The Partisan Chronicles [Dystopia | Supernatural | Mystery]

Rhian

It was a treat traveling with Riz as our Navigator. We made record time, breezed through a nasty storm, avoided contact with Palisade, and nobody got sick or fell overboard. The man was a legend. Even Sebastian had a peaceful ride, having let Markus soothe his soul and put him to sleep for the trip.

Per the plan, Riz dropped me and Sebastian off on the coast near Oskari. Meanwhile, he'd be off taking the others around the other side of Amalia, nearer to the base and whatnot.

Sebastian and I were coming up on the ruins of Oskari then, where the inn was the only building still standing on top of the Widow's Peak peak.

"Six thousand songs?" I asked.

"Six thousand, six hundred and sixty—

"If you say six, I'm done."

"—sixty—two."

"That's a lot of songs, mate." And then, "Stracha's Steed," I said, suddenly. Old habits.

"Whatever's the matter?" Sebastian asked.

Halting at the bottom of the hill, I flipped my satchel open. See, I was about to start digging around, but I realized straightaway I didn't have to. The emerald and amethyst rings were sitting right at the top where I needed them. What can I say? My bag was a weird and wondrous object. I must have done something to please it.

I scooped the rings, holding them out in an open palm. "I keep forgetting to give you these."

"I haven't seen these in—where did you get them?"

"Plucked the green one off the finger of what I thought was your brother's corpse."

Sebastian nodded. "As one does. And the other?"

"In Leberecht."

After a sigh, Sebastian smoothed his suit, turned, and started walking up the hill.

"Keep them," he said.

And I said, "All right," and tucked them back into my bag while following quickly behind. "Wait—you're not going to break the news in a few days, tell me there are six rings scattered throughout Auditoria, representing each of the Six, and together, they shall empower us in destroying their stupid arses forevermore, are you?"

"That sounds like a thrilling adventure, Rhian Sinclair. Unfortunately, they are mere rings."

"Aye, they had better be mere rings."

Sebastian smiled tossed an arm around my shoulders.

Together, we walked up the Widow's Peak peak. And the closer we got to the inn, the more the air smelled like Ivana's famous garlic potatoes. And the more it smelled like Ivana's famous garlic potatoes, the more I missed her.

Also, the more I wanted garlic potatoes.

Stepping through the double doors, the hearth was roaring and the place was packed. There was nobody behind the bar though. A few folks waved. I waved back. Sebastian gave the room a little bow, and then he waved as well.

I approached a small table where sat one of my former devoted subjects. "Oy," I said. "Where's Marta?"

"In her office with Elijah."

"In a do not disturb kind of way?"

"Most definitely." She winked. "But—Michael, he's here. In the den."

Marta and the Historian? Michael in the den? Didn't see either of those things coming, but it was great news all around. I tossed the villager a two-finger salute and waved Sebastian along, moving in a zigzag through the tables.

In case you've forgotten this too, the den was a sectioned off area of the Peak, had its own bit of privacy and whatnot. So, naturally, I whipped the curtain open where Michael was in the middle of taking a sip out of a pewter tankard.

We stepped inside and Sebastian offered his hand. Who wouldn't take that charming son of a bitch's hand? So, Michael took it, and they shook.

"Michael Reider," he said.

"Sebastian Vonsinfonie," Sebastian replied.

And they were still shaking hands.

"Still coming to terms with you being alive," Michael continued. "Your hair looks fantastic, by the way. The portraits don't do it justice."

Still. Shaking.

I had to do something.

"Wait, Michael, how'd you even get here?"

The fellows stopped shaking hands, and with that, everybody took their seats.

"Everleigh toted me."

"Huh?"

"She's been toting people places," Michael explained, sort of. "We don't really have any other way of getting around."

"All right," I said.

"How is my little gloom-flower?" Sebastian asked.

"Gloomy, but good. She's looking forward to seeing you again," Michael answered. "Just missed her, actually. She left not long ago to run some errands for the concert."

"Concert?" we asked.

Michael shrugged. "She found an old theatre and now she wants to put on a concert."

I leave for two bloody minutes and everybody starts having fun, toting and throwing concerts. Whatever. Seemed the old theatre was seeing a fair bit of activity lately. Michael filled us in on Strauss and Ever's adventure to find one of the brothers, and how they'd found Jakob Adler instead. Sebastian was beyond relieved, obviously.

"It's still so surreal," Michael said. "My siblings and I grew up on your stories. Back home in Leberecht, the people there practically worship you."

"They practically worship me?"

Michael nodded, pausing for a sip of cider by the smell. "You and your brother."

Sebastian mulled a minute, and a strange, wry-looking smile came and went. "I would have thought the opposite. Then again, where Avis is concerned, one never knows."

"You two know the Artist is Avis Adler, too?" Michael asked.

"Of course," Sebastian said.

We'd pieced things together somewhere between the old theatre and the embark. Sebastian told us Jakob Adler was his nephew. Later, talk of the Artist, the Writer, and the Tinkerer seemed to strike a chord. Now, seeing as I'd met the Artist once, I was able to show him a mind-picture. Avis Adler was the Artist confirmed, but the information was basically pointless. Sebastian didn't know how best to take down the Trio, either.

In any case, we were now all on the same page as far as information went.

Also, no big surprise Strauss was the one to sort things out for the other squad.

"The hurdle won't be the Trio themselves, my friends," Sebastian said. "They will perish as any Anima perishes. But these are smart, enterprising women, you understand. If they've, as you say, created an idealized society, supplanting autonomy and originality with copy-cat compliance, destroying one, or all of them, may well turn the entire city on you."

Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator.

Well, that didn't sound fun.

"How would that affect me?" Michael asked. "As a victim of the Trio."

Sebastian clicked his tongue. "What do you remember of your life?"

"I remember everything they wanted me to remember, I think. The best parts of my childhood, my best years at Palisade. My aspirations to join the Iron Hand."

"Not bloody once did you talk about wanting to join the Iron Hand, mate. All you ever wanted to do was teach. You always said once you'd outstayed the field, that's what you'd do."

"So, I guess I remember what they wanted me to remember, and they took a few liberties."

"You have my sincerest apologies, Michael Reider," Sebastian said. "I should have destroyed Avis Adler when I had the chance."

"Hey, it's okay. I don't know anything other than this, so generally I feel fine."

"Do you think you can fix him?" I asked.

Sebastian hummed. "They've addled you twice?"

Michael nodded. "The first time was before I was conscripted to Palisade."

Councilwoman Faust had confirmed that. But the truth is, there was no telling right at that moment if Sebastian would be able to help Michael. He said he'd need to examine him more closely once we were back at the base.

"Say, Seb, what are the chances you could pull that song trick on an entire city?" I asked.

"An inspired question, Rhian Sinclair. Theoretically possible, though given the size of the city, a singular effort may not be enough. But I have a sad suspicion on that note." A pause while Sebastian looked between me and Michael. "May I try something?"

Michael nodded, and seeing as I loved sad suspicions, I also nodded. And then there was nothing but the stupid song, lullabying through my head like it had always lived there. The cello, the piano, my eyes getting heavier, and heavier…

Well, I needed a nap, anyhow.

When the song stopped and I came to my senses, Michael was still looking wide awake.

"Did you hear the music, Michael?"

"What? I don't think so. I've never even heard music. Have I?"

So, sad suspicion confirmed. Except— "The song worked on Michael once afore. In the crypts, when we first met Zacharias. He was standing there frozen like the rest of us."

"But are you certain he heard the song?" Sebastian asked. "My brother is known to employ time manipulation tactics to guarantee the greatest effect. A failsafe."

Frankly, I wasn't certain Michael had heard the song. For some reason, we never spoke about the song specifically. And seeing as Michael couldn't remember being in any crypts, he was zero help on the matter.

"Michael's sister Marta heard the song," I said.

"And she's been tinkered with?" Sebastian asked.

"Actually, I remember thinking she stood out from the rest. Couldn't tell you why they'd spare her, mind you."

"Allow me some time to think on the topic, Rhian Sinclair."

Sure, why not.

Look, Leberecht was a problem, but it'd been a problem for around a thousand years. Taking a few good, long minutes to think of a sensible solution wasn't going to change much. In the meantime, I had another question: "Say, Seb, what are the chances you could pull a time manipulation trick on an entire city?"

Theoretically possible, too, apparently.

But he said not even Zacharias could do something like that alone.

Around then, Marta and Elijah stepped through the curtain. Michael brightened and Sebastian stood. Like the class act he was, he immediately offered his hand to the pair.

Everybody introduced themselves.

Marta's eyes widened. "Sebastian Von—wait, seriously?"

"I told you he was our friend now," Michael said.

"Yeah, but—"

Sebastian gestured to the empty couch across from ours, and everybody took their seats. Marta and the Historian were sweet as hell in that opposites attract kind of way. Her, tough-looking and straight-talking, him meek and bookish.

For some strange bloody reason, I had hope for the pair.

Lucky for us, Michael had already caught them up on everything we'd learned. Interesting for Marta, aye, but it was life-changing for the Historian. Everything he thought he knew about Amalia turned out to be basically bogus. 'Course, he had plenty of questions for Sebastian, but with Strauss still not present, mister Vonsinfonie remained a man of his word.

"Michael," I said.

"Rhian," he said.

"How's the cider?"

"Good. Great, actually. Too bad you can't have any."

Michael took a sip, and the topic turned back to the Trio.

"Elijah, tell them what you told us," Michael said.

The Verenian scholar adjusted his silver-rimmed spectacles. "There are legends—only legends. Remember: the majority of Amalia can only speculate what goes on behind Leberecht's mountain walls. Information may have trickled out over time, but it has also distorted over time. Now, we're left with fables, such as that of the Artist, the Writer, and the Tinkerer—or in some iterations, the Toymaker. The legends consistently speak of a studio where they work together, and that deep within that studio is a storybook. With their storybook, the Trio have the power to write and re-write history."

Look, I doubted very much a few pieces of paper and some doodles could have that kind of power, but whatever. There I was, talking about boring things like mystical storybooks, meanwhile Strauss was off somewhere helping the Creepy Lass throw a party.

"Marta, you ever been inside their actual studio?" I asked.

She shook her head. "They always transact at the door."

"All right," I said. "But we know someone here has been inside their studio."

"Don't look at me," Michael said.

Naturally, we all looked to Michael.

I pulled my feet up on the couch. "Look, Michael doesn't remember us, but since coming back to be with us, he's blended in all the same, only without the memories. He even answered, "Rhian," to my, "Michael," in the exact same way he used to. Strauss had also been wondering if there's a part of him that does remember."

"I don't know," Michael said. "I'm a pretty friendly guy, and you're likable people."

"No—I see your point," Sebastian said, his silvery eyes locked on mine. "If Michael's memories haven't been stolen but have been instead suppressed, then retrieving them becomes much more realistic, and we may not only be able to fix your friend, but restore his memory of his time at the studio."

"Aye."

"Well done, Rhian Sinclair."

"All right," I said. "Now, let's go home and see about a creepy concert."