The Mirrored City (17 page)

“Oh?” Heath said.

Safina flashed a devious glare. “Jessa’s appointment to the Coral Throne would create a bridge between Thrycea and the Free Cities. It would enrich our house to have first rights on trading contracts. House Ibazz is now in a position to nominate a representative to the Grand Assembly. We need just one thing in return—a sign from Ohan.”

“He does not speak to me. But I am curious as to what favor piques your interests. Perhaps the act of speaking it aloud might see it come to pass… through the Will of Ohan,” Heath said.

Safina raised her veil. Half of her face was burned and covered in pustules.

Heath recoiled. “Ohan’s mercy—why haven’t you been healed?”

Safina grinned. “I want to remember. The one who did this was an abomination living in our own house. I called her daughter. Now she’s run off with our precious jewel, Shannon. I want
someone
to bring us Lyta’s head. If
someone
, by Ohan’s mercy, can return Shannon, we would be doubly pleased, though I would not ask more of the All Father than his generosity provides. If this came to pass, after speaking it in your presence, then House Ibazz may take it as a sign from Ohan to support your efforts in the Grand Assembly.”

Heath cocked his head. “How could you guarantee me anything, First Wife Safina?”

Safina smiled. “Everyone is looking for Ibiq Qaadar’s killer. Many say it is you—you’re an outsider, a Stormlord, an Inquisitor, a homosexual, and a Bamoran. The only trait you’re missing in the eyes of the Patriarchs is a pair of horns. What if you were to change that perception, by Ohan’s miraculous intervention, just slightly enough that the First Son of Qaadar could consider your proposal without compromising his integrity?”

“It would indeed be a blessing,” Heath said.

“Lyta was an abomination living among us for years. She killed several guards with her bare hands, ripping out their hearts. Our coroner will confirm this in verified documents. Perhaps it was she who also committed this monstrous assassination.”

Heath folded his hands. “Do you have any evidence linking Lyta to Ibiq’s untimely death?”

Safina shrugged. “People are mourning Ibiq’s loss, and the Patriarchs need to give them answers. Nothing more than answers. Ibiq was not beloved by all the houses, and pointless blame could continue for generations. I don’t believe the true killer, whoever they may be, would dare to strike again, do you?”

Heath shook his head. “The assassin is most likely long gone and beyond the reach of justice.”

“I thought as much.”

They sat in the silence of the garden as the sun rose to the middle of the sky. Birds chirped from the branches of flowering fruit trees, and the scent of jasmine wafted in the air. The fountain gurgled clear sparkling water.

Safina gathered her long skirt and replaced her veil. “I have to lead the noonday prayer. You will hasten the will of Ohan and bring me Lyta’s head, yes?”

Heath nodded gravely. “If this were to happen, by Ohan’s grace—”

“This is not my first time airing my thoughts before the All Father,” Safina cut him off. “I’ll have her dossier couriered to your apartments in Dessim. May the Light of Ohan shine upon you forever and always.”

“And you as well.” Heath smiled.

Heath quickly made his way back to Dessim, fighting a throng of traffic. Mourners draped in white shrouds flooded the streets to pay their respects to the fallen Patriarch. Some of them were tearful. Others took the opportunity to hawk street food and holy talismans to the stream of grieving faithful. When people saw Heath’s eyes, they stepped out of his way. One person spat on him.

Jessa wanted to create an empire that respected all faiths equally, but Heath found little to nothing worthy of respect in the orthopractic faith of the Ohanites. The Omnitheists were dilettantes, but at least they were tolerant. He had witnessed a true god when Kondole came from the sky and banished Kultea from the canals of Rivern. Heath was a prophet of a beautiful, compassionate faith that had been lost to history.

Now he was going to kill someone else. His years in the Inquisition had taught him to keep his faith separate from his necessary actions. Even the purest of gods needed to get their hands dirty sometimes.

He made his way through the Seven gates back into Dessim where, predictably, people were celebrating in the streets. It wasn’t as great a turnout as the mourners, but the death of the Patriarch was celebrated by public displays of nudity, copious drinking, and small parades of musicians who played bawdy songs loud enough to be heard over the wall between the cities. He felt nothing but disgust for this fractured city.

He made his way into his apartments, ready to take a bath and wash away the grime of the streets. Since becoming a Stormlord, he took baths more regularly. Since he didn’t need the water to be heated anymore, his marble tub was always filled with fresh, cold water.

As he undid his robes, he thought he heard the floor creak behind him.

“Maddox?” Heath called out to the empty apartment. “Is that you?”

Silence. Hopefully it was Safina’s courier, but Heath had locked the door behind him.

He turned and walked into the living area, scanning for any disturbance and stepping lightly to avoid any creaky floorboards. Out of old habit, he had made a point to memorize them.

He gingerly crept toward his bedroom.

A figure in a long black cloak stood, back toward Heath, gazing out the window. Its hands were folded behind its back.

“You have a very short time to explain why you’re here,” Heath said, readying himself to strike.

The figure took its time in turning around and sliding off the hood. Heath’s stomach clenched. She was dark skinned, middle aged, and deadly serious. The right side of her face bore a nasty scar. Her dark eyes narrowed as she sneered. “Heath. It’s so good to see you.”

“Daphne… you died,” he whispered. He had seen his old mentor fighting with all her might against Satryn as they made their escape from the tower. He had seen the tower fall over the cliff and into the lake below.

She grinned out of the corner of her mouth. “Who I used to be died. Just like you used to be someone else.”

“Why are you here?” Heath asked.

She scoffed. “Really? You want me to spell it out for you?”

“You’re here to kill me.” Heath folded his hands across his chest.

She sighed heavily. “Of course I’m here to kill you. Whom did you think they would send? Or did you think the Inquisition would just let you go on being a heretic and playing house with the daughter of the woman who killed fifty thousand citizens of Rivern?”

“You taught me everything I know,” Heath reminisced. “You taught me how to fight, how to lie, how to kill… But you’ve got ten years on me. Even without my power, your chances of walking away from this alive are small. You’re a lot of things, but you aren’t stupid.”

“You’re right.” Daphne slipped a thin glass vial out of her pocket. Inside was a garishly spotted black orchid. The century orchid—one whiff of its fragrance was instantly fatal.

Heath backed away and covered his face. “Think about this,” he said.

Daphne laughed. “Don’t worry. This is just my insurance policy. If you blast me with lightning, this bottle is sure to break open. I may not be as quick as you, but I’m much, much smarter.”

“What do you want?” Heath asked.

“Vengeance,” Daphne said, her voice cold as ice. “For the fifty-six thousand souls who died in Rivern. Thrycea will answer for each of them in blood until every Stormlord has been wiped off the face of Creation. Your theurgy is dangerous, and I have started a Crusade to bring you down. For what it’s worth, I’m sorry for the way things have worked out.”

“Daphne—don’t do this. Satryn is dead, and if I can secure votes from the Grand Assembly, Nasara will be deposed. Jessa and Sireen are
different
,” Heath pleaded.

“You’re one of them!” Daphne spat, her eyes glowing with anger.

“So how are you going to play this, Daphne?”

They glared at each other in silence. Heath could hear the muffled steps of people in the room above and the wisps of melody from a band playing in the crowded street below. A bird chirped happily on the balcony outside the living area.

Daphne took a deep breath. Heath unleashed a bolt of electricity across the room. Daphne had already thrown the vial in his direction, and she launched herself backward through the window, shattering the glass as his bolt grazed her shoulder. At the same time, the vial came tumbling down through the air toward him.

His reflexes were fast enough to process all of this at once. He spun and raced toward the bathroom. Taking a deep breath, he continued running as hard as he could. He plunged face first into the marble tub, knocking his head against the rim.

He kept his face underwater, breathing it as easily as he did the air. Blood from his wound clouded the water with the taste of iron, and he healed it with his Light. Filling his lungs with as much water as they would hold, he emerged from the bathtub.

Dripping wet, he marched to the spot on the floor where the orchid lay and cupped it in his hand. He carried it toward Maddox’s room, found a vial and stoppered it.

Heath waited for the air to clear and then spat out the water from his chest.
I am officially too old for this shit.

He was still gasping for breath when he heard a knock at his door.

“Just a minute!” he said, running his hands through his still soaked graying hair. He composed himself as best he could and went to greet Safina’s courier.

S
EVENTEEN

Artifacts

S
WORD

The Great Houses of ancient Sarn bore little resemblance to the Seven Houses of Baash, aside from the use of the word “House” which was a completely different word in their tongue (Thigurasa).

Thigurasa (House) Crigenesta was known for its wit. Their motto was “The Last Laugh,” which was appropriate given their predilection for elaborate pranks and humiliating curses. Of all the houses, they took the Liberty Games least seriously, fielding ridiculous champions on the sands of the arena.

For the Games one year, they submitted a chicken in lieu of a gladiator. The bird took over thirty minutes for the lumbering champion of Thigurasa Thanomeda (motto: “The Cutting Remark”) to catch it, much to the howling amusement of the gathered dignitaries. Thanomeda won the contest but lost Liberty (the Sarn equivalent of wealth), a defeat from which it recovered.

Their only true rival at the peak of their power was Thigurasa Setahari (motto: “The Deadly Whisper”). They were less amusing but no less cunning. For their champion against Thigurasa Cydorine (motto: “The Burning Question”), they entered the three-year-old daughter of Cydorine’s gladiator, who took his own life.

—
EXCERPT FROM QUILL’S
THE FALL OF NATIONS, VOLUME 1

SWORD AND MADDOX
made their way through the twisting hive of empty stone tunnels. The Sarn had excavated them millennia ago using great burrowing machines and had finished them with builder automatons. The stonework remained in good repair in many places. It seemed the prison was a fitting monument to the Suzerain’s rule.

“Look at these cheekbones; there’s a mathematical placement and symmetry. It’s like what an artist wants to paint but can never capture.” Sword was admiring his reflection in his mirror smooth blade.

Maddox, who had passable cheekbones at best, was not pleased by this revelation. “Stop fucking looking at yourself.”

“If you can’t admire the craftsmanship of the Patrean Fathers, there is something wrong with you. This body is as much a lost relic as I am. The theurgy to create life and give it this kind of power… You have to agree it’s an astonishing achievement.”

Maddox ran his fingers through his brown hair. “Do you know how it works? Can it get us out of this maze?”

“Man, take another bump of devil dust. It might chill you out.”

“It’s a stimulant, and I can barely feel my teeth,” Maddox said. “I don’t think that stupid plan will help us.”

“You’re moving around anyway,” Sword said. “That’s better than before.”

Maddox spun around. “Fuck you.”