NOVEL NEXT Chapter 14 - Bloodshed
in lands of peace and worlds of lore
there reigns the fierce, the Lady War
with steel and flame, she bathes in gore
yet strength and healing, she implores
- "The Shield," Verse 1
"Ko's our first player," Killián says. "Lord Galtero, lieutenant—take your seats."
We're in the crypt, all of us. Chairs have been brought in, and Jebah, Bardic, and King Audrin are seated by the altar. Smoke rises from the candles and incense burning behind them. Lord Ra'mes is a little to the right, seated in front of a door that leads to Yosif's crypt—which holds all of him but his skull, I guess. Lefe is on his feet, examining a sarcophagus sculpted with ornately carved vines, flowers, and heraldic symbols—I think it belongs to Angeliana, Yosif's wife, the first Lady Death incarnate. It makes sense that she'd be here watching over us, and the reverence with which Lefe's staring at it is no surprise. His lips are moving, as if he's speaking to her. I wonder if she's saying anything back.
Legs shaking a bit, I turn away from Lefe and the sarcophagus, make my way to the seat before the mirror. I can't see Galtero through the silvery glass, but I smell the cloying stench of mallow when he takes a hit. Killián offers the pipe to me next, but I refuse it. I remember vividly the lightheaded, floaty feeling that came with it last time, and I do have a headache, but no—I'm not getting high in a room with strangers who are about to pick through what's left of my mind.
"I'll do it sober," I say. "I've gone into the mirror like that before—it was better."
It wasn't, but they have no way of knowing that.
"Heresy." Galtero's voice, from the other side of the mirror. "It's tradition, Lieutenant Ko. It's culture. It's part of the mirror game."
"Are you sure?" Killián's expression is impassive, hard to read. "Mallow soothes, keeps you relaxed. Without it, the game is brutal."
"The game is brutal both ways." Jebah's playing with a candle he picked up from the altar, running his fingers through the flame. "He wants to white-knuckle it? Let him. Galtero will make quick work of him regardless—we'll be onto Kempe before 0700."
"I'd rather play you than Galtero," Kempe says. "Come on, denmaster—you and me. Let's go a round."
She's sitting on a bench beneath an effigy of Lady Death hovering over a common grave, interwoven corpses disfigured and mangled beneath her. Kempe's face is in shadow so I can't see her expression, but a glowing sconce to the right of her makes the laurels pinned to her black leathers gleam.
"I'm the last rung on the ladder," Jebah says. "Get through Galtero, Ra'mes, and Audrin—then we can play."
"Coward."
"Womanizer."
"Reprobate."
"Bitch."
"Great Yosif, I love you," she says. "We should get married."
"Feeling's mutual, sweetheart." There's a laugh in his voice. "I've got a death duel scheduled for Monday—how's Tuesday?"
"We're both in love with dead girls," is her response. "Match made in the Fjords."
"Enough." Killián appears in the mirror behind me—he doesn't look amused. "Let's chant them in. Ko, repeat after me: Mirror of Fate, we call to thee. Open your depths, so we can see."
I repeat what Killián says, and Galtero responds as Lefe did yesterday. The mirror begins to glow, the room begins to blur. The gravitational tug begins, I'm pulled through the glass and begin to fall. It's different this time. Voices swirl around me, cruel and taunting—golden threads bind my hands and feet, and there's a noose around my neck.
Whoreson.
Sinner.
Damned.
Take him—seize him!
Kill him!
Kill him!
Kill him!
I plummet. The golden cord wrapped around my neck tightens—I can't breathe, can't scream. The voices are getting louder. It feels like a million hands are touching me, pinching me, grabbing every part they can get ahold of. I writhe, panicked—hot tears blur my vision, streak down my face. With Linden, I was cold and wet—with Lefe I felt calm, guided by the threads. Now I'm filled with frantic, nervous energy—I hate the feeling of being touched, and worse still is the suffocation. This was a mistake. This was a terrible, horrible mistake—I'm never getting out of here, and he's going to kill me …
I land in the room surrounded by mirrors. My body crunches as I slam against the ground—I'm curled into a fetal position, my wrist, legs, and tailbone aching. The ropes around my neck loosen—just a little—and I gasp for breath, clawing at my throat. My hands are still bound, but I'm able to wheeze. Oxygen slowly returns to my lungs.
I look around.
The mirrors are filled with images of Galtero. He's small, chasing after an older boy on the toddling legs of a child. He's watching a man being whipped in a throne room, streaks of blood staining the marble floor. He's a young man watering flowers on a balcony terrace. He's standing beneath a vined arch with Lady Dulce—she looks younger than him by at least two decades—their wrists bound with golden ropes. He's holding an infant wrapped in a blanket, shirtless, rocking back and forth on the front porch of L'Angly's palazzo, staring down at her with an uncharacteristically tender expression.
You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.
Your daughter is damned. Marix's voice, accompanied by the ghost of a laugh. Cute baby—but Hel awaits her in the threads of Fate.
My daughter is a vestal. Galtero's voice, calm and echoing. Someday she'll be a Lady.
That will never happen, Marix says. Some vestals never grow up, Galtero—and your family is playing a dangerous game.
Now Galtero sounds angry—fury in every syllable, each word spat with malice.
My daughter will never sin. She knows better.
Marix laughs again. Lord Galtero, master of banks, puppeteer of the Fourth Circuit's duke. Can't control his own children. Where's Coraline, Galtero? Have you put her in the mirror yet?
My children are perfect. The room glows, pulses—Galtero's fury slams against me, makes me curl into myself. We are not di Vivars—we know our duty, and we walk the path of the righteous.
I fall toward one of the mirrors, one that shows Galtero seated in the medi-center where I spent last week. As my body hits the silver glass it turns to liquid around me, welcoming me into the room. A woman—painfully skinny, with stretched features and an absent expression—lies unmoving in one of the beds. Galtero sits beside her, holding her hand. A child is on either side of him—a boy and a girl, with the woman's dark hair and Galtero's blue eyes.
"It's time to say goodbye." Galtero sounds curt, his eyes glassy. "Émilien, Coraline—go on and kiss her."
The children move forward, each pressing lips to their mother's cheek in turn. The girl is crying silently, tears streaming down her face. The boy looks vacant, lost—he keeps glancing at Galtero with the bewildered expression of a kicked puppy. He's a little taller than the girl, but he can't be older than ten.
The woman takes a shuddering, raspy breath. Her eyes flutter shut. She tries to breathe again, but her chest doesn't rise—she emits an awful, twisted shriek. Her body writhes. A trail of saliva trickles from the corner of her mouth.
You didn't cry for her. Marix's voice is mocking. What kind of man would watch his wife die without shedding a tear? Were you already thinking about Duke Silvian's pretty daughter?
I was thinking no such thing. The anger is gone from Galtero's voice—now, it's forcefully level. I was strong for my children, for my son. I showed him how to mourn like a man.
"Goodbye, my love," Galtero murmurs. "May Lady Death guide your journey to the lands above. I will see you in your next incarnate, Lady Hope."
Lie one, Marix says. You intend to spend eternity with your second wife.
I told her the truth. Galtero sounds unbothered. She's my Lady. We are one flesh in our children. Hope will always guide them, through Johanna or through Dulce. Hope knows her children.
You forget Johanna.
I remember every moment of the time we spent together. We're remembering her now, aren't we?
You prefer your women younger. Easier to manipulate.
Dulce was grown when we set our troth. Let's do you, Lieutenant Ko.
The room splits, lightning slashing across the white walls. The children fragment, break into pieces—the woman on the bed evaporates into smoke. Her shrieks are replaced with the booming of thunder. An image flashes before my open eyes, taking up the entirety of my vision. A family crest—two doves, intertwined, a vine of berries stretched between their beaks.
You've been leveled. Galtero sounds intrigued. But by whom? Who owns you, Whoreson? Should we find out?
###
The ground beneath me disappears.
I fall through blackness.
I scream.
###
The visions come quickly, in no particular order. Flashes of men, women, children. A young Killián curled in a fetal position on the floor. Médéric standing over him with a cocked belt, fleshy lacerations and crimson blood covering Killián's back—at least thirty gashes. A teenage Lefe crumpled on the back quad, Killián's arm around him, Bardic carefully removing his shoes. Audrin and Adelaide entwined on a bed, writhing beneath the blankets. Jebah decapitating a Xobrite, backlit by the sun setting behind the Córdoba foothills—he yells his battle cry, taste for battle, and it's like he's screaming directly into my ear. Kempe hammering metal in a blacksmith's forge. Ra'mes, seated in the stands of the Colosseum, staring down at a dead man with an off-center crown and crimson trickling from his lips. Audrin stands over him, raises a sword—the noise of the crowd is deafening. Ra'mes applauds politely, but his expression is one of disgust. He turns to Galtero, who's sitting beside him.
"Audrin's too young to be a king," he says. "Too weak. You know what Achille made him do to Adelaide, don't you? He didn't even fight it."
"He's fighting now," Galtero says.
"Too little, too late. Story of Audrin's life."
"Only Fate knows what lies at the end of his thread," Galtero says. "For now—we wait."
I'm at the mercy of the golden threads. They're wrapped around my neck, my wrists, my feet. They drag me through mirrors as I fall. Cold embalms me, wetness trickles down my spine beneath my leathers.
I don't know what's happening.
I don't know where I am.
I don't know if this is normal.
###
I hit the ground again—this time I'm on my feet. I'm back in the room surrounded by mirrors, but this time, only my reflection surrounds me.
Well, mine and Galtero's—he stands before me, a sword in his hand. The tip makes contact with the chest of my leathers. I freeze, raise my hands in surrender.
"There's nothing here," he says coldly. "No memories, no levels, no soul."
"Is that bad?" I ask wearily—the pressure of his sword's tip is enough to tear my leathers. "That sounds bad."
"You're nothing," he says. "A shell of a person, barely human. I've never seen the job done so thoroughly—did you even fight it?"
"There was nothing to fight." Carefully I move the sword away from my chest with the cuff of my leathers—he lets it fall to his side. "I didn't even notice it was happening."
"Impossible."
"I'm telling you the truth. How do I fix it?"
"You can't," he says. "I can't play you—there's no game in defeating the damned."
"You don't want to play me anymore." I grin. "Are you conceding?"
"No," he says. "I'm passing. Audrin plays you next. We're skipping Ra'mes. You'd beat him."
You play, Galtero, Marix's voice inside my mind comes with the bubbling sensation of laughter. You play. Good game. Sin free, as always.
"Good game, Marix," Galtero says. "Ko—remember your body, and leave your reflection."