Book Three - Chapter Eleven (Patreon)

The dungeons of Ilvan-Trai had been accumulating all manner of sounds for over six hundred years. They’d heard dripping water and scurrying vermin—the usual sounds of any old basement. But also the rattle of chains and the screams of the condemned that were confined to a fortress prison. They’d heard the clash of blades and dying breaths, the laughter of overworked guards and so much more.

Descending into their depths with a folder clutched under his arm, Alarion wondered how many times these walls had heard music.

The sound of strings haunted each step as he reached the prison landing to find two soldiers at attention. These were his men, and they were embarrassed—neither willing to meet his eye even as the one on the left blurted out, “Sir, we couldn’t—”

Alarion waved away the apology without a second thought, forcing a reassuring half-smile that he did not feel. There was nothing the two Auxilia could have done to stop her—not without hurting her. They’d done their jobs correctly by sending a runner as soon as they detected her intrusion. If anything, Alarion was the one who was derelict.

He should have known Nessa would go to see him as soon as they arrived home.

“It is fine,” Alarion said with a weight of exhaustion entirely at odds with his youth. “She does this.”

The two men visibly relaxed. Their names were Axial and Ketse, if memory served, relatively recent replacements for two Martyrs who had mustered out at the end of their service. Alarion didn’t know either well, but he could tell from their posture that they weren’t afraid of him. 

They were afraid of disappointing him. 

That he commanded such deference from men nearly a decade his senior continued to feel deeply strange.

The melody grew clearer as Alarion passed through the checkpoint and into the prison proper. It stopped abruptly with a sour note and then started again, a still distant twang of guitar strings that echoed off stone walls and empty cells.

Built in an age of nobility, Ilvan-Trai had a notable class division built into its accommodations. Closest to the entrance were the cages and cells built for common soldiers and prisoners of war. Some were so small that they could barely fit Alarion, others so large as to fit twenty men with room to spare. All were empty and decrepit, unused for years. Ilvan-Trai had only one prisoner, and he rated the royal treatment.

A second set of guards awaited Alarion outside the entrance to the Vault, as Centre’s prison had come to be known. These two were Williams’ men, hand-picked Vitrian guards all too familiar with Nessa’s misbehavior. One was tapping his foot along with the tempo; the other had a smirk on his face that only grew the moment he saw Alarion.

“Master Sergeant,” the guard said. 

Alarion had never bothered to memorize the smiling man’s name. The six rotating Vitrians could barely restrain their distaste for the duty—or for Alarion. The feeling was mutual. These guards were the lowest of the low, barely capable sons and daughters of Vitria given a position of ‘honor’ and superiority by virtue of their blood. If someone came to kill Centre, Alarion had no doubt he would find these worms crying in a corner after his Auxilia fought to the death.

“Open it.”

“There is a new Lieutenant,” the smiling man said. He’d been practicing this smarmy speech; Alarion could just tell. “Our orders state that the door remains closed for anyone other than the acting commander of Ilvan-Trai.”

“Who gave you those orders?”

“You did. When you were the acting commander of Ilvan—”

“Do you really want to do this?”

“Master Sergeant, I—”

“We both know I am going through that door,” Alarion interrupted, his voice level and patient. “I could go and get the new commander and drag her down here, at which point you will, I assume, explain that this was all a misunderstanding. You are hoping that she will see you as dutiful rather than obstructionist, yes?”

“I am just following orders, Master Sergeant,” the smug man replied.

“True. But I am also volatile and in a mood. Have you considered that I may instead lose my patience and beat you half to death?”

The second Vitrian guard let out a strangled laugh, then cast a sharp glance at his compatriot. 

“Master Sergeant,” the obstinate guard’s voice was less sure, less arrogant this time. “Was that a threat?”

“Did it sound like a threat?”

If there was one thing Alarion owed to Kali’s teaching more than any other, it was how to be a bully. Intimidation was nowhere to be found in Alarion’s natural toolkit—given his size and inherent demeanor—but as the Sergeant was so fond of saying, what was the point of having so much power if he wasn’t willing to throw his weight around?

“No, Master Sergeant. My mistake,” the guard said at last. He was scowling, as though he hoped the glare alone could slay Alarion, but was too much of a coward to press the issue. “Please ask the new Lieutenant to put you on the whitelist before your next visit.”

The muted sound of Nessa’s instrument flooded the corridor the moment the pair turned their dual keys, opening the heavy door leading to Centre’s suites. 

The music was gentle and melancholy—each note plucked with care, allowed to ring out and begin to fade as the next overtook it. The song was simple and spare, composed in real time along with a quiet percussion: the hollow, rhythmic tap of the heel of Nessa’s hand against the body of the guitar.

Alarion stepped into the Vault’s foyer, then stopped just as she began yet another iteration of the same song, her strings serenading her listeners for a quarter minute before two voices rose to join them in Ashadi.

White hair, dark skin under coversSoft touch a first nightA flame that the dark hides

Long pause, soft ache in the silenceFear dressed as shynessA world left behind them

With the sun’s rise, time fliesRed, and White, and SilverHer love won’t wash it all away

And the old name clings onTainted by a historyHer life won’t wash it all away

Blue eyes, tears sting between loversHarsh slap a first fightTruth now as the mask slides

Short pause, then scream into violenceHeart turned defiantA number between them

As the light dies, time fliesRed, and White, and SilverHer life won’t wash it all away

And that old name lingersPainted by a mysteryHer love won’t wash it all away

Though Alarion had little grasp of the finer things in life, such as art or music, he knew what he liked, and he liked this. The melody was somber but beautiful, and though Nessa’s unnatural twin voices made his heart ache, he knew that pain was anything but accidental.

Obligation to the 238th had long smothered any hope Alarion had of honoring Sierra’s musical ambition, but the same was not true of his daughter. Though Nessa’s feelings about The Original were conflicted—as he felt suggested by her lyrics—there was no argument that she’d inherited both love and talent for music. And unlike so many of the traits that Alarion had unwittingly ascribed to her, this was one Nessa vehemently embraced.

<Beautiful,> Centre congratulated from deeper inside the Vault. His study, no doubt. The man barely left the room despite the spacious apartments they’d provided. <Truly breathtaking.>

<I was sour on the high note. Again,> Nessa complained, <I wish you would be more honest.>

<You wound me,> the man complained. <And you demean yourself, which is far worse. A thing doesn’t have to be perfect to be beautiful. One day you will sing this song to an adoring crowd, and you will think back on this flawed performance and know that I meant every word of it. And you will know that I was right.>

Nessa laughed shyly, plucking an idle note as she said, <I hope so. Though I would’ve played it right had someone not distracted me.>

Alarion sighed, then walked a dozen steps to join them at the door to Centre’s study.

Centre’s study looked much like Alarion had last seen it, less like a prison than the cluttered mind of a man who refused to waste his remaining days. Several tables had been arranged wherever space allowed, each one buried beneath stacks and spreads of legal documentation: annotated motions, statutes, case notes, loose pages marked in a precise hand, all ordered according to some inscrutable logic. 

Set off to one side was a couch that looked far more inviting than half the places Alarion had ever slept, deep enough to sink into and softened further by a carelessly draped blanket and a veritable fortress of well-used pillows. On it sat the Terror of Ashad, a man responsible for countless deaths. Just a man, violet-eyed and slightly overweight, his black topknot and beard streaked through with more silver than when Alarion had captured him a year earlier. 

What drew the eye most, though, were the walls. Nearly every stretch of stone had been claimed by drawings. Some were quick sketches, others painstakingly detailed studies, all pinned or pasted alongside similar work. There were portraits of Ashadi refugees, of animals, both local and exotic, and of Systemborn creatures rendered almost lifelike in charcoal. Taking up two full walls were architectural studies by the hundreds—towers, streets, fortresses, bridges, courtyards, whole cities and skylines. Some Alarion recognized: Carling Hill, Ashad-Vitri, The Old City, and what he assumed was a sketch of pre-war Ashad-Mundi. Other images existed nowhere but in Centre’s imagination: impossible palaces, idealized temples, cities that had never and could never stand anywhere but in ink. 

It was beautiful, and that made Alarion angry. Every time he saw this room, he saw wasted potential—a visionary gone rotten out of anguish.

<Martyr, I did not realize you had joined us.>

<Centre,> Alarion said curtly, his eyes on Nessa. She was seated on a stool across from Centre, guitar in hand and a steel rod in her spine. <We talked about this.>

<No, you made demands, and I ignored you.>

<Nes—>

<No one else treats me like a real person,> she snapped. <They all act like I am an extension of you. I’m not Kotone.>

Alarion drew a steadying breath and clamped down on their bond. They couldn’t both be upset.

<Centre is dangerous.>

<Athern is...> Nessa found herself unable to finish the sentence as she glanced toward the old man. Athern Paytol was many things, but he was not harmless. <He wouldn’t hurt me.>

<I couldn’t hurt you,> the elderly seditionist corrected. <Even if I wanted to.> 

Alarion wasn’t so sure. Centre hadn’t become the most dangerous man in Ashad through strength of arms. To the contrary, he’d amassed his power while wholly unawakened, backed by neither fortune nor station. Centre’s weapons were his mind and his tongue, and both were fully intact.

Yet at the same time, he found it hard to doubt Nessa’s statement. Athern had been nothing but kind to her from the moment the two had met, and so much of who she was could be laid at the old man’s feet. Without his insight into the Thoughtborn, it might have taken years for Nessa to reach Materialization. Years without being able to touch or speak to anyone but Alarion.

I think I want to go.

Even a year later, the words still haunted him. She’d been so close to unraveling in those early months. Making small changes had staved off the worst of the dissonance that plagued doppelgangers, but he’d never forget the look of joy on her face when Centre had pulled her off balance.

Alarion had plenty of reasons to hate the man, but they were all abstract. Centre was a mass murderer, yes, but he’d never been responsible for the death of anyone Alarion was truly close with—which was more than Alarion could say for the Vitrians. Centre’s vices were statistics and unfamiliar faces, while his virtue sat with a guitar in his lap.

But more than any of that, the man was damnably likable. It wasn’t hard to see why Nessa was drawn to him because Alarion felt the same pull. It was why he’d made a point of keeping his distance. Why did he still use Centre’s title rather than his name?

<He was right,> Alarion said at last. <About the song, I mean. Though I’m not sure about the lyrics.>

Nessa blushed, unable to meet his eyes as she said, <Sometimes they just come to me. I’m not changing them.>

<Mm,> Alarion murmured, noncommittally.

The lyrics were... strange. There were familiar themes, obviously, but odd gaps as well. In another life, he might have been lovers with Sierra, but he hadn’t been in this one. Nessa knew that as well as he did, but her song suggested otherwise.

Dramatic license, he supposed.

<You have something for me?> Centre inquired with a gesture to the folder tucked at Alarion’s elbow. He’d almost forgotten he was carrying it.

The corner of Alarion’s lips turned down as he looked to Nessa. <I need to speak to him privately.>

Her eyes flicked between the two men, and Alarion felt a pang of irritation as a nod from Centre softened her expression.

<I’ll come back to see you soon,> Nessa promised. She set her spare instrument on a nearby shelf, smiled warmly at the old man, then grimly at her father before walking toward and then through a nearby wall.

Alarion looked inward, focusing on the threads of sympathy that bound him to Nessa. He felt her double back, eager to snoop on the pair, and let a wave of his annoyance flow through the connection. A sense of indignation hit him soon after, and he waited a few more seconds until she was well and truly gone before handing over the folder.

<I wish you wouldn’t do this to her,> said Alarion, his voice as bitter as he felt.

<I have no control over the Thoughtborn. It is one of the many gifts that exalt them,> Centre told him as he took the papers. <To say nothing of a lonely teenage girl.>

<How lonely is she going to be when you hang?>

There was a small twitch to Athern’s eyelid and a shake to his hands as he opened the folder and skimmed the dense paperwork inside.

<So it is time, is it?> Centre asked. 

<Soon,> Alarion nodded grimly, his voice turning formal. <By grace and selection, the 238th Auxilia Company has been ordered to escort you back to Ashad-Vitri on the first day of the new year so that you may stand trial for sedition, murder, and fiendish collaboration. Among numerous other crimes.>

<I am shocked that I was not charged with petty theft.>

 <You joke, but the list will be longer by the time we bring you in. We found another artificial boil.>

<Ah. Well, I have told you previously—and will do so again—that you have a different villain in your midst.> Centre replied.

<So you say.>

<You have captured or killed every man with whom I shared the secret. The ones still living are geased on pain of death, and true believers besides. We did what we did with a purpose; these new monstrosities are murder for its own sake.>

It was the same argument that Centre had offered after they’d come across the first of the new boils. Alarion had been in a rage then, certain that Centre and his co-conspirators were planning another massacre. The old man had persuaded him otherwise, but his refusal to discuss details had done little to build trust between them.

<You still won’t tell me?> Alarion asked.

<I will not. And you know why I will not.> Centre remained firm. <No one should know these things. The door I used to gain the knowledge is closed to others, and I killed as many as I was able to spare who’d learned it from me. Whoever is doing this, they came to it independently or by working backward from what my men left behind.>

The former was improbable, the latter a veiled accusation.

If Centre had blamed the Vitrians directly, Alarion would have laughed the accusation away. A mass murderer blaming his hated enemy for everything under the sun was hardly worth serious consideration. But by making it a question, he forced Alarion to grapple with the facts of the matter. Yes, Alarion had obliterated the ritual site they had found at Carling Hill, but he knew nothing of what had happened to the other two. If the Vitrians had claimed them intact, he could only imagine what they might do with the knowledge.

And if not the Vitrians, then whom?

Centre and his Bones were obvious villains. These could be reprisal attacks. Or perhaps a ploy within a ploy, haphazard rituals designed to look as though the Vitrians were using Ashad as a testing ground for a depraved form of warfare. But could there be others? Had someone sold Centre’s secrets behind his back? 

The whole thing made Alarion’s head hurt.

<I thought I would have longer,> the old man said as he finished reviewing the newest court orders. There was a familiar edge to Centre’s voice, not fear or anger, but regret. <But I suppose we made enough of a fuss that they—>

<A fuss?> 

Centre raised a hand in apology.

<You are right. I am sorry.> While Athern had given plenty of justifications for his crimes both in public and in private, he’d never intentionally shied away from the reality of his actions. He was a murderer who felt justified, but guilty all the same. <I just... I’m not ready.> 

Were any of the people you killed? The words were on the tip of Alarion’s tongue. They were what thousands of Ashadi would have spat in Athern’s face before sticking a knife in his gut, but Alarion couldn’t bring himself to be so cruel. <Are any of us?>

<It is easier when you’re young, I think,> Centre replied, setting the paperwork down on the table in front of him before it could fall from his shaking hands. <When you’re little, everything seems infinite. The world will always get better and brighter. You’ll keep learning and growing because that’s all you know. A year feels like a century because you’ve barely lived at all.> He laughed bitterly at that. <But it doesn’t last. A pet dies. Your vision goes blurry. Disease takes your brother. Things go wrong, and the years come faster and faster. Soon, the only thing left to lose is yourself.>

<Something might come after,> Alarion said, though he barely believed it. <We can’t know.>

<There is something.> Centre nodded to himself, elbows on his knees, one palm clenched tight over his other fist to help calm his nerves. <But not after. Before. Something we can go back to. I’m sure of it but... as you said, I can’t prove it to you.>

<Then what is there to fear?>

The old man’s voice was barely a whisper as he said, “Ilun.”

<What?> Alarion asked, surprised by the shift in language. <The world?>

<The word is old Celesian, though I think it goes back even before them. It refers to the world, yes. But it also means change.> Athern clarified, cutting Alarion off the moment he started to ask another question. <Will your new duties be over in time for the trial?>

Alarion cocked his head to the side. <New duties?>

<Your new officer—> The old man paused to chuckle at the sour look on Alarion’s face before he continued, <—oh drop the look, your daughter didn’t say a thing. You know I can get information in here.>

That was true enough, though how the seditionist leader received his information remained an enduring mystery. They’d interrogated the guards at length, inspected the cell four times and subjected everyone involved to constant oversight. Yet somehow information about the outside world still slipped through. It was distressing, but so far as Alarion could tell, harmless.

<The only thing she told me about was that nice young woman you met in Ashad-Vit—>

<What new duties?> Alarion asked, grinding his teeth to keep from coming across the table at the old man.

<Ah, so you haven’t been told? You’re taking part in Blue Ex.>