by A J Witt
A convoy of heavy-duty SPCs cut in front of Elias, forcing him to jerk back. As the Adept waited for it to pass, he considered one such lounge off to his right. The Lucky Roach. Hmm … Fortune had smiled on him today. Phaidros was an overcrowded mess, yet the best medical practitioners resided there. If the officer had been struck in Fermantis or Portown, perhaps he would have survived. Anywhere else and I’d be dead. For a hypochondriac like Elias, there was no place to live but Phaidros, and he knew it all too well. The road cleared, and the Adept was about to take a step when he felt a hand on his shoulder.
“My friend, what have you gotten yourself into?”
To Elias’s chagrin, that was a voice he instantly recognized, despite persistent efforts to erase it from his memory. After all, he had spent a good part of his youth within earshot of it, time he only recently acknowledged as not entirely wasted. The officer turned to face a man with long blond locks framing his chiseled face. “Lecarn, you’re back in the city.”
“Only for as long as I need to be. And not a second more.”
“And then? Back to your band of rebels?”
Lecarn flashed his patented pearly-white smile. “A band you are more than welcome to join, as I’ve told you many times.”
Elias paused for a moment. It was too great a coincidence to envisage blackmailing the preceptor and to be facing the man who had done just that only minutes later.
“Problems at the Academy?” Lecarn asked, picking up on the hesitancy.
“No, and it’s time for me to go back.”
“Fine. Before you leave, I need a favor.”
“I stopped doing favors for you long ago.”
“Through no fault of your own, I’ll be the first to admit.”
“I don’t care what you have to admit.” Elias turned away. “I’ve got nothing more to say to you.”
“I’m afraid you do.”
The officer stopped in his tracks, and Lecarn sighed while stroking his long hair. “I didn’t want it to come to this.”
“Come to what?”
“Remember our personal matter?”
“Which one?” asked Elias.
Lecarn rolled his eyes. “It’s irrelevant, I’d hate for either to become public knowledge.”
“Are you … blackmailing me?”
For a moment, the sound of zooming SPCs was overwhelming. “Yes.”
“You must be kidding.”
“Look, I need this,” insisted Lecarn, “and you haven’t even heard me out.”
“I don’t care what you need, you only think about yourself.”
“Will you or will you not listen?”
“Seems like I don’t have much of a choice, do I?”
“It’s not a big ask, all I want is—”
“You appear out of nowhere,” said Elias, “threatening to expose my personal matters, after I haven’t seen you in a decade?”
Lecarn nodded. “Fair enough. Well, tell you what. The sooner you listen to me, the sooner I’ll get out of your way.”
“What do you want?”
“Two Adepts.”
“No way.”
“You don’t understand,” replied Lecarn. “I need them on my side, to help track something down.”
“And what is that something, exactly? You know what? I don’t even care. How long do you need them for?”
“A month. Maybe longer.”
“A month?” Elias snickered. “Are you out of your mind? What Adept would leave the comfort of the Academy for that long?”
“I never said anything about the Academy.”
“Oh, you want dropouts, huh?”
“Yes,” said Lecarn. “I’ll take dropouts as long as they can manipulate the Source and do my bidding.” He reached into his vest. “Here, two Ocean Star tickets. Give them these.”
“This is ridiculous.”
“Why?”
“I’m not some Adept trader.”
“You have access to the Academy’s archives, so you know the whereabouts of each one of them.”
“I don’t need the archives, you fool.” I definitely do.
“Then, you’ll find them for me? They’ll be paid handsomely. Seven hundred gold coins each.”
The officer exhaled, his headache worsening. Lecarn will expose my secrets. Both of them. He has nothing to lose. If that happened, then the option Elias had contemplated, one which provided an out to his predicament, would no longer be viable. He could already smell the village stables, visualizing his bed made of hay and the pack of balbaks crowded around him. And this headache … “Okay. By all the Gods, I’ll get you the two Adepts.”
“Excellent!” exclaimed Lecarn. “Tell them to meet me in Portown. I’ll be waiting up the hill in a green SPC, by Mirabel Crater.”
“On one condition,” Elias added, snatching the tickets.
“What?”
“This is the last I ever hear from you.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Edvon writhed in agony. Try as he might, the young man found it impossible to fall asleep. When crawling around the cell’s dark corners, he had smeared his hands in a smooth and soft matter that smelled like feces. The platinum collar rubbed against raw skin each time he laid his head on the uneven stone, and drips of water fell from the ceiling at regular intervals, often striking the Adept in the face. We’re actually going to die. He shuddered. Not only that but burned at the stake. The gravity of their situation was sinking in.
“So … what did she say?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
Inhaling restlessly, Edvon rolled back and forth. Will they be quiet? The sequence of events had been ludicrous enough that he harbored no desire to hear it recounted, unlike Kyran who was narrating the proceedings in great detail to his newfound audience. There were three other occupants in the dungeons, and though it was poorly lit, Edvon had discerned to their far right a hairy old man with long locks flowing down to his chest. In the cell opposite the Adepts sat a bald prisoner with a goatee, and to their left, a woman concealed by the shadows, wearing what looked like the white dress of an Overseer.
“It doesn’t matter,” repeated Kyran.
“Huh?”
“That’s what she said to me.”
The elderly prisoner grunted before grasping the iron bars of his cell door and lifting himself up to his feet. “So what?”
“So what?” Kyran shook his head in disbelief. “So it means the coin flip was rigged.”
“Yeah, obviously.” The hairy man receded into the gloomy depths, and Edvon smiled. His brother had lost two-thirds of the audience.
“Sweet prince?”
Kyran scanned the narrow passageway. “Um … yeah?”
“I’d whisper things into your ear, too. You know, they don’t call me Tickle for nothing.”
“Uh … I—I think I’m okay,” stammered Kyran. “Th—thanks.”
“Oh, you’re missing out, sweetheart.” Tickle leaned forward, squishing his face between the bars. “Let me tell you a little story.”
Annoyed, Edvon opened his eyes. “Can you please tell the story after I’m dead? I need to get some sleep here.” There was a period of precious silence, alas, a brief one.
“So there’s this joint called the Overseer’s D-Light,” Tickle said, “and once a month, they host—”
“Gods!” Snapping his head up, Edvon hit the wall hard. “I was almost asleep,” he grumbled, rubbing the back of his skull. “Won’t you all just shut up?”
“What about the story?”
“No one wants to listen to the story.”
Kyran pounced, knowing there would not be many opportunities left to aggravate his brother. “I want to hear it. What do they host at the Overseer’s D-Light?”
Edvon gritted his teeth. “By Gods, I’m going to murder you.”
“Two kills in one day? Even for a star Adept …”
Tickle chuckled.
“And in any case,” continued Kyran, now on a roll, “it would only be
a couple hours ahead of schedule.”
“Next cholee who dares to speak,” roared an infuriated Edvon at the top of his lungs, “I will massacre!” The final word reverberated in the dungeons for several seconds. Satisfied, the older sibling closed his eyes, relishing in the ensuing silence.
“He never said anything about whispering, right?”
Feeling defeated, Edvon cupped his hands over his ears. He could barely hear anything when Tickle began to recount the story. They actually are whispering. Drowsiness enveloped the Adept as his breathing steadied, temples relaxed, and shoulders sagged.
“The package!”
The shout jolted Edvon, and he again knocked his head on the stone. Kyran and the young woman were giggling, amused by Tickle's bombastic plot.
“So did he open it?” she asked.
“Pretty boy like him? Oh, baby … what did you say your name was?”
“Sabine.”
“Well, let me tell you something, Sabine. We were in for a huge surprise.” Tickle proceeded to describe the package’s contents.
Edvon was left in the unenviable position of wishing he knew the backstory. Package? What package? What are they … “By Gods!”
“You see?” said Tickle. “I knew this would … ahem … tickle your fancy.”
“I don’t give a dread about your stupid story.” Edvon leaped to his feet. “Kyran, do you still have Marrek’s gift to Lord Hanstun?”
“What? Yeah, it’s in my pocket.”
“And you didn’t think to open it?”
Realizing Edvon’s pragmatic acumen, Kyran’s heart rate soared. He rotated the present in his hands, searching for the edges of the wrapping. Finding a seam he ripped the paper, and his fingers connected with what felt like a long ceramic object. The Adept held it up.
“What is it?” asked Tickle.
“I don’t know.” Kyran ran his thumb up and down the length of the present, eventually grazing a protrusion at its base. “Wait, there’s a button.” He pressed on it, lighting up the object and revealing a model of the Ivory Spire. The glow of the miniature tower was of a light-blue hue, and it carried enough power to illuminate the edges of Sabine’s cell. And for a brief moment, Kyran saw what appeared to be violet eyes. Then, the tower went dark.
“It’s just a Source-powered gimmick,” Edvon muttered.
“Gimmick?” repeated Tickle. “I, for one, can think of plenty of good uses for that object.”
“Like what, exactly?”
“Don’t you know anything, little man?”
“As a matter of fact, I do. I’ve tested out of all core topics at the Academy, and I even did five M-level electives. So I know a lot, probably much more than you.”
Tickle chortled. “Clearly not, or that tower would already be—”
“Hold up,” interjected Kyran, “the Source works here?”
Sabine was the one to answer. “Regrettably, yes. Why wouldn’t it?”
“Everyone at the Academy thinks the Temple’s built with platinum.”
“I can’t believe you’re actually Adepts,” said the young woman. “By Auralus! You aren’t what I thought you’d look like.”
“Never met one of us?”
“Of course not. How and why would I do such a terrible thing?”
The brothers laughed, and so did Tickle.
“You think it’s funny?” Sabine retorted. “It’s a good thing you’re in these dungeons.”
Kyran raised his eyebrows. “The same you’re in, you mean? And why’s that?”
“Because … well, because you killed an Overseer.”
“That’s true,” mumbled the Adept.
“And you use It,” she continued, undeterred. “When the Book of Provenance strictly forbids it.”
“Wrong.” Edvon’s fourth year thesis had been titled A Farce Uncovered: The True Meaning of It in the Book of Provenance. “The verses never tell us what It is, and you just assume It is the Source? It could be anything. On his ninth trip to see the hermits, Lutigas refers to It in a way that makes it seem like a material object. Baratna does the same thing when he speaks to the farmer in the Temple’s second spire. And in Hubris 5, the Gods only weep after seeing It. Wouldn’t they sense It in their presence, if It was the Source?”
“Ooooo …” gibed Tickle. “Bam!”
Sabine was unmoved. “I don’t care about any of that, you’re reading it the wrong—”
“Way?” cut in Edvon. “As opposed to what? Have you ever thought there might be other ways to interpret your sacred verses?”
“Those are wrong ways, the Recital Supreme says so.”
“Ah, typical Overseer fallback.”
The prisoners remained still for a while, until Tickle broke the silence. “So anyway … about that model tower.”
All at once, the gate to the dungeons swung open, and a short Overseer carrying a torch rushed in. He hurried toward Sabine’s cell while jangling a set of keys.
“Cyrus,” she whispered. “What are you doing here?”
“Shh, don’t say my name,” the wheezing Overseer replied, glancing around. “I’ve come to help you get out.”
“Why?”
“Sabine, you don’t deserve this. I know you’re innocent.”
“You believe me?”
“Everyone is aware of Rex Ruga’s perversions.” Cyrus leaned in. “It’s just that no one has the courage to do anything about it.” The Overseer unlocked the door. “Come, you must leave Phaidros tonight.”
“What about you?” Sabine asked.
“Many in the Temple have access to the dungeons.” Cyrus pulled her toward the entrance. “Let’s go, quick!”
“But …”
“Don’t worry about me, Sabine. They’ll never know who let you out.”
“Unless I tell them,” threatened Tickle. “Cyrus, was it?”
The Overseer approached the captive’s cell. “Yes, an undeniable case of a violent, dangerous, and deviant being. I’ll be putting in an immediate request to add you to the pyre tomorr—”
Cyrus never finished his sentence. The ceramic Ivory Spire came crashing against the back of his head, shattering into a thousand pieces and thrusting the Overseer to the ground, unconscious. Reacting to Kyran’s stealthy throw, Edvon stuck his hand through the bottom of the iron gate, snatching the key ring from Cyrus’s limp grasp before Sabine could seize it.
“What have you done!” she screeched in horror. The young woman knelt to the ground, gasping as she touched Cyrus’s bloodied temple. Terrified, she looked up, only to find the two Adepts had already unlocked their cell and were in the process of releasing Tickle.
“Come on,” said Edvon, “let's go!”
Sabine held firm. “Just kill me and be done with it.”
“Kill you?”
The brothers looked at each other.
“I think she’s being serious, boys,” quipped Tickle.
“I know you will.” A tear rolled down Sabine’s cheek. “So just do it now. Please!”
“What in the Gods …” Kyran trailed off. “We may be Adepts, but we’re not killers.”
The old hairy prisoner whose presence had been neglected voiced a plea. “Forget about her and let me out.”
“Wait!” said Tickle. “The Overseers mentioned he was highly dangerous when they brought him in.”
“Don’t listen,” replied the man. He brushed aside his long hair, revealing a platinum collar around his neck. “See? I’m one of you.”
Kyran nodded. “We have to help him.”
“He’s tricking you,” warned Tickle.
“We’re helping him, why would he do that?”
“He’s dangerous.”
Edvon pointed at Cyrus on the ground. “That guy said the same thing about you, right?”
The Adept opened the cell, and the old man bolted out. Flying across the narrow passageway, he pounced onto Tickle and tackled him to the ground. The wild-haired man plunged a hand into his prey’s gaping mouth. �
�Hayah!” Pulling back a bloodied tongue, he sprang up, grabbed Sabine by the wrist, and vanished up the stairs.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
“Did you wash your hands?”
The young woman stared back at him, confused. She was naked save a thin strip of fabric hanging from her waist. “What?”
“I asked if you washed your hands.”
“My Lord, I—”
“A simple yes or no, girl.”
“No.”
Lord Hanstun brought his fingers to his temple. “By the Gods.” Grumbling, he pushed aside the head resting on his torso and sat up in the immense bed. Several arms reached for him to lie back down. The Noble brushed them aside. “You would think to join our soiree without having washed your hands?”
“No … no, my Lord,” stammered the young woman.
The newcomer scurried toward the door, and Hanstun watched her bottom wiggle from side to side until she disappeared from sight. “Don’t take too long, either.” The Noble fell into the pillows.
“You’re such a germaphobe,” Ruan whispered, leaning in and twirling his finger on Hanstun’s chest.
Without warning, the Noble sat up and slapped his attendant’s face across the scar. Ruan, with an expression of utter shock, let out a shout of indignation. Hanstun smacked him again, this time across the neck. Then across the shoulders, and the back. And then the waist. And right on the personal attendant’s nude butt. Hanstun spanked it two, three, four times, each hit coming with greater speed. Ruan squealed in delight as the others on the bed joined in, grabbing and tickling him, while he feigned escape. They stopped when the girl came back, her hands still wet from the sink.
“You’re dripping, dear,” someone on the bed said.
“Imbecile,” murmured Ruan.
“I … I’m—”
“Go back and dry your hands.”
“No, let her.” Hanstun ordered, looking below his waist. “We can use a bit of wetness. Come here.”
Stepping onto the bed and crawling her way to the Noble, the young woman accomplished the task being asked of her.
