To Your New Era

Evalyn's hip felt lighter. Handing over her sidearm to Iris had become a sort of ritual; thankfully not a regular one, but a passing of power that she foresaw becoming more frequent. It was a tool, but she liked to believe she'd taught Iris to respect it more than that. If so, then she hoped the action alone conveyed its weight, regardless of words.

The little mannequin, her autonomous guide, rattled along the rusted trail at a leisurely pace, the library morphing around them as they walked. A darker sector of the labyrinth, frozen and silent.

Radio. Muffled static caught her ear first; its pitch rose and fell, voices and music ducked in and out like drowning cries barely breaking the waves. Finding a signal at all so deep into the library seemed remarkable at first, but its magic was complex, and the edges of the illusion were cloudy at best.

Her guide came to a stop, rocking back and forth at the end of its rail. She caught up to it and found it teetering on the edge of a steep, claustrophobic staircase. She started down it until her boots landed on damp, rotting plank-wood. Her footing swayed, and the distinct smell of sea spray cleared her synapses. Then came the waves, gently lapping against the hull.

When was the last time she'd been to the ocean?

The Queen, seated around candlelight, met her eyes and smiled, the length of her robes cut short. Still extravagant, but exercising more restraint and humility. The same went for her antlers, too.

"Is now a good time?"

"Of course. You caught me between appointments. With the convention came so many, I decided staying in the city would be more practical."

"How is it going?"

"We'll leave that till later. Open your Mind Palace."

A moment of silence passed before Evalyn understood the request. She wasn't part of it—the Queen needed her as a medium and nothing more.

"I will keep it brief. I promise."

Evalyn nodded along, sparking the markings along her arm and channeling the heat rising through it. Her small reality clashed with the surrounding illusion, creating waves of its own. She closed her eyes, sinking and surrendering herself to it.

Her feet soon touched gravel, and she dug her heels through it just to make sure. Upon opening her eyes, two Spirits sat side-by-side along the same bench, relishing the cool breeze.

The Queen opened her eyes, her body inhaling with a vigour Evalyn could only imagine coming from a human soul.

"I wonder if my dear librarian could one day conjure this up for me?"

"Not in a million years," the Wishing Whale said, the hint of a devilish smile underneath their moustache.

Evalyn swivelled on her feet and turned away, tapping her boots against the gravel while she told herself to be grateful the visit wouldn't take hours.

Their conversation was trivial, but nothing she could define as small talk, either. Almost like poetry, their words aimlessly followed one stream before turning towards another. How Spirits spoke: the ones that weren't acclimated to conversation, at least.

And every time the Queen spoke, it tugged at the worry in the back of her mind like a fish on a hook. Why was the Queen out of her forest?

"If I might, elder, by matters of my Kingdom," the Queen began, her voice now clearly in the realm of conscious thought. "I want to make a request of you."

"Your kingdom is your concern, not mine," the Wishbearer said. 'Stern' was the furthest word Evalyn would use to describe his tone, yet it was enough to unnerve anybody who wasn't the Queen.

"Would you stay with a Geverdian once you leave Evalyn?"

An aimless question. Just by being a Spirit, it should have been something the Queen herself knew the answer to.

"You have become quite human," the Wishbearer mumbled.

The Queen didn't answer, and the silence dragged so long it dragged Evalyn back in. Still, as though entranced by the breeze, the Queen sat in bliss, the hair spilling over her shoulders swaying gently.

"Apparently, we are nothing but patterns, elder. That's what my aetherologists tell me."

She held out a bare hand and raised it to the sky, parting her fingers as its shadow fell across her face. "The patterns we imprint onto objects are but an extension. Don't you think that robs us of romance?"

"Are you suggesting you'd keep me by force if I don't comply?"

The Queen shook her head, a childish streak to her movements. "But I am saying that if it isn't us, it might be somebody else. For us to come to this discovery and assume we are the first would be foolish."

She turned to her so-called elder, and for the first time in her life, Evalyn saw her majesty in a light that wasn't unfathomably old.

"The world is entering quite a dire state of affairs, and we only have suspicions as to the cause. If...when those suspicions come forward, Geverde may not be strong enough to face them."

"Kingdoms rise and fall, Amestris. You, nor I, nor our dear Evalyn are strong enough to hold the tide."

The Wishing Whale's folds curled, and his rainbow-white eyes peered out from underneath his thick brow. "It is a fool's errand."

"Then I shall die a fool," the Queen said. "It's a small price to pay."

"I'm sorry."

Evalyn heard her own voice before she thought to speak. The two Spirits turned to her.

"I'm not planning on stopping being a Witch soon. I mean, Iris still has a lot to learn and Marie still needs me..."

The two stared at her while she fumbled over her words. Her eyes flicked between them, just as uncomfortable resting on one as they were on the other.

"Now isn't the time to be selfish."

She watched her own reflection squirm in their blank eyes, her unnecessary assertions swimming in the surrounding space, echoing back at her because she was the only person who really needed to hear them.

"As much as I would like to, I can't stop you from being selfish now that there's someone to carry the flame."

The Queen's eyes carried in them no kindness. Then perhaps what Evalyn saw then was a trick of the light. The truth was that her brush with death, now years old, still haunted her, the fleeting images of Iris's tears more than anything. The truth was that the memories of her father, his exploits and her hatred of them had long since faded, along with memories of his face and his voice as the world kept on turning. But the Queen knew none of that, could not possibly be empathetic because of it.

"Maybe she will fight for her own freedom as you did yours."

The picture of Iris standing shoulder to shoulder flashed through her mind; the day she realised the sleeves of her jacket finally fit her. Like a hit to the stomach, it winded her.

"Have I done enough for her?"

She was doing missions herself now. It wasn't long before those jobs bypassed Evalyn completely.

"I'm her mother, and I can't even raise a finger against you for her."

She was crying again. She had been crying too much lately.

Elliot's words had kept her up into the small hours. She'd dragged herself out of bed, downed half a vile cup of coffee before Evalyn had started her day. She was stuck in her own head, working out which parts of her belonged to whom, and which parts—if any—belonged to her and her alone.

There were two of her in one. That didn't make things much easier.

Banging one's head against a wall until it broke; Iris could see that in herself. It was always Crestana who came up with the strategy where she insisted that door knocking was just as straightforward as it sounded.

Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.

She loitered on the corner of a city block, weekend foot-traffic fluttering by, paying her no heed. Newspaper peddlers bellowed headlines from across the street, waving their wares like grey flags. Newspapers had become too busy for her—she was used to the headlines and key photos moving, but now it seemed like every ad did too.

The political ones were the worst. Marie said they were all New Modernists with too much donation money to spend.

"Morning," a friendly voice called as Iris felt a tap on her shoulder.

"Got the goods?"

"All set," Crestana said, shrugging the shoulder a cotton tote bag hung from, the other holding her leather document-tube-shaped scabbard. "Now where's this house?"

Iris nodded around the corner. Crestana peered over herself, and her shutters furrowed. Roughly thirty-five degrees; that meant confusion.

"I was expecting somewhere less…"

"A ghetto?"

"If you want to put it that way."

Iris peered around the corner herself; the neighbourhood was still as affluent as it was five minutes ago. A street of old, renovated apartments with deceptively large square-footage was the last place she expected.

"The suspect is a Beak with a wife and three children, and he's a high-ranking post officer."

"Not the type you would expect to find wiretapping," Crestana mumbled. "He might be a spy."

Iris shrugged. "Maybe. Sidosian or another government department, which would make things a much bigger pain."

"Do you still want to go ahead with it?"

Iris nodded. "At least pay him a visit. If we catch him while the family's away, then all the better." She turned to Crestana. "Ready?"

"As I can be," she said. "Let's do it."

Iris and Crestana skipped the first three floors and headed for the fourth. Decorated but not decadent; the building's upkeep was well-maintained, where in the poorer neighbourhoods it might become a communal issue. Thin red carpet sprawled atop polished floorboards, and inexpensive chandeliers hung from the ceiling, glowing in the absence of daylight.

Crestana took the lead, knocking on the closest door. In the hallway's relative quiet, they heard footsteps approach on the other side, before the peephole glowed a faint green.

"Hi! We're from the Excala West Student Weekend Society, and we're wondering if you'd like to buy some biscuits?"

She gestured through the tote-bag, animating herself through the bead of glass as best she good. Alas, the peephole's glow faded, and they heard the same footsteps recede.

Crestana's shoulders sagged in relief before they moved on to the next door and repeated the cycle. The floor was small enough that hitting every door was feasible: other times, a bulletproof cover story just wasn't worth the time.

After their third door, life besides them graced the eerily peaceful hallway. A Beak dressed in a blouse and petticoat emerged two doors down, followed by a triplet of children huddled around the hem of her skirt.

"Suspect's wife?" Crestana muttered.

"Probably. Good timing."

They moved to the next door without skipping a beat, letting the happy family file past. Crestana diligently continued her routine, and eventually, they came to the door they were after.

Crestana knocked, this time to no response. She tried again, but still nothing.

"Do you think the whole family's away?" Crestana asked.

"Maybe. If they are, we can go through his things. Can you get through the door?"

Crestana glanced around the doorframe, reaching out a hand and running her fingers along the sides.

"It's sealed well. There's barely a shadow on any side."

She passed the tote bag to Iris before glancing down both ends of the hallway. Outstretching a nervous set of fingers, she grazed the edge of the frame, where the small crevice hid an even smaller shadow. Her tense shoulders loosened, and she fell forward, dissolving into the black mass, and then into nothing.

Iris waited, biting her tongue as the painfully silent procedure played out. Eventually, the lock clicked open, and Iris took the chance to slip inside, closing the door behind her and locking it.

The diligent upkeep extended into the apartment; spotless floors, stainless walls and a slight note of lemon hung in the air. Beyond a short hallway, the walls expanded into a living space, well-lit by natural sunlight and amply furnished with luxuries Iris only ever saw in catalogues.

Crestana was nowhere to be seen, probably scouting ahead. Iris could stay idle by the door while she waited, but maybe her mother's habits were kicking in again.

She kept her footsteps quiet, rolling her feet as she placed them on the ground. She skipped the first few rooms, assuming Crestana was already cleared them, and entered the living area. The smell of lemon wasn't so concentrated, having wafted out of an open window by the kitchen table. Seeing it all only made her doubt Tony's decision more.

"This guy?" she muttered again. The place was too clean, too inconspicuous, and the more Iris bought the family-man identity, the more she felt like her being there was at best a waste of time, and at worst a very unnecessary risk.

Two or three doors lined the walls, and to her left was an anteroom leading to another two. She set her sights on them next for no particular reason but curiosity, as both were closed while the others were at least slightly ajar.

She walked over and tried the first, finding a well-kept bathroom waiting for her on the other side. Nothing unusual, so she turned around and tried the other door handle.

Locked. Interesting.

She pressed her palm against the keyhole and dismantled the ends of her hair. Just a little would be enough, now that she knew the difference between lock picking and flooding a lock until it opened. She maneuvered the several strands inside the mechanism, working all the picks at once until she heard it yield and the cylinder turn.

Iris hugged the wall and pushed the door ajar. Afternoon ambience spilled through the crack, illuminating the room inside. She peered over her shoulder, and neither saw nor heard any immediate movement. Rounding the corner brought nothing to light, either.

She ventured further, crossed the light's limits into shadow and allowed a second or two for her eyes to adjust to the dark. Rough shapes gained clarity, revealing what looked like a storage room. Cupboards and desks were shoved into the farthest corner, surrounded by blocky shapes draped in cloth. Judging from their outlines, they looked like dressers.

She kept scanning the room until her eyes were well adjusted, and keen enough to pick up on details: a mess of wires ran where floor met wall, feeding into the mess of appliances, converging near the desk and running to a wall plug.

Strange. The shadow appeared in front of the wires in blurry blotches, and those blotches stretched further upward. Iris followed them, finding herself staring down the end of a short revolver barrel. A Beak's mask hid just behind it—Crestana mustn't have reached the room yet.

"Who the hell are you?"

Iris raised her hands in the air. "Are you Durren Milette?"

"You're a kid?"

"I know. Are you Durren Milette?"

"What's going on here? Who the—"

His gun was wavering, and his trigger discipline was just as insecure. The barrel wobbled, and Iris's heartbeat caught up with the situation. Using her magic to save herself was too slow, nevermind he had seen her face, and it was too late to draw her own gun.

"I just want to ask some questions," Iris began truthfully.

"Is this about the…are you feds? No, you're damn kids! What is this!"

His resolve somehow rallied behind the firearm once more, and Iris's heart jumped into her throat.

She still remembered her mother's bullet-wound a bit too vividly. The scent of blood under her fingernails…she prayed it would smell less revolting when it was her own.

"I want to talk, Mr Milette. That's all."

"About what?"

"The tip-off, Mr Milette. We just want to know—"

"I knew it! I damn knew it!"

Finally, his hissing broke into shouting, and Iris felt a draught of Aether prickle the back of her neck.

"Let's put the gun down," Crestana muttered, the blade of her sword against Mr Milette's shoulder. She was gentle, emerging from the shadowed wall, one half of her body at a time, the option of retreating still open.

A sword was arguably better at killing a Spirit than a handgun was, and Mr Milette seemed to understand that intuitively. Slowly, he raised his hands above his head, still gripping the pistol.

Iris moved forward slowly and pointed at the weapon. "May I?"

Mr Milette silently turned the revolver over to her, and Iris unloaded it, letting the bullets fall into a neat heap of six in her palm. It was only then that she noticed her hands shivering. The bullets rattled against each other.

She tried regulating her breathing, distracting herself with the task to come, but there was a gun barrel-shaped hole in her vision that she saw burnt into her retina for the foreseeable future.

Iris told herself to get used to it, but that still didn't seem to work after so many years.

Crestana sheathed her sword, outwardly fairing a lot better than she was, but being human-shaped didn't mean her hands shook when she was nervous.

In the name of stealth, Mr Milette was without clothes besides his mask; hence, his slightly portly figure was on full display. Fortunately, there was nothing offensive to see, but for courtesy's sake, Iris asked if he wanted to get changed before they continued. He agreed, made a walk of shame of sorts from one end of the room to the other, and pulled on his clothes starting with the trousers.

Crestana backed up next to Iris. "Are you okay? Your hands are shaking."

"Yeah," Iris croaked. "Yeah, I think so. You're okay with seeing him naked?"

"There's nothing to see," she said. "Clothes are a fashion thing."

"Right."

Once Mr Milette was done, Iris found the light switch and flicked it on, burning her own eyes. She blinked a few times before the room once again came into focus. She couldn't hear her heartbeat in her ears anymore. Progress.

"What did you want then?" Mr Milette began. "This is the tip-off I left to Spec Ops, right? Are you Spec Ops?"

"Do we look like Spec Ops?" Iris asked, which seemed to stump Mr Milette.

"I don't know. Your friend there is too young to be using our ancestor's magic. I've never seen a child able to."

"What I'm more interested in," Iris said, severing the tangent, "is why you thought we were feds."

"Why you were…oh. That."

"And just for the sake of brevity, Mr Milette, we do maintain the capacity to use force," Crestana added. "But we'd like to be on our way soon, so."

Mr Milette nodded, shoulders curling into a shrimp-like state.

This guy? The phrase floated into her head again.

"I'm a…the Federal Police pay me to monitor mail. If they need to find somebody's communication then…they ask me. If someone was after me about a leak of information, I assumed it would be them."

It partly explained the luxuries; an easy-to-maintain side hustle with no extra effort.

"But this was an Aether Line transmission," Crestana said. "What does that have to do with the Federal Police?"

"I told them about it initially, but as far as I know they ignored me. Figured it was a different department's problem. I was suspicious of it, and seeing that the…international convention or whatever it's called is happening soon, I felt like I had to let someone know."

"Why through the mail?" Iris asked. "Spec Ops isn't the hardest to reach."

"As if they would listen to a random caller," Mr Milette chuckled. "Besides, the way I found out about it wasn't exactly legal."

He trudged over to the furnishings draped in cloth and pulled them off, revealing a set of signal machines underneath—radio, Aether Line, telephone, all lovingly polished and serviced.

He was a nut then. In an instant, 'this guy' disappeared from her mind altogether. Tony wasn't one to be doubtful of.

"It's a hobby," he said, nervously chuckling at the black hole in his family finances. "The wife manages the money, but the extra I get on top goes into this. She knows about it, but knows how much my time in the Signal Corps meant to me back during the Aether and Diesel War."

"So you tapped the line?" Iris asked. "And since it's illegal, you gave an anonymous tip to protect your identity."

"That was the plan," he mumbled. "But you're not the police or Spec Ops, so maybe I'm still in the clear."

"We don't care," Iris said. "But we want to know more about the Aether Line."

Mr Milette's shoulders straightened, and his presence seemed to balloon on the spot.

"Well," he began.