The Mirrored City (37 page)

“We better move,” Heath said. “We’ll come up with a plan on the way.”

T
HIRTY-
T
HREE

Syzygy

S
OREN

Ancient Patrea is often thought of as a patriarchal society because the ruling caste of wizards was called “Fathers.” This is not the case however. The original Patrean word for “father” would actually be more closely translated as the gender neutral “progenitor.” In fact, many of the “Fathers” were female.

The term “mother” implies birth and gestation. Just as the male Fathers, the female Fathers used surrogates or arcane contraptions for gestating their offspring. The title of “Father” (uppercase) was bestowed on any mage who created a human simulacrum. Very often, these simulacra bore some of the physical features of their Father, though not always.

Their creations were varied but tended to breed exact copies of one of their simulacra parents. Patrean society was of two distinct classes, translated as “dominant” and “recessive.” Again, contrary to modern linguistic sensibilities, the social standing of these distinctions is reversed. Dominant Patreans were so named because their traits were more common and thus suited to breeding large populations of laborers and soldiers.

The modern Patrean soldiers are an example of a dominant bloodline. No matter how many times they breed with common stock, the result is invariably a Patrean.

The Recessives, of which we know very little, tended to be unique or powerful in some way. Their offspring did not breed true with common stock or Dominant, so the bloodlines had to be carefully maintained. It is unclear if the Fathers were considered a variety of Recessive Patrean. Unfortunately they were destroyed during the Long Night when the mages succumbed to madness.

—A PRIMER ON OLD PATREAN LANGUAGE

FIVE HUNDRED YEARS AGO, ANCIENT PATREA

BITS OF ROCK
and earth rained down as another blast shook the city above. Father Book rushed into the council chamber, clutching the scrolls she’d salvaged from the burning library. She was young for a Patrean Father, barely a century, but that proved to her advantage. While the rest of the Fathers had been pulled into the Nightmare’s madness, she remained sane… for now.

The council room was a cramped auditorium carved beneath the bedrock of the city. Ghostly scenes of terror and mayhem played across the walls as images from the eyes of scrying sentinels reported the destruction. The streets were swarmed with panicking citizens scurrying from the worst of the chaos, trampling the weak.

Book turned to her apprentice, Broderick. “Are male and female representatives of all the castes present?”

He nodded. “All except for the Watchers.”

Her lips formed a grim line. “That’s to be expected. Announce me and begin recording racial memory.”

“Already started, Father Book.”

Broderick approached the podium. He was little more than a child, although gifted with the blood of the Fathers. The nervous youth addressed the room, “May I present Father Alicia Book, daughter of Alaris Book, and Minister of Agriculture.”

The seats of the wedge-shaped chamber were arranged in pairs, with men and women from each of the bloodlines sitting side by side. Book looked out across their faces. The fearless Warriors were stoic and ready for action. They had been briefed separately. Next to them, the simple-minded Laborers glanced around, their gray eyes wide with fear. They were rarely called to council.

The Artisan couple, sensitive to a fault, wept and offered comfort to each other. Their tears smeared their face paint. Of all the simulacrums, they rankled most at their lack of uniqueness. The Sages calmly flipped through their books, their dour faces impassive. The Stewards, clad in their fine livery, gossiped.

The Oracle sat in her place, an elderly woman by herself. She had no male heritors of her bloodline, only daughters conceived by their mothers alone. The Courtesans, a paired brother and sister, snuggled, the male gently brushing the female’s blonde hair. They were physically perfect specimens.

Book took the podium. “Patrea has fallen.” She did not mince words. “The Fathers have succumbed to the madness, and our city, our way of life has come to an end. Your progenitors will not survive this catastrophe—but we created each of you to surpass our limitations. You are the Paragons of our Children. Now is the time our art will be tested.”

The Children nervously whispered among themselves.

“You should be afraid,” Book continued. “You were brought into this world because of the reckless sins of the Fathers. For every one of you who sits in this auditorium, thousands of lives had to be sacrificed, destroyed, and even put through torture to build a better version of humanity. And now we Fathers are paying the price for our ambitions.”

“We have told this day would come, Father,” the Oracle said.

“Yes.” Book slammed her hands on the podium. “For right or wrong, we are reaping the result of the atrocities we have committed. But you who were our creations are innocent of our crimes. You are our legacy, and that cannot be allowed to die.”

“Please, Father,” the male Laborer pleaded, “tell us what to do.”

The female Courtesan shot the burly laborer a nasty look. “Shut up and let her finish.”

Cowed, the man lowered his head and took his seat. “Apologies.”

Book sighed. Of all the Children, she pitied the Laborers the most. “A plan is in place. The Nightmare corrupts higher-order theurgy, but it does not affect all magic. I have the Vinculum, and with it, your racial knowledge and blood can survive in the genetics of one of the Dominant bloodlines.”

“Well, It’s clearly not us,” the female Steward quipped. Their personality had never quite been aligned with their function. Unlike the Laborers, they were too intelligent to take pride in caring for the needs of Patrea’s noble families.

The female Scholar said, “The Warriors have the best probability of survival. They were patterned without the ability to dream. They have immunity to the mad theurgies of the Nightmares and possess heightened physical resilience.”

Book nodded. “As always, Sage, you represent the wisdom of Patrea. Some of the Warriors will survive.”

The dark-haired male Steward said, “Fighters? They are hardly the best of us. Why should they live when those who have been most faithful in our duties—”

Another blast rocked the auditorium.

Book cleared her throat. “Each of the castes plays a vital role in our civilization, but our civilization is gone—along with Minas Craegoria, Maceria, Sarn, and every other empire. The Fathers will die, but you, our Children, can live through this chaos.”

Book held up the Vinculum, a circular disc with a hole in the center and thumb-sized depressions radiating around the edge. “Each of you will give a bit of your blood to store your knowledge and bloodline on this disc. It will be introduced into the Warrior caste as recessive information. If humanity survives at all, Patrea’s Children will be reborn one day.”

The Oracle answered, “Our time has ended, Father. There is no end to this darkness that your pride has brought upon us. If humanity is to flourish, then Achelon’s plan must succeed. I cannot be a part of this.” She stood and walked toward the door.

“Oracle. You cannot disobey a Father!” Book said sharply. Her authority was already crumbling like the city. She looked to the images on the wall as a hundred-armed battle hulk tore through the city.

“Patrea is dead. His slaves are free.” The Oracle’s blue eyes glowed in the dim light of the rocky chamber. She addressed the other Children. “You are free to do as you choose.” She did not look back as she left.

“Obviously the rest of us want to live,” the female Courtesan said.

Book placed her thumb on the Vinculum, willed her blood to activate it, and tossed it on the floor, to the shock and horror of the Children. “Then live. The Oracle speaks truth. You are no longer Children of Patrea—you will be our heirs and our legacy. If you survive, do better. The empire is yours.”

She turned and walked out the door, Broderick following behind her. She heard the chorus of voices, the questions, the pleas echo down the hall. Another tremor shook the tunnels.

“Father Book!” Broderick grabbed her arm. “You cannot abandon your people now. You’re the last Father.”

She smiled. “I lived a hundred years. That’s nothing by the standards of my peers, but it was a good, long life. That has to count for something. It has to.”

“What are you saying?”

She removed a vial from her pocket. “Be safe, Broderick. Get to the Maenmarth forest if you can. You are my proudest creation.” She touched his face and brushed away a tear.

“No.”

“It’s best I do this before the madness overtakes me.” Book opened the vial and drank. “Go.”

Soren’s eyes fluttered open. He was still alive, but his head throbbed. His arms and shoulders burned. His hands were bound above his head and had been hung from something. Other bodies, hung from hooks, crowded the rafters of the musty chamber; it smelled like they were underground. The chamber was dark save for a few candles placed on a rune-inscribed circle on the floor.

A woman moaned softly next to him. He jerked his head around his arms to see who the noise was coming from. A fellow prisoner, a bald woman with a badly beaten face, hung next to him.

“Hello?” he whispered desperately.

No response.

He made a futile attempt to rip the ropes binding his hands to the chain. Without the Proteans’ strength, it was futile. But he had something else—the blood magic Daphne had given him. He felt it within his body, ready to lend him power. He had little practice using these new abilities or any abilities. When the Sword had possession of him, it had done all the work. He wondered if the blood strength would be enough.

That horrible monster had appeared from nowhere and had beaten the crap out of Daphne before taking him. He’d been too afraid to do anything. Now at least, he could act.

He willed the magic into action, and his veins burned with power. Literally drawing magic from his blood, his veins grew thick and ropey on his arms. He felt strong as a bull, but the bonds were tight. If only he could get them off.

To his horror, his veins lifted themselves out of the skin on his forearms, like pulsing red tree branches and started working at the knot. He shut his eyes and looked away, vaguely aware of his veiny tendrils loosening the rope. His body knew how to use the power, even if he didn’t.

His mind flashed back to that dream. Had he and his sister really been in Patrea? It seemed so real, yet there was no way it could have happened. Days ago, he had been a beggar. If Maddox had never come to the Palace… Soren shuddered, remembering the intimacy in the bathtub. His feelings made no sense.

The ropes snapped, and he fell to the floor. He groaned in pain as he landed, his legs buckling under him. He fell to his side, nursing his wounded limb. He knew from experience he’d dislocated his knee.

By reaching for the Light Daphne had given him, he felt soothing relief flow through his body. His veins had retracted during the fall, leaving his arms unscratched.

“Fuck me,” Soren said, climbing to his feet. The blood magic was nearly depleted. He could feel it like a kind of phantom stomach, along with four distinct reservoirs of power: Light, Fire, Blood, and Death.

The single archway leading into the chamber was mortared shut. He was trapped down here.

“Think, Soren, think,” he muttered to himself. He wasn’t the smartest guy, but, by the Host, he had survived on the streets for years with no help from anyone and no special abilities.

He wished he could have absorbed the teleportation magic of the chimera, but he knew it was immune since it had been born from the biomancy of the Ancient Fathers.

The chimera was a self-assembling construct of living tissue, a harvester that collected fresh organic base materials from the dead. They were designed by Father Glass to act as a counteragent to Macerian necromancers. They were simple-minded creatures, little more than organic animals that could understand the commands…

“How do I know that?”

The knowledge continued. They were not typically grafted with teleportation organs—this one was feral; it must have evolved the capability after five hundred years of reassembling itself.
A natural mutation in an organism with heterogeneous genetic composition?