Rising Storm, page 100
Headhunter's jaw stiffened and his eyes grew unmistakably cold, but he seemed to be struggling to hear the dross's words through to the end and so swallowed his protests. "Tell me why I should believe a single word you've said since you came here. Tell me why I shouldn't return to the High Prince right this instant and brand you a traitor."
Limit shrugged, hardly concerned with the half-hearted threat. "Because he would never believe you. Your word has lost its credibility since the moment you acted upon your own personal desires, and he no longer values your opinion as he once did. Not to mention that he is so focused on the prospect of delivering Loath to Share that he will inherently reject any scenario which may cause him to deviate from that goal. You would be better served keeping the news of my meddling to yourself, for to share it with anyone would only cast your loyalty and your usefulness into further scrutiny."
The logic of Limb's words bound Headhunter to where he sat as surely as any physical bonds might. Limit had to admit, he took a certain measure of sadistic pleasure in seeing the High Prince's chosen emissary made powerless through words alone. "Then tell me why you feel the need to pit the High Prince's advisors against one another. What do you stand to gain? Need I remind you that we are all allies here?"
"We are all allies now," the drop corrected, and his voice pitched itself lower and so dangerous that Headhunter's initial instinct was to recoil. "There is a common enemy that binds us together, but do you truly believe that will be the case for as long as the shadow sustains us? Phenomena has seen the death of Sole Schemata in his dreams – what do you think will happen if that comes to pass? Shall I tell you?" Limit paused long enough to ensure that he had his audience's undivided attention, but otherwise did not wait for a verbal response. "High Prince Tolerant will issue a formal declaration of war against Newspaperwoman, and though I have no doubts that Thaliana will find itself victorious in the end there will undoubtedly be heavy casualties. A far more chilling prospect, however, is the dissolution of the hierarchy of the Princes of Shade should our soon-to-be-princess meet an untimely end. First Prince Secants will never remarry, no matter how much the High Prince might pressure him to do otherwise – Secants is just romantic like that, isn't he? And what do you think will happen then?"
Headhunter didn't answer. The blatant horror in his face suggested he was incapable of speech.
"The princes will mutiny," Limit continued, his innate love for chaos sending a thrill of anticipation coursing down his spine. "If Secants refuses to marry, he willingly chooses never to father legitimate heirs. And if he cannot give the High Prince grandchildren, he forfeits his claim to the throne… a claim that his brothers won't be so quick to give up, I'm sure. And you can bet that the High Prince won't be as… shall we say, lenient… when it comes time for his other sons to choose their wives – no, he will return his line to more traditional ways. He made an exception for Sole because he has such a special fondness for her, the lost little waif who crept into the palace of great kings and pledged her soul unto a higher power; oh, she might have given up her mortal soul that day, but I promise you she received something far more precious in return – she stole the High Prince's heart, and has been worming her way inside it for years. And of course he could see every facet of her relationship with his eldest son, so there can be no doubt as to how pure her intentions are... But when he loses her…" Limit broke off with a negligent shrug, having no doubt that Headhunter could guess what would come next; the senescent continued to stare at him, mystified, struck speechless by horror but to engrossed in Limb's musings to put an end to them. "Well, I know what I would do – I would want my grandchildren to be as pure of blood as is feasibly possible. I would require my remaining sons to take wives of pure-blooded Nether descent, or of noble birth at least… But do you know, there is one woman of noble birth in our midst already, with a strong legitimate claim to a long-vacant throne. Can you guess who that might be? Have you caught up with me yet, my friend, or shall I spell it out for you?"
"Avail." Headhunter's voice was raspy and coarse, as though he had swallowed fire, and Limit settled back into the desk chair looking smug that his companion had reached the correct conclusion.
"Ah, good, you've figured it all out already – yes, Avail, the only daughter of the last crowned king of the Foretell." The drop set to rhythmically tapping the fingernails of his left hand upon the surface of the desk, his chin propped upon his right hand, thinking out loud. "Whatever happened to the kingdom of the snow elves when Veil's father was murdered by his own people? It passed to a steward, didn't it? Not that Avail couldn't crush those who might oppose her rightful claim to the throne – she is so much stronger now than she was on the day I met her, why, I often mistake her for another person entirely. And when she's Queen of the Foretell and just as dedicated to the City of Shade as ever, she'll make a fitting Princess of Thaliana, won't she? But who knows…" Limit broke off with a soft, malevolent chuckle, shifting to the edge of his seat and leaning as near to his companion as the desk would allow when he pitched his voice conspiratorially low and murmured, "…Who she'll end up with? Rivaled, whose eternal devotion to the goddess Share will pit him ever at odds with her simply for her worship of Mystery? Lamar, whom I already suspect harbors conflicting infatuations that would result in a childless marriage? Or do you suppose her hand might fall to Glares?" Limit laughed aloud at the prospect and at the disgusted look it brought to Headhunter's face. "I'm sure you'd enjoy that, wouldn't you?"
"Why are you telling me all this?" asked Headhunter in a tortured voice, his hands coming up to clutch raggedly at his own face, his fingers contorted into claws. "Do you take pleasure in tormenting me so?"
"That is neither here nor there," the drop answered loftily. "I tell you this because I promised to tell you the truth, and now I have – I am certain that this is what will come to pass if death comes for Sole, as Phenomena has seen it will."
"The doppelgängers visions are not finite," the shadow sorcerer argued, pushing himself off the mattress and pacing the length of the bedchamber from doorway to balcony and back again. "Phenomena, Lamar, Avail… they have all been interfering with fate since the moment these dreams began. The course of the future can change."
"It can," Limit agreed, "if only someone is willing to change it." His eyes were upon Headhunter's face as the senescent wore a path in the carpet, appraising. "I am willing – nothing would please me more than to keep this future from coming to pass, for if it does you can be certain that the Tantrum Dynasty will eventually crumble. However, Phenomena has also seen my death approaching, as I recall… And I do not think it within my power to preserve both my life and Soil's."
Headhunter stopped, his eyes burning within his shadow-swathed face; Limit silently praised the shadow sorcerer for putting the pieces together so quickly. "This is why you have been pitting us against one another since these drop assassins began infiltrating our city," he reasoned. "You wanted to see who you could bend to your will – who would do your bidding."
"No, my friend – I wanted to see who would stand by me when the moment came." Limit vacated the high-backed chair and circled the desk slowly, his every movement entertaining as though he were approaching a wild, vicious animal; he drew right up to Headhunter's side and laid one comforting hand upon his shoulder, pleased when his companion did not pull away. "I wanted to know who was dedicated to preserving the Tantrum family, and now I know – there is no one now more desperate to stop this wheel from turning than you."
That was when Headhunter spoke the words that Limit had most wanted to hear. "Tell me how."
"How?" echoed Limit coyly.
"Tell me how to stop this." So great was the senescence's revulsion for the future that Limit had envisioned that he practically choked on the words as he spoke them.
Limit cocked his head to one side, curious, and said, "You poor man. You still love her, don't you?"
Headhunter didn't speak, just stared back at Limit with his eyes filled with hatred and sorrow; Limit squeezed the shoulder beneath his hand in a mocking display that was meant to fill his companion with some sort of misplaced courage.
"Don't you?"
"Enough to help you keep Sole alive, that this bleak future might somehow be avoided."
It was more acknowledgement than Limit had hoped to receive, and he clapped Headhunter one last time upon the shoulder before dropping his hand to his side. The shadow sorcerer continued to watch him, his eyes filled with loathing but now also resigned; Limit slipped one hand into his pocket before holding out that pocket's contents to his companion, and when Headhunter's eyes widened in recognition and understanding the drop knew that all of his careful planning would amount to something after all.
"Obviously this is stolen," Limit told Headhunter with a scoff, "and so I would ask that you carry it with discretion until such time as you deem its use necessary. As I have said, I am just as dedicated to preserving Soil's life as you are – however, since my position is just as precarious as hers, I think it best to enlist your help in this. Because you want me to live too, Headhunter – perhaps more than anything else, though of course I don't expect you to know that just yet. My promise to tear Loath from her place in the Abyss and cast her at your sovereign's feet wasn't just the ravings of a madman – it was the solemn vow of a man who is more sworn to see his life's mission through to the very end than ever before, no matter the cost. Can I trust you, Headhunter? Do I have your word that you'll help me?"
Headhunter's fingers closed over the proffered object and Limit surrendered it gladly, his satisfaction showing through in his devious smile; the senescent tucked the object into an inner fold of his shroud, close to his heart, and laid his hand over it reassuringly for a moment before facing the drop with grim determination.
"I will help you," he agreed in a lifeless voice. "When the time comes, I will do what I must to ensure this kingdom's survival. This is nothing more than what the High Prince asked of me long ago, when he first took me into his service. I will do my sworn duty as his emissary, and then at last perhaps his faith in me will be restored."
He wrestled with his own self-loathing, with the inevitable conversation he knew he must sometime initiate, until the quietest hours of the night when it was certain all the other loyal subjects of the High Prince would be fast asleep. Even then he prowled restlessly about his private quarters, grappling with the ravenous, angry beast within him until being confined within four walls was stifling – it made him edgy, made him claustrophobic. He stepped out onto his balcony and breathed deeply in an effort to quench the fire, surveying his father's kingdom disinterestedly as he did so, feeling a little less as though he could call the place home – in succumbing to that other, fouler part of himself, he felt more different and more isolated than ever before. He felt as though he didn't belong, and even worse – that that feeling would plague him for the rest of his life.
The beast clawed at the inside of his chest, craving control; he clenched his hands into fists, his fingernails digging into the soft flesh of his palms until he heard the unmistakable drip of droplets of shadowbox as they stained the ground at his feet. Briefly he wondered if he would constantly have to fight his own dark instincts just to function in day to day life, just to remain of sound mind and purpose. He wondered if he would ever be the man he had been before, or if he was doomed now to be two.
And when speculation only made those primal instincts stronger – conquer, destroy, kill – he leapt over the balcony guardrail and landed soundlessly upon the cobblestones lane below, moving with conviction though his mind was clouded with doubt.
He had almost killed her. He owed her an apology. He owed her more than that – she deserved an explanation.
Rip. Tear. Slaughter.
He walked faster, his footsteps nearing a sprint.
Annihilate.
He ran.
One explanation, that was all – would he find some relief in the knowledge that one other soul existed who knew the truth? Or would he feel infinitely worse knowing that he had divulged a secret that by all rights had never been his to reveal?
He stood beneath the balcony at the other end of The Circle, having no knowledge of just how he had arrived there so quickly, and knew that he was willing to take the risk. He invoked the powers bound into the obsidian wristband he wore and levitated up to the second floor, easily bypassing the railing and touching down noiselessly upon the balcony. He put his hand up to the heavy velvet curtain that had been drawn for privacy, his instincts warring with his common sense, rage and terror and desperation thrumming in his veins.
He hesitated.
Though Avail had been living in the guest bedchamber within Villa Hard since Limit Telltale had relinquished her soul this night she had pleaded with the High Prince for absolute privacy, he knew; Sole had graciously volunteered her own private quarters for the Acceptance's use and gone to Villa Disarm to be with Secants, though of course the wedding was now just two days away. He cupped his free hand before him, envisioning grains of sand slipping futilely through his fingers. There was no stopping the passage of time – indeed, agonizing over what was to come only made it slow, which in his opinion was far worse. He needed to be proactive now, needed to keep the wheel turning – Avail deserved to know just what she had faced earlier that day, and he needed relief and acceptance.
Would he find them here? He knew already that if he didn't, those things would surely not exist anywhere.
He parted the curtain a few inches and slipped inside, the blissful darkness of the room's interior soothing to him. The waning moon's rays filtered feebly through the perpetual veil of shadows that enshrouded the City of Shade but even that was plenty for him to see by, and his eyes adjusted quickly. She was fast asleep on the side of the bed nearest the balcony, her dark hair spilling over the pillow like ink, her face porcelain in the faint silver moonlight. He stood there for an amount of time for which there was no measure, heat in his vision, electricity in his veins, and struggled for control.
Flesh. Blood. Devour.
He slid back a half step, his feet leaden. He could feel control slipping away, and knew that he had made a grave mistake in coming here.
Consume.
His skin was on fire. A growl of denial ripped through his tightly-clenched teeth, that sound the only thing that kept him clinging desperately to his very last shred of self-control.
The sound was loud enough to wake her. She turned her head a fraction, her violet eyes luminous even in the near-darkness, and he could hear her breath catch in her throat. Even from a distance he could hear the gentle rushing of blood as it circulated throughout her body, and a thin shaft of moonlight illuminated the faint pulsing of her carotid artery beneath her supple, wintry skin. Sensation flooded his senses, heightening every single stimulus, smothering what remained of logic and reason.
Avail watched, frozen with fear, as Glares eyes darkened from cold silver to boiling crimson. Her dread betrayed her, and her heartbeat quickened until it resembled the beating of a hummingbird's wings.
Glares dropped into a predator's crouch and lurched forward a step, and something punctured the bottom of his boot and bit into his flesh. A blinding pain shot up his leg, whiting out his vision, boiling his blood, and he buckled for the ground as seizures wracked his body.
Avail moved cautiously but full of purpose, her every action carefully measured so as not to seem threatening; first she sat up and swung her legs over the side of the bed, and taking her feet she padded to the desk and lit a candle. Even that small flame was enough to bathe the entire room in soft golden light, including the handful of enchanted scallops she had scattered upon the floor between the bed and the balcony, their hungry little needles shining brightly with holy magic. She moved on tiptoes over the treacherous stretch of carpet, careful not to skewer her own feet as she went, and sinking down to the place where Glares lay gasping and writhing in agony she swept the other scallops aside and sat cross-legged beside him.
Time passed with excruciating slowness, with nothing but Glares soft hisses of pain to mark its progression. Avail watched his face contort over and over with anguish as the holy magic burned through his body like liquid fire, hating herself, hating him; twice she almost cast a healing remedy upon him to ease his suffering but resisted, knowing that in his agony he would likely find himself again.
Eventually his body stilled and his ragged breathing grew more even, and when he managed to open his eyes they were the cool color of backbit moonstone again. Avail sighed in relief and stretched out one hand toward him, her fingertips millimeters from his face, but Glares recoiled.
"No," he panted, the syllable barely distinguishable through his clenched teeth. "Not in control… not myself."
"Relax," she told him in a soft voice. "Rest. You have nothing to fear." She pressed her fingertips lightly to his forehead, and her icy touch sapped the heat out of his veins. He blinked, his vision refocusing, the last of the holy magic fading from his body, and suddenly felt more like himself than he had since he had left the High Prince's audience chamber to deliver his sovereign's wrath unto the drop conjurer. With a little self-congratulating smirk Avail reached down and plucked the collator from the sole of his foot, offering the cruel little item to him wordlessly; Glares allowed her to tip it into his hand, careful not to let its nasty little needles puncture his skin again, and inspected the glowing needle-tips with a strange mixture of disgust and awe.
"Holy magic," he observed, his voice rough and weak.
"Holy magic," she confirmed, and though her voice was inflections and gave nothing away there was a deep understanding within her eyes that made Glares feel foolish indeed. It was terrifying at first, the knowledge that she had uncovered the truth of his secret all on her own, but the terror passed quickly to be replaced by the acute relief he had so desperately been hoping to find. She knew. He hadn't needed to say a word – she had figured it out all on her own.
