The Broken Isles (Legends of the Red Sun 4) (34 page)

‘Go on.’

‘When I collected the group, I intended to secure her trust, which I did. But I was also under instruction to make what . . . there is no translation, I believe for this, but a comparison
would be something like “mind-bond”. It would have made sense for all concerned to be bonded – in our minds. One of instantaneous connection.’

‘You and Rika, this is? Why her?’

‘She was, according to our intelligence, the most important person in your world, someone with whom we could openly negotiate. We had previously tried making connections with her father,
though he was . . . unreceptive. Rika needed to be mind-bonded to me so that we could secure a peaceful path forward. However, what I did not understand is that she believed me to be a goddess, or
something equivalent or related to one of the ones she worshipped. She possessed an improbable amount of faith, a strong – or weak depending on your understanding – mental capacity. I
did not realize quite how dangerous it might be to mind-bond with someone of such religious fervour. Whenever someone who is mind-bonded is kept apart from the person to whom he or she is bonded,
it creates difficulties in normal circumstances, though nothing more than uncomfortable . . . yearning.’

‘How does one mind-bond exactly?’ Brynd asked.

‘It is similar to a sexual ritual, but one only of the mind. There is penetration from one mind into the other, a release, a union. It is common in many of our cultures to do this. There
is no physical connection.’

‘So what’s gone wrong in Rika’s case? Why has she transformed suddenly?’

‘Two things, I believe. One as discussed – the issue of her faith. Her mental state was not right to begin with; there was something inherently unstable in her mind. Perhaps it is
hereditary. When she is away from me, she has obviously crossed a mental threshold and gone too far in her ways. Her mind has now
changed
her. The second issue might be merely that I
conducted the ritual incorrectly.’

‘Is there any way of reversing the bond?’

‘No – unlike sexual bonds, mind-bonds may not be withdrawn quite so easily. You say she has transformed?’

‘Her face is distorted, she’s grown more feral, she’s feeding on flesh.’

‘An animalistic path,’ Artemisia concluded.

‘And that’s it then?’ Brynd said. ‘You simply ruin the leader of our people and that’s that?’

‘Please, you must forgive me. I did not know this would be the way of things. It very rarely is. I was acting under instructions to bond, to connect, but this is most unfortunate. You have
my sincere apologies.’ She seemed quite matter-of-fact about the whole business. ‘But, you mention she is your ruler, yet you, commander, are the one who does most of the organizing. It
is you who is more like the Emperor.’

‘Nonsense,’ Brynd scoffed.

‘I do not believe you felt Rika suitable for the task in hand. I could sense such things.’

‘Only because you changed her in the first place.’

‘For that I have apologized. It was an act not from malice but from one of seeking union – that, you must understand. I assure you it was accidental, and please remember that myself
and my people are at your service.’

Brynd tried to calm himself. It would do no good to continue the conversation in a fury. He wondered if cultists could help Rika regain her former self? It was probably worth a shot at some
point, though for now it seemed he had to find a new ruler – and it would not be himself, he would not become a military dictator.

Brynd mercilessly processed his options. Did Artemisia’s confession change the relationship between their cultures? No. Could he trust Artemisia on the matter? It seemed she was at least
telling the truth, for whatever that was worth any more. How important was Rika? He cared for her, of course, from a sense of duty and nostalgia, but the people of Villiren had not exactly taken a
shine to her – and they did not so far have the opportunity to do so. There was nothing lost there, at least.

‘Jamur Eir,’ he announced. ‘She will make the transition to being leader of our nations. The blood lineage is there, enough to keep the establishment satisfied.’

Brynd glanced to Mikill and Brug, whose expressions seemed positive. Brug leaned over and whispered, ‘She’ll be compassionate. That’ll come in useful when we need to be hard
with regards to rations or taxes.’

‘Besides, I do understand your current pain,’ Artemisia continued.

‘What do you mean?’

‘It may well be that we are experiencing a similar crisis with our creator.’

*

‘No, it is really best if I show you,’ Artemisia said. ‘It is not the sort of thing that can be explained.’

The level of security around them increased; whereas before there were no more than ten soldiers, now there seemed to be an entire regiment surrounding them. They were escorted down a long,
straight avenue between the tents, and one thing that struck Brynd was just how clean and organized everything was. This was military discipline at its finest.

Artemisia walked alongside them, which was to Brynd an important gesture. Orders were given and the military escort separated, allowing a path to open up to the right. It led to yet another
wooden structure, this one significantly more sturdy-looking than any of the others. There were yet more guards stationed here, different insignias, a more intimidating air.

‘What’s this place?’ Brynd asked.

‘Our destination,’ Artemisia replied. ‘When you enter, you must not say anything until spoken to; you will not comment on what you see.’

The three Night Guard soldiers nodded and continued behind Artemisia down a small set of stairs to a vast room. Although the building was constructed from wood, the walls appeared blackened and
contained specks of light, like some kind of projection of constellations. At the top, to the right, a row of this culture’s elders were seated within a ghostly white light. In the centre of
the room, however, Brynd could make out an enormous enclosure – except there were bars of translucent purple light that seemed to shimmer where bars of metal ought to have stood. Every now
and then something would crackle and spark off onto the floor a few feet away.

Inside this prison of light sat Frater Mercury. He was perched on a stone slab and the light from the bars reflected on the metallic half of his face.

Brynd tried to remember what Fulcrom said, and communicate via his thoughts, to enquire if the man was OK being treated in this way.

‘Are you here of your own will?’ Brynd muttered, but Frater Mercury did not look up.

‘He cannot communicate with you from within this cage,’ Artemisia declared.

‘He’s your god, right?’ Brynd asked.

‘He is our
creator
and we respect him as thus,’ Artemisia replied.

‘Why are you keeping him prisoner?’ It seemed absurd for the being who had crafted her civilization to be held behind bars.

‘Our elders would dispute the term “prisoner”,’ she replied.

‘It doesn’t seem an appropriate way to treat your creator – surely he’s too important.’

‘We keep him here, in this way, for precisely that reason. He is too important to our culture for him to wander off like some idle youth. We do not want harm to come to him – and he
would be in great danger if our rivals captured him. You have witnessed what he is capable of – so you understand why we wish to keep him safe.’

‘Safe,’ Brynd whispered, glancing at Frater Mercury once again. He tried to understand and respect their culture’s decision, but failed.

‘Besides, he is reluctant to go anywhere. We know he is disappointed with our people – with all his people – for having taken our respective paths, despite his efforts many
thousands of years ago to broker peace. He has tried it all, long before you and I were born. He is a tired man.’

‘He could be useful. He could have his chance to help.’

‘You view him as a weapon,’ Artemisia said. ‘I know this. I can see this in the way you regard him.’

‘I think he can help save many lives,’ Brynd confessed. ‘He’s already done so, and yet you keep him here, like a caged bird.’

‘Poetic,’ Artemisia said. ‘But you want to use him to create ways to destroy our enemy, as we did, and this is understandable.’

‘Have you ever asked Frater Mercury what his wishes are?’

‘We know what it is that he wants.’

‘And that is?’ Brynd asked.

‘A release from it all,’ she replied. ‘He is tired of life. He has lived for an unfathomable number of years. His ascension from a life technician to god was merely the
beginning of things. He was forced to leave this world and create a new realm, what I call home. He has seen his creations rise up and create mass violence on a scale he did not think possible. And
he has done this as someone who had conquered Time itself, having lived on and on without end.’ Artemisia walked along one side of the light cage. ‘Convinced he had no future, he only
ever had one dream, and that was to break free of our world to this one, his home, his past, so he might look upon it one last time. Now he has done that, of course, by methods that we were not
aware of. Now there is nothing left for him.’

‘This is why you keep him in the cage then,’ Brynd observed. ‘We have a term for something similar in our world – it’s called a suicide watch.’

Artemisia looked to her elders sat within their raised, glowing antechamber, and then back to Brynd. ‘You are most perceptive, commander. We are watching, as you put it, to see if he
attempts to end his existence – for we do not entirely know what will happen.’

‘How d’you mean?’ Brynd demanded.

‘Simply that,’ Artemisia replied. ‘He’s an entity of immense power. For him to end his life, our own technicians think that it would mean . . . that power would have to
be redistributed.’

‘How do you mean? As in, he may explode?’

‘That may well happen,’ Artemisia said. ‘And it could be severe enough to cause great instability to his surroundings.’

Brynd eyed the man behind the light cage for a moment or two longer. It was true Brynd had hoped the man could help them, and now he felt only a deep sense of frustration. A key piece of his
military operation had suddenly collapsed.

Brug suddenly approached Brynd’s side. ‘A word, sir.’

‘Go ahead.’ Brynd turned to him as Artemisia continued her slow pace around the cage.

‘You may recall some of the warriors of the Aes tribe when they undergo their birthing ceremony,’ Brug began.

‘What of it?’

‘Well, the birthing is
rebirthing
in that instance, of course, but the principle may remain the same: that of a possibility of a glorious birth in a new realm through the notion of
sacrifice in battle
.’

‘I still don’t follow,’ Brynd muttered. ‘Get to the point.’

‘If Frater Mercury wants to die and is going to explode, why doesn’t he do it in battle in order to help us?’ Brug grunted. ‘Better still if he’s in the middle of a
thousand Okun.’

‘Better
still
,’ Mikill said, ‘if he can kill himself up in that sky-city thing, he may well bring it to the ground.’

Brynd let the thoughts move around his mind. It seemed perfect. Frater Mercury would get his wish to end his life, leaving the greatest possible chance for lasting peace behind, and the united
forces would stand a better chance of wiping out the invaders on Jokull.

‘Excellent suggestions,’ Brynd whispered, and turned to Artemisia.

‘How does Frater Mercury view your enemy? Does he care for them in the same way?’

‘No. Do not forget they rose up against a vastly peaceful culture, bent on destruction – they would see all his creations destroyed. It is our understanding that he views them as he
would a violent, murderous son or daughter. With sympathy, disappointment, wishing he had never created them in the first place. It is why he remained with our culture.’

‘In that case, could we liaise with you and your elders?’

*

They negotiated for the better part of two hours before the elders would even grant permission for Brynd to consult Frater Mercury.

Brynd stood before them –
below
them – staring up into their illuminated faces, sagging with age, as they painfully contemplated his requests. Artemisia and some of her
colleagues mediated, and Brynd could never be certain just how much of her own feelings she was inserting into the conversation.

As expected, the elders were reluctant at first. A culture did not simply abandon its god so easily; however, the way Brynd presented the case, it was logical, almost irresistible for them to
use Frater Mercury as a weapon in such a way, providing he agreed.

Problems were mooted from the off: ‘One simply does not drop him into the heart of the Policharos,’ they claimed, via Artemisia. ‘He might not want to die in such a way,’
they asserted.

Immediately it became clear that these people were unsure how to proceed after having treated Frater Mercury a certain way for so long.

They had kept him prisoner in the tallest structure in their home city, a cage he had built himself so that he might never escape. He had been given moments of freedom, of course, but these were
strictly rationed. People came from far and wide to worship him. They offered prayers and asked if he could help them, be it for some pathetically trivial matter in their own lives, to more
elaborate tasks like moving islands through the sky.

Brynd couldn’t be certain, but it seemed as if these elders – or whoever had imprisoned him – saw this not as a form of torture, but as an attempt to show how vital he was to
people’s lives.

Brynd tried to understand why, if Frater Mercury was so powerful, he had not found some method of escape.

By this point, time had ground him down, they explained. Millennia came and went, and Frater Mercury was witness to all of it, to the repetitions of his creations: races would continue to wage
war, to take what was not theirs, to fail to notice any obvious signs that their cultures were under threat. He watched them, passively, as if it were some enormous experiment unfolding before his
eyes – and perhaps it was. Ultimately, he was a scientist, after all, and he had created these cultures.