Eve of Destruction (24 page)

She cocked her head. “And how are we going to get it from him?”

“There are options,” he said vaguely. “But for now, we need to get off the street and find somewhere safer to talk. My contacts have arranged a place for us.”

He set to work flagging down a carriage, and Zach leaned over and put his arm around Eve. She didn’t respond; she didn’t even look at him. She just kept her arms folded across her chest, her amber eyes smoldering as she clenched her jaw.

Zach sighed softly as they stepped into the carriage and set off across the city. One of these times they were bound to get some good news. Maybe this journal would just fall right into their hands, and maybe its secrets wouldn’t be nearly as ominous as they all thought. Maybe by this time tomorrow they would be on a train heading back home and be able to put all of this behind him.

Or maybe, he thought darkly, the worst was still yet to come.

***

“I assume you’re pleased,” Polard said after a few minutes of silence. He stood stiffly, staring through the bars over his window.

“Pleased enough,” Amaya replied, leaning out from the darkness of his bedroom.

 “I still don’t see what the point in lying to them was,” Polard said. “If Simon wants her so badly, why didn’t he just have you kill her?”

Because he wants another Kalavan
. The thought still made Amaya’s blood freeze. The entire time Eve had been sitting there talking to Polard, Amaya had wondered if it might have been merciful to just kill the girl right there. How many lives would it ultimately save?

But no, instead she’d followed orders like a good little servant. She’d made sure that Polard told them enough to pique their interest and keep them in the city, and for now that was all Chaval wanted. He hadn’t yet told her what the next step would be.

“Mr. Chaval doesn’t really care if you understand,” Amaya said coldly, knowing full well that the words could have just as easily been directed at herself. “Only that you obey.”

Polard turned towards her with a sneer. He was a pig, she knew, a man with virtually no scruples of any kind. He had been selling out his own people here for nearly a decade, but his talents made him useful—perhaps even indispensible. Chaval relied on the man’s healing to maintain public appearances, as well as keeping his best people in top condition.

Off-hand, Amaya wasn’t sure which one of the two men she despised more.

“It won’t be long before he wipes that pretty smile off your face,” the fat man muttered. “He doesn’t tend to keep your kind around long.”

“He’s never worked with my kind before.”

Polard snorted. “Please. He goes through thugs and whores at roughly the same rate.”

“I am neither,” she said, sliding up behind him.

“It’s nice you can still tell yourself that. I wonder if you actually believe it.”

She cocked her head. “It really is a good thing that you’re a healer.”

He frowned. “Huh?”

Amaya reached out and locked his arm in a firm hold before he could even start flailing. She gave him a second to struggle haplessly before snapping his elbow backwards and then sweeping his legs out from under him. He hit the floor with a crash and screamed in agony. Thankfully, she knew from experience that a trained mage healer could tend to his own wounds despite the pain—eventually, anyway.

“Get yourself fixed up and report to the infirmary,” she told him. “Mr. Chaval has a lot of work for you to do, and if it isn’t done by the time we’re back…well, at least you’ll have some prior experience with being your own patient.”

Amaya strode towards the door and stepped outside. Chaval probably wouldn’t be happy with her attacking him, but then again he did enjoy instilling a certain amount of fear in his employees to keep them in line. With a man like Polard, fear of personal injury was sufficient. With someone like her, on the other hand…

Well, he could control her just as easily. He always made certain she could see the checks for her family each time he wrote one.

As she turned the street corner and headed off towards their headquarters, Amaya wondered if she truly hated Polard that much, or if instead it was merely the scum he represented.

Namely, herself.

Chapter Twelve

Despite the myths ensorcelling the population at-large, the Enclave’s headquarters was not a gloomy old castle sitting in a dark forest somewhere in Esharia, nor was it an immaculate glass citadel or an ancient, foreboding cathedral. It wasn’t even a building someone could see with the naked eye.

It was, in essence, purely the stuff of dreams.

Since the dawn of the last century and the final unification of the once disparate Esharian nations, the Magister’s Council had decided that a tangible, centralized base of operations was a liability. The Enclave owned plenty of land, of course, from the Eclipsean Training academy in Haven to the Grand Archive in Selerius, but the magisters themselves rarely met anywhere in person. Instead they relied upon their magic, and in general it had served them well.

Glenn Maltus locked the door to his study, poured himself some brandy, and then sat down in his favorite chair. Two sips later, he set the glass down and took a deep breath. With practiced ease he reached out to touch the Fane, and his skin tingled as its power washed over him. His senses in the waking world dimmed, and the vivid, swirling ether of the Dreamscape opened up before him.

The magic was functionally the same as that used in sending stones. In this case, however, rather than merely projecting his voice or image across a great distance, he created a semi-tangible avatar of himself that could interact with other magi inside the same dream realm. The technique was easy to repeat but difficult to maintain for any significant duration, and it further set apart the magisters from their peers even with the Enclave. Most of them preferred it that way.

 Maltus moved his dream avatar forward through the smoky, swirling mists into the center of a dimly glowing circle. Within moments, a handful of other avatars appeared next to him, each a near-perfect representation of one of the other dozen middle-aged or older men and women who made up the Council. Regardless of what they might have been wearing back in the waking world, here they each adorned themselves in the same white and gold robes that marked their status as one of the magi elite.

A full quorum like this was a rare thing these days, but any of the individual magisters could call for one if he or she believed it was necessary. Maltus did—he just didn’t expect them to agree with him.

“This Council is once again in session,” Grand Magistrix Veldara said, her stiff, throaty voice echoing throughout the Dreamscape. “Magister Maltus, you have called us together. We all hope you bring us pleasant news from across the sea.”

“I’m afraid not,” he replied solemnly. Somehow his own voice didn’t seem nearly as imposing here; he could never quite figure out how she managed to amplify hers so much. “Despite our best efforts, the situation has not improved. In roughly two weeks, Simon Chaval will be the next president of Arkadia with majority control over parliament. We can all appreciate what that will mean.”

Veldara drew in a deep breath and shared furtive glances with the others standing around the circle. “The threat to the Fane grows, and it is not limited to Arkadian shores. More of our brothers and sisters have sensed its decay in places far from Cadotheia.”

“There are those of us who believe we are as much to blame as these Industrialists,” Magister Organis said from her left. “Despite how much others would like to pretend otherwise.”

Magister Wilhelm snorted. “Perhaps because we recognize that thanks to us, the world enjoys a greater peace and prosperity than any previous age.

“Talam is untouched by machines, yet its people suffer in the wake of generations of casual Defilement,” Organis countered. “Vakar still hangs from Esharia like a gangrenous limb, and its poison spreads farther each year. Kalavan is fresh in everyone’s mind and hearts, and we can still feel the echoes of its death.”

“Drops in the ocean,” Wilhelm dismissed with a shrug. “Tragic, to be sure, but ultimately they’re little more than red herrings to distract the public from centuries of progress and prosperity. The fact we have successfully repressed all but a scant few Defilers is a testament to our tenacity and resolve. Certainly a few failings are not reason for us to condemn ourselves and do nothing at this critical hour.”

Maltus did his best not to wince, and he sent a silent prayer to the Goddess that facial control was much easier through a dream avatar than in real life. The two men’s words rang of an ancient debate the Council had beaten to death over the years. Wilhelm spoke for the majority in his steadfast belief that despite the errors of individual magi over the centuries, by and large the world still depended on them. It was a difficult point to argue given that it was functionally correct—in nearly four centuries since the Kirshal created the Enclave to shield the world from Defilers, three failures could be considered a trifle, and the Enclave itself was only directly responsible for one of them.

But Maltus was no longer an apologist, and he knew those arguments were ultimately just rationalizations. It was impossible to compare the scope of one tragedy to years of peace. It was a false metric that made the Council feel better about themselves and little else.

Still, he had never fully been able to embrace Organis and his position, either. At times it seemed like the man wanted to dissolve the Enclave altogether, and at others it just felt like he preferred to do nothing. Organis more than any of the others felt it was the Enclave’s job to watch and police the behavior of their own kind but to leave the rest of the world alone. The thought had a certain simplistic charm to it at times, but it wasn’t realistic. 

“We are not blameless,” Maltus said, hoping to stay neutral enough to stem any further debate, “but if anything it also proves we cannot afford to sit by and let this new threat emerge. The Fane is already weakened, and Chaval may be the one who destroys it. Even if he does nothing else, he will expand his factories across all of Arkadia, and he won’t stop there. In a ten-year term, he could pollute the skies of many cities across the world.”

Veldara eyed the other magisters briefly before turning back to face him. “The decision has already been reached, Magister Maltus. As the rightful defenders of the Fane, it is our responsibility to do what we can to protect it against all threats, and there is not a single member among us who does not recognize this man’s potential for destruction.” She paused and tilted her chin up. Something about her tone bothered him… “But there is another issue before us. What of the daughter of the Prophetess?”

This time Maltus was sure he winced at least a little. Yes, of course Eve was their main concern. As usual, he had the distinct impression they’d already discussed all of this before he arrived. They were just waiting to see his reaction.

“As I reported before,” he said, “she has traveled to western Arkadia to find her mother’s journal. She has allied herself with Gregori Danev, and I have dispatched one of our Vakari to follow and protect her.”

“Nafal is not
our
Vakari,” Magister Talkas interjected tartly. “She is completely unstable and should have been eliminated years ago.”

“That might be true, but it’s rather beside the point,” Wilhelm said. “Your hesitation has confused many of us, Maltus. You have long insisted that Tara DeShane is in fact the Prophetess, touched by the Goddess and blessed with visions of the future. Have you come to change your mind?”

Maltus pressed his lips together. He wasn’t blind to the trap he was about to walk into. They had
definitely
discussed this before he arrived.

“Absolutely not,” he said. “Tara was the Prophetess.”

“I see,” Wilhelm murmured. His face remained calm, but even in the dream avatar Maltus could see an opportunistic glint in his eye. “So if that remains your position, then I fail to see why you have not chosen to act. The visions of the Prophetess are quite clear—her progeny shall sew destruction and death unlike anything we have seen before. The girl is the Avenshal—the Chosen of Abalor cursed to bring about the end of the Fane. The Kirshal herself warned us that this day would eventually come, and that it would be our duty to take action.”