by CM Raymond
Doyle turned the map over and over in his lap, tracing lines with his fingers. “We’re almost there.”
Julianne shouted over the blistering wind, “You have no idea, Doyle. I’m starting to think you couldn’t find your way out of the Boulevard if you needed to. Give me the damned map.”
She pulled it, and he was smart enough to let go. Growing up in the Heights, the mystic had spent hours exploring the mountains, often using rudimentary maps like the one in her hands to navigate. The symbols were the same. Within minutes, she identified where they were—at least she was pretty sure she had.
“The artifact is close,” she shouted. “Further north from here, we’ll hit a peak. On the other side, that’s where the mark is.”
Doyle rocked back and forth in the crevice. His teeth chattered. “We won’t make it.”
“What?” Julianne screamed at the man who had led them into the terror. “We have to make it. You’ve taken us this far. You bet you’re sorry, soft, academic ass we’re going back with what we came for, or we’re not going back at all.”
Julianne started the trip playing a part, but her rage was now authentic. Neither ale nor meditation would calm her. The mission compelled her to continue. Maybe it was the cold or exhaustion, or maybe it was the fact that she had masqueraded as Stellan for as long as she had, but she knew she wasn’t going to give up.
She didn’t really know what they were looking for, but if she could succeed, it would guarantee an in for her within Doyle’s and Adrien’s minds. That would be far more valuable than whatever dangers the artifact held for Arcadia.
Scanning her men, she could tell they agreed with the weasel in the hole with them. The storm had destroyed their spirit, and they, too, wanted to quit.
Her angry eyes took them all in. “Stay here. Try to remain warm. I’ll find the damned thing.”
Stuffing the map into the folds of her cloak, she spun out of the overhanging rock and back into the blizzard. There, in the howling wind, Julianne pushed all fear and discomfort out of her mind. Focusing on her breathing, she cleansed her mind of all doubt. She focused on the goal. Her eyes changed white as the snow encapsulating her, and she suddenly believed that the storm had passed, that she was comfortable, and that she had only a leisurely walk. With her mystical arts, she infused within herself the confidence that she would not fail.
As the power within her set to work, her heart rate lowered and a sense of warmth washed over her body. The snow continued to fall, but it was neither terrifying nor blinding. Glancing down at the map, she continued up the climb toward the spot marked out on the map.
Julianne’s legs continued to posthole into the deep snow, but it didn’t faze her. She was only a fraction the size and strength of the man she was impersonating, but she believed she had the strength to make it—and belief went a long way. She pushed on, driven by the magic-inspired confidence. When she got to the rise, she exhaled and held her Zen composition. She was close.
Her attunement to the world around her told her something else. A figure loomed behind her. Spinning, she pulled the sword from her belt, which hung in the same place it always had for Stellan. Marcus, the new Guard assigned to her team, stood with his hands raised.
“Easy there, Captain. Just thought you might need a hand. Since the rest of them are huddled down there with Doyle, thought it might just be up to me… up to us.”
Julianne exhaled and lowered the weapon. The young soldier was a mystery to her, and she still suspected that he may have been planted to gather information on Stellan and his team. Nevertheless, she could use the help. If taking Stellan out was his assignment, he just blew his best chance possible.
She nodded, and in Stellan’s deep voice, she said, “Let’s go.”
They scrambled down into a dip between two towering mountains. The map indicated that their target was at the bottom. She had no idea about the authenticity of the old parchment, but the fool’s errand had begun, and she was set on seeing it to completion.
Marcus followed three strides behind her. She considered giving him a boost with a bit of mental magic but erred on the side of caution. He was clearly strong enough for the task.
Dropping to the bottom of the gully, she stopped and checked their bearings again.
“It’s right around here. Let’s split up, see what we might be able to find. Don’t go far, though. You’ll get your green ass lost in the storm if you’re not careful.”
Marcus grinned. “Just because I’m new to your team doesn’t make me green, sir.”
He turned and took three steps toward the southern crag.
A sound like thunder broke through the snowstorm as a hole the size of a merchant’s cart opened beneath the man. He turned, and their eyes met for a beat before the snow swallowed him whole.
“Marcus!” she shouted, her words lost in the wind.
Julianne glanced down, knowing that the fault line in the ice might run under her.
As she crept toward the edge, bracing herself for the inevitable fall, she weighed her options. If he were a plant, the best thing for the rebellion would be to leave the man in his icy grave. No one would know her complicity in the matter, and even if they did, they could hardly blame the Captain for not risking his own skin over the mission of search and recovery.
Mystics prized their privacy, meditation, and the greater connection they shared with the power of the universe. They believed it was transcendent, even though it was a power that, in fact, dwelled imminently inside of themselves. Human life was the only thing they valued more, and any loss pained them. It was one of the reasons they made their places in the furthest extent of the Heights—away from human struggle and the inventions of vice and avarice.
Marcus, even if there was a chance he was part of Adrien’s ruse, nevertheless was a living thing. She knew she couldn’t leave him.
Pulling the pack from her back, she dropped it in the snow and grabbed the length of rope they had brought along for the operation. One side she tied around a thick outcropping and secured it with a figure eight. The other, she wrapped around her waist.
Keeping up the guise as Stellan took a daily toll on her mental acuity. Adding another mystical casting to it made her brain increasingly foggy, but years of training had shaped her into the master. Nevertheless, she needed to drop the mind trick she was playing on herself to do what came next.
As she let her self-deception drop, the winds came back in a fury, and she realized just how damned cold her body had become. Julianne was on the doorstep of hypothermia, and she knew it wouldn’t be long until her mind would succumb to nature’s own control over it.
Turning her attention inward again, she centered herself and focused on the spot where Marcus had fallen through the snow. She needed more information, and her mind’s eye would do the trick.
Nearly twenty feet below the edge of the crevasse, she found the Guardsman. He was sitting up and was conscious, so that was good. Getting him out of there would be a completely different story.
She edged back to the hole and paused. Thinking about Marcus, she recalled the way he had acted not-quite-right since the day he had introduced himself. Whenever she turned around, he was just a step away. At first, she found this creepy—and later suspicious. If he was a spy, she could be lowering herself to save the enemy. On the other hand, he could just be a good man who had been away from Arcadia long enough to not know any better.
Pushing the ice from her brow, she leaned back and lowered herself, hand-over-hand into the depths. She descended slowly, trading speed for safety. As soon as she was below the surface, her body, shielded from the wind and the snow, warmed instantly. The rope stung her frostbitten hands as she lowered herself, but she continued. The rope work came back quickly and made her feel like a kid again.
Finally, her boots made purchase with solid ground.
“Glad to see your ugly mug,” Marcus said to his Captain.
“You, OK?”
“Think so. A li
ttle banged up, but my arms and legs seem to be working just fine.”
Julianne surveyed the environment. The ledge was larger than she had thought, so was the cavern she had lowered herself into. It was nearly as broad as the vaulting cathedral at the Temple in the Heights. The ledge was eight feet wide and stretched along the ravine as far as she could see, which wasn’t far given the low-level of light.
Julianne pulled a magitech torch out of her bag and clicked it on. With a hum, the torch glowed bright blue and lit up the room. The icy walls reflected the light around the open space.
Kicking around the rocks, she guessed that Marcus was thinking the same thing as her.
His words confirmed it. “We could just stay here for the night. Damn better shelter than out there,” he said, nodding toward the surface.
“The other men…”
“They’re big boys. Well, our men are. Doyle? We might just do better without him.” Marcus grinned. He was handsome, and his smile made his square jaw jut out, making his face even more pronounced.
She almost agreed, then realized that a soldier of Stellan’s level would have more respect for a leader, even if the man was a worthless shit. “Doyle is fine. And the Chancellor commissioned him for the shit of a journey.”
Marcus glanced down at his feet. “Yeah. That’s what I meant to say. Anyway, we go up there, and we’re just camping in the snow with them. Or we stay here and have a halfway decent rest.”
The man had a point, and Julianne couldn’t help wanting to drop their bedrolls and call it a night. If they stayed, there was a chance that Doyle and the other men might try striking out into the wintry evening to find them. Granted, it was doubtful for Doyle, and she wouldn’t count it as much of a loss for him to fall into his own crevasse, but the other men were a different story.
“Can’t do it,” Julianne said. “They may be looking for us already. A man like me, I can’t just sit down at the bottom of a hole, enjoying the shelter while my men are up there.”
Her eyes followed the rope back up to the hole that Marcus had made. Nearly twenty feet would make a good climb, but they could do it. She was just thankful that the man wasn’t hurt on his fall.
Marcus scrambled to his feet. “Let’s check the ledge,” he said. “It might just lead out of this hole and out into the open. I certainly wouldn’t mind not having to climb up that rope, even if it does wear me out.”
She watched his face, looking for any tells. The fear of Marcus shoving her into the endless pit below wouldn’t leave her. Unsure if it was irrational paranoia or careful wisdom, she nodded and told him to go first. They hugged the ledge and followed it in the direction of the downward slope.
“What the hell is that?” Marcus asked after thirty yards of hiking.
Julianne spun and pointed the magitech torch in the direction that Marcus was pointing.
Ahead on the ledge, a giant wooden structure obstructed their path. As they approached, it became clear that it was like the great ships that sailed the seas far to the north. She had never seen one before but heard tales of great ocean marauders and traders that returned with the mystics who dared to travel that far from the Heights on pilgrimage.
From the broad bow of the craft, a tattered cloth hung. Age had eaten away at the material, but the cold had kept it partially intact. A white skull and crossbones were still discernible against the black background. She furrowed her brow as she made out two teeth, pointed and sharp liked daggers—or wolf fangs—jutting from the skull’s heinous mouth.
The grotesque image sent a chill down her spine, but then a smile took over Julianne’s face, and she began to laugh. “I don’t believe it. That is precisely what we’ve come to find. Inside, we should find the Chancellor’s relic.”
Julianne felt elated for accomplishing the mission—at least half of it. Then she kicked herself, reminding herself that success for Stellan was a failure for Julianne. If she returned the tech to Adrien, he would be one step closer to completing whatever he had planned for it. But, having seen it, in Marcus’s company, she would be as good as dead if she returned without it.
There was only one way to ensure that the technology didn’t make its way into the hands of Adrien.
She looked down into the endless darkness to her left, then at Marcus, and back into the abyss.
Sometimes you need to do the hard things, but killing Marcus would be all too easy.
The man turned back from staring in awe at the ship. Despite the cold, and the danger, and the nearly impossible task of getting the ancient technology out of this thing and back to the city, the man was grinning like a child on his birthday.
It was then that Julianne made her decision. She couldn’t kill him, not like this. It wasn’t the mystic’s way. It wasn’t her way.
Though it might mean this man would be standing against her one day after the battle lines had been drawn, she would rather have an honorable fight than a cold dagger in the back.
She prayed that Ezekiel and the others would understand.
“Well don’t just stand there like a damned fool,” she said in Stellan’s gravelly voice. She grabbed a piece of the rotting wood and pulled. It fell apart easily, revealing a way inside the old structure. “Let’s complete our mission and get the hell out of here.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
Monica was the kind of woman you’d cross the street to avoid, even if the Devil himself were waiting for you on the other side. A hooked nose sat over a downward turned mouth—features that perfectly matched her personality.
She had grown up with enough money to buy half of Arcadia. Her father had fallen into line with Adrien early on. People still told stories about him. The dastardly man did much of the Chancellor’s dirty work in the early days and was compensated accordingly. That wealth shaped her life and her character as much as anything, and now, nearly into her fifties, she was still spoiled rotten through and through.
But despite her grating personality, one night a year, the entire Noble Quarter turned out to Monica’s house—smiling all the way as if it was their greatest joy. Everyone that was, except for Gregory.
“Stop fidgeting,” the woman said as she pushed Gregory’s hair down with her palm. “Honestly, sometimes I’m not even sure if you are my son. Switched at birth. It’s the only explanation…”
Monica stopped chiding her son long enough to smile and greet a noblewoman she despised. The woman smiled back, and they hugged like old friends before she moved on.
“How the hell are you ever going to find a lady looking like a damned imbecile,” Monica continued, once they were alone again. “Honestly, it’s like you’re not even trying…”
She prattled on, but Gregory heard none of it. Not only was he used to his mother’s unending insults, but his mind was elsewhere.
Hannah, he thought. Where is she?
Scanning the crowd, he looked for his friend. But his eyes weren’t calibrated for the sharp-tongued girl from the Boulevard, but rather, Deborah—the blond-haired daughter of Lord Girard. Though still early in the evening, the crowd flowed in every direction, people smiling and laughing with plates of expensive hors devours in their soft, noble hands.
Maybe she decided not to come, he thought. I can’t blame her. I’d rather be anywhere but here.
But before he could fall into despair, the room fell silent. It was as if time stopped, as everyone in the crowd—from the highest nobles down to the servants turned to watch the entrance of a goddess.
Hannah stood at the top of the steps in a flowing red dress. Gregory’s jaw dropped, like every other man in his home.
Hannah was breathtaking. Literally. Gregory willed himself to smile in her direction as his heart rate drove through the roof.
