Vultures

by Luke Tarzian

  “A triptych,” Khal said. “An omen. Did you see anything else in the dream?”

  “No. Funny thing is…” Fenrin said. “I don’t think it was my dream.”

  Serece arched an eyebrow as they continued on, passing empty cell after empty cell. “Do you think it was Theailys An’s?”

  “It could have been,” Khal mused. “Or it could have been foresight. Either way it’s oddly specific, considering how repressed our ability to divine has been as of late.”

  Serece’s ears twitched. All of this felt off. It felt too easy, easier than their initial infiltration of the prison had been. The fact that a so-called deity had foreseen their coming and had arrived in time to mask their intrusion from whatever lay in wait seemed far too convenient. She kept one hand wrapped securely around a dagger and the other resting at her side, comforted slightly by the knowledge Yssa no longer forced her to keep her rage at bay should she need to tap into it.

  They stopped before an argentium door inlaid with glyphs. Fingertip aglow, Khal reached forward to imbue the glyphs with illum. There was a clicking sound and the door swung inward several inches, revealing the darkness beyond. “When I drop my illusion—the barrier that’s kept us all undetected—I’m going to lock us all inside to avoid arousing suspicion.”

  Serece and Fenrin stepped inside; the door clicked shut behind them and a faint glow emerged.

  Serece clapped her hand to her mouth and Fenrin closed his eyes, muttering a prayer.

  Searyn An was dead, left sprawled on the floor in a threadbare burlap gown. She bore myriad scabbed tattoos of names and faces from the waist up, and the flesh around her chest was veined black, as though it’d been touched by mirkúr, as though her soul had been reaped. Serece allowed herself to shed tears. Despite her dislike of Theailys An she had never wished something so horrible as this upon him. First his wife, now his sister. Keepers, she knew how this felt, and she was reasonably sure Theailys had been close with Searyn.

  “Didn’t see this comin’,” Fenrin murmured.

  Serece cocked an eyebrow.

  “Nor I,” Khal whispered after a moment. “But I can make a reasonable assumption as to who’s responsible for this treasonous butchery.” She knelt, caressing Searyn’s blackened flesh. “General Khoren had Searyn arrested for desecrating the burial mounds with mirkúr, but I think it’s safe to say he was doing so to cover his own actions.”

  “Do you think this General Khoren is Te Mirkvahíl?” Serece asked.

  “A lieutenant at the very least,” Khal said, brushing her hand over Searyn’s wide eyes to close the lids. “The poor woman had probably outgrown her use.”

  “Which would have been what?” Serece asked.

  “Any number of things,” Khal said. “A font of information, a host body for a lieutenant, or…”

  “A voice in Theailys An’s ear,” Fenrin offered.

  “Whispering what?” Serece asked, mentally reciting a prayer of her own.

  “Whatever twisted words would push him toward forgin’ The Keepers’ Wrath,” Fenrin said. “His wife’s death was already a drivin’ force; you think his sister’s death won’t push him to complete it quicker? Think on what you know of this weapon. Te Mirkvahíl tried to steal it once before, who’s to say the bastard’s not attemptin’ to again?”

  “For what reason?” Khal asked.

  “You tell me,” Fenrin said. “World builder and all, you sayin’ you haven’t a clue as to why Te Mirkvahíl would want a weapon as powerful as The Keepers’ Wrath? C’mon, Khal—think!”

  Khal shook her head, frustrated. “I…I don’t know. To free the Origin from their prison, maybe? It could be any number of things—things my mind has not yet seen; things in which I cannot interfere.”

  Serece looked at Searyn’s corpse. “We can’t just leave her here.”

  “I know, and I’ll make sure she’s taken care of.” Khal put a hand on her shoulder. “She was my friend. Now come. Let me take you from this wretched place.”

  * * *

  It had been years since Behtréal had inhabited his own body. So many, in fact, he could not recall his true face or form. No matter, he found his ability to inhabit different bodies liberating. It meant he could be anyone he chose, whether it was the wife, sister, or mentor of the man who soon would forge the key to the reclamation of his people.

  “Such tears will he shed,” Te Mirkvahíl moaned. “Such sorrow will he bleed.”

  Yes, Behtréal thought. He will be consumed with anguish once reality comes to light. And reality would be as cruel as snow was white. Behtréal could hardly imagine the pain of knowing Searyn An and Eisley Khal were dead and had been for a while. He supposed though it would pale in comparison to the pain of Theailys’ learning Anayela was a lie and always had been. This was how you broke someone. Barring death, this was how you destroyed their ability to trust. It was cruel, but such was life.

  “Will you tell Theailys An?” Serece inquired.

  “Not until he returns,” Behtréal said. “But Queen Ahnil will undoubtedly command I send news of Searyn’s death to the Seraph in Naldunar, and I find it highly unlikely Theailys An is not informed.” He looked at Fenrin. “What will you two do now?”

  “Don’t know,” Fenrin said. “I suppose this General Khoren is a bit of a lead. Perhaps I’ll sniff him out on the morrow.”

  “Why not end them now?” Te Mirkvahíl said. “The diviner and the child of rage before your very eyes, Te Luminíl!”

  Behtréal pushed against the darkness raging. Their ignorance is useful if not entertaining. Useful because he wondered what the underlying cause of Theailys’ triptych dreams might be. It was a variable he had not accounted for. Entertaining because he was well aware of the connection between Theailys An and Faro Fatego, having born the former from the latter’s soul little less than five hundred years ago.

  They arrived at the egress from the prison grounds. Behtréal gave Serece and Fenrin the customary salute of an Ariathan soldier—right fist to left shoulder—then bid them goodnight. There was still much to tend to.

  * * *

  “You look like you’re thinkin’ hard about somethin’,” Fenrin said. They had gone back to his room at a seedy inn to lodge for the night.

  Serece glanced up from her hands, then stood from the chair she’d been sitting in. “Did none of that feel odd to you? Premeditated?”

  “Felt strange is all,” Fenrin said. “Always does when my foresight is blocked.”

  “Maybe if you relied less on your foresight and more on your instincts you would have noticed nothing in that prison was right,” Serece said, crossing her arms. “A deity appeared out of nowhere and led us to Searyn’s corpse in the middle of a mission to discern Te Mirkvahíl’s identity.”

  Fenrin cocked his head. “You think Khal is Te Mirkvahíl? Seems likelier than not it’s this Khoren bastard.”

  Serece sighed. “I don’t know what I think. Maybe General Khoren is Te Mirkvahíl or a lieutenant of some rank. Either way, I don’t think Khal was entirely straight with us. That bit about us learning and seeing what Te Mirkvahíl wanted us to…it seemed like a warning and an obvious one at that.”

  “A warnin’ to what, stop meddlin’ in the affairs of demons?” Fenrin chuckled, but his amusement quickly faded to a narrow-eyed frown. “Now that I think about it, Khal did seem different. Didn’t notice it at first.”

  “Notice what?”

  “Her eyes,” Fenrin said. “She’s a world builder, a Celestial. Their kind, for whatever reason, aren’t able to change the color of their eyes.”

  “She’s a shapeshifter?” Serece asked.

  “Sort of,” Fenrin said, “but that’s not the point. They can’t change the color of their eyes, and Khal’s were always red. Tonight, though, they were amber.”

  “And you think that’s a sign she’s been compromised?” Serece asked.

  “You said to trust my instincts,” Fenrin said, “so that’s what I’m doin’. And I’m t
ellin’ you whoever we met tonight in the prison was not Khal.”

  “Te Mirkvahíl?” Serece said, feeling colder, more confused. “Something else?”

  “Somethin’, all right,” Fenrin murmured. “Somethin’.”

  Serece sat back down in the chair and looked out into the night. Khal was not Khal, Searyn An was dead—who could they trust? She glanced at Fenrin—could she even trust him?

  Don’t think like that—just don’t! This city’s out to get your kind enough as it is, so don’t shun the only person who seems to give a shit about you.

  She sighed, closing her eyes. Little less than two days in Helveden had been enough to make her skin crawl and itch more than it usually did. Stealing a horse or shaghound sounded like a pretty damn good idea right about now.

  * * *

  Behtréal approached the queen’s throne. Dawn light showered the crystalline room and he winced; the crystal of fallen stars were particularly painful to him in such close proximity. It was one of the reasons—the biggest, perhaps—why he himself could not forge The Keepers’ Wrath, could not hold the power focus in his hand until it was encased in the argentium Theailys An had gone to collect from the phantaxians.

  “My queen.” He dropped to his knee—dropped Khal to her knee—and offered the formal salute. “I come bearing ill information.” Queen Ahnil rose to her feet at this. Forcing the tears to fall, Behtréal said, “Searyn An is dead.”

  “It was Khoren and his men,” Ahnil guessed, tensing her jaw, a dangerous glint in her yellow eyes.

  “Yes,” Behtréal said. “And there is proof left on her flesh.” He stood, producing a small box from his robes, and held it out to Ahnil.

  The queen took the box. She removed the lid, nostrils flaring, the corners of her mouth twitching. “Tattooed flesh.”

  “Just as he had threatened,” Behtréal said, feigning tempered rage. “This is treason. General An had yet to stand trial.”

  “Send word to the Seraph in Naldunar. Inform them of what’s transpired,” Ahnil commanded, just as Behtréal had anticipated. “And once that is done, dispose of General Khoren—discretely.”

  Discretion was Behtréal’s middle name and chaos was his favorite game. “Of course.” He bowed his head then turned and started on his way, Te Mirkvahíl a grinning white-eyed countenance in his mind.

  1 0

  Judgment

  Historians called Naldunar the Hand of the War Mother for the simple fact the city sat atop a massive island shaped like a hand with its palm upturned. Theailys marveled at the crystalline metropolis as the shaghounds thundered across a great stone bridge wide enough twenty or so of the beasts could easily stand abreast.

  “Never less impressive,” Cailean opined. “Not much a fan of the Church or the Faithbringers these days but Naldunar’s still something to behold.” He gave Theailys a light pat on the shoulder. “How you feeling?”

  “Uncertain, I suppose,” Theailys said. The last couple of days had been relatively quiet on all fronts. No Faro, no dreams, no ruin. Nothing. A nothingness that had given way to endless thoughts about what might happen here in Naldunar. Would the Seraph present him with the crystal he had petitioned for and been promised months ago? And what of Tal, what of the consequences? Theailys took a deep breath, blinking slowly as to allow his eyes to adjust to the brightness of Naldunar.

  “I don’t blame you,” Cailean said. “The Church is strict about that Second Life nonsense and whatnot. If that’s what you’re worried about, I mean.” Theailys nodded. “Right. Well…maybe the Seraph will show a bit of leniency. Not like you can control being possessed, right?”

  “Honestly,” Theailys said, “I’m more worried about being refused the crystal. Without that there’s no Keepers’ Wrath. And without that…”

  “The Heart of Mirkúr yet remains,” Cailean said darkly.

  “I don’t think the Seraph is stupid enough to ignore that,” Leyandra offered from behind Cailean. “My guess? If you’re to be tried for what transpired in Tal, it’ll be after the Heart has been destroyed. It would be hypocritical for the Church to condemn you for the reapin’ of souls when they would effectively be sentencin’ the rest of Ariath to the same fate. Hundreds of thousands of people, all deprived of the Second Life.”

  “She has a point,” Cailean said.

  “I hope you’re right.” Otherwise, Theailys thought, those hundreds of thousands of souls will all be on my conscience. He knew it was a stupid belief, an outlandish one at that, yet still he couldn’t escape the guilt that’d been festering these last couple of days. It wasn’t his fault, not directly at least. But Faro is still a part of me, and it was with my body that he reaped those souls.

  They continued their ascent of the tiered city, crossing through the Palm with its shops and parks until they came to a switchback at the base of the Ring Finger. Lined with trees and built into the rock, it offered a shaded view of the fjord in which the island sat. It took little less than five minutes for the shaghounds to crest the Ring Finger, atop which sat the cathedral, a four-story, crystalline pillar of intimidation. Its spires jutted upward like talons, and the figures depicted in the stained-glass windows judged their approach, judged Theailys’ approach. The sun put radiant fire in their eyes and turned them into remnants of the fallen, from an age long passed.

  The quarter-mile promenade yawned into a quartered semi-circular courtyard. At the center of each triangular quarter stood an effigy of one of the four Keepers. Encircling the effigies, kneeling with their heads bowed and right hands touched to their left shoulders, were throngs of prayer givers.

  The riders passed the praying by, dismounting in the center of the courtyard, several yards away from a wideset stairway. An oak-lined cloister spanned the perimeter of the cathedral grounds; Theailys watched as a quartet of handlers emerged from the north, greeting them with the traditional salute. The handlers took the shaghounds and led them away by the reins, disappearing beyond the cloister wall to care for the dogs.

  From the south came a quintet of acolytes, adorned in the scarlet robes of their order. They gave silent salutes in the traditional style then ushered Theailys and his companions away. Marshal Nor walked in step beside him.

  “I don’t know how long it will take for the Seraph to summon you,” she said. “They will of course need to deliberate.” She wrinkled her nose as if to soothe an itch, then her expression softened a bit. “How are you feeling after…you know?”

  “Reaping souls?” Theailys muttered, glancing at the marshal.

  “I didn’t mean it like that.” Marshal Nor tensed her jaw as the acolytes led them around the corner and into the shade of an apple grove. “I was simply curious about your health. About…” She paused, lowering her voice. “About what you transformed into in the church just before you destroyed the Reaver.”

  Theailys’ eyes widened. “Transformed?”

  “Unless my eyes deceived me, and I doubt they did,” the marshal whispered, “you were smoke and shadow come to life.”

  “So, I was one of them.” A lokyn. Theailys felt cold; he wanted to scream.

  Marshal Nor shook her head and pulled Theailys to the side as the guest quarters came into view. “I’ve been fighting in this war since it began. I’ve seen some real shit. Never saw whatever it is you were the other night, of that I’m damn sure.”

  “But you said smoke and shadow—”

  “There’s a difference. I’m surprised you of all people don’t know that,” Marshal Nor said. She put her hands on Theailys’ shoulders. “The lokyns, they’re just parasites, dark souls wearing corpses. You, though? There was form, there were facial features. There was an aura, one I’ve never felt in my life. A searing light beyond the madness, one powerful enough to obliterate the Reaver with little effort.”

  We’re going to have a talk, Theailys thought at Faro. To Marshal Nor: “What do you think I am?”

  She shrugged. “Don’t know.” Then, starting off: “I will vouch for you whe
re I am able, but my words have little sway when it comes to the Seraph’s decisions. Get some rest.”

  Theailys watched her disappear around the corner. Why, he thought, do things always see fit to complicate themselves at the worst possible moment? Killing lokyns while under Faro’s possession didn’t bother Theailys as much as it once had; at this point it was starting to feel routine. What did bother him was the fact he was apparently transforming when this happened, and that Faro had neglected to mention it. Not that he was surprised by the latter. Theailys supposed if their roles were reversed, he might do the exact same thing. Keeping the body you longed to wholly possess ignorant of such drastic alterations seemed a good way to keep them malleable, if not a bit accepting.

  Head threatening to explode, Theailys started for the guest quarters, wondering what fate the Seraph had in store for him.

  * * *

  Night came far too quickly for Theailys’ liking. He had heard nothing all day and it was making him antsy, itchy in the way one gets when they haven’t eaten in hours. He glanced at Leyandra and Cailean, seated at the end of the table, drinks in hand whilst they mumbled back and forth.

  “Marshal Nor said I transformed in the church.”

  Leyandra and Cailean looked at one another with hesitant expressions. “We, um…weren’t sure what to say.” Leyandra stood, then took the seat beside Theailys, putting her hand on his. “Tal was a shit show. We didn’t want to burden you after what you went through.”

  Theailys averted their eyes. “I transformed. Into…”

  “Something,” Cailean said. “I’m guessing it’s not the first time either, right?”

  “Probably not.” Faro had yet to actually confirm this, but his silence was telling. “Suppose it would explain how and why I always seem to wake up next to massacred corpses after I blackout. After I’m possessed.”