Malachi thought of raising the alarm. Customs would detain the intruders, and their deception would be found out. He could end their lives with a word, yet he had no desire to do so. Instead he discreetly left the line and stood back to watch.
The four fugitives reached the exit checkpoint, and Malachi held his breath as they faced the Inspectors’ scrutiny. He breathed a sigh of relief when they cleared security unmolested.
The Adept watched his nemesis leave with a key prisoner and two of the Guild’s most wanted. Not until they were lost in the teeming crowd did his lips part in a wolfish grin.
Vaun Mordechai had truly been enjoying himself since his return to the Middle Stratum. For the first time in ages, he was blessed with a surplus of raw materials and ample time in which to work. That work had been progressing splendidly, aside from his mentorship of Deim. Still, as Vaun saw it, teaching him hadn't been his idea; and the young man’s defects were no fault of his.
The necromancer reveled in the safety of his private chambers, where for once he was free to pursue his art. The Gen, the cutthroat, and the harpy had gone to Mithgar; and Vaun would count himself thrice blessed if they failed to return.
Vaun was busy wiring vertebrae when the shadows at the corners of his room suddenly deepened. He watched in fascination as the dimming work light faded to a pale, futile ember. At first Vaun suspected the kost’s return, but he discounted the notion as premature.
A high-pitched hum like an amplified tuning fork rang out in the dark. Vaun traced the sound’s source to the concrete block in which he’d hidden the white scimitar. The bright clear chime repelled him with memories of the awful purity that had prompted him to take the dead priest’s blade, and to inter it.
Suddenly, Vaun was gripped by the terrible feeling of being drawn into himself—as if he were falling into the yawning black abyss of his own soul. After several moments in free fall, he beheld a barren coal field stretching forever under an endless night. The sky was bereft of moon and stars, but the very air seemed saturated with a sallow luminance.
His curiosity aroused, Vaun thought to explore this sterile frontier. He only realized that he had no physical form when he tried and failed to move. Pondering this development granted him a sudden epiphany: he hadn’t been transported to another Stratum; he was the Stratum.
Vaun attempted to scream, but his voiceless soul hung silent in the Void.
“No need to shout,” said a calm, feminine voice. “I can hear you perfectly well.”
Vaun's discorporate mind sought out the one who had spoken and immediately discerned Elena’s presence—or more accurately, a presence that subsumed hers. She wore a grey shift, and her bare feet stood on ashen ground cold enough to freeze stars.
You are awake, he thought.
“No,” his sister said, “but I don't have to be conscious to speak with you here.”
Where might that be?
“Within your deepest self,” said Elena. “I summoned you here so he wouldn't eavesdrop.”
Who?
“Elathan,” she said, infusing the name with contempt.
The one-eyed god? I'd thought him long gone from this cosmos.
“A vestige remains,” Elena said. “The god left an aspect of himself behind, and it was captured by men.”
Vaun’s soul manifested his urge to laugh as a sound like metal pressed to dry ice. So that is how you draw from the Well!
Elena’s silence told Vaun he'd hit the mark.
If you would plot against a god, I will join your cause.
“You’re very generous,” Elena said, “but I haven't come to ask for help. I'm here to keep my promise.”
Vaun's soul ached with hope and greed. You mean my payment? My compensation for apprenticing the young fool?
Elena smiled. “If he's a fool, then he's a fool for me. But the teacher deserves his wage.”
Not to question your integrity, but how can I claim my reward if I am discorporate and you are comatose in the Middle Stratum?
“What the Void is to you, the ether is to me,” said Elena. “I'll return you to the Exodus. Come to me with a blade. Not the white one. Yours is good enough.”
I don't follow you, Vaun admitted.
“Use it to cut my heart out,” Elena said.
Vaun paused to consider her command. Do you wish me to end your life?
Elena’s eyes gleamed with rose-colored light. “You know we don't need hearts to live.”
Then it shall be as you have said. I thank you, sister.
“I wouldn't,” Elena said. Mighty grey wings unfurled from her back, and the golden light went out.
The necromancer awoke in his laboratory. He rose from his chair of bones and made his way to the anteroom. Just before leaving, he stopped. If his vision had been only a dream, his next actions might yield bitter fruit indeed.
Vaun studied his scimitar. Its grey blade shed hungry indigo light. All doubt fled as he strode into the hall. Tonight he would collect his due or end his sister's torment.
The infirmary was silent when he arrived. Why shouldn’t it be? he thought. The harpy is gone, and her only patient is catatonic. Even so, Vaun approached Elena’s room cautiously and crept to her bedside. He regarded the defenseless girl for a moment before pulling back the blanket and plunging his blade into her sternum.
Elena didn't stir as Vaun made a large incision in her pale chest. Her flesh parted easily enough, but unlike the white scimitar, his sword didn’t make her bleed.
Deep scarlet flooded from the excavation. Vaun mistook the red emanation for blood until he saw that it was light.
Vaun reached a trembling hand into Elena's chest cavity. His fingers touched something smooth and hard. He closed his fist around the many-sided object and drew it out.
Vaun opened his hand. In his palm lay a large crimson jewel. The gem resembled a ruby in weight, hardness, and color; but its touch was hot and cold at the same time. Shadows danced at its heart.
Vaun peered deeper into the stone’s myriad facets. He thought he saw faces trapped behind the blood red crystal and felt rather than heard voices calling out to him.
He recognized his own voice among them.
56
The clatter of the gurney’s wheels accompanied Nakvin across the white-tiled hangar. Looking back to see a muscular blond man pushing Vernon’s stretcher made her glad of Teg’s presence and slightly disturbed to identify him with Sulaiman’s appearance. “Let’s get him to the infirmary,” she said.
“This shriveled old vegetable had better be worth our time,” said Teg.
Nakvin glimpsed a flash of red from the landed courier: Jaren’s long hair flowing as he descended the ramp. “Get Vernon settled,” he said. “Then meet me back here. If we don’t get this boat back to Randolph, he might try to keep ours.”
Nakvin dismissed the captain's fears. Her concern for the Shibboleth paled next to the dread she felt for Elena. Finding the daughter she’d never known filled a void in Nakvin’s heart that she hadn’t acknowledged before. But that fulfillment exacted a high price. Elena’s presence threatened Nakvin’s dearest friendship, but a fierce, deep-seated impulse drove the Steersman to protect her child—which was daunting when malign forces kept conspiring against them.
Nakvin quickened her pace, grateful that the dress she still wore allowed greater mobility than her robes. Reaching the infirmary still seemed to take hours. Nakvin rushed for Elena's room, leaving Vernon with a grumbling Teg. Horrible images assailed her mind as she raced down the hall, but she found her daughter sound asleep, her condition unchanged.
No. Something’s wrong. A faint trace of ether lingered in the air. Nakvin searched the room but couldn't find the source. The ghostly scent of lightning soon faded.
Nakvin brushed her long black hair aside and bent down to kiss Elena’s warm forehead. Reluctantly, she left the room and rejoined Vernon and Teg. The old man lay motionless, seemingly oblivious to his surroundings.
“Come on,”
Nakvin said. “Let's get him to an examination room.”
“Jaren wants us to come right back,” said Teg.
“He told us to 'get Vernon settled.' As ship's surgeon, I'm obligated to ensure his comfort and stability.”
“Fine,” said Teg. “When he asks why we're late, I'll tell him it's your fault.”
Getting Vernon settled—and exhausting her whole battery of tests—took Nakvin most of an hour. She used the rest of it to change. Donning her white robe calmed her nerves and lent her much-needed confidence.
“How bad is he?” Teg asked.
“About as bad as I thought,” Nakvin said with a sigh. “It looks like they couldn't get Vernon to talk. He’s warded against coercive glamers, so the only way left was to pry the information from his brain. But Workings are blunt instruments. I doubt they got anything useful before his mind went.”
“So, what? We're out of luck?”
“Not quite,” Nakvin said. “Vernon's intellect is there. His brain just doesn’t know it.”
“Is there a workaround?”
“It's worth a try. Besides, He can't get any worse.”
Nakvin turned and gestured for Teg to follow. He joined her in the examination room, where Vernon sat on the table, his head sagging against his chest. Nakvin seated herself in front of him and took his head in her hands. She gently moved her patient's face until his cloudy, vacant eyes met hers.
Vernon, she thought, projecting the name with all her will. Can you hear me?
Vernon's gaunt, sagging face gave no indication that Nakvin's mental signal had reached him, but suddenly a stray thought popped into her head.
Tzimtzum
“What is it?” Teg asked, having no doubt heard her gasp.
“I'm not sure,” Nakvin said before returning to her silent dialog. Was that you?
Again, another wordless impression: Thera must return.
Nakvin smiled excitedly. That time, the thoughts had definitely come from Vernon. Elena's very sick, she projected into his mind. She won't wake up.
The Arcana Divine fell silent, but his intellect labored tangibly. Finally, he gave an answer of sorts. Thera's soul was absorbed by the Nexus at the moment of creation. It is possible to reconstruct her essence by locating individuals whose souls contain facets of hers and extracting the fragments.
Nakvin furrowed her brow. Vernon's rambling instructions might have been leftover debris floating to the surface of his ravaged mind, but…
The reintegrated fragments can be stored in a provisional container, Vernon continued. However, the composite soul requires a living host to complete the Last Working.
Vernon wasn't just rambling. Nakvin steeled herself for his next revelation.
The ideal vessel will be devoid of a soul. A pair of gametes from two male donors, each bearing an x chromosome, must fertilize an egg cell divested of genetic material. This method is not without risk. Though intentionally stunted, the host’s affect could prevent full integration. Schism could disrupt all higher faculties.
Nakvin's face must have betrayed her revulsion, because she felt Teg squeeze her hand. She slipped free of his grip, calmly rose from her chair, and bolted for the toilet. After turning out the contents of her stomach, she washed and returned to the examination room.
“You're not all right,” said Teg.
“I'm fine,” Nakvin said. Her head bowed. “Elena, though…”
Teg planted himself in front of her. “What did he tell you?”
Nakvin’s eyes flashed like silver daggers pointed at Vernon. “They should’ve killed him,” she said. “I could finish the job. He's so frail. One bite is all I'd need.”
“Tell me what the bastard did,” said Teg,” and I might help you.”
Nakvin met Teg’s gaze. “They built her,” she said, straining to keep her voice calm. “They combined raw genetic material in some kind of profane ritual.”
“Who did?” asked Teg. “Vernon and Braun?”
Nakvin swallowed the dry lump in her throat. “I think they used their own genes.”
Teg's creased brow prompted her to answer his unasked question. “The offspring of two male donors can still be female.”
“So you're not her mother?” asked Teg. The disappointment in his voice stabbed at Nakvin’s heart.
“In a way,” she said. “They used one of my egg cells.”
Teg nodded, but his brow furrowed again. “Shouldn't you be out of those by now?”
Warmth flooded Nakvin’s cheeks. “Actually, my body keeps producing them. But that's beside the point. I think they harvested me when I was too young to remember.”
“Well, I'm convinced that we should kill Vernon,” said Teg, “but first, did he tell you how to help Elena?”
Nakvin shivered. “He gave me an idea, but I'm not sure I can do it.”
She nearly cried out in surprise when Teg’s huge arms gathered her in a hug. “Whatever you have to do,” he said, “you won't be alone.”
“Thank you,” Nakvin said softly. “I needed to hear that. I just wish Jaren had said it.”
Teg released her from his bearish embrace. “Hold on a second,” he said before dashing from the room.
Jaren was regaling Eldrid with his account of the Guild house jailbreak in the captain's mess when a knock came at the door.
“Half a moment,” Eldrid said as she rose from her seat.
“Whoever it is can wait till after dinner,” Jaren said, his tone betraying more annoyance than he’d intended thanks to the wine.
Eldrid grinned slyly. “The meal’s ended when it’s cooled. Would you not agree?”
Jaren tried a forkful of his half-eaten whitefish as Eldrid left the table. Though still tender, the meat had long since assumed room temperature.
Eldrid opened the door to reveal Teg standing on the other side in the suit pants he’d worn to Ostrith and a white undershirt. “I hate to interrupt,” he said, “but I need to discuss something with Jaren.”
“You needn't be so bashful,” Eldrid said, looking back at Jaren. “We’d already finished.”
“I can talk to him later,” said Jaren, but Eldrid favored Teg with a slight curtsey and glided past him into the hall. Teg entered when she'd gone.
“What is it, Teg?” Jaren asked. “I've decided that the Shibboleth can wait, but tell Nakvin I expect her at the courier's Wheel first thing tomorrow.”
“Come here a second,” said Teg, gesturing with the first two fingers of his right hand.
Jaren stood, dropped his rumpled napkin on the table, and sauntered forward. “Whatever it is, I don't see why it can't wait till morning,” he said. Teg’s fist crashed into his face as he spoke the last syllable.
Jaren's vision cleared after a moment, but throbbing pain lingered. He couldn’t decide whether he was more enraged by his swordarm's outburst, or surprised by its timing. They’d had far more heated arguments without coming to blows, and Jaren couldn't believe that Teg would choose the day of a major triumph to lash out at him.
“I will hear your explanation,” the captain said calmly. “Unless it's very good, you're done on my ship.”
“Well, if you're going to fire me…” Teg began.
Jaren knew what was coming. Knowing that he couldn’t stop it was worse than the pain of Teg’s right hook driving him to the deck. He tried to move, but his limbs wouldn't respond. He lay there fuming as Teg crouched down beside him.
“You asked my reasons for what I just did, and I think that's fair,” said Teg. “Reason number one, as always, is that I felt like it. The second reason is the lady whose difficult life you've made completely miserable. And the last reason is the comatose girl who saved us all, and who you've treated like a household appliance since day one.”
Strength seeped back into Jaren's extremities, and he tried to push himself up.
Teg’s threat flowed into his next statement. “Stay there till I'm done or I'll put you back down. I know I'm just the hired help, but during our time to
gether I actually bought into your hopeless cause. You’re hell-bent on beating the Guild, and you have a way of making other people share your passion. I used to admire that. But lately, you've been too busy playing captain and flirting with Eldrid to realize that being in charge isn't worth shit without anybody to lead.”
Teg straightened to his full height and strolled out the door.
Jaren rolled onto his back and stared at the bronze-paneled ceiling. He was surprised to find his anger swallowed by an emotional vacuum edged with shame.
Several minutes passed before the captain of the Exodus got up and left the room.
Nakvin sat at Elena's bedside, gazing at her daughter’s face to gather her strength.
Footsteps sounded from the hall. Nakvin looked up to see Jaren leaning in the doorway. He wore a sheepish, chastened expression; along with a pair of fresh bruises.
“I heard you need some company,” he said, trying for swagger but sounding awkward.
Nakvin smiled faintly and motioned for him to sit. Jaren took the chair beside hers.
“You look like you’re trying to enjoy your last meal before you’re shot,” Jaren said; his concern ill-hidden by forced laughter.
“I'll be alright,” she said. “Now just sit there and be quiet.”
Nakvin leaned forward, took Elena's hands in hers, and concentrated. I'm here, she spoke into the young woman's thoughts. I know what's happening to you. Let me help.
Nakvin had tried reaching Elena’s mind before without success. She feared that Vernon's knowledge would change that, bringing the chaos he'd warned about. But as the moments passed without result, she began to feel a shameful sort of relief.
When it came, Elena's response drove Nakvin back into her seat. They know where they are, the girl's thoughts screamed. They blame me for it!
All at once, the terrible force besieging Elena fell upon Nakvin like a host of vengeful shades venting their wrath. It took every ounce of her strength to stay conscious.
Nethereal (Soul Cycle Book 1) Page 38
