Requiem (33 page)

I believe the Final Dream is coming.
An image formed of the broken world Petronus had just been studying. “Its dreamer channels in the aether with great strength.”

Petronus’s eyebrows arched. “This is good news, I would think.”

Aver-Tal-Ka nodded slowly. “It is. But with a cost. I found no sign of Lord Whym or Lady D’Anjite—that tells me they are sealed within the temple now. They cannot reach the aether to receive the dream when it comes.”

Petronus thought for a moment. “But when they leave the tower—the temple—they’ll be able to, right?”

The spider shook his head. “I have not been forthright with you. If they are indeed in the temple, then they are sealed in and cannot leave it. Y’Zir set traps behind him when he left.”

Their eyes met again, and Petronus found that the darkness in them chilled his skin.
But there is another way.

“How?”

“I can make
you
able to receive the dream.” And as he said it, Petronus felt that sorrow and hope again and understood the magnitude of the choice.

It will cost me my life.

Yes.
“And mine as well,” Aver-Tal-Ka said. “But the temple will be unsealed for the sowing. And Lord Whym and Lady D’Anjite will be released.”

The light will be saved.
Petronus sat with the information and wondered why it was so easy to commit to this. He had no reason to trust Aver-Tal-Ka—moreover, he suspected he had reason
not
to trust him. Something tickled at his sensibilities. Yet here, in this familiar place, he felt conviction rising from the spider to blend with his own resolve.

But more than that, Neb had trusted this creature. And the boy had trusted the song that brought them here. Petronus remembered the mechoservitor’s words and knew his trust or mistrust in the spider was irrelevant because Aver-Tal-Ka was not the object of this particular faith. “The dream is the dream,” he whispered.

Yes.
And the spider now whispered as well. “You must tell me you choose it.”

Petronus swallowed. “I do. I choose it.”

“And I choose as well.” Aver-Tal-Ka stood. Even as he did, the room began to tilt and shift, and Petronus found himself suddenly in two places at once. He was here, in the wing of the library watching Aver-Tal-Ka’s back as he walked away. And he was in the cargo hold of the ship, held tight by the spider as it spun its webbing over him, twisting and turning him as the cocoon took shape.

Closing his eyes and hearing only the song, Petronus laid down his life for a second time. He laid it down with ease, and reaching out beyond his wildest imaginings, took hold of another.

Chapter

17

Charles

Charles stood at the edge of the quicksilver lake and watched its waves lap the shore. It did not move like water but something thicker, and the way it slid over the stone shore pulled at his curiosity.

He bent to study it closer, and a hand fell upon his shoulder.

“Careful,” Orius said. “We’ve lost a lot of men here.”

Charles straightened. “What does it do to them?”

“It…” The general paused, looking for the right words. “They disintegrate.”

But the boat is safe.
He looked from the surface to the boat, then out to the island beyond. “Fascinating.”

Orius chuckled. “There’s a lot to fascinate down here.”

That made sense to Charles. Such a vast network of caves and rooms was bound to yield treasures far beyond his imagination. He’d spent most of his life studying the magicks and machines of a lost past, but most of those were from the ruins east in the Churning Wastes. The Beneath Places represented an even older time. He looked at the general, his eyes narrowing. “How long has the Order been down here?”

Orius met his eyes. “A long time,” he said.

Charles looked away. “And yet as arch-engineer, I knew nothing of it.”

Orius shrugged. “Not even the popes knew in most instances.” He nodded to Hebda and Tertius, where they stood talking excitedly with Winters. “You may have noticed that the Office operates largely without oversight.” Orius didn’t wait until Charles answered. He moved back to where the others stood, said a few quick words, and then looked to the old arch-engineer. “I need to get back,” he said. “Walk with me, Charles.”

They left the chamber, and immediately, scouts materialized behind and before them. Orius moved at a faster pace now, and Charles worked hard to keep up even as he strained to keep up with the general’s words.

“I’d like regular reports on your work with the mechoservitor,” Orius said. “I want to know anything it knows about Y’Zirite and Machtvolk military strength. I want to know about intelligence assets, supply chain, and any other schemes they may be up to.” He glanced to Charles. “I want to know what they’re looking for at Windwir. I meant what I said earlier. When it isn’t dreaming, I want it talking.”

Charles felt the anger again that had poked at him earlier during their walk out and found the word that raised those feelings: “it.” To Orius, the mechoservitor was a thing—certainly not a person. And not too long ago, Charles had felt the same way. But now, it was more than a machine.

He is my son.
Even as he thought it, he suspected it was true. “It is possible,” he said, “that this is somehow Isaak we’re dealing with. Not the Watcher.”

Orius stopped abruptly, and Charles did the same. The general regarded him with his single eye for a moment. “Mechoservitor Number Three,” he said. “The one they used to bring down the city.”

“Yes,” Charles said. “Also designated Isaak.”

Orius paused, and Charles could tell that he was choosing his words with care. “If that is the case,” he said, “then it goes without saying that I want that spell.”

He felt his stomach lurch with the general’s words. Charles had suspected as much, though he’d hoped otherwise. “The Seven Cacophonic Deaths is perhaps the most dangerous—”

Orius raised a hand, cutting Charles off. “Yes,” he said. “It is.” They locked eyes again, and the general lowered his voice. “And if that mechoservitor has it, I want it. Whatever comes of Hebda’s dreaming doesn’t change the reality that we are at war, Charles. The Y’Zirites represent a way of life that is antithetical to everything that P’Andro Whym stood for, everything the Order’s stood for, for thousands of years. You either serve the light or you don’t.” The scouts around them shifted uncomfortably on their feet while Orius’s single eye burned into Charles’s. “Do you serve the light, Charles?”

Flustered, Charles broke eye contact. “Of course I do.”

Orius studied him for a moment before nodding. Then, he set off again, and Charles struggled to keep up. “Good. Because the light you serve is at risk of being snuffed out by an enemy who loves darkness and bloodshed. And by the bones of Windwir, I’ll not turn away any advantage that can keep it burning.”

They made the rest of the trip without words, and when they reached a guarded metal hatch, Orius stopped. “We’re keeping it here—under guard at all times,” he said. “When you’re finished today, find Hebda. He has set up a table for you in his command tent. I’m returning to headquarters within the next hour.”

Charles nodded, his mind still turning over the general’s words and the fears that hid beneath them. He hoped that the war he felt inside wasn’t showing on his face.

Orius clapped him on the shoulder. “These are hard times, Charles, and the Order needs its best and brightest if we’re to dig our way out of the hole we’re buried in.” Then the old general winked. “And we have a few tricks tucked away still that we’ll be talking about as soon as we’ve gotten this dream business sorted out.”

Charles inclined his head, uncomfortable with the heavy hand on his shoulder. Still, he forced his eyes back to Orius’s. “I’ll do what I can for the light,” he said.

Orius gave him one last, hard look and then moved on with his scouts. Charles watched his back, watched his deliberate stride as he moved away, and forced himself to breathe. Then, he glanced to the guards at either side of the door and pushed it open.

The mechoservitor sat on a stool in the corner of the room, and the girl, Marta, sat on another that had been pushed closer. They sat quietly, the metal man’s huge hand covering the girl’s, and they both looked up as Charles entered.

Charles saw the look of worry on the girl’s face and watched as the mechoservitor’s red jeweled eyes flashed open and closed. “I have some questions for you,” he said.

Marta spoke up. “He doesn’t remember anything,” she said.

Charles nodded. “I know he doesn’t. But sometimes talking can help us remember.” He tried to smile but knew it had to look more like a grimace. “Would you excuse us?”

She studied Charles. “You’re not going to hurt him, are you?”

He shook his head, surprised by the vehemence and confidence in her voice. “No,” he said. “Of course not. I’m his…”
Father.
He swallowed the word before he said it, suddenly unsure of it as he took in the tall mechoservitor slouching upon its stool. It was bare of its robe now, and despite its size it seemed small within this context. “I’m his friend,” Charles finally finished.

Marta stood, regarding him with a sober expression. “I’d like to come back when you’re finished.”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

She nodded and made for the door. As she left, Charles took her stool and moved it so that it was in front of the metal man. He waited until she was gone, and the door closed behind her before he sat. “Do you know who I am?”

The head came up, and the red eyes regarded him. “You are Brother Charles, arch-engineer of the School of Mechanical Science.”

“Yes. Are you authorized to converse with me?”

The metal man shifted. “I do not know.”

Charles smiled. “If you are not, you will know. Let’s start with some simple questions, and we’ll see what we can learn.” He paused. “What is your designation?”

“I am called the Watcher by the Y’Zirite Imperial Blood Guard.”

Charles nodded. “Is this your only designation?”

The metal man shook its head. “I’m uncertain if it is my designation, only or otherwise.”

He knew he shouldn’t ask, that it was leading the mechanical where he wanted him to go. But he couldn’t help himself. “Is your designation also Isaak?”

The metal man said nothing.

Charles continued. “Or are you designated Mechoservitor Number Three?”

The metal man still remained silent, but now, its hands twitched slightly and it looked away.

Charles forced calm into his voice. “What is your first memory?”

“I awakened in a cave three days after my construction.”

Charles leaned forward. “How long ago was this?”

“Two weeks, four days, six hours, and forty-three minutes ago,” the mechoservitor said.

He sat back. “So you were constructed approximately three weeks ago?”

“Yes,” the mechoservitor said.

“Where?”

The metal man’s voice shifted to a series of high-pitched beeps and chirps that Charles recognized as coordinates, and he cursed himself for not having a pencil and paper brought to him. Still, they were someplace north—far enough north to be in the Machtvolk Territories.

“Do you remember who constructed you?”

The eyes dimmed, then brightened as the mechoservitor started to shake. “I do not remember.”

“Do you remember anything about that day? Do you—” But Charles’s words were cut off when the metal man suddenly seized and fell to the side, its arms and legs drumming out on the stone floor of the cave as its voice gave vent to murmurings and cries that Charles could not comprehend. He reached out, but even as he stretched out his hands, he was overcome himself and also fell over. He heard another voice rising in the enclosed room and knew it was his own, equally incoherent, as it matched the metal man’s. And somewhere behind him, he was dimly aware of the door opening and soldiers entering the room.

But even that spun away as something hot and liquid washed him, wrapped him, seared him. He felt everything that he was burn away from him, and in the midst of that cleansing, creative fire, he heard the voice full of command that spoke him into existence and saw a hand outstretched from somewhere above. It was a voice he knew, though he couldn’t place it, and it summoned him into being by calling him by name.

And Charles knew the name that echoed through the silver fire of his birth as the cave around him came down and as his creator was translated into light, swept away to seek the antiphon and the lunar dream that built it.

Isaak.

Rudolfo

A warm breeze stirred the curtains of Rudolfo’s makeshift office and he sniffed at it, pulling the smell of salt and fresh-cut grass from the air. He rubbed his eyes and glanced to the half-empty wine carafe and the platter of assorted fruits and cheeses. How long had it been since he’d taken lunch, picking his way through it as he worked? It had been hours.

“Are you hungry, Lord Chancellor?” Ire Li Tam sat by the door, and though her posture was relaxed, Rudolfo had no doubt that she could be on her feet, knives drawn and magicked, before he could push back his chair. A leather-bound book rested open in her lap.

“No,” he said. “Though I suppose we should join Yazmeera and her officers.”

Her eyes met his. “We do have a standing invitation.”

He’d dined there most nights, using that time to ask questions about the men and women who served the Y’Zirite general. He asked about their families and about their faith, listening between their words for any useful scrap of information. He noted the cities they were from, filing that data away as well. And he praised their cooking—sincerely, most of the time because it merited such. Still, tonight he felt like dining alone. It had been three days now since the Lady Merrique had spit upon him in the streets, and he still carried the memory of it close to him.

Because she was not wrong.
His family had betrayed them all, and his present course of action did nothing to convince otherwise.