16: IN DARKNESS

Teraeth’s story Inside Vol Karoth’s prison

Just after Galen’s memory

Teraeth was surprised to discover he could still see the visions, even here. This one with Galen, the little brother / little nephew Kihrin had always cared so much about.

But Teraeth looked at it all through a thick, numb fog where nothing really mattered. Even Janel, even Kihrin—they both mattered, of course they mattered—but he couldn’t muster up any emotional connection beyond that. His heart had been soaked in ice, abandoned to the elements—he had no feeling anymore.

But Kihrin’s image flickered in front of him, staggered backward as though touching a hot flame. Any chance Vol Karoth might have had to deny Teraeth’s accusation or deflect attention died stillborn as Teraeth saw the telltale clues of a shattered illusion. He knew he’d been right.

“Teraeth!” Janel yelled.

He felt a sharp pain, almost mistaken for pleasure because it was such a pure sensation. A tiny slice of oblivion erupted from his stomach in a spray of blood, where Vol Karoth had plunged a sword through his core. The illusion of Kihrin vanished, replaced by the dark god’s silhouette. Teraeth shouldn’t have been surprised by how much it hurt, but it was … Gods. It always shocked him how much injuries in the Afterlife felt just like their real-life counterparts. This was no different. It hurt like dying. Worse than that, because he had never been afraid of dying.

He was afraid of this.

Even as Vol Karoth pulled his sword from the wound, Teraeth had the sense that the Immortal’s attention wasn’t on him. He’d been attacked as foreplay, as prelude. It had nothing to do with hurting Teraeth.

Teraeth stumbled back. Blood spilled over his hand as he clutched the wound.

“No!” Janel’s voice was unsteady, rough, her eyes a pyre. She pulled her sword and swung at Vol Karoth.

Teraeth started to draw his weapons as well, but there was the small problem of the stomach wound and the way his “metaphorical” intestines wanted to spill from his “hypothetical” body.

Vol Karoth laughed, dark and ugly.

I will kill the two of you and take back what is mine. Your love is paper and ash. Your love means nothing.

Janel swung at Vol Karoth. He blocked the sword blow easily, then reached out with his other hand and grabbed her sword arm.

Which Vol Karoth disintegrated.

Janel’s eyes widened with shock and horror as she fell back, one arm just … gone. Like flame eating the edges of thin paper, obliterating it in an instant so not even the evidence remained.

“No!” Teraeth screamed and rushed forward.

Vol Karoth laughed.

A hand landed on Teraeth’s shoulder.

“Actually, you asshole, their love means everything,” Kihrin told Vol Karoth.

Kihrin—the real Kihrin—had one hand on Teraeth, the other on Janel. He looked even worse than Vol Karoth had imitated, covered in bruises, cuts, dirt, and blood. Something ephemerally darker slouched in his shadowed blue eyes: despair. But under that hopelessness still lurked a spark of the Kihrin that Teraeth knew and loved.

The world lurched in shuddering dislocation, and then they were gone.

Galen’s reaction The Lighthouse at Shadrag Gor
Also just after Galen’s memory

The vision cut off. Everyone found themselves once more in the Lighthouse.

Galen sighed. He didn’t particularly mind leaving off at that point, if he was being honest. He knew what came next. But he had the itchy feeling that someone was staring at him. Galen looked over to see it was Qown. The man was glaring. Why in the world—

Galen quirked his mouth. Oh. Right.

“Kavis Tel,” Qown muttered, managing to glare even more. It was almost comically adorable. “How is that even possible. Kavis Tel!”

“In my defense,” Galen said, “even if it wouldn’t have embarrassed House D’Mon, using a pen name was just a smart precaution. Besides, I first started writing poems when I was twelve; most of them are objectively terrible.”

“None of them are terrible!” Qown nearly screamed.

“Ah, you think so? It’s nice to have a fan,” Galen said.

Xivan’s eyebrows were making a break for the ceiling. “I saw the same vision as everyone else, so what am I missing?”

“You’re not used to that feeling by now?” Talon said. “That’s weird.”

Xivan’s eyes narrowed. “Seriously? You’re picking a fight with me?”¹

Kalindra chuckled with a sour sort of mirth. “On the plus side, I’m pretty sure that fight would never end.”

“That’s a plus?” Talea asked her.

“It would give them something to do?” Kalindra said. “And we could watch.”

“Oh, now girls,” the mimic said, grinning. “I’m sure Xivan has plenty to do.” She winked at Talea, just in case anyone missed the innuendo.

Galen scrubbed his eyes with the butt of his palms and sighed.

Sheloran waved her fan idly in front of her face. “Perhaps we might, I don’t know, keep a bit of focus? For example, that was all very nice, but do we have any way to know if it actually helped?”

“It wouldn’t have helped if I’d kept going,” Talon protested. “The next part isn’t really so … you know … pleasant. So I thought, why not just focus on Galen flirting with Qown?”

“He wasn’t flirting!” Qown protested. “That was not flirting. That was just being polite.”

Sheloran gave her husband a look that clearly said: Can you believe this?

Galen chuckled. “Adorable. But no, Qown. I was flirting.”

Qown stared at him, wide-eyed, and turned bright red. Which was also adorable. Before the priest responded, however, the fire in the hearth died and the light in the room turned dim.

A voice cut through all the stunned silence.

If you’re going to tell the story, don’t leave out the best parts.

“Oh fuck,” Talon said, “that is not Kihrin.”

The world changed.

Qown’s memory The Upper Circle, Quur

Just after their arrival at the Rose Palace

Qown watched as Galen skipped ahead toward the pavilion doors. “We’ll have the servants send for some food—”

Galen threw open the doors and froze.

Qown wasn’t sure why at first, then he saw that the room was already occupied by a group of people.

And to the last, they all wore blue.

The oldest woman, dressed immaculately in sapphires and blue silks, eyes like azure razors, stared at Galen and clearly didn’t like what she saw. Then she smiled, a slow, slimy smirk that reminded Qown so strongly of Darzin D’Mon he flinched.

“Oh, well now, this is so much more convenient. Whoever would have thought you’d come to us.” The fingers of her hands started to crackle with electricity.

Galen said, “Hello, Aunt Gerisea.”

Gerisea D’Mon regarded her nephew with wicked delight. “Why don’t you sit down?” Sparks fell from her fingertips, cascading down to the floor as if it were a small waterfall made from lightning. The tranquility lasted for barely a second, and then the lightning lashed out and leaped from Galen to Anlyr, who had just enough time to draw his sword before being reminded that it was an excellent conductor of electricity.

Lightning wasn’t a bad choice for an offensive spell. Spellcasting required thought, after all, and anything that paralyzed thought made that difficult. Even if Galen had—like Gerisea—been hiding his magical training, he’d probably still have been rendered helpless by the attack.

Under other circumstances, Qown might have thought the attack idiotic, but it was a matter of timing. Gerisea probably assumed all the high lords were at Jarith Milligreest’s funeral. Lady D’Talus was, and Lord D’Talus apparently never left his workshop. Under normal circumstances, at a “normal” funeral, they wouldn’t return for several more hours. Gerisea D’Mon probably thought she had at least another hour before she’d have to worry about interruptions. More than enough time to clean house.

But no one was paying attention to Qown, and Sheloran had stayed behind to talk to one of the servants. Had Gerisea seen Sheloran, she probably wouldn’t have even made the attempt. Killing Galen was a house-related squabble, after all. Killing High Lord D’Talus’s precious little girl …

“Galen’s being attacked!” Qown cried out.

Sheloran’s reaction was immediate. She sliced her fan through the air as she ran, the blurs proceeding her belonging to more of those tiny balls of metal she’d used so lethally during the assassination attempt. Qown followed close behind.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Sheloran said when she reached the pavilion entrance.

The lightning stopped.

The older woman raised her hands and scowled. “This doesn’t involve you.”

Qown wasn’t sure if Gerisea had noticed the little floating metal balls of death. In any event, whatever metal they were made from wasn’t a terribly good conductor of electricity.

“Oh, I think it does,” Sheloran said primly. “I was extremely fortunate to find such a suitable husband. You shall not ruin that for me.”

Then Sheloran started screaming. High-pitched, hysterical screams, loud enough to make Qown wince and contemplate plugging his ears, interspersed with “Guards!” and “Help me!”

Gerisea glared at Sheloran with absolute loathing. Then her eyes flicked to the side and widened as she noticed one of those tiny little silver-gray orbs floating right next to the throat of one of her companions. A reminder, perhaps, that she wasn’t the only royal in the room who’d lied about her ability to use magic.

Gerisea glowered and waved a hand. “Everyone throw down your weapons,” she told the people with her.

“But, Mother—” one of the other people, young and handsome and about Galen’s age, began to protest.

“Now,” Gerisea D’Mon growled.

Qown heard the pounding of feet along the wooden walkways leading around the lakeshore. Shouting, the jangling of mail. A giant wall of fire sprang into life in the distance, wide enough to completely span the outside circumference of the Lotus Court. A bell began ringing.

Once it was clear that the guards would be there in seconds, Sheloran stopped screaming and just stood there staring hatefully at Gerisea, faintly smug.

“I didn’t realize you knew her,” Qown whispered.

“I don’t have to,” Sheloran whispered back. “I know her type.” She held out her fan and watched as the metal sailed back to it, flattening out into the shape of a lion’s head—the House D’Talus family symbol and a reminder of where they were.

Then the guards were all upon them, firmly but politely ordering everyone to put down their weapons and separating them. A group of people who were probably sorcerers trained in healing of some sort (not, perhaps, to the extent of someone of House D’Mon, but enough for immediate first aid) bent over Galen and the guard, Anlyr, and began treating them.

Qown raised a hand. “I’m a healer. I could—”

“Don’t move,” a guard snapped. “Not until we’ve sorted everything out.”

Qown swallowed, but did what he was told.

At which point, Gerisea D’Mon burst into tears.

Everyone froze, even the guards. Gerisea wasn’t just crying, she was sobbing, tears streaking down her cheeks, breath gasping from her lungs. “I’m so sorry—I didn’t—he came at me—I was so scared—” The woman’s children were clustered around her as much as the guards allowed, trying to comfort their extremely “distraught” mother.

Qown had to hand it to her: her performance was exceptional, custom designed to wring empathy from the most jaded, cynical heart. She was still a sobbing mess when all the guards parted for the royal who walked into the pavilion. He must have been Sheloran’s older brother, dressed in a surprising amount of black (although the undershirt peeking out from under his misha was a bright, vivid scarlet). He also wore a black leather apron around his waist, his sleeves rolled up to the elbows, his hair tied back in a messy ponytail. He was beautiful and perfect and exceedingly angry.

“High Lord!” Gerisea cried out, bowing to the man while on her knees. “Please—I was so frightened. He came at me with a sword, and I had to protect myself! I didn’t mean to hurt your daughter!”

Ah, Qown thought. So not Sheloran’s brother. He supposed that if you had enough metal, you could buy all the youth you wanted, and House D’Talus, by definition, had all of it.

“Father,” Sheloran began, “this woman was attacking—”

The people with Gerisea began to talk all at once.

“Silence!” the high lord said.

The high lord scanned the room, his gaze swinging past Qown to Sheloran, where it lingered for a moment. That look didn’t seem completely friendly, and Qown found himself wondering if Sheloran marrying outside the house meant that the high lord might not view her with total paternal affection. Then the high lord’s gaze whipped back to Qown.

“Who are you?”

Qown bowed. “I work for High Lord Galen D’Mon.”

“I didn’t ask you who you worked for. I asked you who you are.”

Qown straightened and swallowed. “My name is Qown, my lord.” He gave a careful and (he hoped) correct bow and forcibly stopped himself from looking over at Gerisea. He hadn’t wanted to say his name in front of that woman. She was still sobbing, but Qown wasn’t fooled—she was listening to every word.

The high lord walked over to him. He wasn’t any taller than most Quuros men, but he seemed tall. Maybe it was the anger or the fact he could order Qown’s death with a flick of his fingers.

“What happened here?” High Lord D’Talus asked Qown.

Gerisea’s sobbing increased in volume. Sheloran gave her an exasperated stare but then straightened, swallowing uneasily. Her eyes, as she stared at her father, seemed too bright, on the verge of tears kept back with great effort.

It was, Qown thought, a much superior acting job. It made Sheloran seem as if she were putting on a brave front for the dignity of the houses she represented.

But that didn’t rescue Qown from his own predicament. He felt himself start to shake. He had no idea how to play this, if there was a smart thing to say or do, so he defaulted to the truth. “We … we just walked in, and that woman attacked Galen. My lord would never threaten his own aunt.”

“He’s lying!” one of Gerisea’s children said.

The high lord exhaled. His hand came down on Qown’s shoulder like an iron bar. “I have no doubt of that.” Qown couldn’t tell which statement he was commenting on—his or the accusation of lying—but he pulled Qown forward, then pushed him toward two of his guards. “Take him.”

Qown felt himself sliding into a panic. No, no, he had to believe … the high lord couldn’t just dismiss what he’d said. “But I—”

“But, Father—!”

“Silence! You’ve done enough,” the high lord snapped. He turned back to Gerisea, reaching over to take her hands. “Oh, sweet lady Gerisea, I’m so sorry you had to go through this unfortunate incident. Believe me when I say that I never meant for any of this to happen. I will make very certain the appropriate parties are punished.” He let her go then and gestured to the rest of his people. “Escort Gerisea D’Mon and her children to the gates, and make sure they reach the Blue Palace safely.”

Gerisea’s eyes widened. “Wait, but our meeting—”

“Oh no,” the high lord said, “I know you’re much too distraught to talk about ‘politics’ in your current condition. I wouldn’t dream of taking advantage. We’ll have to do this another time. But don’t worry. I’m sure it wasn’t anything so important that it can’t wait.”

Gerisea started to protest, but then pressed her lips together and gave the man a long, even stare. The high lord returned it with the friendliest of smiles. Finally, Gerisea nodded. She bowed to the high lord, then swept out of the room. She did spare a look for Qown, though. It reminded him enough of her brother Darzin that he had no trouble interpreting it.

It meant: You’re a dead man.