The Queen of Lies (16 page)

“And though your physicians don’t yet understand this, the Light can’t heal cancers because there is no injury, no infection, no toxin. It can restore a damaged body to health, but it can’t restore health to a body that has turned on itself. In fact Light only feeds the illness. They call her death the Will of Ohan. And a young man loses faith in his god, believes in nothing, and turns to greed.”

“You make me sound more complicated than I am,” Heath said with a wry smile. “Things are simpler when you look at the facts. My mother died because we were too poor to afford treatment that
would
work. It’s a sad statement about society; it doesn’t prove anything about fate.”

“Your life has been a straight line to this very moment, Heath. Every decision you’ve made about your luck could have had no other outcome than you and I sitting together in this place.”

“Is that why you were in Reda?”

The Harbinger confessed, “I’m drawn to death by my wyrd. A Traveler’s magic is more than his spells—it’s the very essence of who he is. In a way our magic controls us more than we control it. I’m taken where I’m needed, where the dark shadow of Fate stretches across the river of time and the course is forever altered. I’m a collector and shepherd of memories of possibilities lost.” He pushed the ivory flask toward Heath. “These memories are the children of Reda. All that’s left of them, and the future that never came to pass.”

Heath recoiled. “Why would I ever want that?”

“I’m returning your ghosts,” he said, taking the sketch of himself and pocketing it. “In exchange for this memory of myself.”

“Fuck you,” Heath said. “You say the city is doomed, but you won’t tell me how or why. I may not be able to stop it, but it’s because you won’t help me. That blood is on your hands.”

“I don’t follow this wyrd to make friends.” He gave a grim smirk, tipped his head, and vanished.

“We’re not finished!” Heath reached out into the empty space, hoping to catch something, but the air was empty. If the other patrons noticed the heated exchange, they didn’t indicate it.

Teleportation was beyond any magic practiced in the Free Cities and probably Creation itself. That kind of power could move armies, open supply lines—a nation with that capability would rule the world.

Heath looked at the flask and fumed. He’d killed a lot of people, most deserving, and it never got under his skin. It was always about the job. Except when it wasn’t. He picked up the flask with his silk handkerchief and slid it into one of his hidden pockets. Then he went out the back.

Sword was sitting on a barrel, the book folded in his lap as he stared forward into space. He looked over at Heath and wiped his bleary brown eyes. “What’s going on? Did the prostitute drag that drunk bloke back to her aquatic troll cavern?”

Heath said, “What the hells are you doing back here? Are you…crying?”

“No.” Sword sniffed unconvincingly.

“It’s that book,” Heath said, looking over his shoulder.

“I thought I was going to have a tug, but…” Sword sniffled. “He was the love of her life, Heath. And he’s dead.” Sword tossed the book to the ground and kicked it away. He folded his arms like a truculent child.

You do a really good job of making people forget you aren’t human sometimes
, Heath thought.

“You came out here to rub one out?” Heath’s fingers felt for the launching mechanism on his hidden springblades.

“Human beings don’t fully appreciate the myriad benefits, both physical and mental, of being able to do that to themselves at will.”

Heath snapped, “The Harbinger just appeared and told me the city is doomed. But he cut out before telling me anything concrete. I could have used you in there.”

Sword looked down like a scolded puppy. “Sorry.”

“Apologies don’t pay bounties. We have a job, so show some fucking professionalism,” Heath spat.

Sword listened very quietly, nodding attentively, as Heath gave him a rundown on the conversation. Heath tried to keep to the facts, but part of his mind was stuck on everything he should have said. Possibilities that didn’t exist. He showed Sword the flask but omitted the mention of his mother’s illness.

“You’ve faced these guys before. Was he right about what he can predict?” Heath asked, then offered more gently, “I’d appreciate your wisdom.”

Sword grimaced slightly and shook his head. “I don’t know that a Sword that possesses people is the right authority on the existence of free will and self-determination.”

“Other thoughts,” Heath said, pacing and searching the air for ideas. “Were there any clues he might have left?”

“Well…” Sword began tentatively, “he did give you that flask. He probably was more concerned that I’d drink it than anything about my trying to kill him. Travelers can be bleeding superior assholes, but I got no particular bone of contention with this one.”

“Why wouldn’t he want you to drink it?” Heath inquired. “Is it poison?”

“Wouldn’t work on us, most likely.” Sword shifted slightly on the barrel, “Memories are like…food for us, you know? I can absorb a lifetime of experiences and remain the same person. Traveler theurgy always comes with some fucking life lesson. They get off on that shit.”

“He wants to change me?” Heath asked skeptically.

“Good luck with that.” Sword laughed a little.

Heath pulled the flask out of his pocket. “Fuck.”

“Look, mate”—Sword reached out to put a hand on his arm—“this job is a lousy ten thousand ducats. We don’t need the fucking coin anyway. We tell the client what happened, turn in the flask, and let the Invocari sort it out. We keep the advance and go on our merry way—preferably to a city that’s not doomed.”

“Sword, even in a stupid body, you’re brilliant,” Heath’s face broke out in a wide grin as the realization hit him. “That’s what the Harbinger wants. If nothing can be done to stop the destruction, why even talk to me? He wants me out of this city. He thinks I won’t drink the flask because I’m afraid to face my ghosts. This is probably just water.”

“I
seriously
doubt that, mate.”

“He’s not getting rid of me that easily. And if he thinks he knows what scares me, he’s dead wrong.”

Sword bit his knuckle. “Or he could be leveraging your pride against you.”

“If it’s poison, I’ll heal.” Heath opened the flask and drank. The liquid tasted like rain and ash and pine, not pleasant but interesting in a way that wasn’t entirely horrible. He downed the flask and tossed in onto the boardwalk.

“It was just water.” Heath kicked the flask across the boardwalk. It clattered between one of the planks and plunked into the river below. “So what’s our next move?”

“Now you see the truth,” Sword said in a little girl’s voice, which made Heath’s skin crawl.

He scrambled backward, but Sword merely sat there, staring at him with a vacant stare.

Fog closed in; color and sound drained from the world around him. The world was swallowed by mist, and Heath gazed across an endless gray nothingness. He turned and felt frantically for anything to anchor him, but he found only cold mist and the gentle kiss of rain as it gathered on his skin. He stumbled toward the bar, but his steps carried him past where the wall should be.

His fingers brushed against the rough bark of a tree.

He called on his Light, but to his horror, his hands no longer were his own. His flesh was ghostly pale—nearly translucent—and instead of Light, a ball of fire blazed in his palm. In his right hand, he clutched the Sword, drawn to his side and thirsting for battle.

The laughter of children echoed in the distance as fleeting shadows darted through the mist. He snarled and lashed at the fog with his flame, igniting trees and plants. The fire burned hot enough to disperse some of the mist, and he found himself up to his ankles in thick black mud.

He had dallied too long in the moors. He needed to get to Reda.

A
RMED WITH THE
power of the Thunderstone and the knowledge granted by the Deep Masters of the Abyss, the Storm Raiders brought their flotilla to the Shining Bay and descended upon the coast of Mazitar.

The Wavelord priests were potent in magic but weak in spirit and fell before the fury and ruthlessness of the Storm Raiders. The Raiders’ Blood Sages burned their holy symbols of Kondole, the Thunder Whale, and raised the banners of Kultea, the Sea Terror. The Raiders’ women took the Wavelord men as consorts…and when the women were ripe with bastards, they slaughtered the lot in offering to the many-limbed witch of the deepest oceans.

From these Sacred Bastards, the Storm Raiders begat the Stormlords, and the Wavelords vanished into obscurity. This may seem cruel…but it is the way of nature. The strong devour the weak. So it can be said that weakness is the source of strength.

The strong need the weak to survive, just as our pirate ancestors needed the bloodline of indolent island dwellers to secure our mastery of the elements. Never forget they are a part of us. Master them wisely.

—
TREATISE ON ORDERLY GOVERNANCE
, A BOOK BY EXILED MONARCH DAO-CHUI

J
ESSA FELT BAD
for thinking ill of her subjects, but they were dirty and malnourished. Their Thrycean was coarse and simple when they spoke. Most of them didn’t believe she was actually their princess or, worse, mistook her for her mother. She tried to remind herself that these people had lost their homes and endured a harrowing ordeal, many of them losing loved ones.

Her father had told her the people of Amhaven were resilient and noble in their commitment to simple life. She, however, just saw poverty and privation and wondered how much her father had gotten out among the people he had spoken so highly of. It said something about the state of affairs back home when the crown of Amhaven was ripe for the taking and no one from Rivern was even interested.

But Jessa forced herself to smile and handed out blankets and food, which she had paid for by selling Satryn’s jewelry. It was fitting because this whole situation had been her mother’s doing in the first place. Some of the people were grateful, but most took their charity and scuttled off. Her mother’s words floated into her mind:
These people have no influence. Why are you wasting your time with them? You need to find a wealthy lord who can sway the Assembly.

Assemblyman Cameron had been very diligent in organizing the event. Jessa was positioned at the end of a pier, facing the refugee shelter. He had everyone form a line with checkpoints of made of up the city guard and Invocari, documenting names, and a seal mage to verify their status as refugees as opposed to beggars from the Backwash looking for a handout. The guards kept things moving swiftly and assisted those who were too enfeebled to keep pace.

As the line dwindled, Jessa noticed her supplies running low. It seemed, at the time, like a good idea to start handing out gold instead. With the countess graciously covering her living expenses, Jessa had little need for coin. Just a ducat to each person would do.

In this case her generosity was well rewarded with praise from an old woman with a stooped back, probably from a life of hauling kindling. Women collected bundles of fallen branches to use for the hearth; it was said that burning naturally fallen sticks would not offend the witches.

Cameron whispered, “It isn’t wise to show so much coin, Your Majesty.”

“It’s just a ducat,” Jessa protested, handing a coin to the next man in line.

The riot started shortly after she heard someone shout, “She’s got gold!”

Across the long end of the pier, her subjects charged toward her, each of them pleading. Mothers held their children in one arm, their palms extended as they rushed past the guards. Young men pushed the elderly out of the way as they trampled forward. She watched two men break out into a fight as the crowd stampeded around them.

Assemblyman Cameron placed an arm in front of Jessa protectively. “You’ll want to get clear. This is going to be extremely unpleasant.”

Jessa looked back toward the edge of the pier. It was only five feet away, the currents of the river lapping reassuringly at the dock posts. “I’m perfectly fine where I am and more than capable of handling this situation.”

“Suit yourself,” he said, as he turned and hunched against a shipping crate. He took in a huge breath and closed his eyes, as if he were trying to make himself invisible.

“What are you doing?” Jessa almost said.

The chill came upon her as if she had plunged into freezing cold water. Normally cold wasn’t an issue for a Stormlord, but this chill penetrated her flesh and made her bones ache. White mist rose from her mouth as her breath left her. When she tried to breathe in, she could find no air.

Across the pier she saw people falling to their knees, shivering, and clutching at their throats. The Patreans stood tall, bracing themselves with all their might, but even their faces were twisted with discomfort. Above them, three Invocari had risen a good twelve feet in the air, their hands outstretched.

Jessa continued to gasp for air, but she felt dizzy and tumbled to the planks of the pier. Desperately she dragged herself to the edge, trying to fill her lungs with lifegiving water before she suffocated. Then, just as she was about to pull herself over, it ended.