Chapter 4 – Plans in Motion

It was early afternoon when Linton approached the Arcanex.

He had confirmed that his family was safely in Linvala.

There would be no going back once he set everything in motion.

The black tower loomed before him, splitting the clouds. Thousands of windows shimmered like obsidian in the sunlight. Skyships drifted in and out of the landing docks on the upper levels.

Linton’s stomach buzzed with excitement. All his planning, all his maneuvering, had led up to this. Years of careful consideration. He greeted the truthers at the open gate and entered through the seven-meter-tall ring wall that surrounded the Arcanex, the tops of which were lined with enchantments that would fry any would-be intruder.

Inside was a lush garden. It was filled with trimmed hedges, flower bushes and green grass, sectioned off by white gravel paths. Bees buzzed to and fro, and the faint scent of roses lingered in the air.

For many of the detainees who were taken into the Arcanex, this was the last beautiful sight they would ever see.

He continued to the main gates—four meters tall, thick metal doors worked with intricate gold leaf designs. Just like the outer gates, they stood open. They could be closed at any moment in the event of a security breach. Two guards stood on each side of the entrance, four more inside.

Linton passed through the second gate, greeting the guards, and submitted for the security checkpoint on the other side. A bald, rashy-faced gentleman approached him.

“Got anything weird on you?” the man asked in a bored tone, glancing off somewhere else.

“Hey there, Garryn,” Linton said. “Don’t think so, no. How are the kids?”

“Light of my fucking life,” Garryn grumbled with no trace of sincerity, drawing snickers from his three comrades. “Sorry about this, sir. You know how it goes.”

Linton nodded, raising his arms. “Go ahead.”

The truther patted him down, quickly going over his legs and torso. He pulled something from one of Linton’s coat pockets with a frown.

“What’s this?” He held up a flat, circular object made up of interlocking metal parts, a bit smaller in diameter than a man’s head. He flipped the thing over, and his fingers neared the red activation glyph on the side of the piece.

“I wouldn’t press that if I were you,” Linton said, placing a hand on Garryn’s. “I’ve been assigned to interrogate a wildkin down in Sub-Level 1. You turn that thing on, it’ll wind up your insides like a bowl of spaghetti.”

Garryn handed the object back with a start, and laughter erupted from his friends.

“Oh, piss off!” he hissed, glaring back at them. He looked back at Linton and sighed. “Very well, sir. Proceed. Just keep that thing away from anyone else, alright?”

“Right,” Linton said with a chuckle.

He proceeded into the main part of the first floor and tucked Frost’s rotocutter back in his pocket. Truthers and businessmen walked crisscross over the large, open hall, their shoes clacking discordantly on the polished floor as they stepped into the elevators or consulted the service staff at the back of the room.

Linton entered an empty elevator and pressed 43. The doors closed, and he was shuttled off. The knot in his stomach grew as he stepped off on the designated floor. He approached Testing Chamber A-7, where the Crown had been moved.

He counted everyone present on the way, making sure to only observe them in the corner of his eye. Five scientists. He would have to be stealthy.

Linton constructed a quick illusion in his head and whispered; “Agar.”

The illusion materialized around him. It didn’t look like anything to him, but from the outside it would appear as if Linton was simply standing there, idling about, no matter what he did inside of it.

He pulled out the rotocutter and placed it on the reinforced metal door of the testing chamber. Just as he was about to push the activation glyph, an elevator dinged. Storm stepped out, something dark brewing in his eyes.

Linton immediately put the rotocutter back in his pocket and let the illusion fall.

“Granhorn!” Storm called, heading straight for Linton with long, impatient strides. “Finally, you show your face.”

Linton watched his superior approach, arms folded behind his back. “I’m sorry, sir, I… don’t follow.”

Storm stopped just in front of him, close enough that Linton got a whiff of the smell of sweat and coffee beans that wafted off him.

“Forty-eight hours, Granhorn. Was that not clear to you? Because you’ve wasted more than twelve.”

Linton thought up a quick lie.

“I was researching into the wildkin we captured so that I can better—”

Storm held up a hand. “Save your excuses. I have assigned a new interrogator to the tyke. You will report to him once you’re done.”

“Done?” Linton asked, frowning. “What exactly will I be doing?”

Storm showed a rare smile, reserved only for the suffering of others. “You have been summoned.” He let the silence drag out.

Linton ground his teeth.

You’re really going to make me ask, aren’t you?

“Summoned by whom, sir?” Linton asked, struggling to keep his voice somewhat neutral.

“Septum Couldess,” Storm said, smile growing. “The Minister of Welfare. Wants you right away. You’re going all the way to the top, Granhorn.”

Linton’s eyes widened. He couldn’t hide his panic.

Oh, no.

That’s bad.

Really bad.

***

Aeva waited. Bided her time.

It was impossible to tell how long she had been kept inside this metal box. A day? Two? An elderly human had fed her a foul, processed slop of what might have once been meat and grain. Revolting though it was, Aeva ate every single bit. She was used to eating scraps, and refusing food would only drain her strength. Her hands were released only once as she relieved herself into a slot that opened in the floor, supervised by three armed guards.

Every second of that time, she watched for an opportunity. There was none. If she rushed the guards, she’d be riddled through before she made it halfway to one of them.

Once they left, she had only the wall-mounted metal eye to keep her company.

She tapped her claws against the metal table, waiting for the moment when the humans slipped up. It would come. It had to. And when the opportunity presented itself, she would not squander it.

The door opened and a man entered the room. The metal eye swiveled to regard him.

He wore the same garb as the other black-coats she had seen, but with a white sash over one shoulder. The man was stout, with a large belly and a round face, rosy cheeks atop fleshy chins. His hair was thinning at the top. He wore a gentle, fatherly smile, making his eyes into slits under his bushy eyebrows.

The man carried a heavy-looking wooden chest under his arm, wrapped with chains, which he set down on the table with reverent slowness.

“Who are you?” Aeva asked.

“Bethil O’Mare,” the man said. He looked up briefly before returning his attention to his chest. Undoing the chains one by one, he let them fall off with heavy rattles. “I am afraid I will be interrogating you.”

“What happened to the blue one? Did he sprout a conscience?”

Bethil only offered a vague, hapless gesture. “For all I know, that may be true. He neglected to perform his duties. I am here in his place.”

Aeva counted her blessings. This one looked harmless compared to the remorseless scalpel of a human that was Linton Granhorn.

“What is in the box?” Aeva asked.

Bethil stroked the chest affectionately. “I sincerely hope you don’t have to find out.” He seated himself opposite Aeva, keeping his hands on the sides of the chest. “Now, then. I have some questions for you, if you don’t mind.”

“I’m not going to tell you anything,” Aeva insisted. “I won’t make the same mistake I made with your last torturer.”

Bethil regarded her, motionless, still smiling. “The Crown,” he continued. “How does one don it?”

Aeva frowned. “By placing it on your head, for a start. I did not think you humans quite so dense.”

Bethil cleared his throat. His smile did not fade even a hair. “Yes, well… We have experienced some troubles with spontaneous combustion of our test subjects. If you could aid us—”

“Us?”

“The Ministry of Welfare. If you aid us in harnessing the power of the Crown, you will be granted a lesser sentence. Continue to prove your usefulness and you may even be released.”

Aeva smiled. Though she herself had no idea how to wield the Crown, it gave her great pleasure to know that these humans were killing themselves in their greed to harness a power that was never meant for them.

“Gjurin does not grant his gifts freely,” Aeva said. “I suggest that you give up, if you have any sense. You are not worthy of this power.”

Neither are you, whispered a niggling voice in the back of her head.

“I believe you know more than you let on,” Bethil said calmly. “I’ll give you one more opportunity to share this information with me, so that it may be put to use for the good of the Concord.”

Aeva stared him down.

The silence dragged out. Bethil sighed. He pushed himself to his feet and pulled a thin wand from an inner pocket of his coat.

“Very well. I regret that you had to make this so difficult.”

He flipped open the lid of the chest.

Aeva craned her neck to see what was inside.

It was empty.

“Draga,” Bethil said, flicking his wand.

Dozens of translucent, malformed shapes rushed out of the chest all at once, setting it rattling on the table. The shapes whirled around Aeva like trails of smoke. She could make out human faces among them, agape in anguish. Grasping hands brushed against her.

A chorus of unnatural howling filled the room. She would have put her hands over her ears if she had been able.

“This is not real!” Aeva shouted. “This is an illusion! I know your tricks, mage!”

“Oh, dear, sweet child,” Bethil said. He tilted his head. “If only this were something as simple as an illusion.”

He flicked the wand in her direction.

The ghastly forms screeched, funneled straight at her.

They clawed at her, cold fingers tearing through clothing and scratching her skin. Her blood filled with ice wherever they touched. No matter how she thrashed, they didn’t let up, gnawing and biting and ripping.

Her chair threatened to topple over, but she was kept upright by her shackles, the enchanted metal searing her wrists. Spectral hands squeezed her throat and prevented her from drawing breath. She gasped and shook her head wildly in an effort to get them off, but she met only smoke.

“Flya!” Bethil shouted.

As quickly as they had emerged, the ghosts rushed back into the chest. The lid closed with a heavy thump. Bethil placed his hand on top of it, his drooping eyebrows betraying a hint of displeasure.

Aeva’s toes curled as she sucked in panicked breaths. Blood dripped from countless scrapes and bites down her clothes and onto the floor. The pain was like bitter frostbite, numbing and acute.

“Perhaps you’re more inclined to speak now,” Bethil said.

Aeva spat on the table. “I will… give you nothing.”

Bethil shrugged, raising his wand. “Very well. Another round, then.”

His smile was as gentle and fatherly as ever.