell ourselves it isn’t. But there’s beauty in those fictions.”

  Heath shut his eyes and prayed. “Ohan, I haven’t asked you for anything in a long time, but…if you’re real, now would a good time to show yourself.”

  “Kondole.” Jessa whispered the blasphemous name of the Father Whale. It was a mere whisper, but it stirred on the wind.

  An echo of thunder burst from the sky and knocked them to the ground.

  A squarish, tapered mass of clouds plunged out of the sky. Two enormous glowing eyes of electrical power pooled together at the front of the cloud mass. A long, thin slit opened in the roiling cloud bank—dark and full of flickering electricity—and the clouds bound themselves together into a sinuous cetacean body. A whale made of storm and thunder.

  The majestic creature let out a long, high bellow that shot to the ground.

  Kultea’s tentacles lashed toward the mighty beast but dissolved into drops of water as they struck the wall of sound. As the whale song spread over the city, the roiling storm clouds rolled back and dissipated into nothingness.

  The Father Whale swam merrily through the clear, starry sky as the storm retreated. The sun was cresting the horizon in the north, and brilliant rays of light broke through the clouds, which lost their dark pallor and became white tufts as majestic as mountains. The sky was every color of red and orange and purple.

  “Holy shit,” Heath exclaimed.

  Jessa grabbed his arm and pointed it toward Sword’s broken body. The seal on his chest glowed gold and washed him in a flicker of aurous energy. His wounds were erased, along with the seal on his stomach, and his eyes blinked. He remained motionless as he stared up at the massive whale in the sky.

  Heath ran over to him and shook his shoulders. “Hey, buddy. You okay?”

  “Sword,” Maddox mumbled. “Need Sword….”

  “Dying must have broken the bond,” Heath said.

  “At least he’s speaking,” Jessa said.

  Heath ran back toward Pytheria and Crateus, who were lost in wonder at the whale that swam in the sky. It nudged its head gently at cloud banks and thunderheads on the horizon, reverting them to harmless fluffy clouds.

  Heath grabbed the sword by its blade, cutting his hand and avoiding the curse of the hilt, and ran over to Maddox’s body. He slipped it under Maddox’s hand, and in an instant his inexpressiveness was replaced with a smile. “Jessa,” Sword said, “you should make him shoot a rainbow out of his blowhole.”

  She stifled a laugh. “I’m so glad to see you whole again.”

  “We won.” Sword reared his legs toward his chest and brought them forward, using his momentum to gain a standing position. He nearly pulled it off, but after an initial stumble, he dug his blade into the ground to avoid falling flat on his ass. “I need to work out more.”

  “We did it,” Heath smiled.

  “Can we bring it in for a group hug?” Sword asked.

  A Patrean soldier briskly marched toward them with a company of Fodders in tow. They were soaking wet, but if they suffered, they didn’t show it in their stoic expressions. Their weapons were sheathed. Heath recognized Warmaster Jasyn as the leader of the company. His facial tattoos and age were distinctive enough to differentiate him as he approached.

  “Empress Jessa,” he stated, “the contracts of this city are yours under the rules of capture.”

  “I don’t claim this city,” Jessa explained, “or your contracts.”

  Heath leaned toward her. “Are you sure?”

  “This was an invasion. The Protectorate is owed an apology.”

  Heath gazed over the ruins of the city. “No. It needs leadership.”

  “My soldiers and I need a contract holder to authorize any action of the military,” Warmaster Jasyn said. “Otherwise we must report to Fort Reave for reassignment.”

  “You honestly…” Jessa moaned in exasperation. “Yes, I claim your contracts and authorize you to mobilize forces to rescue and secure the city. Don’t engage the Red Army, and if Sireen moves her forces here, tell her I’ll kill every last one of them.”

  “But…they’re your forces now,” the warmaster said.

  “Then they can help!” Jessa snapped.

  “Sure that’s wise? Red armor doesn’t look good coming into the city,” Heath cautioned. “Maybe mix the patrols, with command falling to the Rivern officers to coordinate.”

  “I have no idea what I’m doing,” Jessa admitted then turned to the warmaster. “Do as he says. Give aid where you can.”

  “It will be done.” Warmaster Jasyn saluted then added, “I’ve worked for a lot of employers, Empress. You’re doing better than most. Listen to your advisors, and never be afraid to say you don’t know the answer.”

  “He was totally blowing smoke up your ass,” Sword said, after Jasyn and his men had left.

  Jessa started to pace. “We should meet with Sireen and the remainder of the government. We’ll need to make plans. But the people need our aid. And the Razor of Setahari. We have to find that before we can do anything. If anyone picks it up…” She cast her eyes about frantically.

  “It’s probably in the river,” Heath said. “Or the canal.”

  Jessa wrung her hands. “How can we be sure?”

  “If only we had someone who had an affinity for water,” Sword mused.

  FORTY-ONE

  Aftershock

  SWORD

  CONFLICT IS ESSENTIAL to the human experience. Without principled opposition, strong beliefs are merely unquestioned assumptions.

  —THE SENTINEL, TRAVELER PROVERBS

  RIVERN HAD BEEN demolished. The twin towers that spanned Trident Falls were nothing more than rubble. Homes, including Heath’s, had been shattered, and the canals were choked with the broken remnants of daily life. And bodies.

  Sword had seen a lot of death in his time, and this looked worse than it was. There had been far more survivors than casualties in the Overlook. Most of the buildings bore damage that ranged from superficial to major, but a few had been completely demolished. One half of a house remained intact, while the back and insides had been completely removed.

  There was a mixture of mourning and celebration in the streets. The giant cloud whale, who was now white and fluffy, performed graceful backflips in the air. It distracted many survivors as they clutched their loved ones among the shattered remains of their homes.

  Jessa solemnly walked atop the surface of the canal, deep in concentration, her hands extended to her sides. Periodically she waved her arm, and a dagger—or sometimes a person—bubbled up out of the water.

  She seemed
frail, but she dealt with tragedy better than Sword expected. She believed she was weak because her mother had fed her that horseshit—probably since the day she realized her daughter was made of sterner stuff than she was. Satryn’s abuses only had made her more resilient; Maddox had been the opposite.

  Whatever Jessa found, it was never the Razor.

  Sword was doubtful they would find it. Sword himself had been thought lost countless times, only to mysteriously reemerge. The Sarn Arsenal had been crafted by the Artifex, so who knew what other theurgies he had built into his creations.

  The trio came to the edge of the Saint Jeffrey Falls and stopped. Sword’s heart sank as he looked out over the Backwash and saw nothing but ruin. The water was invisible beneath a crust of shattered wood, bodies, and junk. A small churning crescent of water from the triple falls was clogged with garbage and broken timber. In the distance the broken half of the Assembly tower jutted at an angle from Trident Lake below.

  “Fuck,” Heath said, gazing at the destruction. The ruins were swarmed with rowboats and survivors clinging to planks. Beaker Street was nothing more than a smear on the shoreline, and toxic runoff visibly dissolved the rubble into a bubbly brown foam.

  Jessa hugged herself. “I can’t bear this.”

  “There’s no way we’re finding anything in that mess,” Heath said, always pragmatic.

  “Oh, my Guides,” Sword said, and pointed. “Look!”

  Amid all the destruction, one building still stood. It was shabby and decrepit but no more than it had been. It was like a single flower growing from the ashes of a ruined city or a lone dove flapping its wings in the sunlight following a storm. It was a sight that warmed and exhilarated him.

  The other two squinted.

  “The Mage’s Flask!” Sword exclaimed. “We have to go there.”

  “You want to go to a bar?” Heath said flatly.

  “Look,” Sword said, turning to Jessa, “you said we all have something to offer each other that the others lack. You two take yourselves way too seriously.”

  They both glared at him.

  “Everyone I see—including both of you—is going to be dead. When I walk through a busy street, I see people living on borrowed time. I’ll outlive everyone, until so many people have died that this catastrophe will be nothing more than a footnote in history. My best friend died during the Macerian purges, but that’s not even part of the lore anymore.

  “I know it’s a big deal for you, but it’s an eternal, inevitable fact of your existence that you’ll die. Your friends, lovers, enemies, neighbors will all be dead and forgotten one day,” Sword said emphatically, “but my fucking bar is the only thing that’s still standing after the physical manifestation of fucking Kultea. If this isn’t a good time for a drink and some levity, I don’t know what is.”

  “Yes, people die, and it’s sad for those who knew them,” Jessa scolded. “But these people died before their time! This tragedy was a result of the senseless actions of my mother and family. Forgive me if I don’t want to enjoy a congratulatory celebration amid the destruction we failed to prevent.”

  Sword admitted, “I’m immortal. If anyone has time to blame themselves for things that never can change, it’s me. I just don’t see a point to it. But the fact remains, that bar is still standing. That’s not just convenient—it’s significant…because nothing else down there withstood your mother. Don’t you want to know why?”

  He let the idea sink in.

  “We should get back to Sireen,” Jessa said.

  Heath gazed at the ruins below. “The moment we go to her, we’ll never get back.”

  “Exactly!” Sword chimed in.

  “Fine,” Jessa said. “We should investigate and look further for the Razor.”

  They made their way down the switchbacks against throngs of wet, desperate people winding their way up the side of the cliff toward dry land. The people of the Backwash were displaced, but they’d been displaced from the worst part of Rivern. Sword wondered briefly if that wasn’t a good thing for these survivors, who would fill the vacancies in the abandoned residences of the upper city.

  When they reached the edge of Trident Lake, Sword used his mind to build a stable bridge. He ripped out nails and boards, lashing them together to create a boardwalk in front of them as they walked. Where people were splashing helplessly in the water, he and Jessa brought them out. Heath walked behind, occasionally offering his fleeting Light to those in desperate need.

  As they approached the Flask, they heard music and laughter. The decrepit structure stood untouched in a churning mass of utter destruction. Sword paused. “That’s fucking creepy.”

  They walked through the door to find the place full of regulars and survivors alike, getting hammered at the bar. Bottles were being passed between piss-drunk people as they danced and staggered about. A brawny man was pawing a woman with his meaty hands, while another man danced on a table. The music was merry and lively.

  “Maddox!” Cassie cackled happily from behind the bar. “Come here and give me a kiss.”

  “She hates me,” Sword whispered. “Something fucked up is going on.”

  “It’s your victory celebration,” a short woman with bouncing golden hair pronounced theatrically. She wore a dancer’s outfit, replete with colorful bows and ruffles. She was somewhat attractive, for a girl, but wore too much makeup. “Free drinks for everyone!”

  She approached them, moving lithely through the patrons, as they slapped her ass. “Hi. I’m the Libertine, but just call me Libby. It’s actually pretty close to my real name. I think that’s how I ended up with it. How are you all doing? You were amazing up there. Just spectacular.”

  “How is this place still standing?” Jessa demanded. “Is this your doing?”

  Libby smiled playfully. “Maybe…Look, I could go into all the boring details, but you don’t want to hear me talk. You’re the heroes of the city. We want to hear all about you—your anguish, your regrets, the hard decisions you’ve had to make.”

  “Wait,” Sword said, remembering something from an ancient lifetime. “She’s a Traveler, like the Harbinger, but with boobs and alcohol.”

  “Like the Harbinger but very, very different,” she said. “We have a complicated, oppositional, but interdependent relationship. Don’t worry—I’m friendly. I’m not here to give you any prophecy or cryptic riddles. I just want to throw a party. You can stay as long as you like.” She winked.

  “A pleasure to meet you.” Heath offered a slight bow. “But why are you here? Is it your wyrd?”

  “Wyrd? Wyrd. Wyrd…” She tossed the word around as if she were trying to chew it. “That sounds so…”

  “Weird?” Sword offered.

  Libby paused, placing a finger on her chin, then replied, “I was going to say ‘formal.’ But yes, we all do things for a reason, even if we don’t always know what that reason is…or if it’s even a good idea. Whereas the Harbinger’s appearance is an omen of great misery, my presence offers consolation in the simple pleasure of the moment. Where there is suffering, there is no greater need for laughter in the face of it. Don’t you agree?”

  “I could think of a few things these people need more,” Jessa said. “Graves for the drowned and medical supplies for the living, as a suggestion.”

  The Libertine placed her arm on Jessa’s shoulder. “Those are just bodies. Death reminds us that all life is fragile and fleeting. Every moment wasted worrying about death is a missed experience in the present. Out there is past. What’s happening here and now around you is the present.”

  “So we shouldn’t care about any of it?” Jessa asked incredulously.

  Libby smiled emphatically. “You don’t have to. I can take away your pain, and you’ll never have to feel sorrow again. Look at these people. They’ve lost their wives, their sons, their homes, but they’ve found true eternal happiness in this place.”

  “Never feel sorrow?” Heath echoed. “Even if they’re injured or starving?”
>
  “Even if,” Libby said proudly. “No one chooses to be unhappy. Life chooses that for us, and we scramble to react. But fear begets paralysis. Rage begets regret. Sadness immobilizes us until we’re unable to properly react to the situation life throws at us. These emotions don’t guide us—they cripple us.”

  “What about motivation?” Heath asked. “If everyone were happy just existing, nothing would get done.”

  “That guy’s getting a hand job at the bar,” Sword said.

  “Motivation? You mean like what paranoia and an unholy lust for power give you?” She motioned through the door to the shattered world outside. “I think we know what that can lead to. Theurgy is wonderful, but these malignant emotions are why we can’t have nice things.”

  “Valid point,” Sword said, “but she’s still completely nuts. They all are.”

  “This is a waste of time,” Jessa insisted, and spun toward the door. “I need air.”

  “The lunatics are running the asylum,” Libby called after her. “There’s a war happening all around us. The Harrowers were the beginning of something that threatens all of Creation. Satryn wasn’t just a Stormlord—she was an Architect. This day will have massive ramifications, and your choices will affect the All-That-Is.”

  Jessa stopped and listened.

  Sword froze. “Say more.”

  “Two Architects coming into their power at the same time.” The Libertine looked him dead in the eyes. “The old magic is coming back. Satryn never should have been able to summon one of the primal aspects, and that power transferred to her daughter. Evan Landry shouldn’t have been able to call the Harrowers. And you shouldn’t have completed the Master Seal of Sephariel. These things never were supposed to happen again. And now they’re happening, and the balance is shifting.”

  “You’re scared,” Heath told Libby. “There are a lot of bars in this town you could have set up in. The Broken Oar is bigger, and they have a much better wine list, which isn’t saying much. You came here to tell us—to tell Maddox something because he’s an Architect.”