The Queen of Lies (25 page)

“Fine.” Jessa wiped her eyes. “I’m becoming a citizen of Rivern and disavowing my imperial ties. I’m abdicating the crown to Rothburn to spare my people the bloodshed of an extended war. And…I’m having this child.”

“You’re your own woman now,” Satryn mused. “I won’t gainsay your choices, for they’re your own, and it’s your right to make them. We’re equals…of a sort anyway, and I can’t ask more of you.”

Jessa looked confused for a moment. “What in the five hells are you plotting?”

“I’m looking out for our family.” Satryn beamed. “I’m going to be a grandmother after all. Ugh. That makes me sound so much older than I am. I’m not ready for high-collared frocks and comfortable shoes. But I do have some ideas for names.”

“You’re a disgraceful ruler and an awful mother,” Jessa sneered.

“Mayhaps,” Satryn conceded, “but you’re
lost
, Jessa. Your contempt for me is the closest thing you’ve ever had in the way of a personality. I wonder how virtuous you’d be if it weren’t the one thing you could do to irritate me.”

“As you’re fond of reminding me.” Jessa narrowed her eyes. “But if you really wanted to make me doubt myself, you’d give your approval. I can’t think of a worse recommendation than to be respected in your eyes.”

“You’ve never had much of an imagination either.”

Jessa blinked. “We’re done speaking. As acting regent, I dissolve your position and privileges. You’re no longer the sovereign ruler of Amhaven and no longer subject to the protections entitled under Protectorate law.”

“That’s hardly legal.” Satryn shrugged. “Besides I’m still the daughter of the empress and hold many titles in the Dominance, none of which you can revoke. But best of luck with that squalid forest that passes for a nation.”

“A nation that defeated the Dominance.”

“With the aid of the witches, which you no longer have.”

Jessa spun on her heel and made for the exit to the warding chamber. “Good-bye, Satryn. I’ll make sure the Assembly replaces the furniture with something more suited to a lengthy incarceration.”

“Let me know if you decide to keep your child,” Satryn called after her. “I think you should call him Noah.”

M
Y BRETHREN AND
I are a handful of beings who can say we walked the ancient streets of Sarn. (Aside from the Travelers, who are never forthcoming with anything, we may be the only ones left.) Given that they’re a generally taciturn lot, and not known for their intellectual curiosity, it falls to me to relate my experiences in hopes of enlightening modern scholars who wish to plumb the great mysteries of the Second Era.

Now it is true that theurgy was abundant in those times; in fact it was overabundant in many cases, which caused no end of problems. It wasn’t simply that after the wizards eliminated hunger, aging, disease, and ugliness there was no need for industry. The theurgies became self-aware and self-sustaining to the point that there was no need to even study wizardry.

The Aeromancer Guilds, once a highly sought-after posting in the mid-Second Era, faded to near obscurity by the end. Who needed to spend decades learning how to raise another floating city when cities already were floating? Who indeed needed to master the calculation of teleportation magic when portal engines were abundant throughout Creation?

Magic was instead put toward different applications—there was no currency, but some approximation of wealth and status was devised to approximate an economy. In Archea and Maceria, it was called “merit,” and in Sarn it was called “liberty” (or a loose translation that included both the freedom from obligation and the freedom to perform certain actions without legal consequences).

The Long Night saw an end to those long-standing theurgies and the loss of the few who remained capable of understanding them. It is for the reason of their overdependence that these nations fell so quickly (though they did not fall completely).

The modern Archeans, while preserving traditions, have no doubt lost much of their founders’ arts. It’s doubtful they know how to lower their impractical city to earth, even if they were so inclined.

—
PREFACE TO QUILL’S
THE FALL OF NATIONS,
VOLUME 1

H
EATH PAUSED FROM
digging mud out of the heel of his boot. He’d never been fond of leaving the city, and the boggy terrain and undergrowth of the marsh had set him in a foul mood. The Harbinger’s flask had given him Sword’s memories, and those memories pointed to the dolmen near Reda. It was hard to look at his friend the same way, knowing what it felt like to become other people. Going from a crazed, tortured fire mage to Catherine had been a jarring juxtaposition. Sword’s current, and mostly carefree, Fodder body seemed even more alien.

“I had a family once,” Sword said offhandedly. “Started out with me and a barmaid I knocked up coming back from a war I can’t remember. Raised the kids, passed myself down to the oldest son. I kept it going for three generations before the Bloodfangs sacked our village. Then I was a Bloodfang.”

“Wait,” Heath said. “Your own son?”

“Would have taken ’em all if I could have, but only one host at a time.”

“But when you take people, they stop being themselves. Their lives as individuals effectively end.”

Sword shrugged. “And when you die, you stop being a person altogether. What’s your point?”

“I don’t know,” Heath said. “Why would someone even create you?”

“People had a lot of free time in the old days.”

“But you never talk about the old days,” Heath chided. “Look, I understand keeping secrets. And I certainly understand lying about the past. I’ve never asked you, but I need to know—what are you?”

“I don’t want your stupid soul…if there even is such a thing,” Sword said indignantly. “My invented purpose wasn’t to enslave humanity. I was meant to preserve the memories and battle prowess of the House Crigenesta’s champions. They weren’t blade thralls; they were rightful owners. I was never built to be like this.”

He continued, “The Sarnians had fucked-up rules about ownership—that’s why they put curses on everything. I’m not some insidious monster trying to fuck your head into thinking I’m your friend. I’m a fucking theft deterrent. No one in his right mind would steal the sword of House Crigenesta or the Arrow of House Dulcorda, because they’d find themselves bound to the service of the house.”

“Let me get this straight.” Heath stopped him right there. “There’s an
arrow
like you?”

“Right pompous prick he is too,” Sword said. “There’s a whole arsenal like me.”

“How does that even work? Don’t you have to be within a hundred feet of your host or else they die? And if you shoot you at someone…” Heath was still thinking about the arrow.

“I never said the Suzerains were practical. Besides the hundred-foot bond was only to make sure the weapon couldn’t be forcibly removed to get out of the Geas. If you weren’t the rightful owner, the only way out was to return to the house and have them release you. Only there’s no one left to do that.”

“Can’t say I’m too sad to hear there aren’t any more left,” Heath said. “As an occasional thief, I’m glad that practice fell into obscurity.”

“I was proud to serve House Crigenesta. Couldn’t feel any other way about it, even if I wanted to, but they were an all right sort…for their time anyway. Probably wouldn’t be too popular in the Protectorate, but they had a sense of humor.”

“So how did you get free? Was it during the Long Night?”

“Centuries before.” Sword sighed. “Factional power struggle. The houses were slaughtered along with the champions. The Suzerains killed the last survivors and just made new Great Houses. We were made by the Artifex, so destroying us would’ve been like burning an art gallery. So they did like they’d done with all their most dangerous artifacts—put us on display in the forum. In Sarn it’s not like treasures were locked up or kept out of sight, you know? You put them out in the open as a show of strength and dared anyone to steal them.”

“Why would anyone pick you up then?” Heath asked. “The permanent bond to the sword and loss of free will seems like a pretty serious downside.”

“If you had the stones to beat the curse, the thing was yours. People got cocky and greedy, and over the centuries, they got stupid. Some kid, not even fifteen, picked me up on a dare because he didn’t know his history, and his ‘friends’ wanted to have a laugh. The Sarn I awoke to was a shit hole. The new Great Houses were just families of inbred warlocks living off the legacy of theurgy left to them by the old. So I told the Suzerains and the houses where they could stuff my pointy end, and I left.”

Heath mused, “I know what it’s like to see an institution you’re a part of betray every principle that made it worth believing in.”

“That orphanage thing was right fucked, mate.”

“Yeah.”

“So…”

“We should get moving.”

T
HE DOLMEN SAT
in the center of a circle of barren stony earth. Four eroded stone pillars supported a circular rock with a hole in the center. Dead trees, covered in hanging moss and vines, surrounded the circle like bleak sentinels between the soggy marsh and the tainted ground. Even in the bright midday sun, the place felt sinister to Heath.

These dolmens were the source of pact magic, where dark bargains were struck and sacrifices made. They were often in remote locations, though they sometimes moved. This one had been here as far back as the histories went. Whatever Dark Magic flowed through them made them impervious to any attempts to destroy them.

Heath and Sword approached cautiously and took separate paths around the perimeter, examining the ground for tracks or any signs of recent use. They saw wax drippings on some of the rocks, but none of it looked recent, or it was impossible to tell.

“It’s rained here,” Heath said offhandedly. “Ashes would be our best bet, but it’ll be hard to find anything we can use.”

Sword sighed and unsheathed his blade. “I was afraid of that. Time for the backup plan?”

Heath sighed as well and opened his backpack. “I don’t like this. But I brought the materials to do the lesser invocation from the Grimoire of Hecuba. Maybe the spirits of this place will tell us something. But we’ll need to wait till nightfall.”

“Let me try something first…” Sword swaggered over to the pillars of the dolmen and shouted, “Oi! It’s me—Sword of fucking Saint Jeffrey! We need to talk to you!” He swung his blade and hacked into the stone repeatedly. The metal rang through the quiet empty clearing as it struck the pillars.

“Sword,” Heath said with a laugh, “you think that’s going to work? It’s broad daylight.”

“It don’t matter, mate,” Sword said, wiping his brow. “These things were called Memento Mori back in the old days, before the Corruption. It was a place you could chat with the dead, or their echoes anyway. Didn’t take a fancy ritual to work.”

“I doubt most people tried to cut it down, but subtlety was never your thing.” A stout woman stepped out from behind one of the pillars. She was nearly fifty and handsome for a woman, with a mane of blond hair she kept back in a ponytail. She wore chain mail and a yellow tabard. Strapped to her back was a bastard sword set with heartstone.

Sword stared at her, mouth agape.

“It’s strange to be lookin’ at yourself, isn’t it love?” She smiled warmly.

“Catherine…” Heath whispered.

“It’s a pleasure to really meet you, Heath.” She walked out from the shade of the dolmen and stared up toward the sun, enjoying the warmth. “We weren’t properly introduced. By the time I found you, I’d been carrying the sword. Wasn’t quite myself.”

“You’re not Catherine,” Heath said flatly.

“I feel like her, though. I’m a truer representation than
that thing
ever was.” She indicated Sword with a thumb over her shoulder. “Catherine was just a jumble of dead memories rattling around in that heartstone of his.”

“This is really awkward.” Sword rubbed the back of his thick neck.

“I need information,” Heath stated flatly.