There was no sign of Rory. Chet looked at his strewn clothing and books. He packed mechanically, leaving dirty clothes under the cot. He did make sure to take his books. He’d need them, he thought, for comfort if nothing else. His compact array of classics with tiny print would keep him going as he traversed unknown territory.
The rain had stopped, sun peeking through clouds. Knife and the prostitute were chatting amicably in the front seat of the van, sharing a cigarette like comrades in arms. Journey was swiftly unpacking a suitcase, half dressed in sensible, casual clothing. Fenimore seemed to be napping on the bed. All was apparently under control. Only Chet was undone.
“Look, I have to tell you guys something," Chet said. He recounted Rory’s words and actions as they were driven to—where? Chet didn’t know what came next.
Journey and Knife shared a significant glance. “I’ll talk to them," Knife promised. Journey nodded and kept riffling through her suitcase.
Chet hugged his knees. They didn’t see surprised or even mildly curious. Of course, they were god affiliates, too. God affiliates' in-born or granted powers had been a point of contention his whole life. Chet’s family still expected him to choose a god or goddess, like all eight of his siblings had. He had carefully chosen not to do so. His unaffiliated status and field of study had been the only times he’d ever disappointed his family. Chet had never been able to fully answer their persistent questions of why he didn’t want to become a god affiliate; none of the Pantheon appealed to him. He didn’t want them. He didn’t want to be bound, entrapped, to surrender his humanity to a god’s political goals and agenda.
Well, Foex had always appealed to him, bloodthirsty as he’d been. But Foex was dead.
The Raptus was on the bed next to Fenimore, who lay snoozing. Chet picked it up and turned it over his hands. The etched writing caught his attention, and he studied the markings intently. The ancient language was one he’d studied about two years ago when he’d transferred programs from law to archaeology: it was a variation of a Door dialect used by Magicians. Zang and Tene had been clever to create something like this—perhaps a little too clever. Chet recognized the symbols for “control,” “force," and “stifle," but couldn’t make out anything else. He licked his lips, feeling nauseous. What a... one-track device. And he was constrained by it now, along with the others.
The van slowed to a stop. “You’re here,” the prostitute said from the front seat.
“Where?” Chet asked, bewildered as Journey and Knife opened the door and began decamping.
By the painted bricks and blocky architecture outside, they had to be in a historic district, one that harkened all the way back to Wetshul’s days as a camp for the First Conversion Army. Fittingly enough, it was called the Training Grounds for United Victorious Equality District. Chet really had to wonder at the church fanatics and poor squatters who would choose such a mouthful to describe their patch of swamp.
“We’re at a hotel that will hopefully take us," Journey replied shortly. Knife was heartily thanking the prostitute as he shook her hand; by Knife’s words, Chet realized she’d recommended the place.
It turned out to be a hole-in-the-wall, not in a bad way. It smelled intensely of the past: lead paint, musty curtains and a certain fragrant mold beneath it all. Chet breathed deeply. The proprietor seemed about eighty years old and was going blind, though he addressed Journey and Knife readily as, “My good Flame.” He personally rode up with them in the rickety, old-fashioned elevator to a room. Unlike the lobby, the room was bright and airy. There were two double beds and mullioned glass doors leading out to a wrought-iron balcony. The view was spectacular. Chet even caught a glimpse of the university, an hour’s drive up the Monastery Mountains.
“... I’ll have your meal sent directly up," the proprietor noted congenially.
Chet’s head snapped around, alert at the possibility. “What meal?”
“They have a kitchen downstairs, run by that gentleman’s wife. Traditional Wetshul cuisine," Journey promised.
Fenimore sat on a bed to remove his boots. “Mmph. Prepare yourself for sand and false teeth in the dirty rice.” He curled on a bed in the same position he’d taken in the van.
“Pessimist," Journey laughed at him. She seemed far more at ease now that they were settled.
Despite Fenimore’s low opinion, Chet’s own spirits were decidedly repaired by fish stuffed with sweet potatoes and crawdads, doedicu in white garlic sauce, and spongy flatbread that was the local custom. A shower after the meal was also welcome. Chet had never before appreciated clean underwear in quite the same way.
When Chet emerged, he found Journey, Knife, and Fenimore had gathered on one of the beds, gazing at the Raptus. It lay nestled atop the white comforter, innocent and inert as Abyss. He joined them self consciously; as always, Chet felt the odd man out. Nevertheless, there was a place for him on the bed. As if echoing the ancient magic that had brought them together, they’d automatically formed a cross-like shape around the Raptus... even Chet had done so, he realized with a start.
Knife looked like a man—a Flame—laboring under a heavier load than he’d anticipated. “We must decide how to proceed.”
Proceed? “I thought you were going to give the Raptus to the Shadow Dancers," Chet said.
“We were," Journey said. “But it has us, now. We’re trapped. We don’t know what it wants with us, and I’m afraid we’re going to find out.”
“Is our course not obvious? It wants to be used. It should be used,” Fenimore said. Though he seemed to be trying to look relaxed, he was failing miserably. His pinched nostrils and the tension in his shoulders gave him away.
Both Journey and Knife shook their heads. “I want to consult with Aureate and Doyen," Journey muttered. “We shouldn’t be the only ones making this decision.”
“It’s ours to make.” Knife raised an eyebrow. For the first time, Chet noticed that both Flame actually had eyebrows—and eyelashes, for that matter. How bizarre that they were bald, yet Pelin allowed this. It seemed to fall into the same category as distinguishing between bodily fluids and water: an irrelevant, subjective distinction, completely illogical.
Knife continued, “Everything’s changed, yet nothing has changed. The Raptus is as big a pain in the ass as it’s ever been, and it’s high time to be done with the thing. I say we strive to destroy it. Barring other methods, all members of the Flame Council are currently alive and have been initiated to Pelin. This sort of confluence doesn’t happen often.”
Before Chet could ask what he meant, Fenimore jumped in. “Is this a democratic vote, the way independent city-states do it? Because there may be no clear majority, here.”
“Flame have always operated via consensus," Journey said, her voice as gently corrective as that of a primary-school teacher.
The message was clear. The Flame clearly felt the Raptus was their territory, that their rules applied. Journey and Knife seemed comfortable in their ownership—dominance?—regarding the Raptus. Chet vaguely wondered how long it had been since their council had been made guardians of the Raptus. Foex had died over five-hundred years ago. It was a measure of Chet’s acclimation to his new companions that five-hundred years seemed like a brief window of time. Though, to be honest, he’d always possessed a long-term sense of history, even before he’d become an archeologist. A mindset, it seemed, shared by everyone on the bed.
“You don’t have the majority or authority to arbitrarily settle upon a mode of decision-making,” Fenimore countered.
Knife gave him a mild look. “You object to destruction, I take it?”
“By the Abyss sundering Uos, of course I oppose destruction. It chose us, don’t you see? It chose us. That tells me we need to explore what we have, not mindlessly discard it.”
Journey snorted. “Explore how, exactly? We know too much as it is. The Raptus was created for complete control over people. The more you try to use it, the more you slide downhill into a bloody mess. The worst case scenario is an all-mighty autocracy instigated upon Uos. I assume Magicians had some form of checks and balances to keep this from occurring. We do not. The gods might eventually step in, but only after much human blood had already been spilt. They are not generally known for their mercy in such matters.”
Fenimore turned to Chet. “What say you, scholar?”
Chet reached out and touched the Raptus with his index finger. “I want more information...”
“I shouldn’t have asked. Scholars always want more information.”
“LaDaven,” Journey rebuked, her eyes glittering a subtle warning. “Yes, Chet?”
“Why can’t we study it to find out how it works? A find of this magnitude is amazing. Even you don’t know how it works, right? Aren’t you curious?”
“Not really,” Knife said. “We’re more concerned with how ancient and recent technologies will mix.”
“Apart from these cord things, that’s why we’re so jumpy," Journey said. “Modern technology definitely ups the ante. Imagine one person having control of every nuclear weapon and arsenal on the planet. Such power would be absurdly simple through this device.”
“But I thought you said getting rid of it wasn’t something you wanted to take on," Chet said, feeling lost. “How do we destroy it, anyway?”
Knife’s expression was resolved. “It’s too dangerous to leave lying around for another failure of vigilance. I didn’t want to do this the hard way, but it’s acting up in an aggressive manner. Better we go on the offensive than remain passive. As for destruction, we’ll need to unlock it first—each member of the Council of Six will need to help with that—then one of us will have to order the Raptus to destroy itself. I volunteer myself for that part. I’ll involve Pelin if I have to; she’d be willing.”
Journey gave him a sharp look, then asked him a question in an unknown language. The same language as before? Knife replied in like. The exchange seemed significant, and Chet squirmed, hating that he was locked out of it. Fenimore, too, was scowling. Journey’s eyes flickered upon Fenimore, then down at the Raptus. She shrugged, opening her hand in Knife’s direction. He didn’t look smug, but it was clear to Chet that he’d somehow won their—argument? Debate?
Fenimore looked like he was sucking a lemon. “How did the Flame manage to lock it, anyway? You have no magic, in the classic Magician sense.”
“The goddess Aiena led us through the ritual. Each of us spilled blood upon it in turn while speaking words. To unlock it, we’ll need to do the same.”
“Specific words, I assume.”
“Of course specific words,” she said. “Each of us chose a different children’s poem. I have mine memorized. Knife?”
He grinned at her. “Thespian. I did have mine memorized for a while, but I can only recall bits and pieces now.”
Chet shot Knife an uncertain look. “You seemed to have an eidetic memory this morning.”
“Hey, memorizing relevant data in the short term is one thing. That’s just a trick I’ve picked up. You try to remember intricate, iambic-pentameter stanzas for five-hundred years. Through death, slavery, genocide and a world war, no less. In retrospect, I didn’t choose my passage well—something about pretty little anuros flying in the springtime. Absolute poppycock.”
Fenimore frowned critically. “This will be a futile plan if you’ve all forgotten your sacred charge.”
“Oh, hush. Of course I have it written down at home. I re-transcribe the passage from my caches every lifetime or so, at my house in Allistair, I’m afraid. The others will undoubtedly have their own systems.”
Journey turned back to Chet. “So... what do you think?”
He frowned. The Flame were self assured, convinced that destruction was the right thing to do. Besides, Fenimore didn’t seem to have good reason—or a viable game plan—for the relic. He wasn’t defending a helpless people or even bringing it home to a rightful ruler. There was too much at stake for simple curiosity to lead the day.
Chet shrugged, glancing at Fenimore. “Sorry, I’m with them.”
“Very well. It seems we are set upon destroying it. Don’t expect me to be happy about it, though.”
Both Flame nodded, their expressions reserved, even respectful. No one tried to pat Fenimore on the arm condescendingly or invalidate his opinion.
Knife rose and stretched, then began a series of isometric exercises. Journey put the Raptus away in her large purse and got out a book. Chet stared at them. Hadn’t they just made the decision to run like abyss and destroy the Raptus? Yet they seemed to take it for granted that they were done for the night. Well, it was their call. He led Fenimore to the bathroom and showed him how to use the shower. When Chet emerged, Journey eyed him speculatively, her book upturned on the bed. She was idly fingering a tit, and Chet’s mouth began salivating as if he were a conditioned lab animal.
Journey smiled at him. “Come here, sweetie. Are you ready to try this new skill of yours again?”
“But I thought—aren’t we getting going now? Isn’t time of the essence, all that?”
“We need to wait to speak to the Shadow Dancers. Besides, we don’t have a ride. We’ll have to rent a car in the morning.”
“I see.” Chet looked away, self conscious. “Can I ask a question of a personal nature?”
“Of course.”
“You and Knife both have this, um, smell.” Would she take offense at the empirical observation?
Journey chuckled low in her throat. “That’s ichor, Chet. It’s the Flame god gift that allows us to survive fire. We are chemically altered by Pelin upon initiation. You probably didn’t notice in the van, but all my bodily fluids have a slight purplish tinge to them.”
“It makes me, er, responsive. More responsive than I usually am," Chet said. His cock was hard even now.
“Ichor is an aphrodisiac—best on Uos," Journey grinned at him. Her body was undulating beside him, her need apparent. “Here, you climb on top this time. Knock yourself out and just fuck me, okay?”