The Bridge Beyond Her World (The Boy and the Beast Book 2)

by Brandon Barr

  Either way you look at it, it is ugly.

  The Makers killed Sanctuss Voyanta.

  The air on Bridge felt heavy in Winter’s lungs. Thickened by the vision she’d experienced when she touched the Sanctuss's face.

  The vision showed that her brother was going to die.

  And that…that could not be.

  She remembered the visions she had only days ago, before answering the Baron’s summons. In one of those visions, she’d seen Aven alone. Terribly alone. Now, in this newest vision, birthed, as it were, from the death of the Sanctuss, she saw Aven’s face white with fear before a towering animal. In one swooping motion, Aven’s head and chest were enveloped by the huge jagged mouth and crushed between its jaws, just as the bird’s body was crushed in her vision of the toad.

  Where were her warm feelings toward the Makers now? In the face of what had happened today, how sustaining was her one treasured experience with Leaf? The once sweet memory was now held captive by an army of unanswered questions.

  Her life felt out of control, her purpose uncertain, her gift a frightening enigma.

  Why would the Makers give her such a twisted vision of her brother dying? Unless…unless she could save him as she had saved the bird from the mouth of the toad. If this was its purpose, then yes, she would wield this gift as fiercely as a madwoman to do all she could to keep her brother alive.

  Perhaps, after a week, she would welcome another Consecrator’s arrival. She had more questions and they seemed so willing to give her answers.

  Answers.

  She craved them. As Sanctuss Voyanta explained, there were two sides of the mountain. Winter found her feet had slipped a good distance toward the opposite side. The bruises on her heart felt an awful lot like she’d received a shove from someone she’d trusted.

  Still, she clutched on to what she’d always believed. There had to be a reason for this. Once she got past this dark day, surely these ugly feelings would ease.

  Aven squeezed her hand, drawing her back into the present.

  Together, they moved up to the portal.

  “Let’s go home,” said Karience.

  _____

  GALTHESS

  Galthess sat at an ancient wood table in the Scriver’s Den, under the flicker of a candle. The Scriver’s Den was a small orifice carved into the granite walls of the vast Consecrators’ Library on Bridge, and was the smallest book collection in the facility, far out numbered by the shelves of philosophers and logicians, pneumalogians and socio-cognitists from both prim and upworlds.

  Ninety-seven books and several hundred loose parchments comprised the entirety of the Scrivers’ miscreant writings recovered by the Consecrators. Innumerable more were yet to be found. Scrivers were not too rare, but they were the most difficult for a Sanctuss to bring to deliverance. And of all the Oracles, they were one of the most dangerous, for their destructive work lasted long after their lifetime. Of the few Scrivers’ writings the Consecrators acquired, only a handful were given willingly.

  Most had been retrieved with the help of men like him. He and his kind had been around since the dawn of the Guardians. In those early days, they had hunted the Oracles out of fear, trying to curb their ability to inspire blind devotion to the Makers. The histories of the Guardians showed how the order itself experienced an almost identical progression to that of primworlds. A coming of age. A maturity in the growth of ideas. A loss of fear. At present, his kind saw the Makers and their Oracles more fully. There was much less need or urgency for his work.

  He was now the sole Oracle hunter.

  In his ten years of service, he had ended the lives of six Oracles, in order to rescue worlds from the overzealous grip of Makers and Beasts alike.

  Galthess rubbed his fingers over the parchment before him, but his eyes peered out blindly, consumed with a thought.

  What were the Makers doing?

  He’d spent far too much time here in the Scriver’s Den, scouring over words penned by the hands of Oracles. Over time, the manuscripts in this room had caused a raging storm of curiosity.

  And the girl, Winter…was she truly the one? The Contagion?

  The door to the Scriver’s Den groaned as the wooden hinges turned.

  Galthess did not look up, but stared blankly at the parchment, as if lost in study.

  A withered hand came out of the darkness and into the flickering light, coming to rest atop his right hand.

  “You work so hard, Galthess,” said the frail voice of Sanctuss Exenia. “Must you always be so diligent?”

  Galthess took Sanctuss Exenia’s hand gently in both of his. “The mind of the enemy fascinates me, Sanctuss.”

  Mercifully, the Magna Sanctuss removed her hand, and stepped back.

  “There may be need for your work, my friend. The Makers and Beasts are slowly squeezing away at the peace we so desperately fight for. Sanctuss Voyanta’s gentle spirit will be irreplaceable.”

  “If only sincerity and kindness were more common traits,” said Galthess. “I will miss my talks with her. She had a healing wisdom.”

  Sanctuss Exenia sighed. “I’ll never understand why she refused to cover herself. Now who will replace me when I pass?” She shook her wrinkled face. Her hand came to rest softly on his shoulder. “At least I still have your sincere heart to turn to, my dear son.”

  Galthess stroked her aged fingers. She spoke like this to him on occasion, when she was in times of duress. It wasn’t the first time she’d called him her son. If he could be said to love anyone, it was her. He had devoted himself to her ever since she rescued him from a lifetime in prison. He was sixteen when Sanctuss Exenia had looked him in the eyes as he sat in his cell and asked him if he felt his vengeance killings were justified.

  “If the Makers will not deliver justice, should not I?” he had replied.

  Using her power as Magna Sanctuss, she had him released and brought him into the Consecrator’s order. And it was here that she groomed him to be what he was now, an assassin.

  In the flickering light, Galthess looked up into Sanctuss Exenia’s thin, boney face. Twenty years had passed. He was thirty-six and she nearing eighty…

  “Is it Voyanta’s killer who I am to hunt?” asked Galthess.

  “Yes, the Oracle called Winter. I am sending you with Theurg. It is time for him to stand on his own feet. You shall act as his apprentice. The girl herself is not so much a threat—it is her location in the Huntress Constellation.”

  “Yes,” said Galthess, “I was reading just now from Contagion’s Drowning. From the Canticle of Fire, Corvair’s visions of The Triangle.”

  Sanctuss Exenia placed her hand upon his back. “You know the writings better than anyone. Remind me of what the riddle says.”

  “On one world, a Beast attains fire and flight, on another a sun-eyed carrier stays not still, on a third, Makers sing the songs of all, inhabiting to cry, and kill.”

  Sanctuss Exenia groaned. “If we know anything for certain about the Makers, it is their propensity for wastefulness. So many words to say so little. And so many Oracles’ lives with unnatural ends. Can it be that we, their creation, can collectively outmatch them? I truly think their cleverness has driven them mad.”

  Galthess nodded. He favored the Magnus Sanctuss's pneumonophany. The theory resonated with the world and the abuse of the Oracles. The greatest, most powerful spirits who’d brought the universe into existence had at some point gone mad in their genius, or had always been such. Mad in the way that a psychopath could love his family and be an idyllic parent and spouse while callously butchering into pieces the bodies of strangers. Their work at times was extremely lovely, and at other times it seemed reckless—even monstrous, their petty plans appearing to go disastrously awry.

  And yet, the Scrivers’ writings were slowly eating at his mind with their questions and complexity.

  “One thing seems sure,” said Sanctuss Exenia. “There are Beasts aware of The Triangle. And between them and the Oracles, w
e cannot afford to lose another prophesied constellation, like Heartbow or Deep Black.”

  “I am deeply curious if this Oracle, Winter, is the Contagion.”

  “Whether she is or not, she is in The Triangle. If circumstances were different, we could take a lifetime to care for and mend her.”

  The shadowed lines creasing Sanctuss Exenia’s eyes and mouth seemed to deepen in moments like these—deepen, and never go back to before. Her face had been formed by difficult decisions like these; pain followed by the resilience of wisdom and age.

  “I still believe she will be delivered,” continued Sanctuss Exenia. “But if Theurg is unsuccessful, then it may well be your most difficult mission yet. This Oracle, Winter, is a Guardian, and Karience, her Empyrean, has grown quite attached to the girl, and may try to protect her.”

  “Will the arbiters’ grant me the power to incapacitate the Empyrean?”

  “That is not an option. I have spoken to Higelion, the Magnus Empyrean over Karience. He worries she will not handle the girl’s death well. If Winter’s life must be taken, Karience cannot know it was by a Guardian’s own hand. I am confident you can find a way if the need arises, you’ve always had a gift for unraveling knots.”

  Galthess nodded.

  Sanctuss Exenia turned to leave.

  “One question, Sanctuss,” said Galthess.

  The old woman turned.

  “Where do you believe Voyanta’s spirit is now?”

  “You have read more of the Makers’ writings than I. I should ask you.”

  “I want to know how you see her when you close your eyes. What picture comes to mind?”

  Sanctuss Exenia reached out with a frail arm and braced herself against the carved rock entrance. “I see her in memories. That is all. I know the state this universe exists in, but if I try to picture life and existence after death, I lose heart. Between the Beasts and the Makers, we have no advocate but ourselves. What the Makers have prepared for our post-mortem self is a mystery. Perhaps the spirit is simply blown out like a candle. That would be a mercy, of a kind. If I have any hope, that would be it.”

  Galthess closed his eyes and breathed deeply. “For the Oracles I kill, that is my hope as well.”

  HEARTH

  To the Council of Regents,

  King Feaor is at work at the Hold, and I fear Trigon, in his deteriorating state, has succumbed to the Verdlands’ treachery. Feaor has coaxed the Luminar into sending Meluscia on a peace delegation. With Trigon’s life slipping rapidly away, I fear he will pass before she returns. If his choice for the throne is not voiced before death, it rightfully passes to his blood heir.

  I fear his daughter taking the throne, as do many of you. And I fear, in her eagerness to win the throne, she will surrender not only the dignity of our realm, but our safety as well.

  As the Captain of Trigon’s forces, I will not let our safety be threatened. This is a promise and a warning. The Luminar’s daughter is not above our laws. She will be held accountable for all she does.

  -Valcere, Luminar Imminent, leader of the forces of the

  Blue Mountains. (Letter to the thirteen regents)

  CHAPTER 19

  SAVARAH

  Savarah stumbled down the shaft lit corridor, reaching out with her right hand to brace herself against the rock walls. A throng of four women pursued her, barking at her like a pack of dogs. Savarah’s head throbbed with the echoes of their shrill voices, and the fever racking her body and mind only made the dissonant notes worse.

  It had to end. They’d licked her wounds enough.

  Her body shivered as she turned and drew her knife. The four women stopped, eyes suddenly fixed on her weapon.

  “Go gather what I told you,” snapped Savarah. “Bring it to the stables.” She closed her eyes as a spell of dizziness swarmed her head. She lashed out angrily, “I will live or die by my own will.”

  “Your shoulder will need to be rebandaged soon,” said one of the women.

  “And your fever,” said a younger girl. “You’ll catch your death if you try to ride.”

  Savarah sprang at them, allowing them to barely escape the path of her knife. “Get my supplies—or you’ll die long before the fever takes me!” she roared.

  The dog pack dispersed without so much as a yelp.

  Savarah continued down the shaft lit corridor toward the stables, the fresh silence easing the pain in her head and freeing her thoughts. She’d overheard the servants talking about Trigon’s peace delegation, and Meluscia’s role in leading it.

  Savarah would not lay in bed while a perfect opportunity slipped through her fingers. She needed to be with Meluscia; to council her, kill for her, and to use the delegation as a guise to rid the Verdlands of its spies.

  And the road to King Feaor led right through the village of Tilmar, where the hostilities between the two kingdoms had grown and festered. If all went well, old Harcor the chief woodcutter would still be ignorant of Aszelbor and Osiiun’s deaths, and she would have little trouble eliminating the last loyal spy at the Hold.

  As for Meluscia, if any goodwill could be established between her and King Feaor, it would be a blow to one hundred and twenty years of Isolaug’s careful work. And if by some wonder Meluscia could unite the Hold, King Feaor, and the twin Sea Kingdoms, there stood the chance that Isolaug and the city of Praelothia would find the armies of four kingdoms at their gates. Isolaug would be forced to uncloak his secret forces, and the Guardians, who Isolaug had managed to befriend and deceive for years, would then see that Hearth’s portal was not in the possession of a strange people ruled by a line of eccentric kings, but by a Beast who had created a perfect facade. Isolaug would either have to defend Praelothia with his army of crossbred monstrosities, or be overrun.

  What the Guardians were capable of, Savarah wasn’t certain. Did they have the power to stop Isolaug? She had her doubts, and was certain he had plans in place, in case human armies were found at his gates. He was not the kind of being to be caught unprepared.

  That was why she must attempt the deed herself. The body his spirit inhabited was mortal, but the closer she got to him, the more difficult it would be to slip past his guard. To kill the body Isolaug inhabited, she would have to perform the perfect charade. Deception would be her dearest ally.

  Savarah noticed a familiar face ahead in the corridor. Valcere held a torch and was clothed in Trigon’s extravagant judgment seat robes. His eyes looked intently at her as she approached. Somehow, he’d been informed she’d left the physicker’s hospice and was heading this way.

  She stopped when she reached him. “You look like you’re expecting me. Your snitches have impressive speed.”

  He pushed off from the rock wall, his lips curved into a crescent moon smile. “You look like a pack of Nightmares tried to kill you.”

  Savarah smirked. “I killed one of the little bastards before I had to run.”

  “Osiiun will be missed,” said Valcere. “He was to be one of my three councilors…but now seating councilors depends if Trigon will appoint me Luminar.”

  “If you want to cry about it, go to the meat room. I brought Osiiun’s bulky corpse back with me for the sentimental hearted.”

  “So thoughtful,” said Valcere, smiling thinly.

  In truth, she’d brought Osiiun’s body back so that a search party would not be sent for it. In her weakened state, there was no way to make the scene of Osiiun’s killing look like a band of Nightmares had fought with them, as her story went. The effort of hefting Osiiun’s body onto her horse had nearly killed her. But it had to be done. At the very least, there was the one dead creature, the razor arm she’d left there for evidence.

  “I can’t help but wonder,” said Valcere, “what were you and Osiiun doing together out there, alone?”

  Between the pain and the fatigue of the ride back to the Hold, Savarah had wracked her mind for a decent excuse to this question. There was only one, and she hated to have to use it. Hated vehemently the thought
of it.

  “Unbeknownst to many, I am a female. If I wore dresses and learned how to smile, you would not be asking me what I was doing out alone with a man in the wilderness.”

  Valcere appeared genuinely surprised at her response.

  “I’m heading to join Meluscia’s peace delegation,” said Savarah. “I assume that’s why you’re waiting here for me.”

  “Yes and no,” said Valcere. “I want your help, Savarah. With Osiiun dead, I could use your cunning as a councilor. I could also use your eyes as you travel to the Verdlands. You and I both know any peace Feaor promises will only last as long as Trigon’s last breath. If Meluscia is made Luminess, the onyx throne will be sat upon by the weakest, most buttery ass ever to fart on its smooth black stone.”

  Savarah snorted. “You are asking me to sabotage her delegation?”

  Valcere gave a slight shrug. “Not in those terms. I am only suggesting you do everything within your power to keep the Hold from crumbling into chaos. If I am given the opportunity to rule, you would have a position of power at my side. I want to make the Hold strong once again, as it was not long ago in its history.”

  “I share your desire,” said Savarah. “I’ll think about your offer on my trip to the Verdlands. And I promise you this: I will keep my eyes open.”

  _____

  MELUSCIA

  Meluscia stood outside the stables, directing servants piling supplies upon the grass, but Rivdon’s words clouded her thoughts. Valcere had ears among many of the soldiers. This was becoming an issue that could hold serious repercussions. Rivdon had said a soldier had informed Valcere of her conversation with Heulan in her room. Meluscia realized it must have been the man who had escorted Praseme. The pressing need to leave quickly was stronger now than ever, but the question of what would happen once she left hovered before her like an oncoming storm.

  Was Heulan in any danger? He’d voiced his support of her over Valcere. Was the man capable of treachery? He’d ridden with her father from before she was born. She wanted to feel confident her father would have known the man he had hand picked to succeed him.