The Far Far Better Thing

by Auston Habershaw

  “So you arranged for me to steal it so that I would . . . test it for you?” Myreon could scarcely control her horror. She felt like vomiting, weeping, and screaming all at once. “I was just . . . all those people were . . . just a test?”

  “Don’t sell yourself short. There were a number of other useful side effects to your use of the Seeking Dark.” Xahlven shrugged. “But yes, I needed to see how it worked and how, if at all, it could be controlled. So thank you.”

  Myreon took another step toward the shadowy corner. “And now you’re going to use it here, aren’t you. Right in Saldor.”

  “Once the Arcanostrum is gone, there will be no Defenders to keep the peace among the nations of the West. There will be nothing to stop the Kalsaari Empire from invading again. The world will be plunged into an age of war and violence not seen for two thousand years, from which will emerge a new society. A healthier society.” Xahlven held out the box. “You and I could be there, Myreon—side by side, controlling, guiding. We could remake the world together. This is it—my one-time offer.”

  Myreon kept her eyes on Xahlven, on the box. A plan—a crazy, desperate plan—was forming. She would only get one shot at it. “Why offer it at all? Why not just kill me?”

  Xahlven chuckled. “I’ve always been partial to blondes.”

  Myreon threw a deathbolt right at Xahlven’s head with her left hand. He easily deflected it, but the distraction was all she needed. At the same time as she threw the deathbolt, she reached out with a telekinetic hook from her right hand and snatched the Seeking Dark right out of Xahlven’s grip.

  The next few seconds seemed to take place in slow motion. The coffer tumbled through the air in a gentle arc and Myreon was there, scrambling beneath it. As Xahlven shouted, she caught it in both hands and turned to run. Deathbolts sizzled around her, but her wards held—if barely. She dove into the darkness where Androlli had gone. Sure enough, where it looked like there was a wall, there was nothing—a little passage, barely large enough for Myreon’s shoulders.

  But she did fit.

  She wriggled into the darkness of the Archmage’s labyrinth, the sound of Xahlven’s roars of frustration behind her. She did not look back.

  I bet he didn’t foresee that.

  Chapter 41

  A Sense of Theatrics

  The hours and the days were unclear to Artus now, so deep and constant was his pain. The dark of the dungeon was filled with petty horrors—a kick to the face, a twist of the arm, the hard, uneven rock of the floor. The food they poured down his throat was foul and tainted, probably with his jailor’s urine. He lost consciousness frequently and awoke suddenly to find himself the victim of some new indignity.

  Then they took him out into the light. Just before, as he was being strapped onto a wagon that would transport him, someone waved a vial of something pungent beneath his nose. “Here now, boy, have a sip of this. His Highness wants you bright and awake now—down the hatch!”

  The vial was stuffed in his mouth and poured down. He gagged on it—it was like drinking liquid fire—but his mind cleared and the fog of pain lifted as the white heat of adrenaline surged through him. He found himself able to struggle and he began by smashing his forehead into the nose of the man who had slipped him the potion. The man howled and Artus was slammed backward by a half-dozen other hands. He screamed and he growled but then a leather strap was forced in his mouth—he was bound up like a hog going to the slaughter.

  Which, he now realized with his newfound clarity, was exactly what he was.

  They wheeled him up a ramp and through a square of sunlight. When his eyes adjusted, he was looking at a massive parade ground enclosed by towering walls and packed with thousands of armed men, their pikes so numerous as to look like a forest of dead trees stretching out for a quarter mile in every direction. The men were in neat ranks, the standards of their companies unfurled for review. When they saw Artus, they cheered and banged their pikes against the dirt—a thunderous sound, like cavalry charging.

  His cart was positioned on the top of a broad rampart that overlooked the parade ground. Craning his neck as best he could, he could see this wall was the outer edge of the Citadel’s keep. Given the lack of a parapet, Artus imagined its entire purpose was for inspection and review of the troops in the broad bailey that stretched out beneath.

  Standing there already, and flanked by Michelle on one side and some of the same bearded captains that had attended him in the throne room on the other, was Banric Sahand. He had his arms raised in triumph, pointing to Artus as though he had captured him single-handedly. When he spoke, his voice was sorcerously amplified so it could be heard by even his farthest legions. “Behold, men of Dellor—the Young Prince of Eretheria!”

  The roar of the crowd was once again deafening. Sahand kept speaking, but Artus ceased to pay close attention—he knew the gist, here. Sahand was singing his own praises and mocking Artus—the symbol of his crushed, beaten foe. He was speaking lies—that Artus was at some battle he wasn’t, that the White Army was responsible for the slaughter of Delloran prisoners. The precise charges scarcely mattered. What mattered to Artus was Michelle.

  She stood there, clad in furs, her eyes still fixed on some distant point. Why didn’t she fight? Why didn’t she do something? She wasn’t even looking at him.

  And why should she? He was as good as dead. She was broken, beaten. Why feel the pain? Why not go numb?

  She was doing what she had to do. It stung, but he understood. What they had together . . . it wasn’t love. It never had been. He understood that now. It still hurt him, though. Hurt him worse than anything Sahand was about to do. He felt hollowed out, empty and aching. His eyes blurred with tears.

  No gallows had been constructed on the rampart, no gibbet was waiting for him. Artus didn’t see a headsman anywhere, nor the wheel or the rack or even a stake at which to burn him. Were anyone else his captor, he might have been relieved—perhaps mercy was on the table after all. But this was the Mad Prince of Dellor—the lack of an obvious means of execution simply meant something even more terrible awaited him. Artus hoped, whatever it was, it was over quickly.

  He seriously doubted that would be the case.

  Sahand was wrapping up his speech, bellowing promises of riches and feasting to be had once the rich hills of Galaspin and the green fields of Eretheria and the bountiful vineyards of Saldor were compelled to kneel to them. His armies drank it all in, cheering him on despite everything he had done to them—had to have done to them—over the years. The faces of the hungry, starved of everything, stared up at Artus by the thousands. They were not men, this howling mob. They were beasts, whipped into a frenzy, deprived of everything until their minds could no longer separate the true from the desperately wished for.

  “And now, it is time to deal with this little one.” Sahand pointed at Artus. “And I have something special planned for him, oh yes.”

  The Mad Prince reached into his cape and drew out the hilt of a rapier. Artus recognized it instantly—it was Chance. Tyvian’s sword.

  “See his eyes!” Sahand bellowed. “He knows this blade! It is the blade of his father, Tyvian Reldamar—the cursed King of Eretheria who ambushed your brothers as we came to parley, to show respect to a new monarch.”

  Sahand mumbled the words “bon chance” and the translucent mageglass blade extended from the hilt, gleaming coldly in the pale Delloran sunlight.

  “How fitting, then, that this traitor’s blade would be the implement of the Young Prince’s demise, eh?”

  The mob cheered again. They began to chant something, but Artus couldn’t make it out over the rhythmic thump of pike butts against the hard earth.

  The legions parted. A team of four horses—wild-eyed beasts, their nostrils flaring—was driven down the center of the bailey. Behind them trailed a harness as yet unattached. A squadron of soldiers turned the horses around so their backs were to Artus, and another ran a pair of study ropes up the rampart and attached them to
Artus’s bindings. One man slapped the horses on the rumps, making them jerk and strain in their harness. Artus could feel the power tugging him, even anchored to the rampart as he was.

  Artus was about to be dragged by these horses until dead. A brutal death, and not a brief one, either.

  Below him, ranks of Sahand’s best troops stood, looking up at him. At their front was none other than Captain Rodall, his metallic smile gleaming amid a howling sea of open mouths.

  Artus felt Chance’s tip scrape at his back, near where he was bound to the frame that was keeping him in place. “With one stroke, I cut him loose from this anchor and deliver this traitor, this wretch, this cowardly deserter into your midst, men of Dellor. I trust you will show him what we do with our enemies, eh?”

  The chant had spread. Artus could hear it clearly now, pounding in his ears. “WE WANT BLOOD! WE WANT BLOOD! WE WANT BLOOD!”

  Artus wanted to say something, wanted to scream something, even if just a prayer. He had been so resigned to his death until now, when it was at hand. He struggled against his bonds, to no avail. His useless legs merely dangled before the faces of those who were about to beat him to death, to tear him apart as he was dragged past.

  “Artus of Eddon,” Sahand said. “Crown Prince of Eretheria, for crimes against Dellor and its Prince, I hereby sentence you to death!”

  Chance cut through the air, and Artus felt his body come loose from the wagon to which he had been bound. Someone slapped one of the horses again with the flat of a blade and off they went. Artus was ripped from the rampart, wind whistling through his ears. He hit the muddy ground of the bailey with a heavy thump and then was dragged at the speed of four galloping horses. Rocks and clods of earth pummeled Artus on the back, the legs, the arms, the head. He tried to scream as the soldiers whipped past him, many throwing things or striking out with weapons. He took the briefest consolation that he was going too fast for them to hit anything.

  He flipped onto his side, then his chest, then his back again. His nose and mouth were clogged with filth; light and dark spun together. In his agony, he only knew he was being driven toward the open gates of the Citadel—that Sahand was going to see his corpse dragged all through the city beyond and then maybe onto the roads and then . . . who knew. He’d be dead by then.

  There was a roar from the armies of Dellor. A roar loud enough to drown out the noise of Artus’s own death. Then the horses . . . turned. He felt himself being dragged upward, draped across the back of a horse. He cried out against his gag as the beast bucked beneath him, but he blinked up into the light anyway.

  There, standing atop two horses, a foot on each, their reins in his hands, was Tyvian Reldamar. He was wearing Delloran livery that fit him poorly and a huge fur cape that flapped in the wind. The smuggler looked down and gave him a wink. “Sorry about that. Try not to fall off, eh?”

  Tyvian hauled on the reins and steered the horses into the ranks of soldiers. They scattered. Many were packed too tightly to get entirely out of the way, and so they were kicked to the ground or knocked aside. When they had reached the rampart again, Tyvian picked up Artus like a parcel and leapt up next to a totally dumbfounded Banric Sahand.

  Tyvian dropped into an en garde position, ran through two guards that came at him. He dumped Artus to the ground and threw off his helm. Then he faced the Mad Prince. “Hello, Banric. I believe you have my sword.”

  Sahand’s eyes nearly popped out of his face. His wicked grin was gone, replaced with a look of complete disgust and shock. “YOU!”

  Tyvian saluted him with his blade. “So much for playing this off as the act of some random madman, eh?” He nodded to the mob, which were now watching with a mixture of confusion and morbid fascination. “What say we settle this the old-fashioned way?”

  Sahand faced Tyvian, Chance outstretched.

  And then he shot Tyvian with a lightning bolt, knocking the smuggler clear off his feet.

  “Yes,” the Mad Prince said. “Let’s.”

  The cavernous halls of the citadel were always empty—Sahand could never hope to support a court large enough to fill them—but on this morning they were particularly empty. Lyrelle only wished she were well enough to run. “Hurry,” she whispered to Michelle, on whose shoulder she was leaning heavily, “we must hurry—they are all in the courtyard, watching the execution.”

  Michelle, her lips pressed into a line, her brow furrowed, pulled Lyrelle along a bit faster. “Which way?”

  “Follow the doors. Those that take us deeper into the citadel open toward you, those that lead you further out open away. A . . .” Lyrelle groaned as a spike of nerve pain shot up her back. “. . . a defensive feature.”

  Michelle did as she was told, and soon the skinny girl and the withered old crone could hear the chants of the crowd and the bellowing taunts of Sahand’s voice. They were close.

  “Magus, look!” Michelle screamed, pointing through an ancient loophole to the vast bailey beyond. There they could see Artus’s broken body displayed before the rabid masses of Sahand’s troops. “We’re too late!”

  Lyrelle nodded as she hugged Michelle close. “I’m afraid so, child. But you needed to see this.”

  Lyrelle winced as Chance cut through the rope. She closed her eyes as the crowd roared.

  Michelle yelped in pain as she watched Artus drop into the crowd—as she watched him die. She looked up at Lyrelle. “What do you mean . . . I needed to see this?”

  Lyrelle cupped Michelle’s face in her hands. “We were never going to save him, Michelle.”

  Michelle’s face twisted in horror as she drew away from Lyrelle. “What? WHAT?”

  “Listen—listen child, for this is the last and only lesson I will teach you: the fate of the world does not rest with true love or with noble princes or daring heroes. It never has. It never will.”

  “What are . . . what are you talking about?”

  “The fate of the world rests with those who are willing to sacrifice to change it.” Lyrelle’s voice was hard. “Do you, Michelle Orly, wish to save your country from desolation and civil war?”

  The soldiers in the bailey were roaring in what sounded like bloodthirsty ecstasy. Michelle shuddered at the sound, closing her eyes. When she opened them again, they were hard and focused. “Yes.”

  Ahhhh, Lyrelle thought, there’s the steel. She gestured behind Michelle. The girl turned to see that they had come into the courtyard containing Sahand’s anygate. With a wave of her hand, Lyrelle activated the runes to take Michelle back to Peregrine Palace. The portcullis raised, the gate swung open. “Then go. Do it. Do it yourself, Lady Orly. Let no man stop you.”

  “But . . .” Michelle paused, looking back toward the bailey.

  Lyrelle pushed her toward the gate. “Remember him well, girl. He did come. You were right about that. But he is dead. And he will remain so.”

  Tears welled in Michelle’s eyes. “Thank you, Magus. Thank you.”

  Lyrelle kissed her hand. “Go.”

  The girl hiked up what skirts she had and ran through the door. Lyrelle slammed it behind her and scrambled the combination—no one would follow her, and no one could come back.

  It was then that Lyrelle noticed silence had fallen over the armies of Dellor. She shuffled to a loophole to look out. When the man on the rampart threw off his helm and revealed his mane of red hair, Lyrelle felt an energy fill her that she hadn’t known she lost. It was a power deeper than any connection to the ley, deeper than any desire to destroy Sahand. “Yes!” she said, tears coming to her eyes. “That’s him! That’s my little boy!”

  The air cracked as Sahand’s lightning bolt struck Tyvian off his feet. The surge of elation was replaced with one of sheer adrenaline. Her work was not yet done. The anygate—and her own escape—would have to wait.

  Chapter 42

  Desperation

  For the first time in years, uncertainty filled Xahlven’s guts as Myreon vanished into the shadows of his own labyrinth. It burned at him like
acid—here was not something he had predicted! His auguries had been too weak, too unclear to see this. What if she gets to Dunnmayre? What if she releases the Seeking Dark prematurely?

  His first act was to smite apart his scrying pool with one enchanted blow of his staff and immediately channel the thunderous release of Astral energy into a time-dilation. His body shuddered with the effort, Lyrelle’s curse gnawing at his reserves, but this was his inner sanctum—he could work this spell here.

  He was not sure how quickly time would be passing outside of his labyrinth, but enough, he was certain, to pull them well past the battle and perhaps a few days following it. The armies of Saldor and the Lord Defender would be dead and gone long before Myreon Alafarr could save them. There—let her try and stop me now.

  Now, it became simply a matter of finding her and getting back what was his.

  He paced silently through the twisting halls of his labyrinth, staff at the ready, his wards and guards at the closest thing to full strength he could manage after channeling that powerful time spell. He spoke into the darkness, his voice calm. “Myreon, Myreon—be reasonable. There is no escape. Come out—face me.”

  He caught a glimpse of filthy gray robes and blasted it with a bolt of demonfire. Nothing—an illusory decoy. She was using the deeply Etheric ley to assist her efforts to hide, to confuse him. Clever, but a waste of everyone’s time. “What is your endgame, here, eh? You can’t hide the Seeking Dark from me forever—I will find you.”

  Myreon’s voice echoed off the walls around him—another trick to hide her location. “I’ll destroy it before I let you have it! I’ve used it before—I know how!”

  Xahlven couldn’t help but laugh—the audacity of this girl! “Myreon, if generations of Reldamars couldn’t figure out how to destroy it, you certainly cannot. You are simply prolonging the inevitable.” Xahlven threw another bolt of demonfire at another shadow—still not her. “And you are making me angry.”