While winds rock buildings and scream through streets, and lightning flashes amid boiling cloudscapes, infernals and humans huddle in their homes.
Within Wonderland, Neer stands over her work-slab, tutting to herself. The subject of her disapproval is a man’s body, riddled with scars and burns. ‘Seems like a lot of work if you ask me. Better to replace most of the parts. Better yet, just transfer what’s left into a new shell.’
Samael shakes his head. ‘He won’t like that.’
‘Well, it doesn’t really matter what he likes. Look at him! He’s not in any state to complain.’
‘True.’
‘Besides, he looks like the kind of person that will only break whatever we give him. Waste of effort if you ask me.’
Samael nods, good natured. He knows that she will do as he asks eventually.
‘At least let me scrap the arm.’
‘Why? The bones are mostly intact. If you rewire the nerves in his fingers and repair the tendons he should regain function in the hand.’
Neer huffs, ‘Partial function.’
‘Yes, it won’t be perfect but he will prefer it.’
‘At least it won’t be hard to find a good skin match.’
‘About that, I don’t think he’d want another’s skin.’
‘Don’t push your luck. I’m fonder of you than most people but there are limits.’
‘Don’t worry about the match, use a synthetic sleeve for his right arm and hand.’
‘Alright, but it’ll be ugly as hell.’
‘Do you wish me to stay and assist?’
She gives him a hard look. ‘No, I’ve had quite enough of your help already.’ Two of her extra limbs lock into place to stabilize her, while another two start lining up tools. Meanwhile, her fleshy fingers click together, summoning aid. ‘I’m going to use this as a teaching case, might as well get some good out of the time.’
‘Thank you.’
He leaves her to work, going to another room, where Scout comforts Reela, allowing her to absently stroke his patchy fur. All around them is the presence of the First, it presses down on Samael, a pressure headache that is hard to ignore.
As he steps into the room, she looks up at him, small and afraid. ‘Will he?’
‘He will live.’ The girl crumples with relief as Samael sits down next to her. ‘Now tell me how it was I found you at the sky palace.’
‘Delta.’
‘She took you there?’ Reela rubs her eyes and nods. ‘Did you see Vesper?’
‘Yes.’
‘Alive?’
Reela gives a miserable shrug.
‘She was hurt badly?’
A sniff, then a nod. Samael can see the worry radiating from the girl. ‘What happened to her?’
‘Took her.’
‘Who did?’
She frowns, searching for the words, then shrugs, help-less.
‘Can you show me, in your mind?’
Reela looks unsure but Scout barks encouragement and she tries, her face folding in concentration. Samael pulls off a gauntlet and puts a finger just inside her bottom lip, pressing it to her gum.
He feels her memory taking shape on the edge of her essence, opens himself to it, and closes his eyes.
Instantly he is rewarded with a sight of Beta standing over Vesper’s body. He is trying to take the Malice but it does not want to go, stubbornly refusing to be removed from Vesper’s curled fingers.
He hears crying, Reela’s, in the background but Beta ignores it. He puts his hand on the Malice, and though Samael cannot see it in her memory, he is certain that the immortal and the sword are communing.
After a pause, he bends down and picks up Vesper and the Malice, carrying them both away.
Samael withdraws from the memory. ‘Don’t worry,’ he says. ‘Your mother is still in the sky palace. I’m going to go and get her out.’
The battle has long been over but the storm continues with no sign of calming. Combatants forget their feuds with each other and hunker down. The few remaining Empire soldiers hide in Alpha’s sky palace, praying for guidance, finding none, while Crucible’s fighters retreat to Wonderland, sharing rations behind glittering walls and making idle predictions about what will come.
In Crucible itself they flock to the dome, the tent city unable to withstand the heavens’ elemental punishment. People pack in tight, arms rubbing against each other, sweat mingling in the stale air. Every inch of space is used, even the remains of the ratbred’s tunnels are turned into extra sleeping spaces.
Infernals from New Horizon are forced to squeeze in with the other factions, uncomfortably close. The greater ones fold themselves into cramped spaces, staying there, motionless. The lesser ones barely contain their delight, chirruping and salivating at the sight of so many people, all within reach of their jaws.
None bite though. A mutual respect keeps everyone honest, and where that isn’t enough, proximity and lack of opportunity step in.
And so Crucible’s alliance endures despite the storm. In the dome and in Wonderland, little moments of decency light up the dark. One woman offers another a little of her food. A half-breed with no thumbs slowly feeds the bound Empire prisoners, and a merchant from Verdigris tells a story so dirty that one of the listeners snorts drink from her nose.
There is little dignity to be had; the storm has gone on long enough to force people to attend to the body’s daily needs. Bottles, still warm, are passed along lines, as are helmets, repurposed, held upside down and at arm’s length. But despite this, despite it all, a warmth grows between the survivors, a weak flame kindled in the dark, fed with shared experience and growing understanding, mutual.
A sphincter opens in the wall, allowing Samael access to the tunnel. It is the inside of one of Wonderland’s bone-limbs, and it will enable him to climb straight up to Alpha’s sky palace, sheltered from the storm, by far the safest and quickest method of travel. Samael wishes there was a second option.
He clambers inside, having to slide his armoured shoulders in. There is a slick squishing sound as the tunnel accommodates his bulk and then he is lying flat, horizontal.
‘I am ready,’ he says, and feels the shift in essence around him. Clearly, the First has heard.
The sphincter closes at his heels, sealing him inside, and then muscles begin to work, bunching, rippling, driving Samael up the tunnel at a forty-five degree angle. A thick wall of tissue and a layer of bone protect him from the elements outside but he still feels them, muffled, as they buffet the limbs, making them sway from side to side.
Like a pip stuck in the throat, Samael is vomited upwards in convulsive jerks, until he spurts out onto a hard polished floor.
He has left Scout behind with Reela, as much to stop the girl from trying to follow as to look after her. Now he regrets the decision, missing the Dogspawn’s keen tracking senses.
Standing up, he flicks mucus from his visor and takes stock. The hallway has taken some superficial damage but remains striking. The ceiling is high, built for things greater than him and decorated in silver, each shape painstakingly made, crafted by loving hands.
He feels uglier just looking at it.
Down empty corridors he wanders, searching for signs of life. The fighting has been heavy in the palace and nobody has yet cleared up the mess.
Occasionally the floor rocks under his feet, and he realizes that Wonderland has become an anchor, steadying the palace against the worst of the winds.
A woman dressed in the armour of an Empire soldier stands up from behind some rubble. She has a rifle in her hand but it points away from him. She is familiar, one of the ones brought to their side by Delta.
To his eyes, her essence is fascinating, corralled into an unnatural shape by broad lines, footprints left by Delta’s touch. Within them, she has freedom to think and act but she cannot ignore them, cannot cross them.
‘I’m on your side,’ she calls out. ‘My name is Mazar.’
‘Yes,’ he replies. ‘Why are you still here?’
She swings herself over the rubble and approaches him, slinging her rifle over a shoulder. ‘I didn’t want to stay, believe me … but I’d rather die than climb into one of those giant arsehole tubes.’
Samael pauses for a moment. ‘I hadn’t thought of them like that.’
Mazar just looks at him.
‘I’m here to find Vesper, do you know where she is?’
‘Yes. I can take you if you want but I should warn you, The Seven have her.’
‘I know.’
‘And you still want to go?’
‘I want to help Vesper.’
She doesn’t say anything else, guiding him through the palace. It is clear she does not know the route by heart but has made signs to guide them, little arrows made from bits of rubble or weapon fragments.
‘Is no one else here?’ asks Samael.
‘There are others taking shelter but they’re clustered over there,’ she gestures over her shoulder, ‘and I doubt they’re going to come out.’
‘Because of the storm?’
‘Because they failed.’
They continue walking through corridors that would normally be guarded. Empty, they seem too large, hollow.
Samael works his jaw a couple of times before deciding to speak. ‘This may sound hard to believe, but I know something of how you feel.’
Mazar glances at him but doesn’t reply.
‘I once tried to help someone from the Empire who was dying and she turned me down. Her soul was torn, I could see it bleeding away. By the time we met her condition was severe.’ He pauses. If he still needed to, he would sigh. ‘She said she would rather die than let me come near.’
‘What happened to her?’
‘She died.’
‘And what has this got to do with me? Are you saying I’m dying too?’
‘No. No, I didn’t … Forgive me, I’m not the best at this. I remembered the story because it was the last time I tried to reach out to someone from the Empire. I’m hoping it will go better this time.
‘But you’re not like her. You’re not sick and you’re not dying. The situation is different. I just want you to know that I understand.’
They reach a crossroads. An abandoned gauntlet lies on its back like a dying crab, the digits curling towards the palm. One finger has been straightened. Mazar attends to it, then follows it, turning left.
‘Do you understand?’ she asks. ‘Prove it.’
‘Many years ago, I was just a fisherman who worked at Six Circles. But when the commander of the Knights of Jade and Ash found me, he gave me some of his essence, turning me into this. He had need of my skills and to gain them, he imposed his will over mine. I was still myself. My thoughts were my own, but now I had some of his thoughts too. They were stronger than mine. I don’t know how to put it into words … but when I look at you and see what Delta has done, I cannot help but feel sympathy.’
Mazar’s answer comes through gritted teeth. ‘Are you trying to say that we’re the same? That what some demon does is the same as being touched by Delta of The Seven?’
‘No. It is not the same. What the infernals do is different, more complex. My desires were blurred with my creator’s, whereas Delta has pressed Her orders onto you in a way that leaves them distinct.’ He holds up his hands, apologetic. ‘I’ve made you angry, and that wasn’t my intent. We may not be the same but I think there is something common between us. We are both victims.’
‘What’s your point?’
‘Just that I think I understand what it’s like for you, better than most. But I’ll say no more. I probably shouldn’t have spoken at all.’
They walk a little further, then Mazar stops and shakes her head, swearing under her breath. She shakes her head a second time and looks away from Samael. ‘It’s like She’s in my head, watching me. I have to get Her forgiveness, do you understand? It’s there all the time. I need it! It doesn’t matter what I do, She’s there, waiting for me to do better. Even when I sleep! You said I’m not dying but it feels that way.’
Samael stops by her side, ‘I understand.’
‘Yeah, maybe you do. It doesn’t change what’s happening though.’
‘No.’
She curses again, quiet. ‘But I … I’m still glad I could say it out loud.’
‘Yes.’
‘So maybe, if I ever see you again after this, maybe it would be okay to do this again.’
Samael holds her gaze for a long moment, his half-breed eyes searching the depths behind her words. ‘Yes, I would like that.’
The worst of the winds do not touch the bottom of the valley, and fighting has dug new hollows in the earthy walls, making shelter for those small enough to take advantage.
The buck is small enough, backing inside so as to become invisible. Though protected, he remains wild eyed, terrified, screaming. Like a lighthouse in the dark, his bleats lure an-other through the churning, smoky air.
When the doe arrives, his mouth closes. She is a bedraggled figure, windswept, and nearly falls into the hole with him.
Panic draws them together, magnetic, until bodies press, necks touching, chins resting on each other’s shoulders.
Frantic heartbeats calm, finding a common rhythm. As trust builds and warmth spreads, they shut their eyes, letting the full weight of their heads be taken.
Somehow it seems as if the noise of the storm is less frightening than before. Thunder remains shockingly loud, the flashes of lightning turned a dark orange through closed lids, but they jump less, and do not cry out.
Despite the rage of the elements outside, the buck and the doe relax, safe in their pocket of peace.
Mazar comes to a stop in front of a large circular door. They are deep within the palace now, in the central keep that is dedicated to The Seven and their acolytes.
‘She’s in there.’
Samael looks for a handle or means of progress. ‘Can you open it?’
‘No.’
He lifts his hand to knock.
‘Wait!’ says Mazar. ‘You might make Them angry.’
Samael tries to laugh but it comes out as a wheeze. ‘My existence makes Them angry.’ His fist connects with the door three times. ‘You don’t have to wait with me,’ he adds.
Though her feet take a step backwards, she does not leave.
Samael waits while the echoes of his knocking settle, then knocks again, a second round of three, a pause, another.
Mazar moves a little further back.
The door spirals open, smooth and sudden, revealing a corridor, and in front of it, Obeisance. As ever, she is dressed in her cloak of feathers, unruffled. As she looks at them both, Mazar goes to her knees.
Samael does not. ‘Where is Vesper?’
‘She is within. The Seven are deciding her fate.’
‘Take me to her.’
Obeisance bristles. ‘Do not presume to order me, abom-ination.’
He considers this. The reaction does not surprise so much as depress. A part of him wishes to rip her bald head from her hairless body. Another, to corrupt her essence and drag her before The Seven. Let her experience life as a half-breed and then see if she retains her arrogance.
Instead he says, ‘You have surrendered. Unless you produce Vesper, it will be this abomination that decides your fate, and The Seven’s.’
It is Obeisance’s turn to consider. She does not need long. ‘This way,’ she says.
Samael and Mazar follow her, the latter at some distance.
They come into a larger chamber, filled with display cases, all artfully edged with intricate letters, ugly history made beautiful through calligraphy, grand, looping. Several of these cases are open, their contents removed. Tools that once belonged to the creator, taken out and dusted off, put to work once more.
The sounds of industry have stopped now, and Samael sees five winged backs in a curved line, examining something he cannot see.
Alpha of The Seven stands to one side, his hands chained in front of him, his sword chained to his side, a muzzle of black iron clamped over his jaw.
Samael senses little emotion from him, the immortal still deep in shock. Obeisance lowers her head, respectful, as the other five turn.
He feels their eyes on him, then their revulsion hitting him like a wave. Four swords glare at him, itching to be drawn, while a fifth sits, inert, in Delta’s arms.
Beta notices Mazar then, and beckons her closer. He, like his brother Epsilon and his sisters appears excited about something, and nervous. He begins to speak, the others soon joining in.
‘Come, come and bear witness …’
‘Witness what we have wrought …’
‘Wrought iron to hold anger …’
‘Anger that caused such pain …’
‘Pain we have inflicted, and now regret …’
They point at Alpha, who flinches away.
‘Now he will listen …’
‘Listen while we promise …’
‘Promise to change …’
‘Change for the better …’
‘Better now that we are in balance.’
They part, allowing Samael to see a figure standing behind them. A naked statue, brushed from head to toe in silver, strange, yet familiar: Vesper. Her new skin does not erase her scars but it mutes them, grooves in the metal that snag the light. In her hand, she carries the Malice.
Though smaller and wingless, there is a likeness between her and the rest of The Seven that Samael cannot help but see.
‘Long have we waited …’
‘Waited and watched …’
‘Watched when we should have acted …’
‘Acted when we should have helped …’
‘Helped our people, our world …’
This time, five fingers point at Vesper.
‘For the first time, we have created …’
‘Created and healed …’
‘Healed Delta’s sword and Vesper’s body …’
‘Body and blade restored …’
‘Restored in form and number.’
Five hands open, and five faces beam with joy.
‘Two fragments join …’
‘Join to make one …’
‘One that joins six …’
‘Six that become Seven …’
‘Seven, as we were made to be.’
An eye opens and Vesper’s follow. Samael feels her smile, weary, before it reaches her face. She lifts her free hand, waves. ‘Hello.’