Killers, Traitors, & Runaways: Outcasts of the Worlds, Book II

by Lucas Paynter

  Still, Poe the elder tried to reach out to stop his younger self, but the boy strode deafly by as though he were not even there. Poe turned in pursuit, only to find himself back in the woods, see his younger self, a few months prior, cradling the bloodied body of his father.

  “Enough of this,” Poe demanded as he wrenched himself away. “What is the point of this? Why am I suffering to see this?”

  He knew not to expect an answer. He wanted out, and reached back to draw his new blade. He vaguely recalled dropping it in the spire, but it rested just the same in the space the Searing Truth had long occupied. As he held the blade, he christened it the Angel Edge—the counter to his Dark Sword and his prayer for salvation—and raised it in the air. If he could not bring himself to escape, he would force a path open.

  But when he brought the blade down, nothing happened. Wherever he was, he could not forge a physical breach between the present and the past.

  “You wish to take your leave, young Guardian?”

  Poe was so surprised at the question that he turned unthinkingly around, to find himself standing before Cybel—the Archangel of Heaven and his former matriarch—in her curtained chamber. She approached the younger Poe without shame, her generous breasts hanging out of her loose robes, obscured only barely by her flowing blonde locks.

  “Norin, my father, has died before his time,” the boy said, trying to keep it together. “His mantle has fallen upon me.”

  “It has,” Cybel agreed. Poe the elder felt nothing but contempt for her cold indifference. “Why, then, have you left Heaven’s gates unattended?”

  “My training was incomplete. I need the means to compensate for my skills until such a time as they are honed. Lady Cybel,” the boy bowed. “I seek passage to the Dark Lands. I wish to claim—”

  Poe remembered staring at the floor, terrified that the Archangel might deny him. For the first time, he saw her eyes widen in realization, and heard the distaste in her voice as she concluded, “The Dark Sword.” The boy knelt, head bowed patiently, waiting for an answer. His elder self watched as Cybel’s expression shifted from certain refusal to a curious study of the boy before she smiled, as though a flash of genius had come upon her.

  “You shall have your blessings,” she promised. “You cannot traverse the Dark Lands without them.”

  “Then I may—?” The boy rose in disbelief.

  “You have a month to journey there and back, with or without the blade. Either way, the experience shall temper you. Following this, you may never take your leave again, lest your son or daughter relieves you of your duty.”

  Poe the elder watched with disdain as she passed her blessings to his younger self, granting him an aura of protection from the caustic atmosphere of the forbidden lands.

  “I shall take your place at the gates in your absence,” she promised. “Do not leave me waiting.”

  “Never, Lady Cybel,” the boy promised and hurried off.

  Cybel watched him leave, beckoning a servant over from behind the curtains. The girl walked over, cowed, and sank to her knees; the mistress had gone too long without pleasure, and the servant kissed her foot.

  Poe was prepared to turn away and find himself elsewhere; but then the servant asked, “You are prepared to spend a month outside of Heaven, mistress?”

  Poe couldn’t decide if it was worry or relief he heard in her voice.

  “It’s a worthy price to ensure the boy keeps his place,” Cybel replied. “The Dark Sword will erode him, and ensure he never claims what is not rightfully his. Guardian Poe belongs here, servicing me.”

  Poe’s fist tightened in frustration.

  “And … if he dies?”

  Cybel looked down on her attendant, as if just remembering who was speaking to her. She leaned down and pressed the girl’s face firmly against her foot that she would not speak again.

  “You are all dispensable,” she said. “If the Guardian family dies with him, I shall simply begin another.”

  It was an insult to all Poe had believed in, and all his younger self even now marched on in faith of. Poe the elder no longer carried such delusions, and drew the Dark Sword in a single deft motion, striking it clean through Cybel’s midsection. The anger had erupted so quickly that no manner of divine intervention could have saved her, were she actually there. But the blade passed harmlessly through a memory and Cybel, disgusted with the task to come, called to the servants who cowered in the curtains to service her in every perverse way imaginable first.

  Infuriated, Poe took his leave. It was raining outside, but it was not the fields of Heaven that met him. It was a modest town square, with a circular fountain and a gentle amount of human traffic. It was not a place that Poe recognized; great trees lined the streets like houses, and it was only with some examination that Poe realized these trees were houses, carved and hollowed to be made livable.

  Some of the people had features that reminded him of Chariska, and he realized then that he had come back to TseTsu.

  “I am near my intended destination,” he confirmed to himself. “But when and where have I come?”

  Poe did not need to walk far; he realized at first sight of them that memory had drawn him here, but it was not a memory he himself carried. It was embedded in the divinity he had very recently inherited, and might be the most important one of all.

  Three people were engaged in a heated discussion near a crossroad. The passersby all ignored them, much in the same way the memories Poe had encountered had treated him, though upon further observation it became fairer to say people were oblivious to the quarreling trio; after all, they truly were there, at this moment in time.

  Two of them, he knew: one was Airia Rousow, the goddess whose power he now wielded. She bore something on her back—large, but concealed in wrappings. The second was Taryl Renivar, looking no different than the man he’d witnessed chained in Borudust Castle on Terrias. The man Poe was intended to assassinate. He reached out, placing his hand near Taryl’s neck, wanting to strangle him. It passed through as though he were touching mist.

  One remained, and he concluded this woman to be Kayra Kwarla, the Mystik of Fate before their order collapsed. She was a fair woman, her long blue hair highlighted with traces of purples. She was hidden beneath simple travelers’ robes, but peeking out from her sleeves were a pair of gauntlets, and they shimmered even under the sunless skies.

  “The volume of human agony I’ve witnessed has become too great to bear,” Taryl pled to Airia. “Even as we stand in idle chatter, there are so many suffering in myriad, agonizing ways. We possess the means to end this needless pain—”

  “Suffering is part and parcel with life,” Kayra interrupted. “Despise it though I may, pain is how we grow. Weep for those who have died meaningful deaths, but do not forget that their bones may build a better tomorrow.”

  “As many already have,” Airia continued. “All were mortal once, and were forged by the same circumstances you now protest, Taryl.”

  Poe did not know how early or late he had come into the conversation, nor had he any desire to watch it to its conclusion. He already knew how it ended; he bore a symbol of it on his back. And so Poe turned away, with acceptance forming in his heart: he could not change the past.

  *

  As the days dragged on, Zella’s urge to leave the Isle of the Howling Moor continuously diminished. There was no peace to be found in the world beyond, for the actions of people shifted like bladed tides, every one threatening to cut her. There were thorns on this island, true, but she was safe from them so long as she did not seek them out. In joining Flynn’s party, she had brought danger to the very life she was trying to protect.

  The stillness of this place, and Zella’s heart, both broke when Poe finally emerged from the spire stairs, looking weary. There was something off about him, visibly, as though he were no longer entirely there.

  No one else was around, and so Zella was the first to greet him. She walked up to Poe, pensive, for she’d n
ever met a new god before. He looked her over, studying the runes carved into her body, glowing through her clothes. Poe took Zella’s arm firmly, but not painfully, and unraveled its coverings, exposing several engravings.

  “I still cannot read them,” he concluded as he wrapped her arm back up. “But nor do they cause my eyes pain.”

  “You are changed,” she confirmed. Even in his weariness, Poe exuded a strength which Zella could not hope to approach. And they were alone. “You have petitioned for my death more than once. You have the means to realize it without contest. No one could stop you.”

  Poe looked Zella in the eyes, then shook his head apologetically. “Once done, it could not be undone. I wouldn’t.”

  She stepped aside as Poe labored past her. Einré was standing in the archway, pleased with what she saw. “You’ve become.”

  Poe glared at her irritably. “You could have warned me of what I was to face.”

  “Could I have?” she asked. “Growth is my domain—the flourishing of seeds to life, of youth to age. How does your domain intersect with mine?”

  He had no answer for her.

  It did not take long for the others to gather; Flynn had sensed Poe the moment he’d returned, and soon it was the seven of them standing with Einré in the throne room. She sat on a throne of roots and leaves that had long overtaken the original monarch’s chair, one leg crossed over the other.

  “You have changed,” Flynn confirmed when he saw Poe. Like Zella, he scarcely seemed to believe it.

  Poe voiced no response, only nodding as he drew the Angel Edge. While he held the blade out at length in demonstration, Einré began to snicker. “Something amuses you, Einré?” he asked. There was no reverence left in his voice; they were equals now.

  “No, no, it’s just…” She seemed to be fighting to suppress her mirth. “Airia’s was bigger. Comically so.” Poe shared none of her amusement and sheathed the blade. As Einré settled down and wiped a tear from her eye, the tone turned more serious. “With this first step concluded, the real labor now begins. Airia Rousow should have been your tutor, but Taryl has removed her from the board. I will do my best to teach you, but you must be taught without being trained.”

  “The fuck good’s that gonna do?” Jean asked.

  “It may one day save his life,” Zella countered. “My father possesses many years of experience. Even bound, he has bested several gods who dared challenge him.” She looked to Poe and affirmed, “You would not have a chance if you rushed in to face him.”

  “Your father was not bred a warrior,” Poe countered. “And my inaction will bring no change where it is badly needed.” He looked then to Einré. “If I cannot hone my endowments through practice, what good are they?”

  “Expressing your divinity will alert the Reahv’li to your presence,” she said. “They may not strike right away, but circumstances on Terrias may change while you are in training. We cannot chance you being caught before you are ready.”

  “And what is ‘ready’?” he asked. “Yetinau Gruent had decades of familiarity with what he could do and it did not save him. You possess many more, and yet you hide on this vine-choked rock. You should thank me, Einré—my actions could soon free you from this prison.”

  She grew flustered at his insult. “One mistake, and all this will be for nothing.”

  Flynn cocked his head as he stepped up, studying Einré. “You don’t seem confident. In your ability to train him, or in Poe’s ability to handle the task at hand.”

  “Whatever her confidence speaks of, the facts remain,” Chari cautioned. “Rushing stands foolhardy.”

  “I don’t deny it,” Flynn concurred. “But will there ever be a good time to strike?” He looked back at Einré. “You’re right: the situation could change if we wait, and circumstances might become less favorable, not more. Taryl remains tethered—a year from now, he might not be. Better to fight a bound man than a free one.”

  Einré studied Flynn skeptically. Despite allowing him into her home, Zella knew she had come no closer to trusting him. “What do you have to gain from hurrying toward this conclusion?”

  “I set out on this journey to see Airia’s trinity made right. I need to see this done.”

  “If need be, I shall set forth without your blessing,” Poe said. “Even as a man, I possessed skill with a blade few can match.”

  “Skill which did not protect you when we were pinned between two armies,” Chari reminded him.

  “My awareness is greater than it has ever been,” he replied. “There is no longer any attack one can make that I cannot intercept.” Poe turned to Einré. “And though it is murky, I can sense Terrias. Taryl Renivar waits, his head desperately clinging to its neck. I shall soon separate them.”

  Einré rose, shaking her head. “Please, no … if you are to be foolish, at least be foolish in the right way.” She called out, “Ellis!” and her attendant appeared in the doorway. “Fetch the key.”

  “Key?” Shea asked.

  “Rousow, Kwarla, and Renivar clashed in the nearby city of Cordom, centuries ago,” Einré said. “When their battle came into the grand cathedral, Airia opened the way to Terrias to prevent the loss of further life.”

  “Yeah, we’ve heard that song before,” Jean said. “What of it?”

  “The way she opened left a remnant,” Flynn concluded before Einré could answer. “One that I can breach. Except … I only sensed two pathways in Cordom: the one we entered from and the one we left through.”

  “My boy-servant and I took great pains in recent decades to conceal this pathway,” Einré explained as Ellis came in with an old iron key. “Even I would be unable to sense it, were I standing right underneath it.”

  “Underneath?” Chari asked suspiciously.

  “The old cathedral was demolished in the wake of their battle, and rebuilt elsewhere in the city,” she replied. “Many homes grew in its place, and situated perfectly in the attic of one…” Einré paused to hold out the key, “…is that forgotten way.”

  Zella watched, expecting Poe or Flynn to reach out for the key. But it was Chari who snatched it from Einré’s hand, to the surprise of her companions.

  “This is mine,” she said in disbelief.

  “No, it—wait, it’s your what?” Ellis stuttered.

  “I think you’re mistaken,” Einré started.

  “Study closely,” Chari hissed as she pointed at the head of the key. “It reads Jerhas.”

  “So it does. How odd.”

  “What was the Mystik of Growth doing sneaking into my home, stealing my attic key?” she demanded.

  “Oh, that wasn’t me,” Einré said dismissively. “That would be the work of my boy-servant.”

  Chari’s ire caused Ellis to shrink out of the room. Poe turned to Chari and placed a hand over hers; her temper cooled and she released the key so he could study it in earnest.

  “This is the key to destiny,” he stated. “It feels as though it should be weightier.” He grasped it tightly, then tucked it into a pouch. “I shall take my leave then.”

  Poe turned to leave the castle, but was caught promptly on the shoulder by Flynn. “We’re going with you.”

  “Taryl Renivar is a foe beyond you all,” Poe warned. “We have seen what he can do.”

  “As your companions, you can extend a measure of protection to them,” Einré advised. “They can never do what you are able, but you can shield them from the harm Renivar’s divine prowess might cause.”

  “Might as well see this shit through,” Jean said with a shrug. A chorus of agreement echoed from the others, save Zella, who stood back, head bowed in silence. Yet she would follow along, as she always had.

  “What of you, daughter of Renivar?” Poe asked.

  And then, it all hit Zella. It wasn’t about following the others and seeking their protection. It wasn’t about a quest to even the scales her father had helped upset. The concept of Poe assassinating her father moved from abstract to a very real possibi
lity, and even for the terrible price he’d asked her to pay, she couldn’t bring herself to hate him. It would have been easier if she did, for she knew the surest way to make things right would be to end the Living God.

  Zella took great care to avoid eye contact or do so much as nod. All she said was, “It must be done,” and that seemed enough for the rest of them.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN: Last, Lonely Night

  The ocean waves were gentle that evening and provided safe passage to port. What Chari wouldn’t have given for a storm, to wash up on some deserted island. It seemed ridiculous to think, but she dreaded going home, even for a night. She kept her head down to avoid counting the remaining minutes, and did not notice when they arrived. Flynn’s hand intruded in her line of sight as he stood above her, one foot planted on the docks, ready to pull her up.

  Chari looked back to Ellis at the sails, then over to Einré, who seemed agitated by her reluctance.

  “Will you be returning to the Isle?” Chari asked.

  Einré shook her head. “My duty there is done. Staying in one place can be dangerous so long as the Reahv’li still hunt gods.”

  “And if we need to find you?” Flynn asked.

  “I would not wish to be found, least of all by the likes of you,” she told him. Einré stood up to address Poe, who stood on the dock with the others. “You’ve been afforded one chance to make things right. Do not waste it.”

  As Ellis said his farewells, Chari knew it was time to return home. She took Flynn’s hand and he pulled her up to the dock, and the sea of trees that was Cordom rose before her, a dark forest of candlelit windows. She couldn’t see its famed cathedral from here, but knew it wouldn’t remain hidden for long.

  As the longboat disembarked, Chari strengthened her resolve—the sooner they got where they needed, the sooner they could leave.