Book Two - Chapter Eighty-Seven (Patreon)

The counsel room was narrow and windowless, lit by two crooked strips of overhead light that cast strange shadows on the objects below. A long, smooth table filled the space, its top nearly overflowing with stack after stack of neatly ordered, handwritten documents.

The old man was kneeling on a pillow and facing the far wall when Alarion entered. He didn’t flinch at the slam of the door or the expletives hurled his way. Indeed, Centre didn’t seem to recognize Alarion’s presence in the slightest, something that made the young man all the more furious. If circumstances were different, Alarion would have hit him again.

Perhaps he still would.

The silence stretched one minute, then two. It took three before Alarion spent the worst of his wrath and resorted to angrily pacing on the far side of the room. It was only then that he recognized the odd patterns in Centre’s respiration.

He was breathing from his diaphragm with a strong emphasis on sharp exhales. It was a pattern Alarion knew all too well, given that it formed the core of one of his most important skills.

“Is that Kel-Taran Meditation?”

<One must take time to centre oneself, if you’ll forgive the tawdry joke,> Centre said <And forgive my quiet. I thought it best to let you work out your frustration before we begin.>

<You aren’t Awakened,> Alarion said, joining Centre in the familiar tongue despite his anger.

<You do not need a skill to practice a skill. The Kel-Taran Monks were practicing their life-giving meditation centuries before the Power reared its ugly head,> Centre drew one last breath, then turned on the spot to regard Alarion. <You look anxious, Martyr. I apologize for troubling you.>

Troubling. The bastard had, unintentionally or not, led him to believe his life was over. Yes. He was troubled.

<Why did you bring me here?> Alarion responded, ignoring the faux contrition. <You know damn well I did not offer you->

<You did not intend to, no,> Centre agreed. <But you did. Aegis is an offer of protection given by the ranking officer in any engagement, or in edge cases like this, the most senior non-commissioned officer if no officers are present. Did they explain it to you?>

<I know what it means,> Alarion snarled, his anger boiling once again. 

The concept was part of old Celesian common law, one that carried over to almost all their successor states. An offer of protection, freely given from one party to another, it had evolved into the patronage system in Vitria but remained binding in its original form in Ashad. By his own words, Alarion was obligated to protect Centre from unreasonable attacks on his person, to provide him care if harmed, and to defend his interests in legal matters so long as he remained in jeopardy.

There were plenty of circumstances under which Alarion could withdraw his Aegis, but he didn’t know any. ZEKE would, after he had finished scouring his [Infinite Library], but until they found a crack, the obligation remained.

<You understand this is a terrible idea? Whatever solicitor the empire provides will be far more effective, for what little case you->

Centre’s laugh cut him short.

<Dear boy, I have no desire to have you—or anyone else—as my counsel,> Centre told him, joints cracking as he slowly got to his feet. He stretched briefly, wincing at the little aches and pains of old age before moving toward the table. <And I think you will find that I have more legs to stand on than one might imagine. Come, sit. It will be awkward to take my confession while standing.>

Alarion perked up at that. <That wasn’t another ruse?>

<Not of the sort you imagine, though my captors will rage when you are done,> Centre told him as he set his pillow down and sank onto the wooden chair. <I promised a confession, and I will give you one. But I will not be pleading guilty to any of the capital crimes.>

<You will confess to the details, but you will plead not guilty to things you’ve admitted?>

<That is correct.>

<That is insane,> Alarion corrected as he approached the table and pulled out two chairs.

<It is strategy,> Centre replied. He smiled warmly as Alarion sat, then turned his head toward the empty chair. <Is the young Thoughtborn joining us?>

<She is.>

<Then it is once again a pleasure, young lady,> Centre said, inclining his head in lieu of a proper bow. <Nascent thoughtforms are so rare in Nostrum, let alone Ashad. It warms my heart to be in the presence of a turn of the Wheel.>

<For a bastard murderer, he is sort of charming,> said Nessa.

Alarion laughed in spite of his still simmering fury. <I would not have pegged you for a religious man.>

<Few do.> Centre smiled, somewhat ruefully. <In my youth, I was an optimist. I had a wonderful dream before I was born, a dream of a true, unspoiled paradise. As I grew, I hoped to bring that here, and I spent years searching for an answer as to how. The Thoughtborn, beings of pure imagination, seemed to be the answer.>

<And then you started murdering children?>

Centre laughed bitterly. <I suppose so. I studied endless theory, but I had no talent. I am more of a returner these days, but every so often, my mind drifts to the great what if?>

Alarion crossed his arms and said nothing.

<I know what you think of me,> Centre said after a short pause. <And I understand it. I do not ask for, nor expect, forgiveness. From you, or anyone else. But you must understand. There is something wrong with this world.>

<How did you…>

<How did I what?> Centre asked.

Alarion met Nessa’s eyes and saw the same depth of confusion he felt. As a coincidence, the identical turn of phrase was odd. But what other explanation could there be? He’d come straight from the speech, and Centre was buried deep.

<What do you mean wrong?> Alarion asked.

<The Numbered Empire, for starters,> Centre replied, waving his hands as if to indicate something more grand. <But more than that. This is not what life is supposed to be. All this pain, this violence. The separation. If you were me, if you could feel what it is to be me, there would be no conflict between us. No more than your right hand could hate your left. Communication, understanding, consensus. These are the things we lack!>

<Then why->

<Because change doesn’t just happen,> Centre sighed. <If I could walk into the Curia and free Ashad, I would. If I could make us understand one another, I would. But we live in this imperfect world, and we use the tools we have, monstrous though they are.>

<If you hate Vitrians, then kill Vitrians,> argued Alarion.

<I do not hate them. I am not so much a hypocrite to think I still have that right. Not after what I have done. Besides, the Numbered Empire makes victims of everyone, themselves included. No, what I do is practical. Targeted.>

Alarion snorted. <In what world?>

<In ours. Tell me, what do the Vitrians take?>

<Taxes? Auxilia?>

<Among other things. Now what do they give us?> Alarion’s expression tightened, and Centre was quick to add, <This is not a trick question, I assure you.>

Alarion rolled the question around in his mind until a memory of Syrus Feln talking about the exact topic finally clicked. <Security.>

<Exactly.> Centre nodded. <The Celesian Empire didn’t collapse because of outside invasion. It was never defeated in the field. It ended with the butchering of the Imperators, but it was dead long before they were, because it failed in that basic duty. It failed to protect its subjects; it let them wage war against one another and let fiends run rampant. If the Numbered Empire fails to provide security, then it is taking our children for nothing.>

Alarion’s pulse pounded in his ears as grey eyes burrowed into his own. The logic, at least, was understandable. It was cruel, evil calculus, but Centre was not insane. Alarion couldn’t decide if that made it better or worse.

<Ask him how he expects this to end,> Nessa suggested.

<With me hanging from a noose,> Centre answered candidly, after Alarion had repeated the question. <My capture was always a matter of if, not when. And though I hope to live through it and see a free Ashad, I do not expect the new government to be any more lenient toward a monster such as I. Exile would be my preference, but I harbor little hope they will be so kind.>

<You are confessing to everything,> Alarion reminded him. <Vitrian justice is known to be slow, but it can be swift when they are angry. Unless you expect Ashad to fall within the year, your hope is misplaced.>

<Now you see, this is why I did not wish for you to be my solicitor.> Centre chuckled, then reached into the stacks of paper. He plucked one out and scrawled his name at the bottom before tossing it to Alarion, the pages scattering into his lap. <That is my confession, so that no one may call me a liar. On that front, at least.> Centre reached out again and tapped his fingers against one pile of documents after another. <This is a request for broad discovery. This one is a request for a change of venue; this one for reconsideration after the first is denied. These two call the Governor’s appointment into question; this one demands a public gag order, and this one demands that the trial be conducted in Ashadi. And these are just the start.>

Alarion looked over the table, his eyes wide. He’d thought perhaps that the prison had been using the room for storage, that they were copies or something the Watch had brought in to intimidate Centre. But the handwriting was the same on all of them. There were hundreds of pages.

<You wrote all of these? When?!>

<While they were interrogating me—mostly. I had nothing useful to say to them,> Centre grinned. <I cannot take credit for the content, as I had them drafted several years ago in anticipation. One of the only things I admire about the Numbered Empire is its commitment to honesty and process. Individuals often fall far short of the mark, but as a society, you can largely trust that they will honor their word and obey their laws, even to their own detriment.>

<He is going to drown them in paperwork,> Nessa said, perhaps a little more giddy than was proper. <Oh, Mothers… this will take years!>

<They will kill you in prison,> Alarion said with utter certainty. Centre was right that Vitrian society could be trusted, but a society was made of individuals. If an imperator was willing to snuff out an entire household, there would be Vitrians willing and able to assassinate the man who had embarrassed them, or killed their kin.

Centre nodded and drew Alarion’s attention to one of the piles with another tap of his finger. <That is why I wrote this one, and the other reason I requested your presence.>

<Change of Custody,> Alarion read the title aloud, then began skimming through the document. <You want me to keep the Aegis intact and bring you back to Ilvan-Trai.>

<I can think of nowhere safer.>

<Than a fortress filled with Ashadi?> Alarion asked. <How many of them lost friends or family to what you did? How many of them lost comrades or limbs at Ikeda?>

<The best of many bad options,> Centre conceded.

<It puts us at risk as well, if an assassin is willing to risk it, or your allies try to free you.>

The old man frowned, as if he had considered that possibility. But he still pressed the issue. <It is a cruel thing I am asking.>

<Everything you do seems to be cruel.>

<I know!> Centre snapped. 

His anger was like a lightning strike; an instant of rage that left him drained—almost morose. When he spoke again, his voice felt hollow.

<I know. Every night I dream of a world that is nothing like this one. A world of compassion, of empathy and understanding. And then I open my eyes, and I see this place. I want to show everyone where I go in my dreams, but to do so, I…> Centre’s voice shook with each word until he paused, running both hands through his hair to soothe himself against the struggle of his conscience. <This world is cruel, you and I know this better than most.>

<I am not like you,> Alarion said. The rejection was firm, but the measure of pity in his voice made it wholly unconvincing, even to him. He knew what pain sounded like, and it sounded like Centre.

<You are. I had even thought to recruit you once, given all the things that have been taken from you. Or’Valde said your moral compass was too strong,> Centre laughed a little at the memory. <Your family, your name…> Centre’s pronunciation changed as he spoke in stilted Imurian, <Your language.>

<And you?> Alarion asked in Ashadi.

<I lived only a few miles from here during the war, at the outskirts of the city. The shockwave from the ruination killed my wife,> Centre toyed with the pen in his hand, his eyes anywhere but on Alarion’s. <And our unborn son. The poison in the air killed my brother and his children. Then my youngest was gone. Hunger took my mother; violence, my father. But we found a place. I was an architect. I’d never so much as turned the soil before we settled down.>

<I’m sorry,> Alarion said.

<But that wasn’t enough for them. They came in the dusk, with their papers and steel,> Centre told him, his sing-song cadence quiet and brimming with rage. <They needed my daughter, not how I might feel. Now I burn down their Houses; they’re nothing to me. Chained down into sin, I have no wish to see.>

Alarion stared into the man’s eyes for several seconds, and he saw Atra’s face when he blinked. He felt bile in his throat and remembered how desperately he’d wanted to murder Syrus Feln when he’d threatened to ‘find’ Atra. Alarion still had people—good people—in his life, but he knew how easy it was to become someone like Centre.

They just had to take everything.

<Are you an honest man, Athern Paytol?>

<As often as I can be,> he replied, dabbing a knuckle at the corner of one glassy eye.

<Do you intend to escape?>

Centre shook his head. <No. My time as a leader is over and the Bones, at least, are broken. There are plans left unfinished, groups you haven’t found. But none of them need me. My next task is to make a farce of their show trial, to drag it out and humiliate the empire.>

<Then we are done,> Alarion said, pushing back from the table. <I will not contest your transfer to Ilvan-Trai, though my Aegis ends with my Induction in a little more than a year.>

<I will keep that in mind,> Centre’s smile didn’t quite reach his grief-stricken eyes as Alarion turned to leave. <Martyr… Alarion, I would offer a boon of my own.>

<I want nothing from you,> Alarion said flatly. He understood Centre, but that did not mean he was willing to forgive or forget what the man had done.

<It is not a gift for you, but for the young lady,> Centre urged. <You are still working toward materialization, yes?>

<How do you…> Alarion began, only to frown at his own stupidity. 

The answer was obvious. Materialization was the intermediate stage between a manifested being like Nessa and an actualized Thoughtborn of flesh and blood. And as the name implied, a Thoughtborn that reached materialization could materialize and interact with the world around them.

The path through materialization was slow and varied. Some Thoughtborn could be seen but not heard; others could be felt but not seen. Yet every materialized Thoughtborn left an imprint on reality. Nessa did not.

<An educated guess,> Centre reassured. <If you know what you’re doing, the first steps toward materialization are easy. Intentional manifestation is much harder, so I assume she was a fortunate accident?>

Alarion’s defensive glare was the only answer Centre received.

<There is nothing to be ashamed of. We created them by accident long before we knew how to create them on purpose.> Centre stepped around the table and pointed to a spot on the ground two feet in front of him. <If you would indulge me by standing here, young lady?>

<I thought you had no talent?> Alarion reminded him.

<For manifestation. I lack the ability to create, but I am an adequate teacher.>

Nessa gave Centre a curious look, then turned her eyes on Alarion. <Should I?>

<It is up to you. I do not think he can hurt you.>

<Nor do I intend to,> the old man promised. He smiled a bit as he watched Alarion’s eyes follow Nessa into place, then asked. <I feel safe in assuming she is humanoid. Could you place your hand behind her head at roughly eye level, please?>

Again, the pair exchanged looks, and with a nod from Nessa, Alarion lifted his finger and placed it as instructed.

<Thank you,> Centre said as he stared intently at Alarion’s finger. In doing so, he effectively made eye contact with Nessa, becoming the first person other than Alarion to do so.

The effect flustered the girl. She blushed and looked away, but looked back just as quickly, entranced by the idea this man could see her—even if it was nothing more than a trick.

<When you are ready, I would like you to push your hand against mine,> Centre said, maintaining that intense eye contact as he lifted his right hand and held his upright palm toward her. <Push as hard as you can.>

This time, Nessa did not even bother to look to Alarion for either permission or approval. She lifted one slim hand and touched it against Centre’s, then she pushed. Like all things, the resistance pushing back against her was all in her head; Nessa could walk through centre if she chose, but his body was real to her as long as she believed it to be. And she believed that Centre was pushing back.

<The most common stumbling block for materialization is isolation,> Centre explained, his arm still held casually in front of him, showing no sign of strain even as Nessa’s struggled against it. <You are the only one who can see, hear, or touch her, barring System-granted skills, so others treat her like an imaginary friend. But materialization is very difficult to achieve with the two of you alone, because the whole point is for her to become real to people other than you.>

Nessa escalated as he spoke, adding a second hand atop the first as she leaned her body weight against the immovable object. The muscles in her arms strained, and a bead of perspiration trickled down from her brow as she pushed and pushed, boots scraping across the stone floor.

And Centre’s hand finally moved.

It wasn’t much—barely even an inch—but his sudden smile was all the encouragement Nessa needed to throw her whole body into the effort.

<There she is,> Centre said as he tilted his hand, interlaced his fingers, and gave Nessa a gentle pull that sent her sprawling through his body and down to the ground.

<Nes!> Alarion cried.

His concern was met with giddy, tearful laughter. Nessa was up in a heartbeat, staring at her hand with childlike wonder and excitement. <He touched me! Alarion, did you see!? He->

Whatever else she intended to say was smothered by the sound of a familiar, screaming voice as the door swung open, “-has the Watch lost all sense of decorum? Or did you think I did not deserve to be informed?!”

“G-Governor Williams, the law requires-“ one of the guards stammered.

“I handle execution of that law! Not you! You were told that he would be made available tomorrow. You were told-“

Centre couldn’t quite cover his amusement as he said, <Enjoy your evening, Martyr.>