by Dave Rudden
Daniel screamed as the wire dug deeper, black against the flesh of his neck. The Redemptress watched him the way a snake watches a mouse, and, if his grandson’s struggles bothered the old man a jot, he gave no sign. Uriel was suddenly reminded of another scene, just a few days ago, when it was his sister there, kneeling and afraid.
He’s unFavored. He’s not Family. Not really. He’s not ...
Doubt was a poison.
We will keep it for you.
“I NEED TO BUY a shirt.”
With the grim dignity of two continents coming together, Vivian Hardwick’s eyebrows knitted. “I’m sorry?”
Around them, waiters ghosted gracefully through the mechanics of lunch. The foyer of the Goshawk was scattered with Knights, most perusing briefing documents (Forever Court Profiles [updated]), others just staring off into space.
The Concilium was supposed to have been a one-off. No one had expected a second meeting but now, with peace on the table, everyone was staying put. Technically, you could call an extended trip to Dublin a holiday, but, as superb as Knights were at dealing out death and fire, Denizen had never met one yet who was any good at relaxing.
“A shirt,” he said, shifting awkwardly from foot to foot. “Like to ... wear.”
Vivian carefully laid down the book she had been reading and regarded him evenly. Mercy’s words skulked through his head—
In a certain light, your mother and the Woman in White ...
—but for once Denizen didn’t savor the unearthly sound of her voice. No, he thought, staring down at his mother. Even if there was some sort of twisted mimicry on the part of the Woman in White, the two could not have been more different. There was a chill sort of nobility to Vivian’s weathered features, and there had been nothing noble about the Woman at all.
“I am familiar with the purpose of shirts,” Vivian said. “I have in fact bought shirts myself.” Her expression never changed. “Are you asking me for money to buy a shirt?”
When do we do that bit of our training? Denizen wondered. When do we learn to act cool?
“Yes,” Denizen said. “Um. I don’t have any myself.” And this was true. Money was still a slightly foreign concept to Denizen. Since he was very young, food had been an institutional experience, arriving before 250 mouths at once. A similar system existed at Seraphim Row. Essentials like meals and his five or so different sets of workout clothes were just ... provided.
“I already have to replace a window on your behalf,” she said.
“I know,” said Denizen. He’d passed it off as late-night knife-throwing practice gone awry and was still getting chewed out over it, but much less than he would have been if he’d told the truth. Much, much less. “Sorry.”
Vivian nodded slowly, her gaze shifting to a nearby Knight who was trying and absolutely failing not to stand at attention. The blocky young man suddenly stood up even straighter and approached.
“Yes, Mal—madam?”
Denizen felt a little sorry for him. The Knights had all been instructed to be ... discreet, but not addressing Vivian by her title looked to be causing him physical pain. She withdrew banknotes from a pocket and handed them to Denizen.
“I imagine Simon will be going with you?” she asked.
“And Abigail,” Denizen said.
“Good.” She transferred her granite gaze to the young Knight, now practically floating off the ground. Maybe he hadn’t gotten to his cool training either. “My son is going to buy a shirt. Make sure nothing kills him. Understood?”
Even his nod looked military.
“Off you go, then,” Vivian said, and returned to her book.
It was only long afterward, when Abigail was pestering the Knight for war stories, and he and Simon were trying to figure out what the difference was between blue and ... other blues, that Denizen realized that asking Vivian for money was the most mother-and-son thing they’d ever done.
It took him much longer to realize that she’d been messing with him the whole time.
—
“IS HE ALL RIGHT?”
“I don’t know. What do you think he’s doing in there?”
“Could be anything. Do you want to check?”
“God, no.”
Denizen shot the bathroom door a look that should have crisped the paint. I’ve only been in here ten minutes. Twelve at the most, and four of those had been in the shower, and therefore there was absolutely no need for the theatrically loud voices coming from outside.
“Maybe he’s dead.”
“Maybe he’s fallen in.”
“Maybe he used a Higher Cant and knocked himself out again.”
“Do you mind?” Denizen snapped. “I’ll be out in a second. I’m just ...”
He was poking his bangs. That’s what he had been reduced to—poking his bangs and trying to figure out why they refused to stay in any shape except haystack tuft.
Oh, they moved. They had no problem moving. So far, they had gone through top of pineapple and haystack (in high wind), and now they had firmly settled in pillow factory mid-explosion. They couldn’t even be called tufts anymore. Tufts implied a sort of cohesion. They were flufts, and they irritated him greatly.
Denizen fought the urge to bang his head off the mirror. He could do magic. Actual magic. Why couldn’t he get this small thing right? He could whip the fire of an unworldly sun from one hand and fuse air into an unbreakable shield with the other. He could slit a hole in reality itself and bring down these fragile walls. Seventy-eight ways he could burn the world—
He flinched back from the mirror. His eyes had been glowing, the pupils lit from within by twin points of fire. Sweat was suddenly on his brow. Where had that come from? All he’d been doing was staring at his hair, and then it felt as if the whole world were fuel, like his thoughts weren’t his own ...
Vivian’s words came back to him. With knowledge comes desire. No wonder most Knights only learned a handful of Cants. There was so much aching potential in all seventy-eight. So much he could do. So much he was finding it difficult not to do.
That bleak thought followed him out of the bathroom to where Simon and Abigail were waiting in the guttering light of the candlewards. Abigail’s bright blue eyes caught Denizen’s and then traveled up to the top of his head.
“Did you ... Were you doing something to your ...”
Denizen shrugged awkwardly. “I was just trying to see what my ...” He struggled for an answer that wouldn’t make him sound like an idiot. “What my hair might do.”
Good job.
“Right,” Abigail said, still staring. “And how did that work out?”
Simon was staring at him shrewdly. Denizen’s best friend wasn’t an idiot. There was a very obvious reason why Denizen suddenly had an interest in new shirts and hair that pointed in just the one direction.
He didn’t say anything, though, and for that Denizen was incredibly grateful and incredibly ashamed. Simon wasn’t saying anything, because he thought it was a harmless, ridiculous crush. But if he knew that the kernels of a plan were forming in Denizen’s head, resolutely against any kind of common sense whatsoever ...
Bleak thoughts. Bleak, bleak thoughts.
—
“DO YOU GUYS EVER think about meeting somebody?”
They had set up shop in the kitchen, a huge tome spread out on each trestle table, the pages the size of Denizen’s torso. It had taken all their combined strength to lift and open each one.
Gold script on black leather, the words sharp and bright as if they had been embossed yesterday.
INCUNABULAE FERRUM
“I think I might be in love already,” Darcie said, running her fingers down the crisp white vellum. “Every bloodline, every Knight. All contained in these pages. Fifteen hundred years of history. Our history. It’s beautiful.”
She was right. The Order of the Borrowed Dark usually didn’t have time for artistry. When one of Greaves’s Knights delivered the Incunabulae, Denizen had expected a
dry list of names and dates. What he had gotten instead was a map—swooping lines, delicate curves, waterfalls of black, red, and gold ink that didn’t just record each family’s path through time but illustrated it in glorious detail. Names, battles, even careful drawings of Tenebrous adorned each page, the colors bright and fresh as if newly drawn.
“I was expecting dusty scrolls,” Simon said. “All worm-eaten and stuff.”
“There are plenty of those at Daybreak,” Darcie said. “But they don’t travel well. There have been far too many times in history when the Order has lost its records, or had them destroyed. These are the Palatine’s personal copy. It’s a great honor to be shown them at all.”
“So let’s get started,” Simon said. There was a barely concealed hint of eagerness in his voice. “We’ll work from the past forward while Greaves’s team work back. He said it might be better if…if they looked into the accident instead of me. The only clue I have is a smushed silver fountain pen.”
It was Simon’s only possession from the car crash that had claimed his parents. With a thrill of shame, Denizen remembered envying Simon that one small relic.
They set to work.
Initially, the work was fascinating. So many Knights, so many battles, thousands of lives tantalizingly hinted at in ink. Desperate last stands, daring raids, terrifying monsters—it would have read like the most interesting fantasy book ever had it not immediately struck home with Denizen that these were real people. People who had fought the same battles he was fighting.
No wonder peace was such a powerful word. All the Order had ever known was war.
“So, meeting somebody,” Abigail said idly, after about an hour of quiet note-taking. “What do you mean?”
“I don’t know,” Denizen said. Worry had wound his spine so tight that the back of his skull felt spring-loaded. “Like a boy,” he added lamely. “Or a girl.”
Simon was engrossed in his book, but Denizen felt his ears prick up.
“I’m not sure when I’d get the chance,” Darcie said. “Though ... that American agent. Strap, wasn’t it?”
“Seriously?” Denizen said. “But he—”
“Looked like he’d been kicked through a hedge,” Darcie finished. “He did, didn’t he?”
She was smiling faintly. Why is she smiling?
It was reassuring—and a little disconcerting that Darcie was still smiling—to know that at least the thought of dating had occurred to his friends. But that was normal, wasn’t it? Fancying people was normal.
Fancying people.
“I assume I’ll just meet someone in the Order,” Abigail said, scribbling a note on her little pad.
“A Knight?” Simon asked.
“Well, yeah,” Abigail said. “I mean ... can you imagine explaining all this to a civilian? What we do? Who we are?”
Denizen felt guilty contemplating his own heritage when they were supposed to be tracing Simon’s, but he couldn’t help thinking about Soren Hardwick. Denizen’s father hadn’t been a Knight. He hadn’t had a thousand years of Hardwick history forging his life into a certain shape. Denizen didn’t even really know Vivian, but Soren was a complete mystery. His favorite food, what music he liked, whether his lip had a strange freckle on it ...
I don’t even know what he looks like.
Vivian had no photos, or if she did, she had never volunteered to show them. All Denizen knew was that the Clockwork Three had murdered his father, and grief had turned his widow into an engine of war.
It was as if all his father had been was a dead man.
“It’s hard,” Darcie mused. “The cadres are spread out. You spend your second year of training at Daybreak, and there’ll be Neophytes there, obviously.” She frowned. “Not that they leave you a whole lot of time for courting.”
“Courting,” Simon and Abigail said together, and started to giggle. Darcie picked up a tea towel and threw it at them.
“What?” the Lux said, fighting chuckles herself. “I read a lot of old books. It just creeps in sometimes—stop it!”
Denizen watched them mess about with each other, his mind far away. He’d never really considered the fact there’d be other Neophytes at Daybreak. It had been six busy, complicated months since Denizen had had to deal with the fact there were other teenagers in the world at all.
Oh, he knew there were, but growing up in an orphanage had already made Denizen view normal, parented, school-attending teenagers as an entirely different breed, and now there was a cold black reminder in his palms to bring that divide home.
And since Mercy and the Cants ...
It felt sometimes like he had very few people to talk to at all.
“So do we get to meet any of these Neophytes?” Simon asked, trying to wrest the tea towel from Abigail and getting absolutely nowhere. “You know, before they hand us a bunch of weapons and get us to try to kill each other?”
Darcie shook her head. “The Order has strict rules against gathering too many Neophytes in one place. For obvious reasons.”
“Oh, of course,” Simon said. “Well. No. Not of course. Why not?”
Darcie’s smile faded. “Because they’d be too much of a target. One strike and you could cripple the Order for a generation.”
The mirth drained away from the kitchen like someone had pulled a plug. Abigail’s hands darted to her knives, leaving Simon holding the end of the towel forlornly. He looked at it as if he wished it were something a bit more useful as a weapon.
“That’s why you’re all trained at Daybreak,” Darcie continued. “It’s the safest place in the world. Something like the Concilium is unprecedented. They don’t like gathering too many Knights together in case something happens and ...”
Half their leadership in one room ... it’s a great opportunity.
Edifice Greaves spoke as precisely as other Knights fought. There wasn’t a single word, a single thoughtful beard-rub that wasn’t calculated. He was the kind of person who would happily talk about peace ... so long as the walls were wired with explosives and he was holding the trigger.
Vivian had worried about the Court setting a trap. But what if the Palatine were planning one instead?
It could happen so easily. So innocently. All it would take was one bad decision to turn that cramped chamber into a war zone and, though the King might retaliate, it would be missing half his strength.
I have to warn—
No. There was a right word and a wrong word for every situation, and in this one Denizen was very clear on the difference. Even if Greaves was planning to double-cross Mercy, telling her wouldn’t be warning.
It would be treason.
“Denizen?” Darcie was looking at him with concern. “You’ve gone a bit—”
Denizen’s mind worked furiously. He had to wa—let Mercy know what might happen without betraying his Order and his species. Maybe, if they hung out together long enough, an opportunity would present itself. And to give that opportunity time to arise, they should probably hang out a lot. He would be totally doing the right thing. Absolutely and completely. The entire fate of the world depended on him.
Again. Probably. If you thought about it really specifically, and ignored the far more likely scenario that there was going to be a gigantic war, and he was going to get feelings all over it.
“I’m fine,” he told Darcie. “Everything’s going to be fine.”
You have no imagination!
“I don’t need imagination,” Denizen said, his eyes scrunched closed. “I don’t have time for imagination. There’s imagination, and then the real world, and the real world is always worse.”
Silence, out there in the darkness beyond his eyelids, and then a voice, soft and musical.
All of it?
Don’t blush. “No. OK. Not all of it.”
Good. Now open your eyes.
Denizen did.
She smiled at him. “How do I look?”
Mercy stood in front of him. Stood. On feet. Feet that were attach
ed to legs that sat under a torso that had two arms and a head crowned by a tangle of curls. All real. All human.
Her eyes were the color of sunlight on steel, her skin amber in the streetlight’s distant glow. The curls avalanching down her shoulders were silver, the color of freshly stamped moonlight.
“Well?” she said, a tad impatiently. “How did I do?”
Simon had been wrong. It wasn’t that Denizen hadn’t ever fancied people. He had seen movies and advertisements where everyone was floppy-haired and symmetrical, and it wasn’t that Mercy looked like a movie star, or a model, or anything like that. She didn’t. It was simply that Denizen knew nobody in the history of the world had ever looked like her before, and nobody would ever look like her again.
She wasn’t pretty. She was poetry.
“Good,” Denizen croaked. “You look very, very good.” He glanced down. “Though you are wearing the exact same clothes as me.”
“I needed a template,” she said. Said, in a voice that played Denizen’s spine like a piano. “Clothes are difficult. You have to do different textures and colors, not just loose folds of skin.” She paused. “That’s not acceptable, right?”
“No,” Denizen said in as heartfelt a tone as he could muster without actually picturing it. “No it isn’t.”
“You’re tricky,” she said. “Lot of moving parts. I didn’t do the organs. Nobody does the organs. Too hard to keep going. But the surface works, and that’s what matters, right?”
“Umm ...” Denizen said. “In this situation, I guess. How do you feel?”
Mercy had extended her arms, slowly moving each joint—fingers, wrists, elbows—before stretching up on her toes like a dancer. “Good,” she said. “I think. Make faces at me?”
“What?” Denizen said, blushing.
“Make faces at me,” she said. “I need to make sure I’m—wait, which one’s that?”
“Confusion,” he said. “And now amusement.”
She scowled. “Am I scowling at you?”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
She pulled on a lock of her hair and watched it spring back into shape. “Flesh isn’t difficult to spin; it’s just ... complicated. Especially if you want to pass among humans. You need to concentrate, make sure you’re not slipping anywhere, and the longer you’re here, the harder it becomes. That’s why a lot of Tenebrous choose metal or stone. You can just let it set and focus on movement. Me, I like light.”
