A Monster Inside, page 29
part #1 of Undying Prince Series
Gía stumbled into the office huffing and puffing. “Who were those men? What’s wrong?”
“Father is dead,” Asbjörn said quietly, still gazing at the map. He would not cry, he told himself, but all the same, tears tracked their way down his dark cheeks.
■■■
Erik howled, enveloping the last of Asbjörn’s thrashing form within his writhing, fleshy petals and tendrils. His mind pulsed and twisted like a living shadow, overwhelmed by the rush of the Cultivator’s memories. He felt Asbjörn’s grief at the loss of his father as though it were his own. It rubbed raw his already aching soul. The Celestial Dragon roared, and Patrick screamed, but he was only aware of their continued existence in the vaguest of senses.
The purple flames in the fireplaces and on the walls vanished. With their disappearance, another connection bloomed in the Prince’s mind, linking him to Asbjörn’s intricate Esoteric Creation. In an odd way, he sensed the force keeping the spinning temple afloat. It was slowly losing its power. The three churning funnels feeding the soaring rivers spurted, and the building lurched to the side.
With a start, Erik was sent tumbling back through what was left of the broken table. His arms flapped out feebly, trying to slow his descent. Not making any headway, he slammed into the wall face first with a loud grunt, head pressed against a small glass window. A sheer drop loomed outside, a roiling lake rushing toward him as the temple fell. His head spun, and an instant later Asbjörn’s sword struck his back, pinning him to the stone.
The lake seemed to rise up to embrace the working of red and white marble, but Erik was blind to it all, unable to free himself from the new memory that had overtaken his mind.
■■■
Memory Fragment - Asbjörn Maki
It’s almost over.
Asbjörn stood in a long hallway within the Hall of Lower Learning, next in line to take the final test of the Imperial Examinations. He unknotted his hands, and wished he could do the same to his stomach. The white-bearded Fallnir Menn, who leaned against the wall beside the testing room door, glared at him and the rest of his classmates.
It’s almost over.
His day began at the crack of dawn with a set of physical tests, which evaluated his stamina, reflexes, and hand–eye coordination. Noon arrived, and he had to partake in the written and oral portions of the Imperial Examinations. His muscles burned like fire, but somehow he had found the strength to carry on, barely.
A howl emanated from behind the closed door, breaking the relative silence of the hallway. It sounded like hot iron was being poured down a boy’s throat. Asbjörn took a calming breath, ignoring the low murmurs that rose behind him. This was the second time it had happened in the last ten minutes.
“Quiet,” admonished the white-bearded man in black. “I won’t warn you again.” The Fallnir Menn’s words had the desired effect, instilling fear into young bones and placating wagging tongues.
The large wooden door opened, and Koggi was carried out on a stretcher, clasping something small to his chest. “Everything is filled with empty space,” he whispered, his eyes shut. “Everything.” He laughed madly.
None of the pupils looked at Koggi, not even the ones that had called him friend just moments before. Koggi was no longer one of them. He had joined the ranks of the Fallnir Menn, and no one wanted to acknowledge him, lest they be tainted by association.
I’m next! Asbjörn clutched at his robe. Breathe. Breathe. Air entered his little lungs in frantic gasps. Any moment now, it seemed like the ground would open up and swallow him whole.
“Young one.”
Asbjörn looked up to find the Fallnir Menn who had rescued him all those weeks ago, peering down at him. “Follow me.” The Cultivator spoke in an emotionless tone and turned around without waiting for a response.
Asbjörn followed the man into a vaulted chamber large enough that it could have been found in a palace. Golden lamps hung from the domed roof, providing the windowless room with its only sources of light. The weak flames danced above, casting most of the chamber in crawling shadows, from which teenagers in black robes stood watching. The floor was strangely patterned with a mosaic of black and white stones, except for the red circle at the front of the chamber, next to a large blue curtain.
“Sit there,” the man said, pointing at the red circle. “There is no need to be afraid.”
“I’m not,” Asbjörn said, putting on a brave face. “What will be, will be.” He sat down cross-legged within the circle as directed.
The Fallnir Menn smirked, the slightest curving of his lip. “As you say.” Mocking laughter rose from the shadows and fell silent by the time the man opened his mouth again. “Unlike your previous tests, this one is simple. All you’re required to do is look.”
Asbjörn stirred, but the Fallnir Menn gave him a sharp stare, and he sat still again. His heart lifted into his throat, choking him on his fear. The curtain slid open, and his eyes shut of their own volition. He had not planned on it, it had just happened. Eternal Father, please don’t let me be one of them. Please!
“Open your eyes.” The Fallnir Menn’s tone had not altered; the flat pitch of his voice sounded as if it could not change. Not for love, hate, or death itself. “Open them now, or I will take them from you.”
Asbjörn furled his eyelids. There was an odd word—Muladhara—written above an ancient painting. It rolled strangely off of his tongue and did not belong to the Old Tongue, of that he was certain. It seemed like it came from a language much older. Then his gaze fell onto the painting itself. A red lotus with four petals contained within a golden circle, which had petals of its own. It seemed to enlarge until it was all he could perceive, and he fell victim to its evolving symmetry. Every leaf was formed from the original pattern, which recurred at progressively smaller and smaller scales.
Asbjörn trembled. A song rose from the depths of his mind, in a rumbling voice, as if the earth itself sang to him. He understood what it meant, he was one of them. Fear pulsed in him like a second heart, not for himself, but for his family. They needed him. He could not allow himself to be taken away from them so soon after his father. They needed him! He tried to close his eyes or turn his head, but it proved useless. His eyes could not look away. Instead, he focused on the memory of his mother running her fingertips over his face and the way it felt like a softly-sighing spring breeze. Lost in the recollection of all the times he and his sisters spent mimicking animal calls, his mind shook, splintering in two.
The first half of his mind was still hopelessly enthralled, and the other half allowed him to turn to the Fallnir Menn and ask, “Is that it?”
The Cultivator nodded, and just like that it was done. It was a long walk out of the vaulted chamber, and Asbjörn worried they would find him out and call him back. But they never did. Somehow, he got away with it.
In a daze, he stumbled outside the outer wall of the Hall of Lower Learning and was surprised to see the sun almost setting in the west. He blinked. Colors seemed brighter and more pronounced than before. Yet despite the new-found beauty of his surroundings, he was dragooned by a sense of wariness. Something was still happening to him. His mind quaked with this something like distant thunder on the horizon.
Asbjörn did not remember walking home. One minute he was on the city street and the next he was surrounded by the smiling faces of his family, sharing a celebratory feast. Although they had made his favorite, fried pig ears, he felt oddly disconnected from everything, like his life was happening to someone else.
“Are you all right, Asbjörn?” Gía asked, voice rising with concern.
Mopping sweat from his face, Asbjörn sent her a smile, then winked at Lea, his youngest sister. “I’m fine.” Then he was not. With all the force of a lead ball, the first half of his mind crashed into the other half, rejoining once again. He groaned, hands jumping to his forehead.
“Asbjörn!”
The world broke apart before Asbjörn’s eyes, and he found himself falling through a starless void of pulsing night. But before he could scream, he saw it churning below him, and he felt like doing anything but. A beautiful vortex, roiling with the most vivid gold and green, chased with the brightest blue and crimson. It called to him with the purest song, in that same rumbling voice that brought to mind the warble of unknown birds, spring breezes, and the flapping of butterfly wings.
Asbjörn reached out toward it, and it came, filling him. Filling him.
■■■
The temple struck the lake with tremendous force, and Erik jolted awake to shards of glass slicing his shut eyelids and face. Every cut burned like droplets of glowing white metal. Wailing, he threw up his arms, trying to free himself from the blades fixing him in place. But another memory rose up at that same moment, weakening his limbs. His eyelids grew heavy until they seemed to weigh a thousand pounds, but even so, he strained against their closing. I have to get free.
More water rushed into the chamber, through every possible opening. Erik withered like a pinned spider, watching the temple sink deeper and deeper into the lake’s murky depths. His eyelids flickered closed, and conscious thought was beyond his grasp.
Part Five:
White Fire
Chapter 35
There are only two kinds of stories: tragedy and comedy. One ends with a feast and fucking, and the other with death and tears. When you mix the two, you get real life.
— YPSE, TO MRETHREN ÖRK
The fading sunlight did nothing to hide the beauty of Viscount Baldur’s private gardens. This high up the Rin Mountains, little should grow. But, somehow, the gardeners had kept the grounds thick with a wide assortment of flowers, almost knee-deep in places. A handful of stunted oaks provided the well-maintained lawns with enough shade for even the hottest of days. The cool breeze blew through green leaves and flowers, adding just the right amount of depth to the sounds of the string instrument filling the gardens, as if nature herself had joined in on the recital.
Hanna plucked at her gilded zither with a sense of loss. Erik, where are you? You promised you would come back to me. Her eyes closed and a single tear tracked its way down her pale cheek. You promised! As dignified as any Emperor, she sat on a carved-and-gilded chair surrounded by a handful of listeners and her personal attendants, Rikka, and Óla. All clothed in varying shades of black, except for Hanna herself who wore a dress of the lightest blue with a smacking of lace at her neck.
The zither echoed with the fluttering wings of butterflies, seducing minds with a melody that conveyed the deepest of heartaches. Each note was its own love ballad, gentle as a sighing sea breeze one moment, then violent as the howling winds of a tempest the next. There were no words. Yet, all the same, the song told the tale of an ill-fated romance between the sun and the moon, which ended with the latter in fragments.
Lost in her song, Hanna thought it lasted only minutes. But her hands stilled, she opened her eyes, and was surprised to see the sun had long since sank below the walls. Ignoring the fevered clapping that marked the end of her performance, she glanced up at the balcony that overlooked the gardens. A young boy in a blue coat peered down at her with tears in his eyes. Beside him, Viscount Baldur stood casually sipping on a bowl of wine.
“That was simply beautiful!” said Jenny, Baldur’s first wife, dramatically dabbing a handkerchief at her dry eyes. “Truly it was,” said Lexi, Jenny’s twin sister, and Baldur’s second wife.
Hanna smiled, secretly resenting the ease with which it came to her lips. She felt like doing anything but. Yet the Game of Faces allowed no respites. Her eyes glowed in an imitation of delight so perfect it was indistinguishable from the real thing. “You flatter me. Both of you.” Her smile widened by the slightest of margins, and she took comfort in the weight of the dagger she always kept strapped to her inner thigh. “But thank you none the less.”
“Stop that! You’re altogether far too modest,” Jenny said. “If only I had half your talent.” She shook her head and dabbed at her eye once again.
“Does the song have a name?” Lexi asked, picking up right where her sister left off. “I don’t believe I’ve ever heard it before.”
“You wouldn’t have. I wrote it myself; it’s called The Sun and The Moon,” Hanna said, almost absentmindedly. Liveried servants drifted through the darkening gardens lighting the lamps that hung from wooden posts every few meters. Where is she?
Jenny released a shuddering gasp, her blue eyes betraying the first hint of genuine emotion. They flashed with envy before turning cold. “Not only do you play, but you also compose as well?”
Hanna dropped her gaze and willed her cheeks to turn crimson. It was a trick that had taken her countless years to master. She used the memory of Erik hungrily staring at her exposed womanhood to get the red spots to bloom. That was the key to the Game of Faces, the ability to use past recollections to move your body’s unconscious responses down the desired course. It took grit and patience but was well worth the effort.
A commotion at the entrance drew everyone’s eye and saved Hanna from the bother of having to respond verbally to Jenny’s comment. A smiling Súla led Ypse deeper into the gardens and nodded when Hanna looked at her. Ypse strutted behind Súla with a king’s swagger, yellow eyes glowing with a mocking glint, trailed by four heavily-armored Punishers. The ugliness of his high-collared green coat only served to accentuate his arrogance. Only a madman or an egotistical fool would have the courage to go outside so attired.
Hanna stood, surrendering her zither, and Rikka rushed to take the instrument. “Can you please excuse me?” she asked Baldur’s wives. The women nodded and left, giving Ypse and his entourage a wide berth as they went.
“Princess,” Ypse said to Hanna, giving her such a deep bow that it bordered on being flippant. He seemed to take great joy in the number of gasps that arose from his greeting.
The smile on Hanna’s lips almost twisted into a scowl, but she caught herself in time. Princess of Nothing. The intended insult rolled through her head like thunder. Hanna allowed herself to stumble back as if struck while sending the Sorcerer a wounded look. “Ógilt is long gone, sir, as you well know. Princess, I am not.” She set her lips to trembling. “Is this how you greet a grieving widow?”
“Are you,” Ypse asked, rising from his bow, “grieving, that is?” He pointed at her dress. “Blue is an odd color for one in mourning.” The looks on the faces of the nearby listeners wavered between agreement and disgust at the Sorcerer’s uncouth behavior. “But I suppose no one could blame you. After all, your husband was the son of the man who butchered your family.”
What game is he playing? Hanna did not know what she had expected from their arranged meeting, yet it was not this. Ypse had always harbored an insolent tongue—that she knew. But nothing this brazen. It was as if he wanted her to lash out. Something is very wrong. Her mind went into overdrive. Someone put him up to it. It took all of her self-control not to glance up at the Viscount on the balcony.
Hanna blinked away tears. “I donned the dark shawl not so long ago, then my husband returned to me when all claimed he was dead. What am I to think when others say the same thing so soon after that proven falsehood? Last time there was a body and this time there isn’t even that. I remain hopeful he will surprise all and return alive for the second time.”
“Uh-huh. . . .” Ypse laughed. “Not so much a grieving widow then?” He sat down across from Hanna without so much as a ‘by your leave.’
“So it’s true?”
Ypse poured himself a bowl of wine, without looking up from the table. “Is this the part where I’m supposed to ask what’s true? Then you demurely spring forth with some cutting little witticism you’ve been saving for just such a special occasion?” He slurped back a drink. “You’re not half so clever as you think, my dear.”
A white-faced Punisher sprung forward to strike Ypse with an armored hand, but Hanna stopped the man with a look. “I did not invite you here to spar with you,” she said.
“No, you invited me here to this little gathering”—he made the last part sound a slur—“because you believe I have information you want. If it were not for that, you would have never invited me here. The thought wouldn’t even cross your mind.” He lurched forward on his seat, spilling wine over his hand and table. “You’ve become the very thing you hated. The very thing you feared you’d become. I remember the sweet-hearted yet revenge-seeking young girl you used to be, and my soul weeps.”
“Sir Tandri, if the Sorcerer says another unkind word to the third Prince’s widow, please remove his tongue.” The Viscount’s words boomed through the gardens in such a way that it only could have done so with the help of an Esoteric Technique.
The air shimmered beneath an oak tree and then coalesced. A grim-faced Lightbender appeared half shrouded in the crawling shadows of tree branches. “As you command, my Lord,” he said to Baldur, then bowed hand to heart.
The Lightbender’s appearance and response sent a dangerous chill rippling through the gardens, but Ypse seemed oblivious. His gaze did not flicker away from Hanna’s face, not even for a moment. “You know, I even thought I loved you once,” the Sorcerer whispered in such a way that Hanna doubted that there was anyone that did not hear him.
Hanna tilted her head and peered at Ypse as though he had grown horns. His statement put a different bent on everything that had come before, but she did not know if she trusted it. Looking back, the veiled looks he had sent her back in the Capital could be mistaken for desire or maybe even love. Yet Ypse had never given her any other indications, if in fact, what he said was the truth. Usually, men who wanted to bed a woman gave off a nervous energy that was easy to pick up on, but she had never gotten that sense from the Sorcerer.
