The Chronicle

by David F. Farris

  Suadade had the same reaction as Thusia. He even glanced at his fellow Branian for a clue as to what was happening.

  Thusia shook her head. “He’s not relenting.”

  The hesitance of the two Branian to answer the question had piqued Shelly’s curiosity as well. “Ooo, someone fill me in.”

  Thusia groaned and pinched her temple. “Listen, you need to tell us how you know the name first.”

  Bryson described every detail of Debo’s memory, from the moment he walked down the street to when Naipa and Jugtah appeared until Debo left and the memory faded. He even included the gap of information that was missing after Mendac had fled the laboratory.

  “Ataway gave you that memory?” Suadade said, a hint of disbelief in his tone.

  “Of course he did,” Thusia said. “He’s reckless!”

  “He wouldn’t have done this.”

  She snapped her head toward him. “Once again, you are deluded, Leon. He’s known for breaking the rules. You know that better than anyone! He left the Light Empire for eleven years!”

  Suadade stepped forward, arm extended as if he was serving another excuse on a platter. “At least he didn’t show his fight with Mendac.”

  “At this point, what does it matter?” Thusia asked. “Memories were erased following that execution for a reason. It’s one thing if he had told only Bryson, but he gave the memory to Vistas. He just handed it over to a Dark Realm citizen.”

  Bryson frowned. “Vistas is a good—”

  “I don’t care,” Thusia stated, turning back to him. “That information is deadly in the wrong hands. If anyone from the Dark Empire found out about the extent of Mendac’s actions or how it was covered up by the Bozani, there’d be more to worry about than a war down here. Believe me, if conflict arises between the empires, the kingdoms will inadvertently feel the catastrophic wrath.”

  “So who is she?” Bryson asked for the hundredth time. “In Debo’s memory, he said that someone of her rank didn’t leave the empire at the same time as him. That would mean she’s different than a Pogu.”

  “She’s higher than a Pogu,” Suadade said.

  “Shut up!” Thusia screamed.

  Shelly, who had been wide-eyed and quiet to the side, bit at her thumb and said, “Wow. Usually you are the one with loose lips, and Suadade has the stick up his butt. Talk about a role reversal.”

  “At this point, I don’t care,” Suadade explained. “If Ataway was willing to share that information, there must have been a reason.”

  “I care!” Thusia said. “This can get a lot of people killed.”

  “Like whom?” the princess asked.

  “Anyone who’s seen or heard about this memory, so that would mean you, Bryson, and Vistas. And Leon here will get himself relieved for spilling that information.”

  “Relieved?” Shelly said.

  “I would be stripped of my status as Branian,” Suadade explained. “Then they’d kill me for something of this magnitude.”

  The room fell silent, and Thusia gazed at Bryson with pleading eyes. “Can I go? This must be reported.”

  Bryson glanced at Shelly, who nodded with approval. “Sure,” he said. “But get back to me as soon as possible.”

  Thusia disappeared immediately. Suadade stood still, his eyes empty. “Naipa will not be happy,” he muttered. And then he vanished.

  13

  Lost Wisdom

  Rhyparia stepped through the waterfall into a cavernous tunnel. She was joined by eight others: the agile fox, Atarax; the brawny wolf, Kakos; the docile honey badger, Biaza; the sly weasel, Moros; the gentlemanly rabbit, Therapif; Saikatto and Rayne, two of the original Jestivan; and Musku’s son, Prakriti.

  Each of the craftmasters retrieved a torch from a wall and pressed forward with Atarax leading the way. Some of them carried bags on their back while others pulled wheeled containers behind them. Tarp covered each container, bound in such a way that its contents wouldn’t empty regardless of how it was handled. This was vital for the journey they were embarking on.

  They walked in segmented groups, naturally forming as they saw fit. Rhyparia found herself next to Biaza and Moros.

  Moros punched Rhyparia’s leg with his tiny fist. “Don’t get us killed in here, alright?”

  Rhyparia glanced forward to the shirtless wolf walking next to Atarax. “I can’t make any promises for Kakos.”

  Moros chuckled. “To be expected. He wasn’t part of my ‘us’ anyway.”

  “You joke about this, Moros, but you understand the reality of death during such a journey,” Biaza said. It was always a surprise to hear her talk.

  “I do.” He snickered. “Yet, as the oldest of the craftmasters, I have the right to joke about it. Clearly, I’m too elusive for something as silly as death.”

  “That’s the biggest lie I’ve ever heard,” Biaza said.

  Rhyparia looked down at the weasel, who was riding Biaza’s shoulders. “How old are you?”

  “Six hundred and ...” He tilted his head with an exaggerated sense of wonder. “Biaza, help me out here.”

  “Seven hundred and two, old man,” Biaza droned.

  “Damn, I hit the eighth century?”

  “Your dementia has set in.”

  This shocked Rhyparia. She would have guessed Moros to have been the youngest of the craftmasters, simply based off the playful manner in which he carried himself. After some thought, however, it made a sort of sense. Moros was most comfortable with pushing Kakos’s buttons, and the wolf had never bothered retaliating during the time Rhyparia had known them.

  “Why do you think I carry him everywhere?” Biaza asked.

  “I don’t know. He seems to move around perfectly fine,” Rhyparia replied.

  “He’s agile in spurts,” Biaza said. “But because he’s so ancient, his joints become inflamed.”

  “That’s not all that’s inflamed,” the weasel declared, snickering to himself with a nefarious smirk.

  Biaza gazed up with a bored look. “Don’t pay attention to his crass nature.”

  That ended the conversation for Rhyparia. They reached the cave’s depths, and the eight of them gazed over the edge. It was impossible to see far into the darkness, but as a few of them extended torches over the abyss, withered roots and trees became visible nearby.

  “Any bets on how long it takes before Rhyparia falters with her weaving and we fall to our deaths?” Kakos asked.

  Rhyparia raised her foot and kicked him into the hole. The wolf’s howls grew distant, as did the sounds of snapping branches.

  “What are you doing?” Prakriti balked, who had been quiet up to this point.

  “Punishing a puppy,” Rhyparia said. Seconds later, Kakos levitated out of the shadows until he was placed back on land with the group. “You sound like a wounded dog,” she said.

  Kakos snarled, but he had lost the ferocity.

  “Just remember that if anyone falls to their death, it will be you,” Rhyparia said.

  “Can we get on with this?” Atarax asked, seated on the edge alongside Rayne and Saikatto. They tended to be the most focused of the group.

  Rhyparia made a slight adjustment to her umbrella and said, “It’s ready. Your legs shouldn’t feel like they’re dangling anymore.”

  Rayne’s eyebrows rose. “You’re right ... and yet my upper body still feels normal gravity.”

  “Because I only adjusted the gravity in the hole,” Rhyparia explained.

  It took a few minutes for everybody to get comfortable with the idea of climbing into a bottomless hole. Despite the fact that they were clearly glued to the wall, it was still disorienting. This was a far cry from normal.

  Once everyone gained their bearings, they proceeded onward. Atarax and Saikatto—the two swordsmen—led the way, hacking at decrepit underbrush to clear a path. Both were fast, their arms moving in a blur—in the case of Atarax, his tail included. Rayne held a torch with a sizable flame. Being the lone Passionian of the group, she served
as the literal beacon to this journey. They would follow her light and use it to remain aware of their surroundings.

  Trees were parallel with the ground; they had drooped toward the chasm’s depths after over a millennium of normal gravity pushing on them. It was a strange phenomenon. Rhyparia could gaze across the dead forest, her vision mostly unobstructed.

  “I can make use of my ancient,” Prakriti said, falling in line behind Rhyparia. “Since this is the beginning of our journey, our energy stamina is far from being exhausted.”

  “No point,” Rhyparia said. “While we have supplies in this first month, you must use your ancient as little as possible. Only use it for when the group sleeps. Once our supplies run low, you can start weaving more often. We’ll have a greater need for nature at that point.”

  Prakriti fell silent, then said, “That’s fair. It’s just that this place is dark and depressing. It’s going to be a long couple of months.”

  Rhyparia didn’t respond, electing to remain in her thoughts. Prakriti wasn’t wrong. They weren’t going to see the sun for—at the very least—sixty days. No matter how intensely Rayne weaved fire, it would never match the sky’s biggest star. Rhyparia could see why this would bother someone like Prakriti, who had spent his entire life in the beautiful village of Epinio. There was no shortage of green in its lush grass or weeping willows. And its lone river was the clearest source of natural water she had ever seen.

  Rhyparia, on the other hand, had spent most of her life in the dumpster fire that was Olethros. Even her time spent at Phesaw was in the slums. No amount of time spent in Lilac Suites the past few years had made her forget what that was like. Those memories would stick with her forever; it was how she was raised. She was used to depressing.

  She only wondered how much time would pass before reaching their first complication. The first couple weeks should operate smoothly, but beyond that was a guessing game. Nobody knew what this tunnel contained. Honestly, the story of Dimiourgos could have been an elaborate fairy tale. There might not be another side to this pit.

  * * *

  Himitsu, Fane, and Horos sat against a tree’s trunk in the outskirts of a small thicket. Trees were hard to come by in the Archaic Kingdom because of its scorching heat and frequent droughts, so they made do with what they could. The three assassins stared across a vast flatland to a bridge, the backdrop of Balle behind it. The setting sun cast the dead grass between them and the bridge in an even brighter gold. From this distance, it was difficult to distinguish the number of officers that occupied the bridge’s midpoint, but it was clear their forces were considerable. Several rode atop stallions and others ran in and out of wagons.

  “Balle is the most secure city in this kingdom—even more so than Phelos,” Horos explained. “And not because of its guards, but rather its location. It has rivers to the east and west, and to the south those two rivers converge. The only area exposed to land is its northern border, but even that has Accus Canyon to ward off any intruders.”

  “So we take advantage of the weakness, which is the guards,” Himitsu said. “And we’ll do that in some sort of inconspicuous way, I’m assuming.”

  His father chuckled. “Of course. We’re assassins. Head-on confrontations are what we avoid.”

  Fane hummed with thought. “What would be your plan, Himitsu?”

  The Passion Jestivan twisted his lips. “Wait for nightfall; that is our specialty.”

  “Good start,” Fane said.

  “Move in the shadows of our flame until reaching the bridge ...” Himitsu paused. Their choices were limited. They could travel across the bridge under the cover of their flame, but the bridge was narrow, and the officers had a blockade stationed across its width. There was no sneaking past that. Surely, they’d be spotted and a battle would ensue.

  “Look at those gears spinning,” Fane said to Horos with a grin. “Your son’s got his mother’s thinking face.”

  “I’ll take that over her pissed face,” Horos said with a shiver. “Haunts my nightmares.”

  Himitsu’s eyes slowly widened. “How firm are your grips? How strong are your arms?” he asked.

  “Ah, that’s my son!” Horos exclaimed in a mighty whisper. “Stupid question because obviously assassins are gifted climbers—we scale buildings for a living. However, I can tell you’re on the right track.”

  “We’ll approach the riverbank several hundred paces away from the bridge while obscured by flame,” Himitsu explained. “We’ll use normal assassin flames to hide us—not your special ones, Dad. Those would suck the light from the bridge’s torches, which would alert the officers. We’ll follow the bank to the bridge, taking advantage of the ridge that forms underneath it. Once under the onboarding ramp, we’ll climb the supports. Then we’ll traverse the bridge from underneath, hanging above the river.”

  Horos pat his son’s shoulder. “Sounds like the perfect strategy.”

  “Sounds like fun, too,” Fane added.

  Himitsu nodded. “Luckily, the thing is made of rickety wood like pretty much everything in this kingdom. If it were stone, we’d be screwed.”

  Hours later, after the sun had set, the three assassins shifted their position in the thicket to better suit their desired path. They wanted to put as much distance between them and the bridge as possible. It wasn’t until the torches on the bridge became like flickering stars in the sky that they were satisfied.

  “You do the honors, son,” Horos said, gesturing toward the open field.

  That meant Himitsu was in charge of weaving during their sprint. The pressure was on him to keep the group concealed. He exhaled slowly, then said, “Let’s go.”

  They broke away from the trees, picking up their knees to power their way through the tall grass. Himitsu slowed in order to focus on weaving fire around them, but he was surprised to realize that he still ran faster than both Fane and Horos. He gazed back, extending his trail of fire behind him to match the pace of the older men.

  Before he knew it, he was sliding down the ridge and onto the safety of the bank, his heart pounding inside his chest. Horos and Fane joined him moments later.

  As the two men wheezed, Himitsu stared at them with an amused smile. Although unnecessary, a wall of black flames continued to mask them from the bridge. Nobody atop would have been able to spot them without approaching the rail and looking at a downward angle.

  “You’re old,” Himitsu said. “I don’t remember this reaction when we fled Phelos Palace during the uprising, Rim, or the Dev teleplatforms ...” He paused with a frown. “Come to think of it, we do a lot of fleeing for our lives.”

  Fane finally looked up. “I don’t recall you ever running that fast. What was that?”

  Himitsu snickered. “That’s right. I forgot that all the speed percentage training I’ve done with Bryson and the rest of the Jestivan isn’t normal for non-Adrenians.”

  “Bryson?” Horos said. “He taught you to run like that?”

  Himitsu nodded, then gazed down at his hip. He grabbed a handle and partly unsheathed his sword. “With the help of Toshik,” he muttered.

  “That speed will come in handy one day,” Horos said, straightening up and gazing underneath the bridge. “But let’s get going before we’re spotted.”

  They followed the river’s edge for only a minute before entering the shadowy underpass. Their boots slopped in mud; the ground there hadn’t seen much sun throughout the day.

  “Such a pain in the ass,” Fane whispered, looking down at his boots.

  Horos sloshed toward a wooden support beam and grasped onto it. He jostled it to determine its strength. “Not bad,” he said. “But yes, we’re going to have to ditch the boots.”

  “We’re doing this barefoot?” Himitsu asked.

  “You didn’t think we’d be hanging from a bridge in boots, did you?” his father asked while digging into his travel sack. “Here ...” He withdrew a pair of flimsy shoes and tossed them at Himitsu. “That’s the footwear of assassins whe
n scaling buildings.”

  The Jestivan studied them, flipping them over between his fingers. He bent and twisted them with an eyebrow cocked.

  “Good idea, son,” Horos said. “Break those bad boys in.”

  Fane cracked a grin, placing his own boots off to the side before slipping on his special shoes. “That boy has no clue what he’s doing.”

  “We’ll give him the benefit of the doubt,” Horos said.

  After staring at them for a long moment, Himisu finally flexed his feet into them, not allowing them to land in the mud. That would have sacrificed traction—a vital aspect of this maneuver.

  Once he pulled himself up, each of the assassins stood with their heads bowed over, wary of the bridge directly above. Horos craned his neck, his eyes gliding from just above to the opposite bank. Slivers of moonlight peeked through the wooden planks, just big enough for fingers to slip through.

  “Don’t use the planks to maneuver,” Fane said. “We cannot risk the officers spotting any fingers through the floorboards.” He pointed at three wooden beams that stretched along the length of the bridge—one on each side and one in the middle—acting as the structure’s spines. “We’ll shuffle across those. I’ll take the middle since it’s trickier. Horos take the left and Himitsu the right.”

  They resituated themselves into position. Horos had to leap for a beam, where he hung for a second before swinging to another nook. He turned toward his fellow assassins and nodded, signaling to begin.

  Himitsu reached up and grabbed his pole, using his core to swing his legs up and around it, too. He hugged the beam tightly. A tactic such as this was daunting. Slowly, he began shuffling along, letting his head hang back to see where he was going. It was an uncomfortable position—especially for his neck. Along the way he made the mistake of looking down. While it wasn’t a high bridge, just knowing he was this far out over a powerful body of water was unnerving.

  He reached the crest of the bridge’s subtle arch. Activity thrummed from above. The planks creaked as officers lazily waltzed around. Conversation and laughter trickled down. The beam reverberated against Himitsu’s forearms whenever a few horses would trot one way or another. He hadn’t noticed it until he glanced ahead to Fane and Horos, but he had become deathly still. The two men were well ahead of him, on their way down to the opposite bank, while he was sweating through his cloak. It took a force of will, but he eventually unglued himself and continued on.