The Far Far Better Thing

by Auston Habershaw

  Artus gaped at him. He felt like he might be going mad. “But you don’t believe it. You don’t care about any of it—you’d just be doing it to win!”

  “So what?” Sahand leaned back in his throne. “Who cares why it is done, if it is done? Come down off your pulpit, boy. Good intentions got the Gray Lady nothing but despair. Show a little more intelligence—accept my offer.”

  “And if I refuse?”

  Sahand’s grin vanished. “Then . . . well, then I execute you. Publicly. In exchange for your head, I have House Hadda, House Camis, and House Vora of Eretheria ready to assist the conquest of Davram and Ayventry, seats in the Congress of Peers, and a promise not to interfere with my Galaspin and Saldorian campaigns. As you can see, I win either way.”

  Artus bit back the curses that flew to his lips. “What about Michelle . . . let her go! Release her, at least!”

  Sahand laughed. “You mean my lady wife? Whyever would she wish to go?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Ask her yourself.” Sahand stepped back and gestured to a chair just to the side of his throne, but off the dais. In it sat Michelle in a black gown and white fur stole. Her eyes were fixed on a distant point, her face blank.

  “Michelle!” Artus gasped, trying to crawl toward her, but succeeding only in clawing the flagstones. “Michelle, it’s me, Artus! Snap out of it! Oh gods, say something!”

  The room erupted in laughter. Sahand raised a hand to quiet them. “I’m afraid your young lady has had a bit of a mental breakdown. Hasn’t spoken a word in days. Very convenient, I must say—I’ve always enjoyed agreeable women.”

  More laughter, but this time with a more vicious edge. Artus closed his eyes, trying not to picture what Sahand had done to her. He felt ill. “You . . . you bastard.”

  Sahand laughed. “I’ve been called much worse. Come now, boy—make your choice. Choose your fate. I’ve wasted enough time on you as it is.”

  Artus looked around the room. A line of armored, bearded warriors glared down at him, each of them more unfriendly than the last. His words to Hambone came back to haunt him—here it was, his choice. Did he do what the world was forcing him to, or did he say no?

  And by saying no, he condemned Michelle to her fate. No one would come to rescue her. She would remain like this, forever.

  But if he said yes, would he be the man Michelle thought he was in the first place? Wouldn’t that be just another kind of death—becoming Sahand’s creature, just like all these men had become at some point? Men whose desire to survive had overridden any grander desires they might have once harbored. Shells. Husks. Stooges.

  I’m sorry, Michelle. I just can’t.

  Artus let his head fall back to the floor. “Go to hell, Banric. I’d choose death over you any day.”

  Sahand’s men muttered among themselves. Sahand, though, laughed loud and hard. “Good! You don’t disappoint, eh? A hero to the end. My congratulations.”

  Sahand stood and clapped his hands. “Take the hero to the dungeon. You needn’t be gentle.”

  Rough hands seized Artus by the broken arms again and began to haul him away. Even though he braced himself for the pain, he couldn’t help but scream as he was dragged down, down into the darkness of the Citadel.

  Chapter 40

  An Extra Set of Hands

  Michelle Orly was a shivering wreck of a girl, but she did not whimper and she did not say foolish things, so there was a bit of steel in her somewhere—being held prisoner by Banric Sahand was no mild ordeal, and for her to remain silent even now was a feat of will. Still, Lyrelle wasn’t going to have much use for a trembling leaf.

  Michelle was seated on the floor of the tower, her back pressed to the wall, her eyes fixed on the door. She was deathly pale and her collar bones were poking through her thin linen shift with alarming clarity. Her thin lips were blue.

  Limping to her, Lyrelle laid her blanket over the girl’s legs and chest. “With luck, Arkald will bring an extra helping of stew today. A little food and you should feel better.”

  Michelle said nothing, not taking her eyes from the door.

  Lyrelle kept the smile on her face as she limped back to her stool, but inwardly she was frowning. She didn’t know very much about Michelle—she had not featured in any of her scrying and so there had been no real reason to investigate her in depth. She was a physical representation of the limits of watching the future—there was always that which you could not anticipate. It was fortunate that she was now here, for sure, but getting her to do what Lyrelle wanted was going to be a challenge. She was forced to manipulate her blindfolded, as it were.

  She kept smiling down at the shivering girl. “Everything is going to be all right. You can trust me.”

  “I know everything is going to be all right!” Michelle’s eyes flashed with anger. “Artus—the Young Prince is coming for me. I know it.”

  Lyrelle felt her stomach turn. Oh. One of those. Wonderful. “You are worried, then, that your prince will fight his way to your tower only to discover your decoy?”

  Michelle hugged the blanket closer to her chin. “What if . . . what if Sahand finds out what you’ve done?”

  Lyrelle saw no reason to sugarcoat the situation. “I will die. Painfully. I expect you will have the opportunity to watch.”

  “Then why? Why do this?”

  “Because I am an old woman, Lady Orly.” Lyrelle let her smile slip. “And so I know what to expect out of princes.”

  “He is coming for me! You will see!”

  “I agree that maintaining hope is important,” Lyrelle said.

  The lock in the door clunked and then in came Arkald. He looked worse than usual—he and Michelle made quite the cadaverous pair, though in Arkald’s case there was something of a professional requirement he was meeting. In his hands he had a single bowl of stew. “I could not get more. They would notice.”

  Lyrelle sighed. “Will the decoy you prepared eat?”

  “No. I ordered it to throw its food out the window, though. That will have to do.”

  “So long as no one is walking underneath.” Lyrelle frowned. She had expected complications like this. It only remained to best them.

  Arkald offered the stew to Lyrelle, but she waved the bowl toward Michelle.

  When the young noblewoman sat forward to take it from him, she winced. Lyrelle had noticed it before—her back was injured. “How did Sahand’s men hurt you?”

  Michelle took a dainty sip from the bowl as Arkald watched her. “They did not lay a finger on me, besides a few blows. Sahand . . .” She shuddered. “He only made threats. Promises.”

  “How did you hurt your back, then?”

  The girl shuddered and took a bigger sip of the stew. “I . . . I would rather not say.”

  Lyrelle looked at Arkald. “Would you step outside for a moment?”

  Arkald’s eyes narrowed. “I need the bowl back first.”

  Lyrelle frowned at him. If he left, he might not come back, and that food was important. She barely had the strength to stand as it was. “Very well—stay. Lady Orly, I need to see your back.”

  The girl still had the sense of self to blush.

  Lyrelle twirled her finger at Arkald. “Face the wall.” Then, to Michelle, she said, “Hurry up, girl. Give us a look.”

  Staggering to her feet, Michelle turned around and lifted her shift so it was bunched beneath her armpits. Her sickly porcelain skin was marked with an array of yellowing bruises—that much was expected—but her back had a number of odd strips of dead skin, much of which was in the process of sloughing off, revealing tender pink flesh beneath. Lyrelle could understand at once her discomfort—the new flesh was tender and the harsh cloth of the shift and the wall against it was chafing easily.

  Lyrelle ran a finger along one, making Michelle shudder. “How did you get these?”

  “I’d . . . I’d rather not—”

  “Speak!”

  Michelle shivered. When she spoke, t
ears strained to escape between her words. “Some . . . some kind of sorcery. It was chasing us. I . . . I don’t know what it was. Please . . .”

  That clinched it. Lyrelle knew wounds like these—she knew them well. They were the essential principle behind weaponized Etheric energy—deathbolts, deathcasters, orbs of oblivion, rot-curses, the lot of them. Those injuries on her back were distinct from most known applications in a number of ways, but most importantly was this one:

  It was chasing her.

  Michelle slid back down her shift and returned to the blanket and the stew, covering herself up again.

  Arkald turned around. “Well—what was it?”

  Lyrelle pursed her lips. “I now know what kind of weapon Sahand has—or claims he has. And I know how to counter it.” At that, though, Arkald deflated—something had happened. Lyrelle watched him closely. “Arkald, tell us.”

  The necromancer looked at the floor. “I just received word. Sahand has destroyed the Grand Army. He is victorious—he didn’t even have to use his weapon. It’s over.”

  “What about Artus? What about the Young Prince?” Michelle asked.

  Arkald said nothing for a moment, shuffling his feet on the floor. He sighed heavily. “Captain Rodall of the Ghouls just brought him in yesterday evening. He’s in the dungeon, awaiting execution.”

  Michelle began to cry. “No. No—you’re lying. No.”

  “There’s nothing anybody could have done,” Arkald said. “You’re doomed.”

  Lyrelle rolled her eyes. “Enough. Stop it, both of you! Do you know when a man is most vulnerable?” They blinked at her. As one was a man and one was a girl, they obviously did not. “You must forgive my language: a man is most vulnerable when he thinks the fucking is over, but his pants are still around his ankles.”

  Michelle blushed, but she also chuckled. Lyrelle staggered to her feet and pointed to the stool. “You, girl—pick up this stool.”

  Michelle rose, uncertain, but did as she was asked. “Where do you want me to put it?”

  Lyrelle ignored her, moving so that Arkald was between her and Michelle. “As for you, Arkald, I believe your pessimism to be misplaced. No situation is hopeless.”

  “How is this not hopeless? Sahand has won, understand? He’s won. The Young Prince can’t save you, the Lord Defender of the Balance is dead, the armies of the West are scattered . . . and you . . . you’re trapped here. There is no way out.”

  “Correction, Arkald—there used to be no way out. Now there is.”

  Arkald blinked at her. “How?”

  “Michelle, please hit Arkald in the head with the stool.”

  Arkald’s eyes grew wide. He spun around, tried to raise his hands . . .

  Michelle brought the stool down on his bald head with a deeply satisfying crack. The look on the girl’s face indicated she was as surprised as Arkald was.

  Lyrelle smiled at her. “I knew you had some steel in you, girl. Grab his key.”

  She did. They were out the door of the cell in a moment, and Michelle locked it shut behind them. Then it was down the stairs, step by step, Lyrelle’s hips screaming the whole way.

  But it didn’t matter. With each and every step, she felt some of her power returning to her. Some of her self returning to her. It only remained to be seen how much of what she had done with ten fingers could now be done with eight.

  “Come,” she said to the girl beside her. “Let’s see about rescuing your prince.”

  Myreon gaped down at the headless body of Argus Androlli, blood still pumping from the stump of his neck. From the shadows of the room, formless demons crawled forth to feed on the corpse.

  “Now, I’m curious exactly what you promised him?” Xahlven asked, looking at Androlli’s body with disappointment. But disappointment in what? Was Xahlven so insane that he couldn’t turn off his act if he wanted to?

  “Evidence of your betrayal. Something he could bring to Trevard.” Myreon stepped away from the body and backed herself toward the wall, her hands out, ready to cast.

  Xahlven laughed at her. “Trevard? Really, this is too much. Evidence? Even assuming I were some kind of traitor—”

  “You are!” Myreon screamed. She couldn’t take this anymore, couldn’t listen to another word. “You are the Chairman of the Sorcerous League! Don’t deny it—I know! You spoke before the Well of Secrets a truth—irrefutable truth—that you want to see the Arcanostrum cast down and the order of the world usurped! You said the words!” She pointed at Androlli. “And what about him? How will you explain him? You’ve incriminated yourself!”

  Xahlven held up two fingers. “Wrong for two reasons. First, I will not have to explain him—he will be listed among the casualties lost at the battle of Dunnmayre, along with hundreds and hundreds of others. Nobody will ever find his body and nobody will miss him. Second—that I incriminated myself—only holds if you are able to tell anyone of what transpired here. I can assure you that, by the end of this conversation, such a thing will be impossible.”

  Myreon erected a ward against deathbolts around her. “I’m harder to kill than you think.”

  “Oh, Myreon—please, give me a little credit. I don’t intend to kill you. I intend to convince you.”

  Myreon scanned the room quickly, looking for a way out. None was evident—she wasn’t even sure where she had come in. “Of what?”

  “That I’m right, of course.” Xahlven waved his hands and the little blob-like demons dragged Androlli’s body into the shadows. Myreon watched it go. An exit concealed there, perhaps?

  “You, of all people, ought to sympathize with what I am doing, Myreon.” Xahlven leaned forward as he spoke, eager, it seemed, to finally talk about this. “The Arcanostrum is a system of oppression. It’s a blight upon human endeavor. Do you have any idea how much better off humanity would be without it? Look at the wars they have driven us to. Look at the misery their hoarded secrets have inflicted upon humanity! They have made us covetous and vain and weak. No, it all has to come down. It must be destroyed for the good of everyone, before it is too late!”

  Myreon shook her head. “No—lies, all lies. Every damned word out of your mouth! You aren’t doing this out of some philanthropic impulse. You don’t care about the common people. This is about you!”

  Xahlven rolled his eyes. “Because I’m a Reldamar, right? Because you think I’m like my brother was? Spare me—I’ve been cursed with his reputation for long enough. He’s dead, Myreon, and I am not now nor ever was like him.”

  Myreon cocked her head. Was that a nerve she had touched? She bore down on it. “I don’t believe you. You’re just like Tyvian, except . . .”

  “Except what?” Xahlven sneered.

  “He was better-looking.”

  The Archmage of the Ether stared at her for a moment and then burst out laughing. “Oh . . . oh . . . I see. Trying to taunt me into an error, eh? Gods, watching you manipulate people is like watching a dog ride a horse. Honestly, Myreon—didn’t your disaster with the White Army teach you anything?”

  “You killed them!” Myreon shouted. “You . . . you put that thing in my hands and . . . and manipulated me into . . . into . . .”

  “You can’t blame me for that, Myreon. And you shouldn’t blame yourself, either. They did it to themselves. It was a fate they had all earned—vicious, short-sighted brutes, the lot of them. Even the citizens of Ayventry are just as guilty. They stood by as Sahand took control, they ate the spoils that Sahand’s armies brought to their tables, they let a monster rule them in exchange for some momentary comfort.”

  Tears welled in Myreon’s eyes, threatening to blind her. She wiped them away. “And so they all have to die? Is all humanity too diseased to live, is that it?”

  “It isn’t humanity that’s diseased, Myreon. It’s society. It’s modernity. It is this age and these structures we have built that make us less than we once were.”

  Myreon edged toward where Androlli’s body had vanished. “And what were we, once?”
/>
  “We were like the gnolls. We were like the nomads of the Taqar or the Salasi of the great southern deserts. Tribes of people, bound by honor, steeped in a tradition of simplicity and survival.”

  Myreon wanted to laugh, but the whole situation was too perverse. “And barely surviving, scraping a life out of a world of death and pain and ignorance. That’s a solution to you?”

  Xahlven’s expression darkened. “And where do you think this society ends, eh? A world teeming with people, all devouring each other. Cities of towers with their tops in the clouds, packed full of slaves laboring for invisible masters they barely see, much less understand. The principles of your revolution dashed beneath the march of a million booted feet, charging off to meaningless wars that will enrich people like me while people like you die and are forgotten.”

  Myreon was taken aback. She searched for the words.

  “It’s already happening, Myreon—you know I’m right. It will only get worse. Humanity will come to rely more and more on sorcery for more and more things. The very energies of existence will be tapped to their breaking point. In a matter of centuries, the entire world will be on the brink of sorcerous cataclysm, the likes of which have not been seen since Rahdnost the Undying’s fall. I have seen this, Myreon. I am not destroying the world, I am saving it from certain doom.”

  “Saving it . . . how?”

  Xahlven raised one hand. Myreon tensed, ready to deflect whatever spell he hurled at her, but instead his hand came down, and in it rested a rough iron box.

  Myreon knew that box. She saw it in her dreams. “What . . . that’s impossible! It was destroyed! Totally . . . totally destroyed!”

  “The Warlock King Spidrahk fashioned thirteen coffers such as this, Myreon.” Xahlven held it up, gazing on it like a prizewinning rooster perched in his hand. “That one you used was one of two in my family’s possession. The first my mother traded away. I traded to get it back. The trouble was, of course, how it worked. I didn’t know and could find no one who would tell me—not even the Oracle of the Vale was willing to part with that knowledge. So—”