Immortal Architects

by Paige Orwin

  Reinforcements.

  “I’m sorry,” Edmund said, clutching his side. His cape smoked. “Istvan, I’m sorry, but you both have to leave.”

  “Where’s Miss Wu?” Istvan demanded.

  “Somewhere safe.” Edmund reached for Kyra. “I don’t expect you to forgive me.”

  His hand passed through one of Istvan’s encircling wings. The feathers, after all, weren’t truly real. A ghost could provide no barriers.

  Istvan had no other options.

  He threw himself into him. Through fabric to flesh, chilled by the cold air, slick and trembling. Through flesh to bone and organs. Muscle twisted. Nerves misfired. Blood rushed through his veins, burning hot. A shout vibrated in his throat. The frantic fluttering of Edmund’s heart became his own. Fear and exhaustion turned to sweet terror.

  They toppled, thrashing. Striking the rubble lit up a constellation of pain. Istvan gasped. It was dizzying. Intoxicating. He sank into the other man’s spine and nerves, working outward, quelling the convulsions muscle by muscle, tendon by tendon. He tried to be gentle. He didn’t want to hurt him.

  He’d never done this before, and he imagined Edmund would never want to again.

  Another thing to never talk about.

  Finally, they lay on the ground, sweat-soaked, breathing hard. Dust caked Edmund’s nostrils. Snow fell on him. The world lay sideways, through blurred vision.

  On a wall of broken rock and concrete stood Kyra, surrounded by approaching foes, facing Shokat Anoushak al-Khalid. Alone.

  Istvan couldn’t move to help. It was all he could do to keep Edmund pinned.

  The Immortal held out a hand. Her words sounded like a question.

  Kyra breathed in, deeply. She kicked a stone. She glanced at Edmund and Istvan, balled her hand into a fist, then looked to Shokat Anoushak… and smiled a fierce and tired smile. “You got a weird sense of humor.”

  She began to dance.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Grace came for them in the helicopter. Edmund evidently hadn’t sent her far. There was plenty of room to land: what had been a modest cavern had become a vast open pit, its edges pulverized, the buildings surrounding it leveled by hurricane winds. Of Shokat Anoushak, no sign. She could have taken shelter near Kyra, in the eye of the storm, but she hadn’t.

  The Immortal hadn’t said a word as the winds took her.

  “I did what she wanted,” said Kyra, by way of explanation. Then she climbed into the back seat of the helicopter, curled up, and went to sleep in full armor.

  Istvan couldn’t fault her. She’d earned it. She could worry about what she’d done – what she’d destroyed, who she had killed – later. Power had consequences, and there was more than stones buried in the rubble. He wished he had learned more about them.

  For now, Kyra could rest.

  “What do we do with him?” mused Grace. She leaned against the helicopter, eyeing Edmund. The man lay on the ground, freed from Istvan’s shackles but unmoving. He breathed. His hazel eyes were open and fixed on a point somewhere on the now-distant cavern wall. He was awake – aware, even; he’d flinched when Grace landed – but otherwise unresponsive, hemmed in by flitting terrors. It was as though he simply had no motive force left at all. As though he’d broken.

  Had he struck his head, after all? It had been so difficult to keep track of every nerve, cut off every impulse, fight every twitch and jerk and scream…

  Istvan brushed three fingers across Edmund’s arm. He didn’t move.

  Siding with Shokat Anoushak. Oh, why hadn’t he said anything? What had driven him to this? Could there have been another way?

  Why hadn’t he said anything?

  Istvan looked to Grace. “Can you put him in the helicopter?”

  She nodded.

  They made for Niagara. Kyra slept in the back; Edmund lay secured in the cargo bay. Grace and Istvan shared the front seat, in a long silence. He couldn’t recall the last time they had spent so long together amicably. Probably never.

  It seemed to require some acknowledgement, at least.

  “I know we haven’t always gotten on well,” he began.

  “Don’t start that,” Grace replied. “Just because I resigned doesn’t mean we’re friends. I’m not ready for that.”

  “You resigned?”

  “Yup.” She didn’t seem entirely happy about it. “Barrio Libertad’s the top dog now, Doc. The Susurration’s gone. We’re free. We don’t need a symbol like Resistor Alpha anymore.” She paused, quashing uncertainty and bitter betrayal, then continued, “it was about time for a change of scenery, anyway. I bet Eddie knows the feeling.”

  Istvan frowned. How did one resign from being a people’s hero? It had been a formal title, true, but something must have gone wrong. “Where will you go?”

  She jerked her head to indicate Kyra, asleep in the back. “Wherever the kid goes. I’m the only Conduit that’s been studied. I’m a professional. She needs a teacher.” She brought up her odd map again. “Besides, what she does isn’t just wind, Doc. It’s something else. I want to know what.”

  Istvan watched the waves below. More Grace Wu. He’d dealt with worse, he supposed. She had been useful.

  “Before you ask,” Grace added, “the People’s Council never liked how close I am to Diego. They would have gotten rid of me sooner or later.”

  “Ah.”

  She set her jaw. “Politics.”

  They sped towards the opposite shore. The waves grew in height, a mist setting in. Still no Harbor. Istvan tried not to worry. If the beast had meant to reach the dams, it probably could have by now… but Lucy was competent, and would surely have followed orders to retreat. Wouldn’t she?

  It was odd, to worry more about Lucy than Edmund.

  “There,” said Grace.

  The helicopter wheeled. A broad trail of broken trees and gouged earth led inland. Silt filtered down the river, spilling into a fan of muddy brown at its mouth. Rain clouds gathered over the devastation.

  Istvan’s heart sank. Marat hadn’t stopped Harbor, after all.

  Grace followed the trail as it led up into the river, tore away part of the canyon wall, and turned westward… and kept turning, curving back towards the lake, dredging a new branch of the river as it went. Miles of it. It reached the churning edge of the spellscars, reversed, and finally, in the midst of what had likely been a small port city, they found a skyline where none had been before. A clock tower. A bridge. Docks, crushed into one another, lightning skittering across their metal fastenings.

  Harbor lay partially submerged, its towers tilted to one side. Dead fish floated in the water around it. Birds darted between the wreckage. If Istvan didn’t know better, he would have thought the creature were sunning itself.

  “Well,” he said.

  “Is that a train?” asked Grace.

  Istvan squinted. It was. Trains didn’t usually trundle through the woods, but there it sat on a bluff, like a metal centipede. Small armor-clad figures waved up at them.

  “How about that evacuation,” Grace said. “Guess it was told to hit your army, after all. Wonder why it stopped.”

  “Maybe it just likes the water,” Kyra murmured, sleepily.

  A dark, broad, bat-like aircraft dipped down from the clouds high above them. It waggled its wings. Marat.

  “Never mind,” said Grace. She flashed it a thumbs-up.

  Istvan gave Marat a nod, then turned to look at the back seat. “You’re awake.”

  “Mm-hm,” Kyra agreed. “Hurts.”

  He sighed. “I know. We’ll see you looked after.”

  “And Mr Templeton?”

  Istvan brushed at his bandolier. It was easier not to think of that. He didn’t know what to do about that. All this way, and the man hadn’t attempted to teleport out or even move: he was still back in cargo, like a potato sack. “Edmund, as well.”

  Kyra paused. “Did I do OK?” she asked.

  Grace chuckled. “Are you kidding?”


  “Of course,” said Istvan. “Of course you did. You were very brave.”

  Kyra sat up, cradling her arm. She peered out the window – at Harbor, at Marat, diving in close to flank them – then down at the helicopter seat. “There were still people down there,” she said. “I mean, cult people, and monsters, but you said they were all people, once. Like the tiger.”

  “Don’t beat yourself up,” said Grace. “It was us or them.”

  Istvan said nothing.

  Kyra sighed. She looked out the window again. “It was what she wanted,” she repeated, quietly.

  “What did she say to you?” Istvan asked. “Shokat Anoushak. What did she tell you, before…” He trailed off; they both knew. They had another point in common, now.

  Kyra shook her head. “Don’t matter.”

  He nodded. “I won’t–”

  “I had a family. They were real to me.” She drew her knees up. “I’ll… I’ll figure it out. I’ll be OK.”

  The helicopter thrummed. They turned back towards Niagara.

  “Let’s find your army, Doc,” said Grace.

  * * *

  Metal beneath him. Metal above him. The rattle of an engine. It should have worried him – the closeness, the motion – but Edmund couldn’t bring himself to feel anything. He couldn’t think anything. He couldn’t move anywhere but in a spiral. Down, down; nine circles, ending in ice.

  He’d never meant to.

  Too late.

  Didn’t matter. Nothing did. Shokat Anousak had known that. That was the secret. Live long enough and become the villain. He’d known it would happen, someday.

  He’d never meant to.

  Too late.

  Someone opened the back hatch. Light flooded in. Words. He remembered words. She’d said them, and there was nothing else. His pocket watch was gone.

  He deserved it. He deserved everything that happened to him.

  Grace reached for him. “Come on, Eddie. Up you go.”

  Edmund stared at the wall. “I’ll walk,” he said.

  * * *

  “My lord! You return in glory!”

  “Yes, well–”

  Lucy slammed fist to breastplate. She and the others assembled dropped to a knee.

  “–something to that effect,” Istvan finished. He watched Grace help Edmund out of the helicopter. The man seemed only half present, moving as though cement encased each limb. He gathered his cape in one hand. He wouldn’t look at Istvan. Kyra leaned against the machine’s side, blinking wearily.

  “Your orders were clear, my lord,” Lucy continued, “but as we fell back, the beast followed. Retreat was no option. Yet, you wished our lives safeguarded, and as we are obedient, I sent a diversionary force of slaves to taunt the beast at river’s edge, armed with the–”

  “You what?”

  “–steel hide of our mockery, and the promise of freedom, should they survive.” Lucy tilted her head. “Word has said that new warriors will soon join our ranks. The beast is routed. Does this not please you?”

  The beast routed. Niagara saved. All good things, yes.

  But… the rest… oh, why were these people so…

  Istvan tried to find words. “They aren’t slaves. No slaves. I told you to free them. All of them. Wasn’t that an order, as well?”

  “Our former slaves remain free, my lord. We located a small band of survivors in Niagara city, down the way, and pressed them into service.”

  “Don’t do that.”

  Another salute. “Yes, my lord. Shall we still recruit them as warriors? It was a mighty deed they performed on your behalf.”

  Istvan clenched and re-clenched his hands, wishing there were someone else – anyone else – to make these decisions. He didn’t know! He still didn’t know what to do with the first group! He’d had no chance to talk to anyone, yet, and Harbor was still nearby, and other groups in Toronto undoubtedly wouldn’t like Triskelion forces remaining here, and Edmund was all but a walking corpse, and–

  And–

  Oh, there was so much.

  Istvan looked around. Grace Wu led Edmund to the museum, and parked him there, like a carriage. The man slid down the wall and sat back against it, staring at nothing. Kyra stood off near the helicopter, almost dozing, as a medic saw to her wounded arm. Istvan ought to be doing that. He ought to be doing what he used to do, not… not this.

  He grimaced. Oh, the Triskelion army wasn’t going to take this well. “I’m not a god-king,” he said.

  Lucy glanced up at him.

  “I’m not one of those wise spirits,” he continued, “an ending spirit, like you said. I don’t want to trample upon your religion – and I do still respect your people – but I… I wasn’t thinking clearly, when you told me.” Istvan fiddled with his bandolier. “I was drunk. I’m very sorry, but you’re mistaken.”

  The warrior woman paused a moment, then stood. She picked up her banner-spear. She strode closer to him, and planted it in the ground. “I know the signs,” she replied, not unkindly. “You are mighty beyond the power of men, are you not? You did die, and return, did you not? This is not a matter of religion, my lord. It is simple truth. You are an ending spirit. That this world does not yet recognize your right of dominion is no fault of yours. These nations have endured but a single Wizard War, and so have had no need for the protection and counsel of your kind.”

  He stared at her. Their world had seen more than one Wizard War? Was that why they were so harsh, so embittered? Desperate enough to pledge allegiance to creatures of blood and terror?

  “Patience,” Lucy continued. “You have already shown mercy, my lord. The true wisdom you seek will come, in time.”

  “But–”

  “I shall see to our defenses. Kasimir will not permit our people to remain apart for long. Should you find yourself with doubts, it is my duty and honor to address them: ask what you will, in times of quiet, and I shall answer.” Lucy turned about and snapped an order. Her guard scattered. She took up her banner and pointed with it. “Now. Visitors await you in our encampment. They requested to see your companion, the Hour Thief, as well. Look for the central tent.”

  Istvan’s protestations flew out of his head. “Visitors? Who?”

  “Magister Hahn of the Twelfth Hour, and a representative of He-Who-Watches-in-Walls, our once-benefactor.”

  Ah. Diego. Edmund would be so pleased to hear that.

  A sense of loss struck him. Edmund. The man currently sitting in a doorway, staring at nothing. The man who had to be coaxed to move, lifted bodily from where he’d fallen, who hadn’t acknowledged Istvan’s presence at all since Toronto, since… their entanglement. Istvan hadn’t known any other way to stop him.

  He tried not to think of the warmth of blood. The shock and sweetness of impact. It shouldn’t have been any different than anyone else, and he shouldn’t have had to do it.

  Edmund’s fault. Edmund’s fault, for abandoning him.

  Istvan sighed. “Of course.”

  Lucy saluted one final time and strode away. If only he shared her conviction. If only he could understand the orders she was giving. He’d have to study their language, now, whatever it was. It couldn’t be more difficult than Vietnamese.

  It had taken him years to learn Vietnamese.

  * * *

  “It’s a matter of perception,” said Magister Mercedes Hahn. She leaned back in a camp chair, turning a pen between her fingers. The tent wasn’t spacious, but it did keep off the light rain that had begun to fall. “Everyone knows what happened in your encounter with Shokat Anoushak, and knows your part in it. It raises too many questions.”

  An orb hovered beside her, ramshackle, painted bright red and yellow. Its lenses swiveled as she spoke. The things were swarming all over New Haven now, she’d said. They’d made a deal, she said.

  Edmund stood where he’d been told and listened. That was what he did. He couldn’t do anything else. Couldn’t be trusted with anything else.

  “Everyone knows?�
�� asked Istvan. “Who is everyone?”

  “Everyone,” Mercedes repeated. Her gaze flicked to the orb. That was where she’d been that morning. Barrio Libertad.

  Always Barrio Libertad.

  The orb sputtered with static. “I need her,” it said, in Edmund’s voice. “Counterbalance. It’s what Mercedes would want. Someone who can threaten Barrio Libertad.” Its lenses clicked into a new configuration. “Politics, like the Cold War. It’s just politics.”

  Edmund reached for his pocket watch. His fingers found an empty pocket.

  “So,” Mercedes continued, voice flat, “we’ve come to an arrangement. Mr Templeton, you’re taking an extended leave of absence. The Twelfth Hour will be conducting an investigation. We regret our lapse of judgement and seek to do right by our citizens in this trying time; allying, if need be, with those we might not always agree with. Niagara is, as of now, abandoned.”

  “What?” demanded Istvan.

  “You heard what I said, Doctor. That’s the line. We’re sticking to it.”

  So. That was it. That’s what this was about. Try a project, put a problem person on the project, blame them if it fell through. And had it ever fallen through.

  Edmund had been Magister. He was famous, held in awe if not beloved; one of the few surviving wizards, the one who’d led the rest against Shokat Anoushak. He was the senior statesman at the Twelfth Hour. He could get away with anything, and everyone knew it.

  Now he was the guy who’d chained up a kid and palled around with evil incarnate.

  Istvan swept an arm through the air: at the tent, at the dam, at the museum and its damaged windows. “We fought for this, Magister. Killed for this!”

  Edmund closed his eyes.

  “You killed for it, Doctor,” said Mercedes.

  Istvan paused. “Er – well, mostly, but–”

  “You protected it.”