Word of Truth

by Rhett C. Bruno

  Her lips pursed. Lightning crackled around her fingertips. Spiders emerged from the dirt and encircled him. He didn’t give ground.

  Bliss leaned in, then released something akin to a growl, and vanished with a wisp.

  Rand shook out his hands and inhaled deeply as the spiders burrowed away into the sides of the gorge. Her, he didn’t trust in the slightest. While part of him wished she’d just let him die in Latiapur, he had to see this thing to its end.

  He continued through the horde of beasts and mindless men to the back, where a cart remained guarded by possessed Shieldsmen who’d been captured in the battle, men he’d known. Their dark eyes and veins coruscating around them brightly contrasting the white of their armor.

  Demons had possessed their bodies. Like the others, they didn’t converse, but they gave something familiar to be around. Sitting nearby with a fire, he could almost feel like they were back in the Glass Castle courtyard, together.

  “Why are we stopped?” asked a weak voice. Dirty hands wrapped the bars of the iron cage atop the cart, and then, moonlight illuminated the nose poking through.

  Rand regarded the sad state of Sir Lucas Danvels—a pathetic excuse for a Shieldsman if there ever was one. Which reminded Rand that the home he pictured no longer existed and would now be destroyed by that fat Shesaitju brute and his people. There was nothing special about the Order. Torsten had allowed so many to perish, they became a slipshod crew of young liars and thieves. Honorless dregs.

  Men like Lucas, who, like Torsten, had been happy to sit across from Rand and tell him that Sigrid was dead even though she was out there, transformed into an upyr, alone and scared. Until Nesilia found her and gave her purpose.

  “Does it matter?” Rand asked. He rummaged through his supplies to find something to eat. He had nothing to cook, so Shesaitju pit lizard jerky would suffice, as it had every other night.

  Lucas squeezed his head through the bars to try and get a look at the surroundings. His Shieldsman armor rattled, loosely fitting on his weakening muscles. Rand knew how heavy and constricting the armor was. It was slow torture to leave him in it, all while he crouched in a cage too low to stand or even sit straight. He deserved no better.

  “Is that White Bridge?” Lucas asked.

  “Quiet.” Rand tore off a chunk of the dried meat and tossed it through the bars as if to an animal. Lucas tried to catch it, but it slipped through his fingers and bounced out into the dirt. Lucas sat back with a loud thud, not even attempting to reach for it.

  Rand sighed. He stood, found the piece on the ground, and slid it back through the bars. “You’re lucky I need to keep you alive.”

  “For what?” Lucas asked. In the darkness, Rand heard him crawl across the cage, then devour the jerky.

  What a weakling, Rand thought. A true Shieldsmen like he was trained to be would have refused food and water, would have let themselves rot rather than be held captive by an enemy.

  Rand returned to the fire and tore a piece off the tough meal with his molars. It was better than training rations, at least.

  “Fine, ignore me,” Lucas said.

  “Now you’re starting to get it,” Rand said.

  Lucas gave it a few seconds, then slid back to the bars. “You know, Sir Unger was only trying to protect you. He knew you would do something crazy in your state of mind, and he was right.”

  “Good for him.”

  “I think you’re an embarrassment. The only lie you’re a part of is the one we told Yarrington so they wouldn’t be ashamed. Rand the Redeemer. Even saying it out loud is ridiculous. You’re a traitor to everything. Most of all, your sister.”

  “You know nothing,” Rand growled.

  “I know she’s a slave to Nesilia. I see her walking through the night, and there’s no human left in that stride. She probably gave herself up to the Buried Goddess because she’s as weak as you.”

  “Shut up!” Rand screamed. Without even realizing how he got there, he banged on the bars of the cage. “You know nothing. Just sit there, and be quiet or I’ll—“

  “What?” Lucas interrupted. His impish smirk spread into the moonlight. “Kill me? You can’t. Because you’re her slave, too, and apparently, she wants me alive.”

  “But she doesn’t need you with all your parts, does she?” The satisfaction of hearing Lucas swallow sent Rand back to his seat. He poked the fire with his boot, a spray of embers swirling up through the darkness. He watched them dance, wishing they’d swallow him whole.

  “Reminds me of Dockside after Nesilia’s cultists made it burn,” Lucas said.

  “Purged like a forest fire,” Rand replied.

  “Is that what she told you? What about how it was Torsten who cut Valin Tehr’s head from his shoulders before that fire let him take Dockside over for good?”

  “The Shield let him fester there. Torsten was just finally doing his job. When I first joined, I begged them to look deeper into the Vineyard. But he called it an ‘unnecessary evil.’ Sir Unger wouldn’t even meet with me about it. I had to talk to that old rat, Lars.”

  Lucas’ voice softened. “Torsten wanted to do something. I know it. It just wasn’t simple.”

  “It should have been. That’s what Nesilia will change. No more gold ruling over everyone. No more powerful noble families deciding who lives and dies. No more wars for which to send children off to die.”

  “Did she tell you that while her cultists danced over the bodies of our friends and neighbors?”

  Rand gnawed off another piece of jerky and chewed.

  “I met you when I was younger. Did you know that?” Lucas asked after another bout of silence. Rand would’ve moved, but he’d already spent so many nights alone. The possessed Shieldsmen just continued staring forward. Their all-black eyes didn’t even reveal where they were looking.

  “You were just a guard,” Lucas went on. “My parents run a bakery down near the harbor. Someone broke in and stole some bronzers from their register. You were assigned the case. You found the thief and returned everything he hadn’t already spent. I was still young, but I remember being amazed.”

  Rand chuckled.

  “What’s funny?” Lucas asked.

  “I remember that. I never caught a soul. Just wasted three nights looking after Captain Henry told me to let it go.”

  “That’s not true. I watched you hand my parents a bag of autlas.”

  “My own earnings. I felt so bad when they cried, and seeing their pitiful son staring at me behind the counter with sad, wet eyes, I gave them my weeks’ pay and lied that they were safe.”

  Now it was Lucas’ turn to sit in silence.

  “I guess I’m not surprised I did it. That’s what we’re taught. To lie when there isn’t any answer. Keep the peace at all costs.”

  Lucas edged closer to the bars. “Rand, that kept them going during the Third Panping War when so many Docksiders marched off. They prayed for you that Dawning, hard as I’d ever seen them pray. Prayed you’d be in charge one day and make Dockside a brighter place.”

  “Soon, maybe I will be.”

  “With them at your side?” he gestured toward the mindless husks of Shieldsmen. “Hey! See? Nothing. Just like your sister, they aren’t who they used to be. Might as well be dead.”

  “Can’t you see?” Rand said, finding it in himself to ignore the comment. “Your parents were robbed because they couldn’t defend themselves. They were too weak. And all my lie did was help them feel safe, like anyone gave a yig about two bakers from the armpit of the Kingdom. If they’d been stronger, they’d have gutted the thief themselves.”

  “And we’ll live like the Drav Cra?” Lucas said. “Raiding and pillaging and kneeling to whoever’s got the biggest axe?”

  “We already do that. The nobles needed Dockside as much as we did, and even more than we needed them. They built their homes on our broken backs, tossing us a pittance that we so willingly gobbled up. They pillaged our souls for gold. Because Iam blessed them to be born
in Old Yarrington, they deserved it. Right?”

  “I’m not saying Yarrington is perfect,” Lucas argued. “I’ve seen it at its worst.”

  “At least the Drav Cra are honest about it. No games, no lies. Sigrid worked at a tavern and never once let a man touch her. If a thief tried to take anything from the place, she’d have castrated him right there. And she lived just like your soft parents when she should’ve been a Queen.”

  “You can’t believe that.”

  “How could I not? You bow before names and titles and gold. A Mad Queen who hanged innocent people for no reason. A king who screwed whoever he wanted, and called for war in the name of Iam. The god, they say, wanted only peace during the Feud—who supposedly stayed out of it.” Rand blew out a raspberry. “You followed a meek boy who started a war, leaped from a window in cowardice, got himself killed in Latiapur when I tried to save him!” Rand’s voice had risen to a shout. His fingers dug into the log he sat on, bark cramming under his nails.

  “And a murderous goddess is better?” Lucas said. “Pi is dead. The Nothhelms die with him. Do you really think this will be a better replacement?”

  “Can’t be worse,” Rand grumbled.

  “Then why did you try and save the King, if that’s really true?”

  “My sister wanted him alive.”

  “Don’t lie to me.”

  “I’m not,” Rand said through his teeth. He focused on the fire, but couldn’t stop the flood of memories. Him, lying in the wet sand with the King’s battered body beside him. Sir Unger, looking down on him in disgust and disappointment.

  Lucas sighed. “It’s not too late, you know?”

  “For what?”

  “To be redeemed. To earn that title.”

  “I didn’t ask for it. That was Torsten, deceiving people yet again. Because Iam forbid a Shieldsman be capable of doing what I’d done. How dare I go against the Crown to try and save my sister. And yet, for refusing to be okay with hanging handmaidens, they called me a deserter.”

  “Nobody wishes things were different more than Torsten,” Lucas said. “Can’t you see that? It’s why Nesilia keeps you around, because she knows you’re his soft spot. Just how she knew you’d once again get close enough in Latiapur to stab him in the back.”

  “No. It’s for my sister.”

  “She’s gone.”

  “She’s not,” Rand said, anger carving deep gashes in his heart.

  Lucas grasped the bars again. “You can still make things right, Rand. Iam’s light is always there. Maybe His Kingdom did lose its way. It stopped offering forgiveness and started demanding blood. But we can change that.”

  Rand shook his head. “Iam abandoned this world. Left us to fight over what was left of it.”

  “You know that’s not true. You saw Him, on this very field, saw him drive Nesilia away. I heard what happened. I see it in your eyes now. You watched it.”

  “I watched a drunken priest do a magic trick.” Rand dismissed him with a wave as he stood. “I’ve had enough of you.”

  “No, you haven’t,” Lucas said. “Who else will you talk to now that you’ve thrown in with monsters. Does this really look like the army of a liberator?”

  “More than Liam’s ever did.”

  Rand kicked the logs, sending up smoke, embers, and flames, then stormed off. Even the company of goblins was preferable to a Shieldsman who thought he knew anything, who’d been blinded by false promises of glory and God’s favor.

  He heard Lucas hollering in the background, growing desperate as he lost his chance to play on Rand’s former loyalty and maybe get himself an extra meal or two. Rand knew the tricks. He knew how thieves in dungeons would try to endear themselves to the guards. All lies and distractions.

  A deep rumble started in the distance, near the bridge. Then, the ground quaked, rocking him to his knees. None of the possessed budged in the slightest, and Rand shoved through them to return to his sister. Goblins and spiders skittered away. Grimaurs took flight, snapping at one another as they rose.

  Rand drew his sword and shoved a tremendous Panpingese man out of the way.

  “What happen—“ He skidded to a stop when he saw.

  Nesilia remained kneeling by the edge of the bridge, only, the fractured pieces of it all now floated across the wide valley. Hundreds of them, from the tiniest chip to a chunk that could carry a giant. One by one, they shifted into place, reforming the bridge which had once connected west and east Pantego.

  Bliss appeared at Rand’s side, mouthing only the word, “How?”

  Nesilia remained with her hands upon the stone but looked back. He’d never seen this version of his sister so self-satisfied. Echoes of Sigrid when she used to beat him at well, anything, filled his brain. It made him look away.

  “The dwarves who built this bridge had reinforced the stone with glaruium,” Nesilia said. “Thanks to you burying me under the only mountain where it’s found, Bliss, it listens to me.”

  Bliss didn’t answer. She flew out and swirled around the loose pieces, still filling into the impossibly complex puzzle of reversed devastation.

  “You see,” Nesilia went on. “Patience. Everything happens for a reason. They thought they’d bought themselves time by destroying history. But the past cannot be forgotten. And it cannot be forgiven.”

  Her eyes fixed on Rand, and he froze. Was she talking about his conversation with Lucas? Could she hear them?

  “Come now, my pets,” she said. “Yarrington awaits.”

  She stayed where she was. Rand realized that the bridge didn’t merge or repair completely. All the cracks remained visible as if she were holding them in place only temporarily. As creatures began to cross without any fear of it crumbling beneath them, Rand realized she was.

  A grimaur pecked at his ear as it swooped by, and he swatted at it with his sword. Then he, too, began to march. They were close now. He, also, was close. To the end of this nightmare and seeing Sigrid on the other side.

  The Glass Kingdom be damned. The whole world be damned. It was broken as is. Filled with cruelty and suffering for no good reason.

  “But we can change that,” Lucas said.

  And his sister would.

  She had to…

  XXXVI

  The Knight

  “Sora was what, by the Buried Goddess?” Torsten asked, incredulous.

  He scanned the Shield Hall and saw more than a dozen faces equally aghast as he was. He ignored the irony that the north wall of the room was an open balcony overlooking Mount Lister—the very place where Nesilia had been buried in the God Feud.

  Everyone with an essential role in Yarrington’s defense was present, seated or standing around the thick, stone table, including Whitney and his group, who claimed they could stop the goddess.

  Torsten had caught them up on what had happened since he’d left Yarrington for White Bridge, along with everyone else. From Nesilia’s return in the body of an upyr to the ambush at Latiapur where Rand Langley completed his betrayal. Then, Whitney did the same, telling all about a journey to the upyr Citadel to save who he just claimed to be Nesilia’s host prior to Sigrid.

  If it weren’t for the other companions, especially the Glintish woman called Lucindur, Torsten would have believed the tale to be just another wild exaggeration by the self-proclaimed “World’s Greatest Thief.”

  “Possessed by her,” Whitney said blithely, as if that were a routine event in his insane life. “Keep up, Torsten. We broke her mind free using an old mystic relic, and nearly contained Nesilia’s power in time to destroy her in the mouth of a wianu, when Grisham “Gold Grin” Gale showed up and ruined it all. He killed… Sigrid’s master… and caused the bar guai to break. Then, Nesilia escaped into Sigrid’s Upyr body.”

  Torsten didn’t respond. His gaze fixated on Sora, who sat beside the thief, quietly staring down at the table. Tum Tum and Lucindur stood behind them, and they were the only ones who didn’t have their jaws ajar.

  “And you
brought her here?” Mahraveh asked, stealing the question straight from Torsten’s mouth. She and her lieutenant, Bit’rudam, sat across the room.

  “Yes, and?” Whitney asked, shooting daggers at her with his eyes.

  “Need I truly say it?”

  “Truly,” Whitney said with as much sarcasm as Torsten had come to expect. “And then, Torsten can explain why the castle is filled with you gray skins? Or did the King not just die in your hot, crusty desert?”

  “I second that,” Sir Mulliner muttered.

  “We have pledged our spears to the defense of this city,” Bit’rudam snapped. “Who are you to question anything?”

  “Oh, I don’t know… perhaps one of the inhabitants of Troborough—do you remember that place? You might remember it as one of twelve Glass villages that now looks like piles of ash,” Whitney said. “Weren’t you there? I swear I saw you there, killing children.”

  “How dare you!” Bit’rudam pushed out his chair. Mahraveh stopped him with a raised fist.

  “My father did what he thought he must, for our people,” she said, firm and steady. “As yours have. As your former Wearer or White did when he burned down my village. It is behind us now.”

  “Shog, it is!” Whitney protested. He placed his hand over his heart. “And Torsten Unger would never burn down a village. I’m offended you’d even accuse him of that, right, Torsten?”

  Bit’rudam opened his mouth to yell, then stopped himself. His features crinkled in confusion.

  “He doesn’t mean me,” Torsten said. “Sir Nikserof Pasic.”

  “But you’re… and…” Whitney threw his hands up in confusion. “I can’t keep up with this city. How many Wearers does that make now? And you… you can see, you can’t see. You’re Wearer, you’re nothing, you’re in charge. By Iam, it’s been a mess since I left.”

  “Stop!” Torsten’s large hand slammed down on the table. Pieces from the modeled version of Yarrington in its center toppled from the vibration. “None of this matters. You brought Sora here and didn’t think to mention that at the start of your story? It’s bad enough you worked with the very upyr who killed our Queen!”