Seeker of Legends (Fate of Legends Book 2), page 14
And the kingdom of Tykus, that perfect machine, had been designed to withstand the imperfections of lesser humans, to work despite them. It was the humans of the Acropolis, those steeped in the wills of the greatest of men, that were worth protecting. Worth preserving.
There was a knock on the door.
Dominus flinched, his heart leaping into his chest. He spun to face the door, then looked down, realizing that his cane-sword was unsheathed, the blade held before him.
He took a deep breath in, forcing himself to calm down.
“Come in,” he called out, re-sheathing his cane-sword, then resting on it. The door opened, and Farkus appeared. “What is it?”
“Your Grace,” Farkus greeted. “The soldiers you sent to Vi’s house haven’t returned.”
“What?”
“A scout returned just now,” Farkus explained. “He says that Canyon Falls is crawling with Ironclad.”
Dominus stared at the man.
“Ironclad?” he blurted out. That didn’t make any sense. Why would Ironclad…?
He closed his eyes, thinking it through. Farkus said nothing, knowing better than to interrupt Dominus’s train of thought.
“How many?” Dominus demanded.
“They counted dozens, your Grace.”
Dominus grimaced. Canyon Falls – the canyon Vi had built her house in – was extremely well-protected, with only one way in…a narrow path that would only allow one man at a time. A small force of Ironclad could easily defend the canyon, and they knew it. He would have to abandon his efforts to pilfer Vi’s artifacts, at least for now.
“Very well,” Dominus stated. “That is all.”
Farkus bowed, turning about and closing the door behind him.
Dominus sighed, turning to look out of the window once again. He thought back to the attack, the ambush that had nearly succeeded in assassinating the most powerful duke in the kingdom of Tykus. The man second in power to king Tykus himself.
Only one man would have the audacity to attempt such a thing. A man who claimed fealty to the crown, but whose true loyalties were unknown. A man whose organization had been allowed far too much leeway by the Acropolis, in exchange for artifacts of incredible power.
High Seeker Zeno, leader of the Guild of Seekers.
Dominus smiled grimly, gripping the head of his cane tightly.
Well played, Zeno, he mused.
But now it was his turn.
* * *
High Seeker Zeno strode down the broad hallway leading away from the second-story balcony overlooking the great hall of the Guild of Seekers, ignoring the Seekers who bowed as he passed. He kept his eyes forward, not making eye contact, knowing that his Seekers would not dare attempt to interact with him. No one wanted to risk being the target of his ire…and everyone feared him.
As well they should.
He reached an intersection, turning right down a narrower hallway, then taking stairs up to the third floor of the guild. A massive building, the guild was seven stories tall, save for the bell tower, which was nine. It contained well over a hundred rooms, not including the labyrinth of chambers below-ground…secret tunnels that led to vaults hidden from prying eyes. Vaults that contained riches beyond the imagination of the majority of his Seekers, and even the nobles of the Acropolis, who had no idea the vaults existed. If they – or King Tykus – ever realized the extent of the guild’s collection, or how far the guild had strayed from the ideals of the kingdom…
He ignored the thought, secure in the knowledge that such a thing would never happen. His was not a mind that fell prey to fear. Fear paralyzed. It too often created the very thing that one feared, by preventing action to prevent a bad outcome. And bad outcomes could be planned for, the damage mitigated.
If the kingdom ever did discover the guild’s treachery, then so be it. He and his predecessors had already planned for such a contingency.
Zeno strode down another hallway, finding yet another stairwell going upward. He took this, ascending to the fourth floor. His office was on the seventh story of the guild, restricted to himself and the highest-ranking Seekers below him. It too contained rooms hidden behind secret walls.
Secrets within secrets. A shadow government hiding in plain sight of the kingdom.
The guild had taken great pains to hide their nature from Tykus, withstanding yearly inspections and surprise inspections. The Acropolis sent men to sample water from the narrow moat surrounding the guild, testing it for improper traits. Not knowing that it was all for nothing; the underground chambers containing the guild’s illegal artifacts were well-insulated. Corrupted water passing over these artifacts flowed in secret channels below ground, separate from the moat, and drained into underground tunnels that led to the ocean. This water absorbed any residual traits from the illegal artifacts, preventing the earth around the guild from becoming contaminated.
Through the will bestowed upon the Founder, they had thought of everything.
He continued through the hallways of the guild, expertly navigating them. They were designed to be maze-like, appearing identical to each other, without seeming order or reason. Designed to confuse. The stairwells leading to the uppermost levels were well-hidden. The door to the fifth floor required him to go down a flight of stairs, find a secret lever to open a door indistinguishable from a wall, ascend two flights, then use a key – given to a select few – to open the door at the top of the stairs. All while avoiding hidden traps along the way.
Zeno took this route, navigating it expertly.
At length, he reached the seventh floor, making his way to his office. It was small – far smaller than one might expect for a man of his station. Prominent displays of his status were well and good for the public to see, but were mere distractions for the purposes of his work. Only that which was useful could be found in his office: a desk, a chair, and a few cabinets. Paper stacked neatly on his desk, with a quill pen and an inkwell, a bowl of sand for soaking up excess ink, and wax for the seal.
The most powerful tools of all…those of communication.
He’d barely managed to sit down at his desk when there was a knock on the door.
“Come in,” he stated briskly.
The door opened, revealing a short woman wearing the black-and-gold uniform of a Seeker. The insignia at her left breast – and the medallion resting on her sternum – identified her as Grand Counselor of the guild, Zeno’s second in command.
“High Seeker,” she greeted, bowing before him.
“Grand Counselor Nova,” he replied with a nod.
“The mission failed,” she stated bluntly.
Zeno took the news in. His men had failed to retrieve the head of the Ironclad. So be it.
“Our secondary target?”
“Alive, we assume,” Nova answered. “There’s been no move to bring his body to the Acropolis for burial. We’re awaiting confirmation.”
“Casualties?”
“All but three,” she informed.
“Kill them.”
To her credit, Nova’s expression didn’t change.
“Yes High Seeker.”
“That will be all,” Zeno stated.
Nova bowed, then left. He sighed, knowing that – despite her lack of expression – she’d been taken aback by his order to kill his own Seekers. He’d sensed the emotion emanating from her. It was the most compelling reason why she would never be fit for the office of High Seeker.
Zeno had come to the conclusion long ago that humanity was of the idiotic belief that the greatest forces in the world were wealth, or military might…or even knowledge. How blind they were, clueless as to the most powerful force of all: the opinion, perceived or actual, of others.
A blessing that he was not burdened by such concerns.
Nearly all of Man’s behavior was governed by this invisible force. It was the reason he could order men to their deaths. The reason why they didn’t squat in the middle of the street to take a shit. Why they combed their hair, took to the baths, and tolerated conversation they found boring or inane. Why they wore matching clothes, and engaged in all of the expected behaviors of polite society. The most powerful men in the world were subject to it. Only a small fraction of the insane were free from this overwhelming power…and a few men that were created without the ability to feel its forces.
Like me, he thought.
A great gift, that. It was as if all men were subject to the law of gravity but him…but his gift was far more useful. He could not expose that he possessed it, not without inciting horror in his fellow Man. He had to pretend to be under the influence of public opinion, to be swayed by it like all the rest.
But only when others were watching.
The Founder had not possessed this gift. Rather, he had acquired it…from the very medallion Zeno now wore. A singular artifact from a singular source. A Legend all but forgotten.
Zeno pushed aside these thoughts, realizing that he was woolgathering. He took in a deep breath, focusing on the matter at hand.
The mighty Dominus, Duke of Wexford.
Zeno would of course operate under the assumption that the man was still alive. And that he hadn’t been fooled by his assassins’ disguises. Dominus knew that the Guild of Seekers was the culprit, and that the head of the Ironclad was the goal.
Very well.
The news did not bother him. He’d already planned for such a contingency, after all. Only a fool failed to plan for failure.
He found himself fingering the medallion laying on his chest. A triangle made of pure platinum, the densest of metals. Able to absorb wills more completely than any other substance. A fact that its creator had most assuredly known.
He gazed down at it, seeing the three symbols carved into its surface, at each point of the triangle: a skull, a brain, and a human heart. Staring at it, he was struck with a rare wistful feeling. There was very little in this world he could not have, were he to ask for it. But he lacked that one rare gift the Founder had possessed. A gift bestowed upon so few that no one had possessed it for generations.
Zeno lifted the medallion, holding it to his forehead and closing his eyes. He was too much like its maker now to be able to feel its power…it had already transformed him as much as it would. An incomplete transformation, he knew, regrettably. There was no man, alive or dead, he wanted to be other than himself.
Except for one.
He pressed the medallion harder against his forehead, as if he could shove it through his skull and into his brain. How he wished he could retrieve the memories stored within…the memories the Founder had absorbed!
He sighed, letting the medallion fall against his chest.
Stop woolgathering.
Dominus would be dealt with. He felt no fear at the prospect. No matter how formidable the old man was, Dominus’s will paled in comparison to the will trapped within Zeno’s medallion. A will that the Founder had used to create the Guild of Seekers, the most powerful entity within the kingdom. More powerful than Duke Dominus – or even King Tykus himself – could ever imagine.
The Guild of Seekers would retrieve the head of the Ironclad, and complete its sacred mission. A mission given to the Founder by a singular, god-like will. A being beyond anything modern Man had ever known.
Oh, how they’d thought the Founder to be insane, when he’d returned from his sacred journey! Thought him a madman.
Zeno smiled, retrieving a sheet of paper, then dipping his quill pen into the well of ink.
The world would soon realize how very wrong they’d been.
Chapter 11
Hunter opened his eyes.
He found himself lying in a large bed, a red sheet covering him from the chest down. The ceiling high above his head was pure white, with wooden beams painted blood-red supporting it. The walls were red as well, as was the sheet draped over him.
He was, he realized, naked.
Hunter turned his head to the left, and nearly jumped. A young woman was sitting in a chair beside the bed, wearing a plain white dress. She was looking down at something in her lap; a half-knitted piece of cloth. But instead of knitting needles, she was using a single golden rod with a small hook at the end. She must have noticed him stirring; she looked up at him, her eyes widening.
“Oh!” she exclaimed, bolting up from her chair and setting the knitting down. “You’re awake!”
“Uh, yeah,” Hunter mumbled, his voice cracking. He cleared his throat looking around. “Where am I?”
“I’ll get the doctor,” the woman stated, turning away and leaving the room through a door opposite the bed. The door closed behind her, and Hunter stared at it, feeling utterly confused.
Where am I, he wondered. What happened?
He tried to remember the last thing he…well, remembered. But his mind drew a blank. Moments later, the door re-opened, and a hefty-looking man in long red robes entered, the young woman following behind.
“Ah, good,” the man declared, walking up to the right side of the bed and looking down at Hunter. He had short gray hair and chubby, flushed cheeks, glasses with thick black rims magnifying his eyes like a fishbowl. “When did he wake?” he asked, glancing at the woman.
“Just now, doctor,” she answered.
“Where am I?” Hunter repeated, this time asking the man…the doctor.
“I am Dr. Phelbus,” the man introduced. He frowned then. “Where do you think you are?”
Hunter sat up a little, looking around, taking in the red walls, the white ceiling. The deep cherry floor.
“Lady Camilla’s place,” he guessed. The doctor nodded approvingly.
“Correct,” he agreed. “Can you tell me the date?”
“No idea.”
“Hmm,” Dr. Phelbus murmured. “What’s the last thing you remember?”
“That’s what I’ve been trying to figure out,” Hunter admitted. “I remember being here before,” he continued. “And leaving for…” He paused, unsure if he could tell the doctor the details of the mission the Lady had given him.
“You have significant retrograde amnesia,” the doctor concluded. “A result of your seizures, I imagine.” He turned to the young woman. “The post-ictal state does not allow for formation of new memories, you see. Quite common in those with epilepsy or significant trauma to the skull.”
“Excuse me?” Hunter asked.
“You’ve been having seizures,” the doctor explained, turning back to Hunter. “Have you suffered them previously?”
“No.”
“Are you sure?” Dr. Phelbus pressed. Hunter nodded.
“Pretty damn sure.”
“Acquired seizures,” Phelbus murmured, rubbing his jowls thoughtfully. He turned to the woman. “All men are allowed one seizure unprovoked by means of trauma or fever. Any more than that is diagnostic for epilepsy.”
“Yes doctor,” she murmured.
“So we must inquire as to whether his seizures are provoked or not,” Dr. Phelbus reasoned, eyeing Hunter critically. “No external signs of trauma. But he was feverish on arrival. He may not have epilepsy after all.”
“Then what does he have?” Hunter asked, irritated that the man continued to talk about him as if he weren’t there.
“I would have presumed infection, given the fever,” Dr. Phelbus replied, clearly oblivious to Hunter’s ire. “But the time course is wrong. You’ve been here only thirty-six hours.”
“Wait, what?” Hunter blurted out.
“Most infections have a longer course,” Phelbus explained.
“I’ve been asleep for a day and a half?” Hunter pressed incredulously, sitting up straighter. The sheet covering him slid down to his waist, revealing his nude torso…and a hint of something else. The young woman’s eyes widened, and he quickly covered himself.
“Oh no,” the doctor confirmed. “You’ve woken before. We’ve spoken before, in fact,” he added. “But each time, you suffered another seizure. These of course erased your memory of our conversations.”
“Oh,” Hunter mumbled.
“Notice how lucid he is,” Dr. Phelbus observed, glancing at the young woman. “I suspect he’s turned the corner, so to speak.”
“You suppose so?” the woman pressed, looking hopeful.
“By virtue of my considerable experience,” Phelbus declared authoritatively, “…I would say it’s quite probable.”
“Hold on,” Hunter interjected, feeling irritated again. “What happened to me? How did I get here?” Dr. Phelbus turned to him.
“I regret that I don’t have the answer to your question,” he confessed. “You’ll have to ask Lady Camilla.” He shook his head. “It would be useful for me to know,” he added with a scowl, facing the young woman again. “I can’t deduce the etiology of his illness with incomplete information.”
“Can I speak to her?” Hunter requested. Dr. Phelbus frowned.
“Pardon?”
“Can I speak to Lady Camilla,” Hunter clarified. Phelbus hesitated, then nodded.
“She hasn’t come the last few times you’ve woken,” he admitted. “On account of you having a seizure and forgetting. But as I’ve predicted, you seem to have turned the corner.” He glanced at the woman. “Fetch the Lady.”
“Yes doctor,” the woman replied, leaving the room at once.
“Who’s she?” Hunter asked.
“My nurse,” Phelbus answered.
“Ah.”
“How are you feeling?” the doctor inquired.
Hunter frowned, focusing internally. His muscles were sore and stiff, and the sides of his tongue throbbed a bit. He said as much.
“Quite expected,” Phelbus reasoned. “Muscular inflammation from the seizures.”
“And I’m starving,” Hunter added, his stomach growling so loudly that even the doctor could hear it. Phelbus frowned.
“Fluids only for the time being,” he commanded. “Your risk of aspiration if you have another seizure is too great. Can’t have you catching pneumonia.”
Just then, the door opened, revealing someone very familiar: Lady Camilla. She wore a long black dress with a black corset, slits at either leg traveling all the way up to her hips. Her neckline plunged down to her corset rather scandalously, revealing substantial cleavage. Again, he was struck by her beauty…and the regal way she held herself. She walked up to the foot of his bed, smiling down at him, the nurse behind her. He found himself, as before, unable to take his eyes from her.
