The room suddenly feels too big with nowhere to hide. Silence ripples as everyone waits for my response. I swallow, searching for a way out.
“That which is good for the enemy harms you,” Cole says, from out of nowhere. “And that which is good for you harms the enemy.” He leans on the entryway threshold with arms crossed, looking way too serious. “Machiavelli’s The Art of War.”
I’m not surprised Cole knows Machiavelli, in Italian, nonetheless. He probably studied it in that overseas boarding school. He’s certainly impressed Foster. This is the first time I’ve ever seen the lieutenant come close to a smile.
Albrecht, on the other hand, is less than enthusiastic. “Who is the enemy?” she questions me, with a tone that could cut diamonds.
“Sage,” I say. But the moment the words come out, they feel as if they’re a lie.
“You call him your enemy with such confidence, yet, as a Blight, you hold allegiance to both sides.” She over-enunciates every syllable with unnerving precision. “You have proven your susceptibility to the enemy’s power through your lack of emotional restraint and, in doing so, have influenced others toward dissenting behavior.” When Albrecht glances at Cole, I tense. Her gaze trails through the room, holding the silence as if it were a soap bubble about to pop. “How is it that you believe you can discern your allegiance? How can we? You are merely a child.”
Everything in me wants to snap back. I almost do until a cool breeze smelling of the arbor wafts through the screen door. Pop’s words don’t get hotheaded echo in my head.
I sit back. I need to walk this road carefully. She’s testing me. The same way Gray did in the training room.
I take a breath to think. Albrecht navigates with historical academics and literary quotes. Milton isn’t giving me anything to throw at her right now, but surprisingly, Machiavelli is.
A crisp sharpness surges through me. I keep my tone calm. “As a Blight, neither Awakened nor Dissenter, I know that a ‘lion cannot protect himself from traps, and the fox cannot defend himself from wolves. One must therefore be a fox to recognize traps, and a lion to frighten wolves.’” I quote Machiavelli’s The Prince, hoping I got it right. Cole ducks his head, but not before I catch him grin.
“Carver!” Kellan bursts into the room. My heart leaps at his pale, freckled face. He rushes past Cole, looking just as intense as he did on the streets of East Ridge, wearing the same sleeveless jacket. He probably has that flask filled with Spike tucked in the lining. “The last hit wasn’t at the gate.”
“Where did they strike?” Gray’s expression tightens.
I look at the map of the grounds. The entire outline of the Garden roughly matches the circled pattern I’d seen at the Well. The entry gate is far south. The Well is marked on the map by two trees, east of this building.
“Southwest part of the Wall,” Kellan says.
“Assemble reinforcements in that quadrant,” Albrecht commands. “If the Circuit Wall has weakened, the enemy will most certainly attempt another breach.”
A bold awareness floods me, and I can’t keep my mouth shut. “He won’t enter there. Sage will break through in the top right quadrant of the Garden.”
Albrecht’s stare is piercing. “Is that because you shared a layout of the grounds with the enemy on your recent escapade?”
Foster approaches her. “With all due respect, Admiral. To our knowledge, the enemy has no awareness of the terrain inside the Garden. Nor has he siphoned any Alliance intelligence from Miss Marlowe, save for one vision. What Miss Marlowe speaks, she gleans from messages embedded by Blight artists. Isn’t that so?” The look he gives me is almost pleading.
“Yes,” I say quickly. “Sage had these two paintings at his place.” The entire room watches as I push Delacroix’s Barque of Dante next to John Martin’s Bridge over Chaos. “They both show light breaking through in the top left corner. And so does the one depicting the coming battle.” My bound hands lift to point at the Martin painting on the wall. “Blights painted a dual message. The light is both a hope of success and a warning of what is to come. If Sage has figured it out, then he’ll enter in the northwest quadrant, the spot closest to the Well.”
Albrecht searches me as if weighing my truth. I let her read me, knowing I’m right. “How much damage has occurred to the Circuit Wall thus far?” she asks Kellan, while keeping her eyes on me.
“Part is emitting sparks. Still holdin’ but the power’s weakening.”
“Weakening, how?” Gray asks.
Kellan, with his southern drawl, confirms my warning with his intel. “There’s a small fissure where the Wall keeps sparkin’. Nothin’ but cold air’s coming through. But the last group of Legions . . . they didn’t splinter completely.”
Silence descends over room, amplifying the clock’s ticking hand. My theory about the Circuit Wall weakening was right.
Another hit or two and Sage will break through.
The admiral and her entourage are clustered in a tight conversation with Gray. Questions blast across the War Room from all directions. I’m still bound to the chair, as Foster tries to settle the chaos.
“Enough!” He silences the crowd and then turns to one side of the room. “Terminating a Blight within the Circuit Wall brings great uncertainty to the fragile state of the Garden. It is not an option.” He switches his attention to the other side. “Opening the gate to remove the Blight from the grounds so the Wall stays intact shall only expedite Sage’s entry.” To a small group hovering in the corner he adds, “And we are quite certain the enemy does not wish to negotiate.”
“We’ll set up decoys,” Gray says, breaking from his discussion with Albrecht. “When Sage breaches the Wall, we’ll send out four teams on motorcycles, three being decoys, one containing the Blight. Each will depart in different directions.” It’s not lost on me that Gray pointed to the northwest corner of the map; the very place where I believe Sage will enter. “I anticipate that Sage and his creatures will follow, separating his army, reducing the impact of the attack. With a skilled team, we can have the Blight outside the grounds in a matter of minutes.”
Albrecht nods in agreement. “Excellent, Sergeant Carver. I agree that the quick and fatal execution of the Blight outside the grounds is essential to preserve the Empyrean Well until transfer is complete. Once the transfer occurs, the power and protection of the Well will renew, in full.”
I’m all for this plan, minus the death part, if I can help it.
Cole, who’s been quietly spinning a chess piece this whole time, has had enough and elbows his way through the room. “You think Sage is going to walk away from the fight because the Blight isn’t around? What happens if your escape plan doesn’t work and Sage brings her back to the Garden? You have a plan for that? Stop and think for a minute. Even if you terminate Cera, Sage isn’t going to walk away from this fight. Not if he’s cornered this many Awakened with Elite power and Alliance secrets. He’ll terminate every last one of us and siphon our powers to make himself stronger while gaining our knowledge.”
With my attention on Cole, I didn’t see Devon come in, but somehow he’s made his way to my side. “Maddox says to see what you can find,” he whispers, handing me a book.
But it’s not any book. It’s my copy of Milton—with all my highlighted passages, notes, crazy thoughts and theories scribbled illegibly in the margins. “How did he—when did he get this?”
“It was with Sage.”
The thought of Sage reading my thoughts, touching my stuff, sends fire through my veins.
“Ask yourself,” Cole continues, “what information do you have inside your head that you’ll hand over to the enemy when you die?” He stands near the sketches, where the last ten years of carnage from my life are displayed for all to see. “Think about how that information will make things easier for Sage to take over the Well and annihilate us, either this time or next, or however many times after that. Machiavelli says, ‘There is no avoiding war; it can only be postponed to
the advantage of others.’ And with your plan, the advantage will go to Sage.”
“I agree.” Devon joins Cole. “Better to plan an offensive attack. Maybe we can use Cera to help draw in Sage.”
The admiral’s voice is hard. “The Blight is no longer necessary and poses too great a risk. Now that the vision has been extracted, our priority is to ensure that under no circumstance is the third realm to be joined with the second.”
As they argue, I fan through the pages of the poem searching for any hidden messages. Folded sheets of paper are tucked in random places throughout the book. I remove a note, sliding it under the table. The paper holds Maddox’s scent, but it’s not a note. Not with words, anyway. He’s sketched a scene from Paradise Lost: Adam with tangled bangs, gazing at an innocent Eve as she stares at her reflection in a lake, seeing herself for the first time.
I quickly unfold another note. In this one, Eve is nestled in Adam’s arms as they lounge under the cool shade of a majestic tree within a garden that looks a lot like this place. Longing flows from every stroke, every pencil mark, every curve and shadow. The way he’s drawn Eve, she looks a lot like . . . The paper trembles as my heartbeat pulses in my fingertips.
I unfold another sheet. This one is worn, as if held a lot. Or it could be the one he’s kept in his back pocket, because the frayed creases tell me it’s been folded and refolded several times. I’m careful not to tear the edges as I open it.
Loose hair blows across a girl’s face as she looks over her shoulder with a mix of concentration and fascination in her determined eyes. An army of butterflies takes flight in my stomach. He’s captured . . . me.
In the bottom corner he’s written, “You change everything.”
“Termination is our only option.” The admiral’s callous words shatter my daydream.
Foster’s lip twitches. “We may choose to disagree, but we cannot be divided. It will surely result in our demise. A unified plan is our only means for success, no matter how success may look.”
I am searching for another note when Milton breaks in, freely flowing, as if a spigot has been busted open, simply by holding my old copy.
Among the constellations war were sprung,
Two planets rushing from aspect malign
Of fiercest opposition in mid-sky
Should combat, and their jarring spheres confound.
Yes, war between these two realms is imminent. In fact, Sage will break through the Circuit Wall any minute now. As far as I know, the only plan in place is my death. If there is something I’m missing, please let me see. I fumble through the pages until I hit this highlighted verse:
The sword of Satan with steep force to smite
Descending and in half cut sheer, nor stayed,
But with swift wheel reverse, deep entering sheared
All his right side.
Can this really be it? You’re never literal, Milton.
Devon must notice my expression. “Cera, what did you find?” Cole looks just as curious.
I clutch the poem so I don’t lose the page. I work hard to stand, despite the binding on my ankles. “This might be an answer. A swift cut to Sage’s right side, perhaps with the Paradise Steel. Listen to the rest. “The griding sword with discontinuous wound / Passed through him.”
Could this be the answer? “Stab Sage, probably the same way Gray killed the Cormorant. Maybe Gray’s knife is the answer. If it is part of the gate broken off in the last battle, the power from his Steel must be the only thing strong enough to fatally wound Sage. That might be why Sage aimed to destroy it when we were outside of the gate.”
There is a silent hush over the room. I keep reading, devouring the words for confirmation. “But the ethereal substance closed / Not long divisible . . . / Yet soon he healed.” Wait, what? Blood drains from my face.
“Continue,” Albrecht says, sounding . . . the opposite of encouraging.
I skim another few pages. The words choke with a strangled whisper. “Incapable of mortal injury / Imperishable and, though pierced with wound, / Soon closing and by native vigor healed.”
My hands go limp. Not only is Sage a powerful ancient force and able to shapeshift . . .
“Sage is indestructible,” Albrecht says. “Confirmed.” The word echoes like a gavel on my soul.
But there is a message in those verses. Those lines mean something. I know they do. But what? I rub the itchy rope on my wrists, wishing someone would unbind me. Maybe then I could think clearer. I tug at the twine around my ankles, but can’t break loose.
Gray watches me a moment, then turns his back. “We expect the Circuit Wall to stay intact another few hours, at most. We need to decide on our course of action and mobilize quickly.”
“Use the Ghost Army.” Devon boldly approaches the admiral. “They’ve been working on projections and explosions that mimic the Circuit Wall. When Sage breaks through, we’ll launch an offensive attack. It’s to our advantage, since Sage and his army are unfamiliar with our terrain. I’ll have the team cloak the training room so we can keep the sick and wounded protected while we fight.”
The Blades draw closer to Devon as he speaks with the confidence of a seasoned Caretaker that would make Pop proud. “We should also employ Gray’s plan and use decoys to split Sage’s army but lead them into ambush traps instead. If Sage remains near the Well, which Cole suspects he will, then we’ll use projections to hide the Well’s location, making it appear like the surrounding forest. We can lure Sage closer and get him to strike, using his power source. We’ll deflect the hit to the Inner Wall and call out the code word: rise. The blast should splinter him enough to end the fight.”
Leave it to Devon to tie everyone’s ideas together. However, it’s not lost on me that I’ve been left out of his strategy.
Albrecht looks somewhat pleased. “Have these projections been tested?”
“Yes,” Devon affirms. “Along with the use of frequency scramblers to disorient the Legions and elixirs to mask scents from Cormorants. With these additions, there is a higher chance of success.”
“Good plan.” Cole spins the sketches of my visions upside down. “But I still think Sage will be expecting us to trick him somehow, and knowing him, he might be hesitant to strike. We need to think differently. Learn from what happened in the Renaissance, from Machiavelli: There is nothing as likely to succeed as what the enemy believes you cannot attempt.”
“Until we view Miss Marlowe’s latest vision and understand what knowledge Sage has acquired,” Foster says as he realigns the sketches, “an effective plan cannot be conceived.”
“Is the rendering complete?” Albrecht asks.
“Almost,” Devon replies.
“Until then we will prepare according to the plan outlined by Mr. Lassiter.” She gives the command to Silver Assassin and Suspenders and then turns to Kellan. “Secure reinforcements in the northwest quadrant.” At least she’s heeding my advice about Sage’s entrance. She hands out the rest of the assignments; Foster will lead a battalion to fight the front lines of Legions. Gray will mobilize an advanced team to battle Cormorants, while she and her entourage handle Sage.
“And the Blight?” Gray wants to know.
“Terminate at your discretion.”
Daylight fades, darkening the room. Foster approaches the admiral. “Edward Lassiter secured Miss Marlowe in the Garden with intention. He would not have done so if not compelled by either a vision or knowledge beyond our understanding coming directly from the Well itself.”
“Perhaps it was simply to allow us to retrieve the vision. And that task has been completed.” Albrecht inspects Foster with scorn. “I expected greatness from you, Lieutenant, but it seems your personal loss has damaged your resolve. You have become disappointingly . . . adequate.”
Foster’s expression is no longer unreadable. His stoic features fall as if his heart has been squeezed in her steely fist. She pivots sharply and studies the map with hands behind her rigid spine that I suddenly want to c
rack with a solid kick of my boot.
Cole makes his way around the table to Gray. “The success of the plan is slim to none. It failed back in the Renaissance. Sage will catch on, and it will fail again.”
“What do you suggest we do, Tripton?” Gray scowls, but he doesn’t seem angry. Fear, hurt, or possibly both, outline his features. “You think we should run? Break our promises and abandon what we believe we’re called to defend, leave it unguarded so Sage can test its strength and eventually find a way to destroy it? Maybe Cera isn’t the only Blight he’s bred, but she’s the only one of age. This is the one chance we have to splinter him and secure the Well for centuries to come. We have to try.”
I feel sickened by his insinuation that I was born as a product of Sage’s planning, another creature created for his army. I don’t belong to Sage. But bound to a chair, it’s clear I don’t belong to the Alliance either.
I’m the gray line in between. I always have been.
Machiavelli’s quote, “What the enemy believes you cannot attempt,” sticks to my brain. As far as I know, the only thing Sage believes the Alliance can’t attempt is harming the Well.
But I can.
Maybe Milton’s message wasn’t about striking Sage but something else entirely. Maybe the answer is about striking the Inner Wall, as Devon suggested, except not with Sage’s power. With mine.
My pulse quickens, knowing we’ve wasted too much time. With the air turning dusky gray, Sage is sure to strike again soon. I know I’m no match for the years of knowledge and experience clustered in the room, or even what’s waiting outside the Garden, but if there’s a chance I’m right, a chance I can make a difference, then I can’t stay quiet. “Admiral? What if I strike the Inner Wall with the Paradise Steel when Sage is within range? It’s not as unpredictable as relying on Sage to create the blast.” And I’d die in the process. “It’s the one thing Sage won’t expect.”
Realms of Light (The Colliding Line Book 2) Page 23
