Chapter Forty-Three
There was a storm beyond the horizon. Yveth leaned against the parapet of the recently restored huntsman’s tower and eyed the skies nervously. They were clear and blue, but he could feel the storm in his soul, and the powerful zephyr woven into it. He could only hope that the weather stayed away long enough for their plan to reach its conclusion.
The bang of a musket startled the stormbinder from his reverie. A spattering of laughter followed the shot, and then the stern voice of an officer correcting his charge. In the training yard at the foot of the tower, a puff of blue-gray smoke drifted across the peaked tops of the tents that housed Hadroy’s pet army. They would have to be taken care of, hopefully before Yveth’s compatriots arrived. The addition of three strong brigades of soldiers had taken Yveth by surprise. It wasn’t part of the original plan Rassek had proposed. Yveth wasn’t even sure where the baron had gotten the funds to pay for them. That man is a devil with a balance sheet. Perhaps there is some magic to debt and credit and gold standards that I don’t yet understand.
With a flick of his wrist, Yveth summoned his spiritblade and the accompanying spirit in one smooth motion. The sword was dull gray steel, almost the color of pewter, but the blade was splintered down its length by a lightning bolt frozen in mid-strike. The bolt was inlaid with a mosaic of blue gemstones, from sapphire to aquamarine and lapis lazuli. The air elemental settled around his shoulders, ruffling the hem of his robes and dancing playfully through Yveth’s hair. Denizens of the plane of Air came in many shapes and temperments, from winter storms to roaring tornadoes. Yveth’s zephyr was founded on the primal idea of a summer breeze, and had always been a rambunctious spirit, warm and soft and gentle to the touch. That didn’t mean Yveth couldn’t use the elemental to kill. He had. He just always felt bad about it afterward, and sometimes it took days to coax the spirit back into the material plane, especially after an especially violent encounter.
The last two years had been hard on both of them. Infiltrating Rassek’s crooked cabal, ingratiating himself into the flamebinder’s good graces, often with violence, always with deceit. It had been a long journey. And today it was finally ending.
He raised the zephyr and felt his way toward the horizon, and the distant storm. The familiar patterns of Wind and Thunder echoed through the sky, carved out of Air and joined with Water to wash across the land. But there was something more, something flickering at the center of the maelstrom that sent a shiver down Yveth’s soul. A splinter of Chaos. Hell, hidden in a hailstorm.
They were going through with it. They truly meant to try to end the world.
Yveth dismissed his spirit, rubbing his tired eyes as the zephyr dissipated, then opened the trapdoor and clambered down into the chill darkness of the tower. The catwalk creaked under his feet as he descended the winding, makeshift stairs that circled along the interior of the ruined building. Eight pools of light burned dimly far below, throwing ghastly shadows against the stone walls. The masters of Life and Death stood close to each other, arguing in sharp whispers, while the rest of Hadroy’s cabal continued their preparations. The air groaned with the weave and weft of spirits, and the slow accumulation of bindings. Yveth trundled down the last few stairs. Therris, the cabal’s resident deathbinder, turned to face him.
“This man is trying to ruin the balance of our weaving,” Therris said sharply. The lifebinder made a face and tried to defend himself, but Therris continued. “He is setting unnecessary boundaries on the amount of Oblivion we have to draw, all while adding to his own power. It’s intolerable!”
“We must consider the deaths that will be added at the moment of binding,” the other mage said patiently. “I only want to create a backstop of fae energy, to prevent the whole realm from tipping into Oblivion. Surely you understand that.”
“What you want to do is draw us into Elysium, for gods know what purpose!” Therris said. “If we are to do this properly, all eight realms must be summoned equally! As we discussed!”
“But, sir—” the lifebinder pleaded.
“Enough,” Yveth interrupted. “Lord Rassek has dictated the degrees to which each realm must be channeled. You are to follow those instructions with absolute care.” Fulcrum willing, you’ll never act on those instructions. Yveth turned his attention to the lifebinder. “If you have a concern and wish to adjust those amounts, you must speak with him.”
The lifebinder opened his mouth to protest, then looked from Yveth to the deathbinder. All eight members of the cabal were some of the most talented mages of their chosen realms. None of them were used to being countermanded. Especially, in Yveth’s opinion, this fool of a lifebinder.
“Very well,” the man said. “I shall do precisely that. Perhaps Rassek will listen to reason for once.”
“I don’t think it will do you much good,” Yveth warned. “The calculations are precise, and our time is short.”
The lifebinder nodded sharply and exited the tower. When he was gone, Therris grabbed Yveth by the elbow. The deathbinder’s bony fingers cut into Yveth’s skin.
“Short, you say?” Therris whispered. “It’s really happening?”
“Did you have a doubt, Therris?” Yveth asked. “Our master of storms has gathered the harvest he promised. It is no small task to cultivate a chaosstorm this close to Fulcrum. We will have to reap it quickly.”
“We will be ready,” Therris assured him, “as long as Rassek can keep that fool from interfering.”
“I’m sure you will be,” Yveth said. He started to turn away, but the flamebinder caught his eye. Yveth’s heart sank. He had not expected to see an old friend among Rassek’s cabal. When Drust had arrived at Hadroy’s estate, it was all Yveth could do to keep from begging the man to flee. Yveth pulled himself free from Therris’s grip and nodded to Drust, then exited the tower. Drust followed.
“Old friend,” Drust called. “A moment.” Yveth sighed but slowed his pace to let the flamebinder catch up. Drust strutted along next to him, his crushed velvet jacket and riding trousers much too formal for the business at hand. Drust had always held himself above the crowd, even when they were initiates at the College together.
“What do you want, Drust?” Yveth said quietly. “It won’t do if the others know our history.”
“I’m the last to speak out of turn,” Drust said. “Besides, the last I heard from you, you were talking about entering the service of the justicar-regent. How the mighty have fallen, eh?”
“I do not like to be reminded of my failings, Drust,” Yveth said sharply. “Do you have something you want to say? Or are we just trading schoolboy stories?”
“Hey, wait,” Drust said. He grabbed Yveth’s shoulder and stopped him, forcing Yveth to face him. “This could be it, Yvvey. The end we always talked about. The change we said the world needed.”
“The change you said the world needed,” Yveth snapped, then reeled his anger back, remembering the role he must play. “This is more than just change, Drust. This is the end of Fulcrum and its rotten system. Do you understand that?”
“Of course I do, Yvvey,” Drust said. His feelings looked hurt. Yveth wondered what horrible path had led his old friend here, what disgraceful mistakes the flamebinder must have made to end up in the service of a madman like Rassek Brant. Still, Yveth’s heart twisted in his chest for his old friend. He reached out and clapped Drust’s shoulder.
“Good. Stay to your task, and we will see a better day,” Yveth said. “Together.”
Drust’s face broke out into sunshine. He shook Yveth’s hand and turned back to the huntsman’s tower, whistling some ridiculous tune. Yveth watched him go.
I will do what I can to spare you from the justicars’ wrath, old friend. But I can make no promises. You have traveled too far down this path to turn back.
He returned his attention to the manor. The storm was starting to make its presence known. The far horizon crackled with clouds so dark they looked like night’s cloak thrown across the sky. Not long now. He had to find Rassek and make sure he was in the tower before the reinforcements arrived. Yveth had worked too hard on this investigation for his target to catch wind of the impending trap and flee.
Skirting the outside of the manor house, Yveth strode through the formal gardens that bordered the tower. The glass dome of the hothouse glinted like a jewel in the sunlight. Gardeners flittered through the terraced pathways, pruning hedges and tying back the raucous wildthorns that were the source of the Hadroy family seal. Yveth applauded the effort the baron gave to appearances as normal, but he couldn’t help but think Hadroy was living in deep delusion, going through the motions of revolution while playing his complicated shell game of finances and broken promises. He still almost expected the fool to turn them all over to the justicars in the hopes of some reward, or at least the fame it would bring. Sometimes the baron acted like he was just playing a parlor game with someone else’s money, and no consequences.
The time for playacting was past, though. The ax was against the neck. No matter what Hadroy intended, he was complicit in the most dangerous heresy the Ordered World had seen since the Heretriarch had nearly ended it, two centuries earlier. He would pay the same price as Rassek, and Therris, and the rest of them.
Even Drust would have to pay. Heaven help him.
Rassek’s bunker huddled amongst the outbuildings of the stables, a plain-looking building set beyond the paddock. It had no windows and only a single door, set in iron and locked with a key only Rassek carried. A rose bush climbed across the stone front of the bunker, an unexpected splash of color for a place that held such profane secrets. Yveth rapped on the door and listened. If the lifebinder had made it to Rassek’s side, he was not making his argument very loudly. A moment later the door creaked open, and Rassek’s grim face appeared.
“My lord, the rituals are underway. The storm is coming,” Yveth said. “It is time to draw this glorious business to a close.”
Rassek nodded slowly, as though he were simply agreeing with Yveth. He pulled the door open more widely and motioned inside.
“Very good, Yveth. Come in. We will make final preparations before I fetch our patron.” Rassek disappeared into the shadows. Yveth was rarely allowed into the bunker, but the experience had never been pleasant. He braced himself, and stepped inside.
The smell of human filth and dry sweat nearly overwhelmed him. Rassek didn’t live in squalor, exactly, but he certainly did not care about material comforts in the least. A single bed lay in the corner, sheet stained and rumpled, though judging by the stacks of paper and arcane samples spread across the mattress, it didn’t seem that Rassek was using it to sleep. Desks and tables along one wall were similarly cluttered. Scrying calculations, tomes on planar theory, maps of charted realms and navigated demesnes—every imaginable resource available to the spiritbinders of the Iron College littered the room. There was even a set of Lashings scattered across the desk like cheap dice. The Lashings alone must have cost Hadroy a moderate fortune, and yet Rassek left them lying around. Curtains divided the rest of the room into smaller spaces, the purpose of which Yveth had never learned. He suspected foul experiments. The justicar in his heart wanted to tear those curtains aside and end the deception right now.
Not yet. They must be taken in the act. All of them. They cannot escape.
“Have a seat, Yveth. This won’t take a moment,” Rassek said. He dragged a wooden chair to the center of the room, then went to the desk. He brushed one of the Lashings aside, mumbling to himself as he searched the piles of paper and mildew. When Yveth didn’t immediately sit, Rassek half-turned and raised his brows. “A seat, Yveth. Take it.”
“The moment is here, my lord,” Yveth said. “The eight are gathered. We don’t have time for last-second modifications. I know the master of Life—”
“He has made his concerns known,” Rassek said with a wry smile. His scarred face twisted the gesture into a mockery of the human form. “I know what needs to be done, Yveth. You don’t need to lecture me on schedules. I sensed the storm’s approach as well, and have already sent a servant to Hadroy. Never fear. Now, please sit down.”
Swallowing his nerves, Yveth moved to the chair and sat down. Rassek could be fickle, even violent, and very particular in his orders. If he wouldn’t proceed until Yveth sat here for a while, then Yveth would sit.
Rassek continued rummaging through the desk. A sheaf of paper spilled onto the chair before spreading out on the floor. The writing on those pages looked almost childlike, the letters blocky, the lines of ink shaky. Yveth glanced back at Rassek. Could it be the man was simply mad, that he had conned Hadroy into some great scheme that would never work? What a disaster that would be for Yveth. He had ambitions for his career, hopes that stretched all the way to Fulcrum, and the Iron College. But no, he had felt the magicks moving in the tower. Perhaps a madman could fool a low country baron out of his fortune, but surely he couldn’t deceive eight masters of the planar realms.
“What are these final preparations, my lord?” Yveth asked. “I thought the matter was in the hands of the cabal? Is there more that we must do?”
“More that I must do, yes,” Rassek mumbled. He cleared his throat loudly, nearly a yell that startled Yveth. Slowly he turned around, eyes flicking to the far corner of the room, before he turned his gaze to Yveth and gave him a serious look. “Our deception is over, Yveth.”
“Our deception, my lord?”
“Mm, yes. The baron suspects. We will have to tell the Iron College we have failed in our investigation.”
“I . . . I don’t . . .” Yveth cleared his mind. A final test, then. “Are you with the Iron College, Lord Rassek?”
“Yes, of course! A spy, sent to bring down Baron Hadroy!” Rassek’s face broke out in a smile, and he laughed. “Ah, you should see your face. I thought you were going to shit yourself. Ha!”
“This is hardly the time for jokes, my lord,” Yveth said. Fortunately he didn’t have to feign terror. His heart was hammering like a drum in his chest. For the briefest moment he thought Rassek had seen through him. But no, the old madman just wanted to make a joke, while the end of the world bore down on them. Ridiculous.
“No,” Rassek said, and his face fell. “It is not.”
The chair groaned under Yveth’s back. Vines twisted around his chest and arms, locking his wrists in place. A blossoming branch wove itself through his legs. Yveth shouted in surprise, then reached for his zephyr. Thunder rolled through his blood, and the living tree that held him smoldered as lightning arced across his skin. Taking the storm elemental firmly in hand, Yveth drew upon the full power of—
Iron snapped around his neck, and the world fell out from under Yveth’s soul. The echo of thunder rattled the jars on Rassek’s bed, but the storm was gone. Yveth worked his jaw, choking under the rage that bubbled under his skin. Rough hands twisted the iron collar around, and he felt a cold stone fall against his chest. Yveth looked down and saw a simple brown cube resting against his skin. It looked like polished mud, and yet there were depths to its color that swirled and sparked with power. Yveth’s heart went cold.
The Lashing of Earth. Yveth was cut off from his elemental. He couldn’t move, he couldn’t fight . . . He was dead.
Which meant they were all dead. Rassek knew who he was. Even now he must be moving against the justicars who were waiting to pounce. Yveth had failed, and the Ordered World would pay for it! Tears rose in his eyes, tears of frustration and rage and fear.
“Ah . . . ha. Ha-ha,” Rassek chuckled lightly, as though at a child’s unfunny joke. “Well done, friend. You may go. There is no need for you to be here for this part.”
“He will need healing when you are done,” someone said. “It is not a gentle process.”
“I have other resources. Go. No one must suspect anything is amiss,” Rassek said impatiently. The other person murmured something quietly.
Yveth twisted in his chair, to watch the lifebinder stroll out of the room. The man glanced back at him, nodding once to Yveth’s bound form. Then he was gone.
“What are you doing, Rassek?” Yveth pleaded, playing for time. If he could keep the man here long enough, maybe the justicars could still make it. Yveth’s life was forfeit, but perhaps the Ordered World could still be saved. Fulcrum stands. “Enough of this joking around! We haven’t the time!”
“Time is all we have, friend. Time, and the choices we make about how we spend it. You’ve put a lot of time into this one. A lot of ambition. I wondered about you, about your dedication.” Rassek walked over to the long table against the wall. He picked up a brass knife, polishing it with the spotted hem of his robe as he turned back to Yveth’s bound form. “Your story was almost too perfect. A disaffected student, expelled from the Iron College, with a gift for violence, just as I was looking for such a man as you.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Yveth swore. “You’ve lost your mind, Rassek. Let me go!”
“No, I don’t think I will,” Rassek said quietly. The door opened again. Drust walked in, smiling sheepishly, a silk-wrapped bundle in his arms. “I wondered about you, Yveth. And then your friend showed up, and my fears were confirmed.”
“Sorry, Yvvey,” Drust said quietly. “But you did always take me for a fool.”
Words failed Yveth. He stared at his old friend as the flamebinder unwrapped the package and produced a spiritblade. The blade and hilt were perfectly clear, as though they had been cut from pure glass. He handed the weapon to Rassek, who took it and looked at it curiously.
“Do you know what this is, Justicar?” Rassek asked. Yveth refused to answer. The flamebinder smiled, his lips twisted in anger. “I set one of the baron’s servants a little task: to make a copy of your soul. I told him it was just to test his ability, and your awareness. He did a fine job. Do you like it? I’ve made my own modifications.” He took a deep breath, letting it out slowly. “Yes, this will do the job nicely.”
“What do you mean to do with that?” Yveth asked.
“I’m going to use it to keep you quiet. Even after you’re dead.” He shifted his grip on the sword, pointing it at Yveth’s head. “Now. Let’s see what you have planned for us, shall we?”
The cold edge of the sword rested against Yveth’s cheek, cutting into the flesh. The tip was nearly to Yveth’s eye.
And then Rassek pressed, and Yveth’s world was nothing but pain and screaming.