by Sam Sykes
She swept her gaze outward, to the concomitants and Librarians surrounding her.
“They, of course, did not have the advantage of a tower.”
Typical, Dreadaeleon thought. Always orating, always posturing. One wonders how well her resolve fares without an audience. He sneered. These are Venarium, not peasants. They can’t be swayed without ten forms of written approval from a Lector.
“This war may be between two outside forces, but they are not rocks,” Asper said. “They are whirlwinds. They suck in everything around them—weapons, gold, people—batter them about and hurl them at each other and leave the shattered remains in their wake before they move on.” She leveled a pointed gaze at the assembly. “They’ve not yet moved to your tower, it’s true, but—”
“And they will not.” Annis stepped toward her, looking down a pointed nose. “One could hardly blame you for not knowing the intricacies of the Sovereignty Pact, but I trust you grasp the meaning of the latter word.” He brought his hands together before him. “It is an agreement between the Venarium and all civilized nations of the world. They observe our right to self-govern in exchange for our staying removed from their conflicts.”
“Yet for all that we have stood by the Pact, foreign powers have not always responded in kind,” Shinka interjected. “A host of offenses against the Venarium by Karneria and Saine alike have been committed in the past.” Her smile dropped to something cold. “Lest we forget Tower Prime.”
A collective cringe swept through the chamber at the mention of Tower Prime. Even Dreadaeleon was not immune to the memory: It was one of the first lessons taught to any wizard.
Venarium historians had yet to discern exactly which religious order—Daeonists, Talanites, Gevrauchians—had led the charge that killed a hundred wizards and burned a thousand years of knowledge. But they agreed on a conclusion, if not a culprit. And thus a staunch disregard for the affairs of the religious had been at the core of Venarium teachings since.
“We forget Tower Prime because we are in no position to challenge an army,” Annis snapped back. “For every wizard in the world, there are a hundred barknecked imbeciles with sharp sticks. Our powers are limited and their ignorance is not. It was not so long ago that we were hated, feared, and hunted the same as any shict or tulwar. The Venarium was created to see an end to that and I will not be the one to initiate a return.”
“That only proves my point,” Asper said. “Their ignorance has not changed, Lector. As soon as they think it’s prudent to do so, they will find a new reason to come after you.”
At this Annis stood still, his eyes focused intently on her. The air of dismissive contempt eased a little as he waited patiently for her to continue.
At which point Dreadaeleon could no longer keep silent.
“You can’t possibly be listening to—” he began to say, but was suddenly cut off by a lifting of Annis’s hand.
As well as the magical gesture that accompanied it and smashed him to the ground beneath an invisible force.
“Proceed,” Annis said.
Asper’s face twisted into a concerned frown as Dreadaeleon squirmed beneath the rippling force of Annis’s spell. “Is he going to, uh…”
He most certainly was not going to, uh.
At a glimpse, no one in the room—even those trained to see such things—would think of Annis’s magic as anything more than a simple demonstration of force designed to shove Dreadaeleon humiliatingly to the ground. But here, beneath the rippling wave of force, Dreadaeleon had more than a glimpse.
He could feel the intricacies of the spell, whereby the force reached past his skin to press down on his bones, to squeeze his lungs and crush his throat. His body writhed like a wineskin with a hole in it as the air was slowly, subtly, methodically forced out of him.
And she’s just staring like an idiot, he thought, finding it funny that, through all the breathless agony racking him, he had enough left in him to glare at Asper still.
Well, perhaps not so much funny as infuriating. Also painful.
“Lector Annis is well aware of the limitations of his own power.” Shinka laid a hand upon her associate’s arm, offering him a pointed glare. “As aware as he is that protocol forbids unsanctioned execution, even at an informal meeting.”
Annis’s lips perked into a small smirk. His hand lowered. Dreadaeleon felt a great weight lifted from him, leaving him gasping on the floor. Asper cringed, pried her eyes away from him.
“Uh, right,” she said. “Look, businesses have been looted by Karnerians and burned by Sainites, houses have been pillaged by Sainites and destroyed by Karnerians. They’ve found plenty of reason to drag everyone else in their war and only one reason to avoid involving you.”
Realization dawned upon Annis’s features with a concerned knitting of his brows. “They lack the power to challenge us.”
“But not for long.” Asper moved to a window, pointed out toward the desert. “Soon—sooner than you’d think—convoys bearing more supplies, more troops, and more weapons will arrive in the city. Cier’Djaal will be overrun with proper armies, instead of mere garrisons. And sooner or later, they’ll turn their sights on you.”
Annis said nothing. He folded his hands behind his back and strode to the same window, staring out over the city as though he could see it unfurling before him: rivers of soldiers moving through streets flanked by burning houses, all converging on his tower.
“They already do not trust us, Primary Lector,” Shinka said, moving beside him. “The Karnerians consider us godless heathens. The Sainites view us as potential rivals for power. Their pretense is the same as it was when Tower Prime was destroyed. They await only the resources to carry it out.”
A long moment of silence passed before Annis spoke again. “What do you propose?”
“Armies are businesses,” Asper said. “If they can’t justify the occupation of the city, they can’t bring more troops in. If we can inflict enough losses on their garrisons to make the city seem inhospitable, the convoys will become rescue missions instead of reinforcements.”
“Direct action against a foreign power?” Annis shook his head. “Impossible. We answer to a higher council. They would never permit members in good standing to violate the Sovereignty Pact.”
Asper’s eyes drifted over to Dreadaeleon. “How about a member in poor standing, then?”
Annis’s face did not so much fall as plummet and crash upon the floor. Whatever vestiges of indulgent humor might have played upon his features were instantly replaced by a frigid, unblinking harshness. He drew his hands up behind him, strode to the center of the room, and spoke with a voice that could cut stone.
“Every member in good standing present is hereby ordered to return to their duties,” he said clearly.
At this the concomitants exchanged nervous glances and the Librarians shifted uneasily, as though they were wondering if he had simply misspoken. The scowl with which he whirled on them was decidedly edifying.
“Leave,” he snarled.
With not quite enough haste to upset good order, they filed out of the room. Concomitants left first, whispering nervously as soon as they mistakenly thought they were out of earshot. Librarians followed, falling in a perfect line before exiting the room, the last one sparing a cautious glance over his shoulder before shutting the doors.
Dreadaeleon finally had enough feeling in his legs to rise back to his feet. And no sooner had he done so than he saw Annis swoop over to Asper and drink her in his shadow.
“Contrary to what impressions our isolationism might give, I do have an idea of who you are, priestess,” the Lector growled. “And it is only out of concern for our reputation that I do not hurl you out of this tower for suggesting the kind of heresy you have just done.”
Funny, Dreadaeleon thought, but seeing Asper cringe the way she did at his threat did not bring him the joy he’d thought it might. Rather he took a tentative step forward, only to be met with the fleshy figure of Admiral Tibbles
situating itself before him.
Really? he thought. Is the dog not a member or is he just in poor standing?
“I have humored this suggestion all I am willing to,” Annis continued. “To violate protocol by admitting you was amusing. To skirt treason by hearing you suggest we violate the Sovereignty Pact was daring. But to hear you recommend we release this… this…”
The stare he turned upon Dreadaeleon was not hateful. Hate was something far too tame and altogether too insignificant to adequately describe the sort of coldness that radiated from Annis’s stare and froze Dreadaeleon’s blood in his veins.
What was in Annis’s eyes, at that moment, was knowledge. His was a promise that he would see Dreadaeleon die and there was nothing the boy could do about it. Not a threat, not a posture. Just a fact.
And one that made Dreadaeleon feel that he might have been spared the worst of it if he had just been crushed to death a moment ago.
“Lector,” Asper said, “I am aware of Dread’s issues, but—”
“You are not.” Annis whirled that frigid stare upon Asper, honed it to a jagged icicle and thrust it straight between her eyes. “Whatever pithy hymns you have to quote, whatever false sense of hope you swallow when you look up at the sky and pretend to hear a god, you are not aware. You do not know what he has done. You do not know what he will do. You do not know what you are asking of me.”
And Asper said nothing.
She did not flinch.
She did not blink.
She did not back away.
“I am asking nothing of you, wizard,” she said, crushing whatever fear might have lurked in her voice beneath an iron certainty. “I wouldn’t presume to think for a moment you could give a shit about anything beyond your tower, and I wouldn’t ever make the mistake of thinking you’d ever think a human life is worth more than your own.
“I am telling you, right here, right now, what is going to happen. This war will eat you. I have seen it happen. I will see it happen a hundred more times this week. I am telling you that you have a way out. You have a renegade wizard who has already been seen fighting the Karnerians and Sainites. All you need to do is find a way to lose him for a few days, let him go out and wreak some havoc and then collect him.
“I’m not asking you to do a gods-damned thing. I’m telling you this is the best thing you can possibly do for yourself, and if you don’t like that, then I’m telling you the next-best thing you can do is stuff your head deep inside your own ass, pretend that you came up with this idea instead of me, and then do it anyway.”
And Dreadaeleon suddenly knew why he hated her so much.
Not for the years he had craved her affections and been left wanting. Not for the humiliations she had heaped upon him when she had called him useless, selfish, and small. Not even for the bruises and blood she had left on his face.
She stood now before a man who could incinerate her with a thought. She faced a man barely in control of himself, who belonged to an order for whom a lack of control was a death sentence.
And she would not back down.
When faced with this kind of conflict, he had crawled into a hole with a whore and filled it with smoke. And she… she stared at Annis as if he were a naughty boy who wouldn’t go to bed.
He hated her for that.
And he hated her more for the fact that it seemed to be working.
Lector Annis’s words were breathless as he spoke. “There will be considerations. Precautions, pretenses…”
“Claim he’s ill,” Asper said. “Have him sent to the Temple of Talanas. Even wizards need healers. We’ll say he escaped on his way there. After he’s adequately hindered the armies…”
“And what makes you think I’d do this?” Dreadaeleon spoke up. “You intend to use me as meat for your hounds and then put the bones on trial.”
“I would promise leniency in your sentence, concomitant, but considerations for heretics are strictly prohibited by protocol,” Shinka replied. She cast a thoughtful look to Annis. “But, as today seems to be the day for violating such…”
Annis’s mouth twitched, as though the idea he was trying so hard to swallow might come back up any moment. “He shall be under guard. The Charnel Hound will follow him.”
“Discreetly,” Asper pressed.
Finally he drew in a long breath and held it. “Under such consideration, the Primary Lector proposes acceptance to the external party’s proposal. With reservations.” He affixed a glare upon Dreadaeleon. “Severe reservations.”
“The Secondary Lector,” Lector Shinka spoke softly from behind, “concurs.”
Lector Annis stood frozen for a moment, eyes locked onto Asper, perhaps considering whether he ought to revoke his agreement immediately and incinerate her for tempting him so. If she could see the same frigid anger on his face that Dreadaeleon saw, though, she did not blink at it. Nor did she scramble to get out of his way as he turned and stormed out of the room.
But in Dreadaeleon’s defense, he at least didn’t stumble when he did.
“He seemed unenthused with the idea,” Asper noted after the doors had slammed shut.
“Do give him a bit of slack, child,” Shinka said, laying a hand upon her shoulder. “He is so rarely asked to compromise everything he swore to uphold.”
“And yet you seemed convinced he would agree to it,” Asper noted.
“He has every reason to believe in the power of human ignorance, and every moment to consider how many lives hinge upon his ability to protect them.” Shinka cast a glance to Dreadaeleon. “I expect, had you proposed something twice as daring involving someone else, he’d have accepted willingly.” She approached Dreadaeleon, making a beckoning gesture. “Speaking of which, if you’ll accompany me, young criminal, we’ll be on our way to making arrangements.”
“Wait!” Asper reached out, stopping just shy of touching the Lector. “I’d like to have a moment alone with Dreadaeleon, if possible.”
“Possible, yes.” She cast a raised brow toward the boy. “But desired?”
Dreadaeleon sneered, folding his arms and looking away pointedly. “Fine.”
“Ah, why not? This seems to be the night we forsake all propriety, after all.” She strode past Dreadaeleon, offering a smirk as she waved a hand. The doors flew open. “Don’t take too long.”
“Could you maybe take”—Asper gestured at the Charnel Hound and blanched—“that with you?”
“Unfortunately, the processes of binding a Hound to its quarry are slightly less complex than those of reversing it. Worry not. It won’t judge you.”
Shinka passed through the doors, made another gesture to beckon them shut with a quiet click. Even a sound as soft as that seemed to echo, though.
But then, that might just have been a by-product of the horrifyingly awkward silence that hung between them.
Dreadaeleon had no particular motivation to break it. There was at least some small satisfaction in watching Asper search for a conversational topic by staring at her feet. Eventually the priestess’s eyes drifted to Admiral Tibbles. She cringed.
“His eyes… are… are those someone’s balls?”
“Charnel Hounds are the result of combining several fleshy ‘waste’ articles from Harvesting,” Dreadaeleon replied. “The resulting flux of latent Venarie renders them immune to magical interference.”
“I see. And they’re made out of… cocks.”
“Amongst other things.”
She flashed a grin. “So, what, when you pet them, do they turn into draft horses?”
“No.”
“Oh. Because, see, it’s—”
“The Charnel Hounds, as the name implies, are composed primarily of flesh and sinew. For them to grow in the manner of an erection, as you implied, would require an active blood flow, which they lack. Yes, I understand this is an attempt to use humor to ease tension. No, it didn’t work. Yes, you can kindly fuck off now.”
She sighed, rubbed her eyes. “Look, Dread, I’m sorry for
—”
“For what?” he interrupted, fury flashing in his stare. “For which part? For involving me in your machinations without ever consulting me, even as I was present in the room? For pummeling me like a savage? For calling me… me…”
He didn’t dare say them, the names she had called him. To do so would be to acknowledge them, to relive the humiliation, to feel just how keenly they had stung.
“All of it? I don’t know.” Asper shook her head. “I didn’t mean for things to happen as they did, or at all. I’m at the temple now, we’ve got more and more injured in every day, I couldn’t think of any way to make it stop other than this.”
“Of course you couldn’t, you fool female,” Dreadaeleon snapped. “The thinking is what I did.” He jabbed a thumb to his chest. “I am the wizard, I am the brains, and if you had just let me do my job, we’d not be in this situation. But no, you had to go and—”
She slapped him. Hard enough to let him know that she had to actively resist the urge to do much worse than that. And still, the gaze she thrust upon him was much harder.
“I’m willing to apologize for how things turned out,” she said, “but not for what I did. I don’t give a shit if I hurt your pride or your face. You. Killed. People.”
She thrust a finger in his face with each word forced through gritted teeth. “You. Your magic. Your carelessness. Your arrogance. You killed people. That’s why I beat the shit out of you, that’s why you’re here. There’s no grand conspiracy to stifle you, you dumbshit, you’re in this situation because of you.”
She stormed past him, shoving him aside as she did. Admiral Tibbles watched, impassive as something without eyes could possibly be, as she swept toward the door.
He hardly felt the shove, nor even the slap anymore. A numbness overtook him, emptying him of rage, of shame, of every thought and feeling, so that her words might echo through him as keenly as they did through the chamber.
“If this plan is such a gods-damned offense to you,” she said, “then feel free to opt out. Kick and scream, refuse to do it, I don’t care. I’ll find another way. But if you have any desire to make things right and maybe save your own skin, you’ll at least consider it.”
