When Meric woke, Trajan was communing with the black cylinder again.
“Why are you keeping me here?” Meric roared, angered by the dream, by his captivity, by life at large. Trajan turned.
“It’s the only place I knew you’d be safe,” Trajan said.
Meric’s mouth fell open.
“I’ve explained to the People that you are only an ignorant pawn of the Plutarchs. But that does not mean someone won’t take it upon themselves to kill you. Lives were lost at Jarl’s Ravine. Brothers, sisters, children, parents. What is my word against a moment’s impassioned vengeance? Cobwebs to a mammoth. When the dead are feasted and passions lessened, it will be safer to stay aboveground. Then we can work on breaking you out of your other prison.”
“What other prison?” Meric asked.
Trajan tapped his temple with a finger.
“The one built for your mind.”
Meric spat.
“Go on with your lies.”
“The walls, they appear!” Trajan said, pressing his palms against an imaginary barrier.
“Sun-mad savages,” Meric muttered.
Some hours later, after Trajan was gone, Meric received his usual visitor–but Diodorus was not alone. Behind him was the girl with green eyes. Meric’s heart quickened. He refused to acknowledge any underlying reason, though he felt a pang of guilt and anger. The day was hot, and she wore no more now than she had at the funeral. Patterned ash adorned her body. In her hands was a stone bowl.
Diodorus cleared his throat.
“This is Meliai,” he said. She set the bowl aside temporarily to make the savage greeting gesture.
“Meliai, this is … well, he’s kept his name to himself,” Diodorus said. “Perhaps on account of the dark magic we would subject it to. Summoning demons and all that.”
Meliai gave Diodorus a puzzled look.
“My name is Meric.”
“Ah-ha! My own magic has failed, but you, my dear, are casting spells of a different sort,” Diodorus said, smiling at Meliai.
“Why do you do this?” Meric asked, emulating the gesture, putting a fist over his heart, extending his open palm.
“It shows good intentions. Speech from the heart. Hands without weapons,” Diodorus said, repeating the gesture. “Although in this case our hands aren’t entirely empty.”
Meliai stepped forward and held out the bowl. Inside was dark mush. Her face was intense–angry or just focused? It was hard to tell.
“Meric isn’t familiar with our customs, Meliai. You’re going to have to be a bit more verbose.”
“Your friend. In the silver. His ferocity should not be wasted. We award it to you. It has been decided,” Meliai said.
Meric could barely understand her. They shared the same language, but the words were distorted, like reflections in a warped mirror. Neither Trajan nor Diodorus had such an accent. And the message itself…
My friend in silver?
“Hadric? I don’t understand,” Meric said, frowning at the bowl.
“It’s his heart. They’ve prepared it for you,” Diodorus said.
Meric jerked away, banging into the bed behind him.
“Monsters! Devils!” he exclaimed.
Meliai looked confused by his reaction.
“Meric, what Meliai is offering is a rare honor,” Diodorus said, palms up as if to placate a frightened beast. “They speak highly of this man. He was their enemy, yet he earned their respect. They say he was driven by powerful spirits, that there must be great strength in his heart. The heart usually goes to family or friends. It’s almost unthinkable to refuse such a gift.”
Meric’s laugh was half-deranged.
“Is this how they got you? Gained your trust, made you a part of their rituals? I didn’t believe you were Plebian. I didn’t want to believe anyone could betray their people, their city, their rulers so badly–but now I see such things are possible. You make it sound almost noble. Oh yes, just eat the heart of a dead Champion, and from the very hands of those who killed him! If I had a blade, I would cut you down where you stood.”
There was a moment of silence.
“Is that a no then?” Diodorus asked.
He pulled Meliai back a few steps, talking quietly to her. The girl’s eyes were round. She muttered back and forth. Worry crossed her face. She looked at Meric.
“May the Goddess aid your recovery,” she said, enunciating carefully, as if he were slow. She left the bowl on a table and went from the room.
“What did you tell her?” Meric asked, curiosity overcoming his outrage.
“I explained how your ordeal had fractured your mind, but that you would surely be glad for the offering when your wits returned.”
“You’re worse than the bloody savages,” Meric muttered.
“So you do believe I’m not one of them. Careful, Meric. Careful. You start believing one of my stories, you might have to believe them all.”
*
Trajan didn’t return until later that night. Diodorus had removed the bowl containing Hadric’s heart. Meric was in a miserable mood. He couldn’t imagine what kind of game the savages were playing, but it worried him. Should they trick him into joining some profane ritual, he’d be as good as one of them. He wanted to be back in Panchaea. He wanted to lay with Swan in the strawberry fields. Tears stung his eyes. He cursed his weakness and prayed silently to the Plutarchs.
Trajan came in looking exhausted. He sat across from Meric and raised his eyebrows at the Plebian’s angry glare.
“Still waiting to be tortured?” Trajan said.
Meric said nothing.
“Plebians are never easy to recover. They don’t always make it. I’ve seen some inventive suicides. You fought well at Jarl’s Ravine. I think you’re a man of unusual determination–but stubborn too. Your dedication to the Plutarchs is deep–and deeply misplaced. How can we change that? Perhaps torture is the key. What do you think?”
“Nothing you do will turn me against the Plutarchs,” Meric said.
“Don’t be so sure.”
Trajan took something from the table behind him and approached Meric’s bed. He pulled his chair over and sat down. In his hand was a palm-sized metallic sphere. A dozen tiny arms protruded from its surface. At the end of each arm was a grasping claw.
Meric eyed the torture device.
“Finally showing your true nature,” he whispered.
“Oh, it’s worse than that, Meric. I’m going show you your true nature. Here is a thing both true and terrible. This–this is your god.”
Trajan held up the extruded sphere. Clearly, the man was sun-mad. Did he worship pain?
“Heresy. Pain fades. Faith endures,” Meric said.
“Ah, but faith in what, Meric? You don’t recognize this device, I know. There’s no way you could. This one is just a model. A harmless trinket. Imagine if I were to make it much smaller. Imagine if I were to shrink it until it disappeared from sight entirely, until it was hardly heavier than the air itself. Then imagine there were billions of these devices all around us. Imagine they filled this room. Would you recognize them?”
Meric was at a loss.
“The sight is intimately familiar,” Trajan went on. “One you’ve seen every day of your life, until recently. Still don’t know? Bold but not so imaginative, eh? What a fine soldier you must make. Meric–this is the Fog.”
Meric looked at him. Half a minute passed in absolute silence. He began to grasp what Trajan was implying. Then he burst into laughter. It was so ludicrous he couldn’t believe Trajan could expect anyone to fall for it. He laughed until tears blurred his vision.
“Are you done?” Trajan asked, sitting back, raising an eyebrow.
“The Fog! Oh, yes, that thing, shrunk down–billions of them–that’s the Fog!” Meric said, unable to quell his hysteria.
“Always laughter before tears,” Trajan said. “Sometimes the truth is so banal it’s sad. The Earth is not the center of the universe. The sun is onl
y a bright mote in an ocean of shining dust. And the Fog is not God’s Instrument. Yes, Meric. Trillions of these microscopic machines once covered the Earth. The arms connect to each other. Each machine has a tiny bit of computing power. Each can transfer information and electricity. Networked, they can execute programs. They can take up positions in predetermined arrangements. A billion together can form–well, just about anything. Knives. Shoes. A doll for a child. They reflect different wavelengths of light, meaning they can take on any color. They can look like stone, or simulate liquid, or move like fabric. Their arms can telescope outward. You can walk through them and feel only a mild pressure as thousands lose their grip–or they can pull close and tighten the connections, forming walls harder than steel. They are your houses, your clothes, your artifacts, your atomblades. They are the floating palaces and the transports and the places you call sacred. Meric, these machines are Panchaea.”
Meric stared at him.
“Plutarchs help me, I’m in a land of madmen,” he muttered, glancing up.
“Pray to the Plutarchs–how appropriate, yes. That’s what they want, Meric. Ah, but your delusions are understandable. You were born into a culture created to enslave you. Did you ever wonder why you do the work you do? Why you spend your ration tokens on the latest fashions? Why you make offerings in the Temple to receive new goods? The controls of your prison are myriad and invisible. They have you wrapped up so tightly you don’t even know they exist–until you step outside and see the sun. Until things are finally cast in a different light.”
“My family works on a blackberry farm. I suppose there’s some dark purpose in that too?”
He could almost pity Trajan. The man actually believed what he was saying.
“Blackberries are a wonderful fruit, Meric, but who do you make them for? Not your family. The majority of food goes to the Plutarchs. Why? Because about the only thing the Fog can’t make is food. Tiny machines can’t form complex chemical compounds. Incidentally, that category includes explosives–lucky for us. Now look at your other career: soldier. Who are you fighting for? The Plutarchs. Food and bodies, that’s what they get from you–and you personally have provided them with both. How noble of you. They sent you out to die, and you thanked them for it. You praised them, and you didn’t even care why or where you were going. You’re praising them still. Tiny machines aren’t the only things that can be programmed.”
“Such elaborate lies–but here is your mistake, great ‘savage-king,’ for you yourself have reminded me of my purpose,” Meric said, half-smiling. “The faithful are sent into the Wildlands to be tested. How else can God know if we are worthy of his Divine Instrument? That is what the Fog really is, even if lowly Plebians like myself can never speak to it, never hear its sacred language. Tiny machines? I’ve never heard anything so absurd. The Fog is a miracle. I’ve seen it do things no machine could. The Fog is God’s Will, and the Plutarchs–”
“Are His Chosen, yes. How wonderful for them. Do you know how that choice was made, Meric? Let me enlighten you. The Plutarchs are the descendants of a pack of corrupt, ultra-wealthy political families from the days of Pax Americana. It’s no surprise they’ve done such a thorough job of convincing you they deserve everything they have–they’ve been doing that for centuries. Panchaea is a natural outgrowth of a path their ancestors set upon long ago. Even the Fog isn’t their brainchild. They only gained control of what others had created. This has always been their talent: controlling, not creating. Management, not invention.
“That’s not the story the Priests tell, I know. The Priests have been cramming platitudes down your throat since you were in the womb, and how can they do otherwise? Their power derives from the clouds. They’re a mouthpiece, nothing more. The Plutarchs could piss off the side of their floating palaces, and the Priests would celebrate a ‘miracle of golden rain.’
“If the Plutarchs created one thing in all the years since ‘the Smiting,’ it was Panchaea’s carefully structured society. They’ve ingrained their superiority into the very fabric of your culture. If you ever doubt their worth, you have only to glance skyward. Who but the superior could live in such places? Never mind that they make all the rules and break them at will. They’ve won before you’re even in the game–and then, the greatest farce of all, they tell you you’re better off for it. They tell you they earned it, they deserve it, they’re better than you. Without them, they say, you wouldn’t have what little you do. They paint an abyss on the floor and put a frayed rope in your hands, and the Priests shout not to let go until you forget it’s all just an illusion. Fear, jealousy, misinformation–breakfast, lunch, and dinner to those you so serve so loyally. They keep you in the gutter–and you love them for it. This is the true magic of the Plutarchs.”
Meric was no longer smiling.
“Your blasphemies grow tiring, old man. Is this the kind of torture I can expect? Plan to talk me to death?”
“Truth is the most painful thing of all, Meric. We build our lives on illusions. Truth is the hammer that shatters them. The shards may cut us, but the scars will toughen our hides. For you the blow is falling, yet it escapes your attention. Funny thing about truth–you have to recognize it before it takes effect. You may even have to give it permission. You’re immune in your prison of lies. I’ve opened the door, but only you can walk through it. Come out, Meric. Come out.”
“You dare speak of Truth–you, the great deceiver, the magician who brought down the mountain, the murderer of good Plebians? Why didn’t you just kill me with the others? What could you possibly know of the Plutarchs?”
Meric was shouting, furious.
Trajan sat back in his chair, fiddling absently with the extruded sphere.
“Meric, Meric, Meric. I know everything about the Plutarchs. Don’t you understand?”
Sighing, the savage-king pulled off his mirrored shades. Meric gasped and drew back, staring into a pair of perfectly silver eyes.
“I used to be one,” Trajan said.
CHAPTER 8
“Is … Is this a test? Was it all a test?” Meric asked. His mind was racing. Had any of it been real? Had it somehow all been false imagery, like a vast laserpainter show? Impossible. But the Wildlands existed to test the faithful, and if Trajan was really a Plutarch…
Or was it another trick? Yes, of course. Trajan had used dark magic to trigger the landslide, and now he was using it to change the color of his eyes. A simple illusion.
“No test, Meric. Just truth. I was one of your vaunted Plutarchs. I lived in a floating palace. I ‘spoke’ to the Fog. I can ‘speak’ to it still.”
Meric’s tongue clove to the roof of his mouth. What if Trajan really was a Plutarch? He couldn’t call a Plutarch a liar. His eyes flitted around the room. He put a hand to his temples, trembling.
“I … I don’t…” he muttered.
The room was spinning. He couldn’t think anymore. Did the Plutarchs secretly control the savages? Godsblood, what was happening here?
“Dark magic,” Meric whispered.
“Gene tweaks, in point of fact,” Trajan said.
“I–what?”
“Silver eyes were a mark of distinction among my ancestors. Certain DNA modifications were expensive. They became popular among the elite. A status symbol. You have your own gene tweaks, incidentally. If not for your pretracheal filter, the Fog would slowly kill you. The bots would clog your lungs. Even the people here share that gene, though they’ve never set foot in the Fog. It must’ve been almost universal before the death of the old world. Everyone living today has inherited something from that era.”
Meric shook his head.
“Silver eyes come from looking upon Avos, the sacred lake…” he said.
Trajan sighed.
“Avos doesn’t exist, Meric. Perhaps you’d better rest a while.”
“No!” he yelled, clenching his jaw, but he slid back onto the bed. He turned away from Trajan, huddling in the dark behind his eyes. He was lying on hi
s injured shoulder, but he didn’t care, he wanted the pain.
“No,” he whispered.
I will not believe the lies.
He fell asleep repeating the mantra.
When he woke, Trajan was gone. He’d had a confusion of nightmares, but he felt a little better. After all, Trajan’s silver eyes were the only evidence of the man’s wild claims, and if Trajan could conjure a landslide, he could certainly perform tricks on a smaller scale. The man consorted with demons, for Fog’s sake.
Diodorus arrived with breakfast: a red apple and a haunch of meat. Meric hadn’t eaten in so long that hunger had come and gone, leaving only a dull ache and weariness. The scent made his stomach rumble. It wouldn’t hurt to maintain his strength. If his captors were going to persist in this travesty, he was going to do his best to escape. He picked up the apple.
“So you do have a stomach. Wonders never cease,” Diodorus said.
Meric’s shoulder ached from having slept on it. Blood had seeped through the bandage.
“We’ll have to change that. Meliai has been asking about you, by the way.”
Meric glanced at him.
“Caught your attention, did I? Do you want to know what she asked?”
He returned to his food, stung by shame.
“She’s an ignorant savage who eats human hearts. I don’t care what she wants.”
“Oh. Okay then,” Diodorus said.
“You’re an irritating an old man, and your smile offends me,” Meric said.
“I enjoy your company too. How pleasant it is to bask in your winning personality.”
Meric chewed his food. After days of fasting, each bite was better than the last. Halfway through the meal, he asked:
“Are you really from Panchaea?”
“Yes,” Diodorus said, levity fading.
“Then Trajan must’ve tricked you into staying here. I can understand now how it happened. He’s not really a Plutarch, you know. He can’t be.”
“Why’s that?”
“He just can’t be. Look where he lives. Look who he rules. He’s a sorcerer–but not a Plutarch. Don’t you see? He’s cast a spell over you. This isn’t who you are. You’re not a savage, Diodorus. If you’re really from Panchaea, come back with me.”
The Last Plutarch Page 9
