by S. G. Night
A thudding on the open door interrupted her. They all looked. Mrak stood in the doorway, his dark, customary robe long and stiff around his body. In his hands was his thick, knotted staff. Toren and Alexis jumped to their feet, offering hurried bows. Racath did not move.
“Master,” Toren greeted hastily. “We—”
“Out,” Mrak commanded. The word was like iron, clamping Toren’s mouth shut. Mrak’s single eye glimmered with cold, latent anger. “Both of you.”
Toren left, shuffling awkwardly past Mrak out the door. Alexis hesitated, and then followed. Sokol cast Mrak a glare of disdain, and fluttered off Alexis’s shoulder, landing again on her roost above Racath’s bed. She perched there, staring menacingly down at the old Patriarch with her hematite eyes.
“Shut the door behind you, dear,” Mrak directed, not taking his eye off Racath.
Behind Mrak’s back, Alexis grimaced at Racath and mouthed a silent good luck. The door closed with a timid click, like it was afraid to draw Mrak’s attention.
Mrak glared at Racath for a long, chilly moment. Racath glared back, not moving from his comfortable spot on the bed. A thick tension curdled in the room. The few candles on the walls seemed to dim like the door had cut off all the air. With each passing second, the pressure grew stronger.
“You haven’t come to report to me,” Mrak finally remarked, piercing the silence. He said it plainly, like a casual observation. But Racath could see the accusation underneath.
Racath shrugged indifferently. “I figured I deserved some rest. It’s been a long couple of weeks.”
“So I hear,” Mrak replied, sarcasm touching the edges of his ominously calm tone. “Pardon my intrusion upon your well-deserved sleep. Would you be so kind as to break from your rest and indulge me with a report on your mission?”
Racath struggled to keep his eyes from rolling. Smiling an exaggerated smile, he spoke quickly, the words stringing together into long chain. “I went to Milonok and talked to my old contact, Elias. He pointed me to Jax Tollo, who then told me where to find Felsted. I then found and poisoned him. His ledger helped me find his agent, Zayne Alyward. Long story short, I killed him, too.” He held up a finger, scorn beneath his grin. “And by the way, I had to bail Elias out of debtors’ prison.”
Mrak’s eyebrows narrowed. “Had to?”
“His information was solid,” Racath said with another nonchalant shrug. “He deserved a reward of some kind. After all, his business was in the gutter because of us. Oh, and I promised I’d get him back on retainer. I figured you’d be alright to that, seeing as he was instrumental in helping me maintain our discretion.”
The visible half of Mrak’s lips became a firm, white line. “I’ll think about it,” he dismissed. “And what about the informant? Did you get to him?”
Racath’s belligerent bearing faltered. “Yeah…” he answered, surprised at how suddenly soft own voice sounded. “Yeah, I did. It was one of us. Jared.”
Mrak was quiet for a moment, but his expression did not change. “I feared as much. I had my suspicions about him before he disappeared. How did you proceed?”
“I confronted him where he was supposed to meet Zayne,” Racath told him. “He said that he thought we were fighting a losing war. He had already told the Dominion about our existence, and intended to give them the locations of the Tors in exchange for asylum. So I killed him.” Racath deliberately left out the part about Jared’s peculiar transformation.
Mrak nodded slowly. “Good. Then at least we maintain most of our anonymity. It could have been worse. Only minor loose ends hanging off this mess. No real casualties.”
“Actually,” Racath amended. “There have been casualties. Before I killed him, Jared told me that the Dominion was going to start—”
“I know about the edict,” Mrak interrupted. “It was announced here in Oblakgrad last week. Human lives to account for those we kill.” A grim, heartless smirk twisted Mrak’s mouth. “But, I said no real casualties.”
And angry prickle ran from the nape of Racath’s neck down to his toes. He sat upright in the bed, fists clenched. “What—”
“Which brings me to my next point,” Mrak interjected again. The quiet indignation that had lingered behind his placid face began to stir. “What. In the bloody hell. Happened in the Burrows last week?”
Here it comes, Racath thought. Glaring remorselessly back at Mrak, Racath answered, “I did what I thought was the right thing to do. I helped the Humans.”
“You started a riot!” Mrak snapped — the icy cover that had hidden his outrage melted completely away. “How could you be so thoughtless? I sent you there to fix a security crisis, not start one! Your actions were unprecedented! You’ve jeopardized the Genshwin just as much or more as Jared has!”
“And half of Milonok is free because of it,” Racath shot back. “Free. Sure, I’m thoughtless, and yeah, I’m probably arrogant too. But in one afternoon, I did what you and your precious discretion have failed to do for a hundred years. Honestly, I don’t see why you’re so pissed off. This is a victory for us!”
Mrak narrowed his eyes. “Don’t delude yourself, boy. We can’t break the Dominion with whimsical peasant riots. If we all were as careless as you, the Majiski race wouldn’t last another week. And don’t you dare to question the wisdom of Zauvijék Nijem.” He shook his chin in vexation. “Bloody piss, boy, I knew you were reckless, but I never would have thought to classify you as an idiot. What on earth drove you to such stupidity?”
Didn’t I just have this argument? Racath groused internally. “I couldn’t just stand by and watch,” he retorted. “It was the responsible thing to do.”
“Responsible?!” Mrak roared incredulously. “In what world was that responsible?!”
“I owed it to those people! What I did to Felsted, Zayne — it wasn’t wrong or evil, it was just. But that makes it my responsibility to take the fallout from their deaths. I couldn’t just kill those men and then sit idly by while the Demons responded by killing innocent people. I took responsibility, because even if I don’t regret my actions, I wouldn’t allow other people to bleed in my place.”
“How principled of you,” Mrak replied dryly. “Does selfishness factor into your moral compass somewhere? Or while you were easing your conscience, did you forget to think that you were putting the very survival of our species at risk? Did you honestly put all of us in danger just so that you could feel better about yourself?”
Racath felt a hot flush rising up his neck. “That’s not the only reason I did it…” he murmured.
“Oh, please then,” Mrak rolled his eye. “Enlighten me.”
“It’s our birthright to protect them,” Racath said. “We were made strong so that we could protect the Humans. To protect the weak.”
Mrak actually laughed at that. A bitter, heartless laugh. “You don’t actually believe that, do you boy? Do you seriously think that — in times like these — you can save every poor little Human that’s been victimized? What, do you think they can’t afford the deaths? We lost nearly all of our people in the Occupation. Out of every hundred Majiski alive at the time, only one survived. Do you have any idea how many Majiski that is?” He paused expectantly, as though expecting an answer.
Racath said nothing.
“Almost eight-hundred-thousand,” Mrak continued. “There was almost a full million of our kind in Io a century ago. And now we’re all that’s left. There maybe a few still in hiding elsewhere, but not many. And the Humans? All they have to deal with is an enforced religion and levy taxes. Do the math, Racath. A few Human lives is a very small price to pay for our survival. They can carry their share of the burden, and they can suffer like we did. We don’t owe them anything, and it sure as hell is not your obligation to save them.”
“No, it’s not my obligation,” Racath spat, his eyebrows knitting as his forehead tightened. “And it’s not my duty, either. Duty is something you do because you have to. I don’t have to protect them, but I choos
e to. I’m a Majiski — I have the power to fight for people who don’t have swords. So I’ve chosen to protect the Humans, and remind them that they have their own power, too. Remind them how to lead. The Humans lead, and we protect them — that’s how it used to work. That’s how it was in the old Io — and last I checked that’s what we’re fighting to rebuild.”
Mrak’s eye narrowed even further. “When I let you read my copy of the old Commonwealth Constitution, I didn’t think it would go to your head. I probably should have burned that too, if it’s deluded you enough to think that old social contracts are still viable. That’s old dogma, boy. Dead dogma.”
“It’s God’s dogma,” Racath refuted sharply. “It’s the way God intended for us to live. Our forefathers respected that.”
“You’ve been sitting on that church tower again, haven’t you?” Mrak sneered. “See, this is why I had no reservations about destroying old scriptures, and why I had no issue when the Demons expunged the Jedan Church.”
Resting his chin on his palm, Racath leaned forward and said, “Because you’re self-centered?”
The Patriarch snorted derisively, and his voice became a mocking taunt. “Because all that religion makes the head soft. It lies and says that we’re all equal and that some holy being has a plan for how we’re supposed to live together in harmony, and how it’ll all be rainbows and butterflies. But it’s wrong. We and the Humans are not equal. We are not peers. And damn it, we are not their servants. The Jedan Church and that wretchedly theocratic Constitution are relics of the past.”
“Have you stopped to consider that maybe the past is exactly what we need to fix the present?” Racath snapped.
“The hell it is,” Mrak replied angrily. “Times have changed Io, and the old High Laws won’t ever be applicable again. They’re obsolete now. Dead. There’ll be no room for them in any world that exists after the Dominion.”
“Ha!” Racath laughed once. “Obsolete? That’s rich, coming from you. I’ll tell you what’s obsolete — an old man so tightly stuck to an assassin’s mindset that he won’t even let us have children to save our species. What’s obsolete is an old man who clings so tightly to his codes of discretion that he’s too afraid to fight in the open. An old man who claims he wants to destroy the Demons and rebuild our race, and yet refuses to allow either of those things to happen.”
He might have been imagining it, but Racath could have sworn that he could hear Mrak’s teeth grinding. “This is not about me, boy. This is about you. You, and your lack of control.”
“Control?” Racath demanded scathingly. “You expect me to be able to watch them kill innocent people and control myself? All things considered, I think starting a riot wasn’t a strong enough reaction. They were hanging children, Mrak.”
The visible half of Mrak’s face was deadpan-cold. “So?”
Racath’s temper flared. “Do you even hear yourself?! They were hanging children! What was I supposed to do?! What would you do?!”
Mrak was icily restrained, frigid and bitter as he spoke slow and clear. “I would have thought. Before I acted.”
A stunned silence fell. Racath stared blankly at his master in disbelief. “God…” he whispered. “You’re spineless.”
“Enough!” Mrak slammed his staff down on the floor. His control seemed to break for a moment, and he fumed through clenched teeth. His fists were clenched as he leaned forward stiffly, like he was about to strike Racath. But slowly, his anger chilled again, and he regained some of his composure.
“You…” he seethed, his voice shaking. “Are damn lucky you’re so useful. If you weren’t so good at what you do, I’d just kill you right here. I can’t ignore what you’ve done, and I can’t ignore your carelessness and insolence. I still need you…but you can’t stay in Velik Tor. I will not…cannot…keep you here.”
Racath gritted his teeth. “What’s to be done with me, then?”
Mrak paused, his eye flickering, hesitant. “There is a man…” he started slowly. “An old Majiski in the mountains. Oron Thrace. He’s one of us. He is tasked with mentoring…talented Genshwin, training them as a cell for special missions.”
“You mean the Scorpions.” The words just sort of slipped out. He didn’t mean to say them, but suddenly his mind was filled with the memory of his encounter with the augur, Nelle.
Mrak looked at him coldly. “Yes.”
Look, you don’t have to believe me… you can even try to resist fate if you want. But God has a plan for you, Racath Thanjel. Fate has a plan for you. Sooner or later your own choices will bring you into that plan.
So this was it. His own choices had brought him here. He had chosen to protect the Humans. To free the Burrows. They all had brought him now to this consequence: coming into Nelle’s plan.
“They’re not a myth, then…” Racath thought aloud.
“Indeed.” Mrak reached into his robe and pulled out a folded piece of parchment, which he handed to Racath. “I’m sending you to Oron. Maybe he, at least, can keep you in check where I could not, and your usefulness will not diminish. This map,” he waved the parchment at Racath. “Will show you where to find him.”
“Oooo, you have it on hand?” Racath murmured factiously as he unfolded the paper and gave the map a cursory look. “It’s almost like you were planning to throw me out.”
“I’ve been considering this for a while now,” Mrak said. “I think it’s the best decision.”
Racath gave a small nod. “Fine by me.”
Mrak arched his eyebrow. “What? No objections? No obstinate protests?”
A shrug. “Maybe I want to leave. Maybe I’m done putting up with your piss.”
“Hmm,” Mrak grumbled dryly. “Very well, then. Pack your things, be gone by tomorrow morning. Oron is already expecting you.” He turned to leave, opening the door.
“A little more time to rest and recover might be appreciated…” Racath commented to Mrak’s back.
The Patriarch turned his single eye back onto Racath. “Tired, are you?”
Racath nodded again.
Mrak gave a devilish grin, a cruel mirth on his crooked teeth. “Then on second thought, leave tonight. And please, don’t come back.” He left the room, leaving Racath alone on the bed.
“Faul,” Racath swore quietly, slumping back onto the pillow. “That could have gone better.”
It wasn’t long before Alexis appeared in the doorway. Concern scrunching her face, she scurried over to sit on the edge of the bed. “How did it go?” she asked timidly. “Is he gonna kill you?”
Racath sighed, absent-mindedly picking at his nails. “No. He’s sending me away for a while. A long while.”
Alexis’s bright-green eyes wilted with chagrin. “You’re leaving me? But….” Her voice trembled a little. “…But…why? Where are you going?”
“Somewhere in the Spikes,” he answered, sitting up again. “Advanced training, kind of. I leave tonight.” He deliberately left out the word Scorpions.
Alexis gasped. “Oh no, he’s sending you away to die, isn’t he?” Her voice was little more than a fearful squeak.
Racath made a face. “Why do you think that?”
“Do you remember Rachel Vaveran?” Alexis asked him.
“Very dimly,” Racath answered. “Why?”
“She’s the only other person that Mrak has sent on a special trip,” Alexis said, her eyes wild. “She was more out of control than you are by ten times, and younger too. He sent her away for advanced training a few years ago, but we haven’t seen her since, have we?!”
Chuckling, Racath ruffled Alexis’s hair reassuringly. “I’ll be fine, Lexi. I can take care of myself. In fact, I actually think that Rachel Vaveran might be where I’m going.”
Alexis shuffled nervously. “Okay…but….” Without warning, she latched onto him in the tightest hug he had ever experienced. “Don’t go away forever, alright?”
Smiling, he wrapped his arms around her and returned her squeeze. “Okay, kiddo.
I won’t.”
“Promise you won’t forget me?” she said into his chest, turning her puppy eyes up at him. “Even when you’re doing big important stuff?”
“I promise.”
“And if I get sick of Mrak, can I come after you?”
Racath chuckled again. “Sure you can.” Keeping one arm around her, he picked up the map again and gave it a closer look. His brow furrowed: vague wasn’t quite a strong enough word to describe the map’s clarity. “That is, if you can actually find me….”
——
With Alexis’s help, Racath spent the next few hours preparing to depart. After packing some assorted belongings, he went to the Bursar to deposit the bulk of the money he had acquired in Milonok. The Bursar seemed more than pleased with the massive profit he’d brought back to the treasury — pleased enough not to notice that Racath held onto five scion for himself.
Next, he paid a visit to Pots in the kitchens and filled his rucksack with as much road food as he could: dried sausage, apples, cheese, flatbread, and a water skin. Then, he had to take care to a few goodbyes, including Mrak’s steward Terrence, Virgil Tarem in the archive, and Toren.
Meanwhile, Alexis had insisted on tending to his Shadow. The equipment had been soaked, dried, re-soaked and re-dried, ripped, pierced, burned, and caked with grime a thousand times in the past month. It was starting to show the strain of the abuse.
She carried it down to the armory for some maintenance work. Some of the younger Genshwin, journeymen assigned to assist her and learn the basics of her craft before they could be apprenticed to one of the field assassins, would clean and repair the outfit for her. Some of the raiment, the parts scorched by Briz’nar’s fire, would have to be replaced. But the Shadow was designed to be mended; Racath wouldn’t need a full replacement.
While the teens tended to the clothes, Alexis disassembled his gauntlets and removed the Stinger mechanisms. After a quick inspection, she removed the blades. Made a few adjustments to the left-hand spring mechanism. Repaired a minor issue with the right-hand lock plate. And then gave the whole system some fresh oiling.
