Her Father's Fugitive Throne

by Brandon Barr

  I was like fruit, ripe on the vine but caught in a momentary web of deception, as if the silken strings I danced upon would never summon the spider’s bite. But now that the poison of age has sucked the life from my skin, I see clearly my own vanity.

  Yet I still yearn to be beautiful again, and to live eternal in that moment of ambrosial confidence.

  I yearn for the pain in my bones to cease, and my eyes to see clear and far. I want to run again, swift as a doe, to bathe myself, to feed myself. To scrawl these thoughts with my own hand and let my granddaughter enjoy her youth without my shadow hanging over her future, like a ghost around the bend.

  May I be like her again, may we all be filled with life, when we wake from this painful dream.

  -Erdu Proverbs, Haukeetep of the Rock Tribe, Spider Bones, Threnody Nine.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  WINTER

  Sanctor Theurg stood at the door to her room, cheeks pale, eyes sunken into his skull like vapid flickering orbs. “Winter, are you certain on your decision about deliverance?”

  Winter sighed with annoyance. “For the last time, yes, I am certain. There’s no going back for me. I’m sorry you cannot understand.”

  Theurg had been to see her earlier that morning, before Karience had called on her to be an Emissary to Night 2. And the day before, Theurg had talked with her for an hour, and she had frustrated him with a similar statement. There was no going back, she’d told him. She was weary of his attempts to pile doubts upon her—doubts she’d already dealt with. She’d faced Theurg’s questions in her mind long before he’d voiced them, and though some weren’t resolved, she’d wrestled through them, and had come to her decision. Fighting the doubts, in the end, had made her stronger. She saw both sides and found solace in her choice.

  Theurg leaned against her door frame like a defeated animal, body sagging, jaded face bowed down to the floor. “If that’s your choice,” he said, his words trailing away.

  “It’s my life, not yours,” said Winter. “Why do you take it so personally?”

  He pushed away from the door frame and stood erect. His eyes twitched. “I was Sanctuss Voyanta’s apprentice. She taught me to care too much about your kind, the Oracles. I thought I could finish what she started.”

  Winter refrained from trying to comfort him with more words. She just wanted him to leave. The heaviness that hung on Theurg’s features and resonated in his voice was draining and left an ominous chill in the room. She wondered if his failure to deliver her had some ill effect on his career in the Consecrators’ order, but she wasn’t about to ask.

  She turned her back to him and wandered over to peer out the porthole. Maybe he would take his cue and leave.

  “Galthess and I will be returning tonight to Bridge,” said Theurg.

  Slowly, Winter turned around. Theurg’s gaze remained on the floor near his feet. He continued, “Galthess has been given permission to inform you of some of the Scrivers’ material. If you’re interested, he wants to meet with you before he leaves.”

  “Yes, I’d love to speak more with Galthess,” said Winter. “Will you take me to him now?”

  “Yes,” he said. “Come with me.”

  Winter followed and felt her spirits lift. She wanted badly to know about other Oracles, about the Scrivers, and what they had written. And about Galthess, since he had seemed eager to tell her about his studies of the Scrivers.

  And just as Galthess and Theurg were set to depart this evening, so was she, in secret. After everyone had gone to sleep, she would step through the portal, and go to wherever the gods would take her.

  Theurg led her to the tunnel Rueik had shown her with the moving floor.

  “He’s waiting for you at the other end,” said Theurg, then briskly turned and walked away.

  Winter stepped onto the machine, thankful Theurg wasn’t accompanying her on the trip, and yet, she felt unsettled by his strange demeanor.

  At the other end, the floor began to slow, finally coming to a stop at a lift, the same kind she’d used in the Guardian Tower. She took the lift upward. The moment she climbed out of the lift, the salty air met her nose and the unceasing sea breeze flowed over her skin and through her hair. She took in a deep breath of air. Soon she would be leaving Loam, and whether or not she’d ever return, she did not know.

  Galthess sat on a rock not far away, staring out toward the ocean. The setting sun cast an orange glow on his features.

  “What are you thinking of just now?” asked Winter.

  Galthess looked genuinely surprised. A quiet smile formed on his lips. “I was thinking how long it has been since I’ve seen an ocean. I don’t leave Bridge often enough.”

  “Have you met many other Oracles?”

  “A few,” said Galthess, rising from the rock. “Though none had eyes the color of sunset, as you do. Would you care to walk over to the cliffs? The view there is profound. It’s the perfect place to ponder deep questions, and I’m sure you have many.”

  Winter fingered the twine holding Whisper’s vial. “Why have the Consecrators given you permission to speak to me? On the first day you were here, Theurg made it sound like it was against the rules.”

  “Rules can be broken,” said Galthess. “Being the curator of the Scrivers’ Den, I have more leeway than Sanctor Theurg.”

  Winter doubted that was the entire truth. She came alongside Galthess as he started down the path. “I thought it was because of your station,” said Winter. “That is, considering you answer only to the Sentinels and not the Consecrators.”

  Galthess stopped and turned, deep lines creasing his forehead. “Where did you receive that information?”

  She thought of Dicameron, the security officer. She didn’t want to get him in trouble. “I overheard it when I went to Bridge,” said Winter.

  “No doubt, you overheard a certain loose-tongued security officer,” said Galthess, staring hard at her. “I know the man well.”

  Winter decided to change the subject. She shrugged, then asked, “You said you’ve met very few Oracles, so why were you assigned to me? Am I unusual in some way?”

  “Yes, you are,” said Galthess, and turned to continue down the path. “There is a short prophetic poem called ‘The Contagion,’ written by Corvair. We believe it speaks of you.”

  Winter’s heart quickened. A prophecy about her? She tingled at the thought. “When was the prophecy given?”

  “We date the original to between ten and eleven thousand years ago. All we have are copies, of course.”

  “What does the prophecy say?”

  “On one world, a Beast attains fire and flight,

  On another, a sun-eyed carrier stays not still,

  On a third, Makers sing the songs of all,

  Inhabiting to cry and kill.”

  Winter shook her head. “Where do you see me in that prophecy?”

  Galthess stepped out onto the rocks where the portal waited, invisible, beyond the bent tree that hung over the cliff. Galthess turned toward her, his eyes studying her own.

  “You are the sun-eyed carrier. I have little doubt of it.” He moved uncomfortably close to the edge of the cliff, and she followed him.

  “There is more to the poem. Corvair’s vision was of an equidistant triangle of stars, and he described where each star was within a specific constellation called the Huntress. The constellation can only be seen on his world, and so we traveled there and documented which stars he spoke of. The Triangle is the arrowhead at the tip of the Huntress’ spear. Your sun is one of those stars.

  “The poem also says that on the first world a Beast will create a new body for himself with wings and fire. On the second world, you, Winter, will not stay still, but travel through the portal. The meaning of the lines about the third world remain a mystery to us. ‘Makers inhabiting, crying and killing.’ Many Scriver writings say the Makers’ ultimate goal is to inhabit all life. What that inhabitation entails, no one knows.”

  Winter stared at the old
tree hanging on the cliff side. The portal called to her.

  Stay not still.

  Leaf’s promises ran through her thoughts. A chill ran from her neck to her shoulders, down to her arms. It was as if, right then, she knew the Makers were watching her. Leaf was closer than her next breath.

  “If you were to step through the portal you would go either to Hearth, a world protected by Guardians, or you would go to the unknown world. Corvair is very clear about this. If the sun-eyed carrier steps through the portal of their homeworld without following in the wake of another person, they will not travel to any random world within the galaxy as the rest of us do, but only to the worlds within the Triangle.”

  Winter glanced at Galthess. Why was he telling her this? She was standing so near the portal entrance, it felt almost as if Galthess were baiting her to go through.

  She took a step back, and turned to look back the way they’d come, as if she had no interest in the portal.

  Galthess moved toward her slowly. “I see it in your eyes, Winter. Go ahead. I want to see too. I’ll follow you.”

  She stared at him, scared that this was some kind of test. “You’re a Guardian, a Consecrator,” she said, her voice trembling. “Why would you want me to step through?”

  “I’ll tell you a secret,” said Galthess, reaching out and fingering a leaf on the old tree that held the portal beneath its branches. “I’ve grown enchanted with the Makers. I’ve worked in the Scrivers’ room for so long, reading prophecies and studying the Oracles, I can’t help but doubt my order’s conclusion about the gods. I wouldn’t say that I trust the gods, but I am curious. I want to see this third world in the Triangle for myself. I want to ride in the wake of prophecy.”

  Winter looked at him in disbelief. “You would allow me to fulfill the prophecy?”

  Galthess turned his head to look at her. “I would. Will you take me with you?”

  ARENTISS

  Arentiss paced the hallway, her thoughts focused and her steps short and quick. She’d gone the length of the underwater facility four times already, increasing her circulation. The muscles in her legs burned nicely. She’d learned that her mind worked best when her heart rate was elevated.

  Her thoughts were on Aven. She had no time to delay. The odds of finding him alive diminished with every day that passed. There were reasons to keep a person with a VOKK alive. The foremost being that they didn’t have the technology to remove it. A VOKK was an organic machine, as difficult to remove as the hypothalamus or the caudate nucleus. And then to reinsert it into another’s brain required a sophisticated tool and skills that were difficult to find outside the Guardians.

  But she couldn’t fool herself either. There were more than a hundred civilized worlds that could perform such operations, and she knew there were many more yet undiscovered by the Guardians. Once the mercenaries made it to one, they’d have no reason to keep Aven alive. She had to get to him before they made it that far.

  Now all she needed to do was inform Karience of her decision to leave the Missionaries, travel through the portal back home, and then hire a pilot with a fast ship. If things went smoothly, she could be leaving the spaceport on Birth by tomorrow evening.

  She was midway through her fifth circuit of the facility when an unfamiliar voice caught her attention. She stopped. It was coming from a small conference room up ahead. Arentiss remembered the two who had come to speak to Winter. It was likely one of them she heard. She was about to turn back when the man said, “Why do we have to kill her?”

  Arentiss froze.

  There was an inaudible reply that crackled slightly, indicating it came from the long-range com device. She moved closer, listening.

  “Why couldn’t we just bring her back to Bridge and keep her there?” the man said.

  A second, calmer voice sounded faintly through the crackle of the com. It was the voice of an older woman, stern, yet not angry, and this time Arentiss could understand what she was saying. “She has a prophecy hanging over her head—her being alive is a risk. All it takes is one mistake, one vision from the gods showing her a path of escape, and the Triangle could be opened.”

  “I had to push her too fast,” came the male voice. “Winter needed more time. It wasn’t fair to her.”

  “Life rarely is fair, Theurg,” said the woman. “Come home, dear. You don’t have to wait for Galthess to finish.”

  There was a long, drawn out quiet. “I’m already packed. I’ve learned my lesson.”

  “Next time,” said the woman, “I’ll make sure you’re assigned a low priority Oracle. Winter was a difficult first assignment.”

  “You are gracious, Sanctuss. I haven’t the heart for these cases.”

  Arentiss stepped back as the man’s footsteps neared. He emerged from the room and halted at the sight of her.

  Arentiss reacted without thinking. She struck him hard in the throat with her fist. Theurg staggered back, clutching at his windpipe, wide-eyed, his mouth agape. Arentiss hooked her right foot behind his ankle then shoved him. The man toppled to the ground.

  “Where is Winter?” demanded Arentiss, her voice sharp and threatening.

  Theurg wheezed as he tried to breathe out words.

  She grabbed him by the front of his shirt and lifted his head from the ground. “Where is she?”

  The man coughed, his tongue protruding from his gaping mouth. He tried to roll over onto his side.

  Arentiss yanked him back and glared at him. “My isometric grip-strength is more robust than the average male,” she said, placing a knee on his chest, pinning him down. She thrust her free hand between his legs. “In other words, I could crush your testicles in one hand.”

  Theurg’s eyes widened with terror, and his wheezing became more pronounced.

  “I’ll ask you again…where is Winter?”

  He nodded frantically, sucking in air. “She’s with…Galthess,” he said, between strained breaths.

  Arentiss looked up at a sound coming down the hall. Hark ran toward her. “What’s going on?”

  She put a hand up to silence him, then looked back down at the wheezing man.

  “Where are they? Where are Winter and Galthess?”

  “At the cliff…by the portal.”

  Arentiss sprang up. “Hark, restrain this man. He’s part of a conspiracy.”

  Hark scowled down at the man.

  “When you’re done, meet me at the portal. Winter’s in grave danger.”

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  RUEIK

  Rueik pulled his hood up over his head as he neared the Royal Palisade. Anantium’s grand building rose like a small mountain into the darkening tint of the evening sky.

  He was dressed as a courier, having discarded his Guardian attire. A leather courier pouch hung from his belt. If not for the foreign complexion of his skin, it would have been simple to reach the royal domiciles above. The coming night and the shadow cast by his hood were his two allies.

  A soldier guarding the entrance looked his way. Rueik lowered his head. The soldier’s eyes lingered on him a moment, then turned to look at the people following him.

  Once inside, Rueik moved quickly toward the stairs. Torches lit the palisade’s interior. Most of the evening traffic consisted of servants going about their duties. Rueik climbed the spiraling stairs, his mind focused on the evening’s objectives. If all went as planned, Winter’s death would provide the climactic end of the night, right after framing Karience for Damien’s murder.

  At the top of the sixth flight of stairs, Rueik exited onto a long, covered walkway that stretched the whole way around the sixth level, providing access to the rooms. A low railing ran along the outer edge of the walkway, protection against the long fall. Far below the sea crashed against the rocks. Making sure no one else was around, Rueik started down the walkway.

  “Hold on,” said a voice. Rueik stopped and slowly turned. A man he hadn’t seen before stepped out of a darkened doorway and took a torch from the wall scon
ce. In the light of the torch, Rueik saw it was one of the inner guards, marked by his black shirt and pants tied at the waist with a white sash.

  “Pull your hood back and tell me your business here.”

  There was only one way around this man. He pulled his hood back. “I am Rueik, a member of the Guardians.”

  Immediately the guard paled at the sight of him, Rueik’s white skin marking him like a tattoo. “I’m sorry. I didn’t recognize you. You’re not in uniform.”

  Rueik held up his courier pouch. “I am on my way to find the Empyrean with important documents. She is at Prince Damien’s domicile.” Rueik moved over to the railing and looked out to sea. “There’s a strange ship on the water, much larger than the merchant ships I normally see.” Rueik pointed. “Do you see it?”

  The man squinted, then walked to the railing to see better.

  “It has large red sails. Some kind of galleon I think.”

  Rueik glanced back along the walkway and saw that it was still empty. Bending down, he grabbed the guard by his legs and heaved him over the railing.

  The man’s screams echoed for but a moment, then all was silent. Rueik hurried quickly away, knowing the guard’s cries might bring unwanted attention.

  The walkway remained deserted. He maintained a brisk pace, resisting the urge to run, which would only draw attention to himself.

  Rueik’s heart was pounding hard in his chest. This was the climax of his mission. If successful, his master would be able to send his forces into Loam and expand his power. It was a first step in a far grander scheme.

  Rueik knew well what a victory over Loam would mean for him. He would be given governance over this world, and better still, he would receive another Quahi. That would give him access to all of Isolaug’s secret knowledge.

  A promise of power yet unimaginable.

  His gaze shifting side to side, Rueik moved swiftly toward Damien’s living quarters, the deaths of the prince and Karience as certain in his mind as his next breath.