48. THE PROBLEM WITH ANLYR

Qown’s story

Outside the ruins of Senera’s cottage

After Relos Var left

Qown stopped shouting quickly, if only because he didn’t want to help escalate matters to a point where Galen would be hurt.

More hurt.

As it stood, the wizard had taken one narrow-eyed look at Galen’s advancement before casting a familiar healing spell, one easily twisted into pain. Galen fell to the ground screaming. Relos Var left through the gate with Galen’s unconscious body, a spitting-angry Sheloran, and a crying child.

He returned a few minutes later with the Stone of Shackles.

Qown exhaled as he slumped down. None of this was going the way it was supposed to, the way it needed to go. He couldn’t blame Caless for making the trade, but the result tied his stomach into knots.

Qown hated that he’d been right about Var’s plans for him.

“We shouldn’t stay here,” Anlyr said.

Relos Var nodded. “We won’t. I have a great many things to take care of. The list is never-ending.” He tossed the Stone of Shackles at Anlyr, who caught it with a confused blink. “Hide that. Do not wear it under any circumstances.”

“But—” Anlyr glanced down at the stone with something like longing in his expression.

“I need to be able to contact you,” Relos Var explained, “which won’t be possible if you’re wearing that. So please take care of Qown, hide that damn rock in a hole in the ground, and then meet me at the Northern House when you’re done.”

Anlyr made a face. “Isn’t there some other way?”

“We have to know how much of what they just told us is the truth and what they’re trying to hide,” Relos Var said. “And since we don’t have time for gaeshing, I see no other alternative.”

All the hairs along Qown’s arms rose up. “Take care of Qown” sounded like nothing he’d like. Since they’d just previously established the unreliability of torture, by inference whatever they were planning had to be worse. “What are you talking about?”

Relos Var gave him a brief, cold glance, but otherwise ignored him.

Anlyr shook his head. “Yeah, yeah. I guess. I just hate eating people.”

Qown felt a spike of pure fear shoot through him. Because Anlyr hardly seemed like the kind of person to be a cannibal. Or even a weirdly reluctant cannibal. Qown didn’t think what he was saying was just a figure of speech. So he was serious. But why would eating Qown allow Anlyr to find out what he knew? The only way that made sense was—

“No,” Qown said.

Anlyr glanced at him.

“You’re … you’re a mimic?”

Anlyr winked at him in response.

“But—” Qown shook his head. “No. No, you used illusions to copy me when you lured Galen and Sheloran out. You didn’t shape-change.”

“You’re right,” Anlyr agreed. “Because shape-changing hurts. Why should I do it if I don’t have to? It’s not fun.”

“Then why … why do mimics do it at all?”

“Just between you and me,” Anlyr said, “most of my siblings are completely out of their gourds.”1

“And comments like that”—Relos Var tilted his head in Qown’s direction—“are what make this necessary. Because Qown shouldn’t have had any contact with a mimic. He shouldn’t know what sort of behavior is or isn’t typical.” He sighed. “Needless to say, I’m not staying to watch.”

Qown’s whole body was shaking, which logically was a bit ridiculous. He’d always known he was going to die here.

But he hadn’t known that his death would ruin everything. They hadn’t made allowances for protecting themselves from mimics precisely because they had all gotten in the habit of behaving as if Talon were the only one. Who was on their side as much as Talon could be claimed to ever be on anyone’s side.

But she wasn’t the only mimic, was she? There were at least eleven others in existence. And why wouldn’t Relos Var have one working for him? They were so useful, after all.

Even the damn sigil that Senera gave him wouldn’t work. He’d still leave behind a perfectly whole body, and that meant Anlyr—or whatever his real name was—would still be able to find out every shred of information that Qown knew, including all their plans.

No, the only way this wouldn’t work would be if Qown could somehow kill himself in such a way as to leave no body at all, and quite frankly, if he had a way to do that, why wouldn’t he instead just kill Anlyr?

While he sat there, trembling, contemplating the enormity of his failure, he nearly didn’t notice when Var opened another gate and left.

The field fell silent save the sound of crickets in the distance and the occasional crackle of hot embers from the remains of Senera’s cottage.

Anlyr scowled at the blue rock in his hand, cursed softly, and tucked the Cornerstone into a pouch at his belt. He cast a spell that summoned up a circle of mage-light, almost the same color and position as a campfire, if very different in all other ways.

“I’m really sorry it had to work out like this,” Anlyr said.

When Qown shot him an incredulous look, the mimic shrugged. “I’m as stable as I am precisely because I don’t eat every single person who comes my way,” Anlyr explained. “In fact, I am very particular about the personalities and memories I absorb. It was never really all that much fun, to be honest, and like I said, shape-changing hurts. I’m a fourteen-thousand-year-old wizard. Most of the time, that’s enough for any obstacles the world feels like throwing in my path.”

“You don’t … you don’t have to kill me,” Qown said.

“I kind of do. What Relos Var wants, Relos Var gets.” Anlyr sighed. “Why couldn’t you have just done your job and stayed loyal, kid? He liked you. He wasn’t going to hurt you. You know, he doesn’t usually send bodyguards along with the disposable minions. Certainly not me. Be extremely flattered.”

Qown was desperately trying to buy time, contemplate his options. He did know a few spells that … Well. No. None of them were sufficiently destructive in the way he needed.

“I’m not feeling flattered,” Qown said. “And I don’t think that’s true.” He was trying to look calm and unconcerned rather than a panicky mess, but even without the telepathy, he didn’t think he was fooling Anlyr. “Not the part about bodyguards. The part where he wouldn’t have hurt me. I don’t think he had a reason to hurt me, but that’s not the same thing. He didn’t hesitate to order you to kill me at the first sign that I might have had second thoughts, did he?”

The mimic shrugged. “Maybe you shouldn’t have betrayed him?”

“Who says I have?!” Qown shouted. “Would I have just handed over Worldhearth like that if I was betraying you? I’ve had a good reason for everything I’ve done. You all agreed it was a good reason! But you’re going to kill me, anyway, just in case.”²

Anlyr chewed on the inside of his mouth for a few seconds, then stood and wiped off his pants. “You have a point.”

Qown eyed the man. He didn’t think the concession meant that Anlyr was going to let him go. Just the opposite. “You’re still going to kill me.”

“Yeah, I’m still going to kill you. But I’m going to feel just terrible about it if it turns out to have all been a big misunderstanding.” He paused. “Tell me you did at least get a chance to sleep with the cute D’Mon boy?”

Qown shook his head.

Anlyr sighed. “What a waste. Ah well. Maybe in your next life.” He started to walk in Qown’s direction, and Qown for his part found himself scrabbling backward away from the mimic.

“Please don’t,” Qown said.

Anlyr just smiled. “Don’t worry, Qown. I’ve always liked you, so I’ll make it quick.”