Red Wishes Black Ink

Cortland Finiron, Hammer Master of the 12th Renown, Kingdom of Infinzel, atop the chain of command

Walton Tendersword, a young man of no particular renown, Kingdom of Infinzel, something of a pariah

Henry Blacksalve, Healer of the 8th Renown, Soldier's Rest, learning to garden

Hellie Opensky, a woman of no particular renown, Soldier's Rest, wife to Watts Stonework

Unknown, Spy of the 10th Renown, Penchenne, not a trace left behind

9 Blossum, 61 AW

The pyramidal city of Infinzel, North Continent

51 days until the next Granting

"So, there aren't enough monsters? That's the problem?"

Cortland stood over the circular table in the Battle Library, his palms pressed down onto the stone slab. He still liked to make use of this room, even if the champions of Infinzel were scattered and avoiding each other. Cortland had spread out maps of the Underneath, which were updated regularly by cartographers assigned to the Garrison. At his side, seated yet tall enough to still be eye-level with Cortland, Walton Tendersword traced his fingers down tunnels until the ink there faded and grew fuzzy, into uncharted territory. The tips of the young man's ears had reddened at Cortland's question.

"You sound like the quartermaster," Walton said.

Despite his bulky warrior's physique, young Walton had been reassigned to the quartermaster's office after the bloody journey they'd endured to the Underneath in pursuit of Ink for Carina. Walton had been one of the lucky ones. The rest of the escort—the ones who had stayed behind to hold the gates, most of them hand-picked by Cortland—had been burned to death by the maddened pyromancer Arris Stonetender. They were good soldiers, reliable, and Cortland had thought little of them in these last months. Like so much else, they were collateral damage in the games between champions.

"You told Oronso about this?" Cortland said. "The quartermaster?

"Yes. He said we shouldn't stop to ask the wolves why they stopped chasing us."

Cortland grunted. "Sounds like him."

The quartermaster Westlaw Oronso was a practical man who knew better than to stick his neck out. Like the Tuarez line, the Oronsos were one of the last of Infinzel's noble families not entirely subsumed by the Salvados. They had a tradition of marrying prominent Twicegolds rather than other nobles, thus tying themselves to Infinzel's most prominent merchants and traders. It had been a rare thing in Cortland's lifetime for someone other than an Oronso to occupy the quartermaster's office.

"Tell me what you told Oronso," Cortland said.

Alongside the maps, Walton opened a pair of logbooks that he'd brought with him. Cortland skimmed through the writing. Rotations of forays into the Underneath, associated incident reports, supply requisitions. The columns looked surprisingly blank to Cortland.

"When I started with the quartermaster, repairs were already underway on the damaged tunnels," Walton began.

Cortland nodded. "The gargoyles ripped down our lighting."

"Not the gargoyles," Walton murmured. "The Firstson."

Cortland's teeth clicked together. A gargoyle that walked upright like a man, made traps, and dressed itself in scrounger skins. The thought of the beast nearly made him reach for his hammer. The gods damned thing had talked to them. It had apparently been using other gargoyle bodies to improve upon itself. Cortland hadn't been privy to the conversation, but Sevda Tau of the Magelab had confirmed to King Cizco that such mutations of old magic weren't unheard of. She had told Cizco that the Firstson would burn itself out, although it would make an intriguing object of study if they could capture it. Regardless of the archmage's recommendation, Cortland had planned to return Underneath and destroy the misbegotten creature, but that had been before all the trouble in Soldier's Rest kicked off. Other problems—ones not trapped in tunnels beneath the pyramidal city—had taken precedent.

"I'm sorry," Walton said, misinterpreting the scowl on Cortland's face. "I've been told not to bring it up, but I figured since you were there…"

"Who told you not to bring up the creature?" Cortland asked.

Walton paused, as if unsure how much to say. "The quartermaster," he replied, tentatively. "Old friends from the Garrison who still think I've lost my mind. My parents. Everyone. Better not to stir up a panic, is their thinking."

Cortland squinted at the young man, who made a point of studying numbers he'd surely already been over dozens of times. "I know what we saw down there, Tendersword. You don't have to pretend to know less than is true around me," Cortland said. "If I make a face, it's not because of you. It's because I can't seem to finish one gods damned thing that I set out to do."

Walton stared at him. "Right," he said. "I'm sure—I'm sure that's not true?"

Cortland jabbed the papers. "Finish telling me."

"The repairs went smoothly," Walton hurriedly resumed. "Done in half the time allotted, actually. Following that, in addition to the regular patrols, there were some extra forays seeking the Firstson, even if the officers began to think that a goose chase. We have a budget for healing and a budget for weapon replacement and armor repair. Additionally, Madam Goldstone left us some of her gadgeteering which, since I saw how effective they were personally, I wanted to keep close tabs on."

Cortland remembered Carina's creations. Magnetized discs that tore the arcane cores straight from within a gargoyle's stone carapace. Orbs that flashed with manufactured sunlight that could destroy shades. They could have cleaned out the Underneath with enough of those inventions. Perhaps Carina would have gotten around to that if she hadn't been run out of Infinzel.

"Hardly any strain on our resources," Walton continued. "I started to wonder if the Garrison just weren't writing reports. During the outer district strike, there were some issues with shifts going unfilled. I started asking questions."

Cortland could imagine how that went. Fair or not, Tendersword had developed a reputation for being soft and addled. And here he came, poking around the responsibilities of the Garrison men and women who he hadn't been able to hack it alongside.

"It turns out, most were doing a fair enough job keeping their records," Walton said. "There just wasn't anything to report."

Cortland glanced down at the logs again, but he didn't need paperwork to believe Walton. "No gargoyles," he said. "No shades."

Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings.

"It was viewed as bad luck to talk about it," Walton said. "And I'm—well, I'm already viewed as that."

"So, our patrols…"

"Make aimless walks through abandoned caverns. I've seen—" Walton paused, then sighed, resigned to being a tattletale. "Some of them brought down a keg. There's no appetite for exploring further. No one's concerned with some missing gargoyles. But that thing is down there. It speaks, it reasons. It must have led the others somewhere. Shouldn't we… shouldn't we know where?"

"Yes."

Cortland stood up straight. He'd heard enough.

"Show me the weapons that Carina left behind," Cortland said. "I'll go down today."

What good was a garden grown by the gods? Henry Blacksalve had never pondered that question until this year. He had used [Summon Garden] on many different versions of the island, in the frozen north, and in the hard-packed sand of Infinzel's training pit. Eventually, the plants always wilted, withered, and faded to nothingness. But the gods did not rescind their sustenance when the power of Henry's Ink expired. Bellies fed with vegetables stayed full, burns soothed with aloe continued their healing, and minds sharpened with kafette continued their vibration.

It had been Carina who had asked him the question. What if he summoned his gardens where gardens were meant to be grown?

"They took root," Henry murmured, running his finger down the ridged leaf of a peppermint plant.

Bel Guydemion had made Henry a greenhouse in Soldier's Rest. Close to the ring wall, the building had formerly been a bar and a fighting pit, at least until the Solstice fires ripped through it. Guydemion had acquired it after that. The roof was already gone, so it was easy enough to replace with tilted panes of glass that caught the sunlight and held in moisture. Once spring came, Guydemion's workers had ripped up the charred floors and tilled the earth beneath in preparation for Henry's return from the north. The healer lived there now, in a small room off the back that still smelled like fire. It was far from the luxury of the pyramidal city's second highest floor, but Henry didn't mind. The view from down here didn't make him feel so lonely.

"A little more light for the rosemary, wouldn't you say?" Hellie Opensky asked.

Hellie stood over a planter that Henry had manifested days ago, her auburn hair tied back, and sleeves rolled up. She had mostly dictated the contents of Henry's garden, given that she better knew the needs of Soldier's Rest. If Henry could imagine the plant, then he could make it appear for her. In this way, they had filled nearly half the greenhouse since his return.

"I don't know the first thing about actually growing this stuff, Hellie," Henry said. "Whatever you say."

She smiled at him. "A little more light. Squeeze everything we can from the day."

Hellie and her husband Watts Stonework had made themselves Henry's welcoming committee upon his return to Soldier's Rest. Henry still carried the guilt of being too drunk to treat Watts' damaged eye on the night of the Open Gate, but the couple didn't hold that against him. Hellie was herself a healer in the way that Henry had been before he'd foolishly applied to become a champion—she worked with herbs, tinctures, and a bit of the old ways when the costs weren't too demanding.

He watched as Hellie took hold of one of the cranks that hung down from the ceiling, turning it until the glass above angled to give more light to the back half of the greenhouse. All of the panes could be adjusted by a network of delicate gears and brackets. The design had come from the sketchbook of Watts and Hellie's son, Otis, the soon-to-be Gadgeteer.

"You'll get the feel for the plants eventually," Hellie continued. "They've got rhythms and you'll have time to learn them."

It had been decided that Henry would stay on at the greenhouse and return to his trade as an apothecary next year, after he took the wash. Henry would've agreed to anything that got the Ink off him. The greenhouse was good, honest work, but retirement still felt very far away. He wasn't entirely sure he would want to return to Infinzel's shadow once all was said and done.

The thought made Henry's throat dry. Time for a drink. He could knock off now and no one would care, but Hellie was right—it was only late afternoon and there was still day left to be squeezed.

"I don't have another garden in me," Henry said, sensing that his Ink had faded. "I'll head over to the clinic."

"I don't understand why more champions don't choose Ink like you've done," Hellie said. "Symbols that can help the whole community."

"Truth be told, the community wasn't something I considered," Henry said. "I only wanted to survive and for my fellows to survive."

"You'd roll through dung if it'd convince one person you weren't noble," Hellie replied. "Anyway, the community's something I'll consider, when it's my time."

Henry paused as a tremor passed through his hands. He didn't like when their conversations veered in this direction—and they did too often. Hellie wasn't just curious what awaited her husband on the island. She was curious for herself.

"You really plan to become the healer for Soldier's Rest?" Henry asked. "You spend time with me, see what the best ending for a champion looks like, and still want this damned Ink?"

Hellie flashed him an indulgent smile as she picked up a watering can. "It should've been me this year. I'd have colored out with more renown than that husband of mine."

"I started as a first renown," Henry said. "Cortland and Ben carried me through that first year, and the second."

"And now you can carry Watts through this year, until I'm ready to carry him through the next."

Henry chuckled. "You'll wound Watts' pride with talk like that."

"My husband's never had his feelings hurt in his entire life," Hellie replied, her eyes shining. "Anyway, we'll want a healer once you're gone. Bel will see the sense in it."

"What about Otis?"

"Otis will have gone off to join the Gadgeteers by then." Hellie set down her watering can and put her hands on her hips. "Our son was raised in Soldier's Rest, even if he no longer has the mark. He knows what the place means to us. We didn't raise him to shy away from a cause because it might be dangerous."

Henry raised his hands in surrender. It was low to bring her son into the discussion. Knowing that she would take the Ink in his stead was the only reason Henry had found to reconsider retirement, although he wouldn't tell Hellie that.

As he passed between the beds, Henry noticed a patch of white-flowered chamomile where the roots had curled above the dirt. Henry bent down to cover the snarl, smoothing and patting the soil, and was in that position when a sharp vibration rippled through the ground.

Brushing off his hands, Henry stood up. "Did you feel that?"

The spy's face was swollen with bruises, her ribs and guts a steady agony—the results of casual beatings delivered by Frederick. She had endured worse and, soon enough, she would allow her [Recovery+] to activate and bring relief.

Her work was done.

Following blood-splattered diagrams that the spy had left on a workbench, Frederick and Platt had assembled the explosives and carried them down into the pit, arranging them so as to unearth the artery of diamond that they could see flashes of through the honeycombed stone. Purchased from Gadgeteers, the bombs were meant for largescale mining. The spy had carefully removed markings of their potency, just in case Frederick or Platt paused to read the cases.

In the end, she needn't have been so fastidious. She doubted either man could read very well. It was a good thing she'd kept the plans simple.

The diamonds, meanwhile, were an [Illusion] maintained by the spy. A carrot to lead the men, yes, but not enough to make its pursuit not their decision. They needn't be here. They chose it.

The assassin had assured the spy that the mechanics would work. Penchenne had paid handsomely for the consultation. The masked bastards had run tests on their beach. Always experimenting with how to deal death around the will of the gods. If the woman in the monkey mask had lied and wasted so much of the spy's time—well, she chose not to consider that potentiality. That sort of revenge had no benefit.

Frederick and Platt scrambled out of the pit with a fuse burning behind them. Platt leaned over the edge, wanting to see the detonation. But Frederick noticed that the spy was gone. She had slipped her bonds—an easy thing—and turned [Invisible].

"The kid's loose!" Frederick bellowed. "Little fu—!"

The explosion knocked both men off their feet and would've done the same to the spy if she hadn't braced herself. The ceiling beams groaned and the windows shattered. A cloud of gray rock dust swirled up from the pit. While Frederick and Platt gagged, the spy pulled a silken ward-weave mask down over her face. The fabric would filter the air for her and keep her vision clear.

"Oh, gods, Fred! My ribs!" Platt cried. "That was too much! Too much! The king himself probably hea—"

The spy heard the wet, crunching noise as something landed on Platt. She stayed very still, sensing the beating of leathery wings around her, and the smell of something mulchy and dank.

"Platt?" Frederick's voice was suddenly small as he staggered through the floating grit toward his friend. "Are you…?"

A stone-clawed hand snatched Frederick around the throat and lifted. The spy's knees shook. Ten feet from her stood a gargoyle—on two legs, like a man, clad in a robe of some kind of crudely stitched skin.

"What am I looking at, Lisette?" Deidre's voice sounded in the spy's ear, as if the Exile Queen were standing right next to her and not safely back in Penchenne, communicating through the bracelet the spy was never allowed to take off. "What is that?"

The spy dared not open her mouth to answer.

"Mother…" the gargoyle spoke—it spoke—in a voice that sounded like wind passing through an instrument. "Where is mother?"

In response, Frederick squawked and pissed himself.

The gargoyle tossed him into the pit.

"I come," the gargoyle announced. "Outside."

It turned back to the pit.

"Outside!" Its voice like a piercing note on a clarinet.

The spy heard the wings then. Flapping and scrabbling, claws tearing stone, ripping through the hole in the bottom of her pit. A hundred gargoyles. Maybe more. And other things, rattling and screaming, behind them.

"Go, you fool," Deidre whispered. "Get out."

As ever, the spy obeyed.