Beyond the doors is a huge circular chamber. The walls are a metal filigree, interwoven beams, pillars, and girders in a complex web. Between the larger pieces are smaller ones, metal rods the size of my arm, crisscrossing like threads in a loom, and then others smaller still. All of them glow bright with gray Eddica power, pulsing through the room in regular waves, like a heartbeat.
In the center of the room is a circular pillar, about my height, with a flat top like an altar. Energy flows toward it, from the walls into the floor, and up from the floor into this single place. A beam of soft gray light rises from it, shining upward until it disappears into a matching pedestal extending down from the ceiling.
Behind the pillar, there’s an enormous gray stone, like an egg the size of a small house. I ignore it for the moment, because in front of the altar-like structure stands the Scholar, one hand on his cane, the other holding the dredwurm’s eye over his head. The crystal glows a deep, sullen red, like a hot coal, and Eddica energy swirls around it.
Erin and Arin, looking as tired as I feel, are on their knees on either side of their master. Hagan hangs over the altar, suspended in empty space with his dangling feet a yard above the metal. He’s spread-eagled, bands of gray energy wrapped around his wrists and ankles. As I enter, he screams. It’s not a human sound, half keening bird and half watchman’s whistle, sliding across the octaves and into weird modulations that scrape across my mind like fingernails on glass.
“Stubborn,” says the Scholar. He looks over his shoulder and smiles at me. “Hello, Isoka. We’ve been expecting you.”
27
I step into the chamber. “What in the “Rot are you doing?”
“Taking control of Soliton, as I told you I would,” the Scholar says. “This is a friend of yours, I take it? A dead one.”
“Let him go.”
“‘Him’?” The Scholar turns to me, spectacles slipping low on his nose, the eyes behind them full of fire. “There’s no him, Deepwalker. This thing isn’t human. It isn’t even alive. It’s a mistake, a broken cog, a stripped gear. A stray batch of memories you installed by accident.” He grins maliciously. “It’s been getting in my way, but I’ll have it removed in a moment, never fear.”
“I don’t care what you think he is. I need him to close the door to the Garden. The crabs are breaking through!”
“Don’t worry. We’re perfectly safe here.”
“Safe? Everyone is going to die!”
“Everyone down there, yes.” His smile widens. “Regrettable, but necessary.”
“You have got to be rotting joking.” I take a step forward, and Erin and Arin tense. “Let Hagan go now.”
“Or what? You’ll kill me?” He pushes his spectacles up his nose. “Then you’ll never be able to bring Soliton home to your beloved Blessed Empire. That’s what you want, isn’t it?”
There is a moment’s pause, a silence filled with the crackle of my blade.
“Which sort are you? I wonder,” he says. “You seem too smart to be a patriot, doing it all for Emperor and Empire. A mercenary? What kind of fortune did they promise you? Or was it the other kind of promise?” He cocks his head. “Yes, that seems more like the Kuon Naga we all know and love. Who does he have? Your lover? Your parents?”
“My sister.” The words force their way out before I can bite them off. I grit my teeth. “How…”
“How do I know?” He pushes his spectacles up with one finger. “Poor Isoka. Do you really think you’re the first young fool the Emperor’s spider has sent to try and take Soliton? Do you think you’re the tenth?”
He laughs, and my head whirls.
“I killed the first few,” the Scholar says. “Seemed logical. Eliminate the competition. It took me some time to realize I’d overestimated Kuon Naga. His attempts were shots in the dark, wild guesses. His agents weren’t dangerous. Most of them got themselves killed anyway. Some gave up as soon as they got here. I think Shiara was one of those, actually.”
“You…” I shake my head. Focus, Isoka. “You’re here for the same reason, aren’t you? To try and steal Soliton.”
“I was. His Royal Majesty the King of Jyashtan, Master of the Six Thrones and rightful ruler of the world, bade me capture the great ship to add to his navy for our next attempt to crush the unrighteous. He promised to make me a prince if I succeeded.” He shrugs. “I may still take him up on the offer. On the other hand, even the King doesn’t really understand Soliton’s power. Maybe I’ll just take the throne for myself.”
He leans forward. “The difference between us, Isoka Deepwalker, is that I was prepared. In Jyashtan we’re not so obsessed with burning old books as you Imperials. His Royal Majesty knew that Eddica, the power of the ancients, was the key to Soliton, and so he sent me here. Your Kuon Naga just got lucky when he chose you. Tenth time’s the charm, I suppose.
“The Well of Spirits. We thought that meant the ship would be haunted, but it’s not like that at all. The spirits are stripped of everything that made them human, all but a few leftover memories, like a fading stain. They’re changed into raw energy and channeled into the mechanism. The greatest source of power you can imagine. And this thing, this incomparable machine, has just been wandering around the oceans of the world because it’s slipped a gear and no one can figure out how to catch it.” He laughs again. “Have you ever heard of anything so absurd?”
I’ve heard enough. “Close the rotting doors. Now.”
“I’m afraid not. Soliton’s basic controls are too powerful for you or me to take command of, under ordinary circumstances.” He pats the dreadwurm’s eye. “But this focuses and amplifies Eddica power. That is, the power of spirits. The power of death. For which our little massacre downstairs is a convenient source.” He taps the deck with his cane. “When it builds high enough, I’ll rewrite the machine to recognize me as its master.”
“You rotting bastard.” I’m within a few paces of him, now. “They’re fighting and dying downstairs.”
His lip curls. “That’s what they’re for.”
I thrust for his throat.
A pair of Melos blades cross in front of mine, catching my weapon. Fat green sparks jump between them, energy crackling and popping. Erin stands on one side, Arin on the other, each with a green energy blade emerging from her forearm.
“Isoka’s usefulness is at an end, apparently,” the Scholar says, with a sigh. “Kill her.”
* * *
Instinct takes over. I dismiss my blade, escaping the bind, and hastily backpedal a few steps. When they don’t follow at once, I settle into fighting stance, ignite my blades, take a breath, watch.
The twin sisters look perfectly calm. They fight with opposite hands, Erin’s left and Arin’s right, each half-turning toward me to lead with a single Melos blade. I don’t see the telltale crackle of Melos armor around them, though. So they’re not full adepts, which means I should have the advantage.
If they don’t have any other tricks. The Scholar is too confident. He’s seen me fight, so he knows—
“You don’t have to do this,” I tell the two girls. “I don’t know what he’s promised you—”
“He’s going to take us home,” Erin says. Arin nods, silently.
Rot. Worth a try.
Arin comes at me first, footwork smooth as fine silk, feinting high and then cutting at my waist. I parry the blow with my left-hand blade, and she spins past. It leaves her open, and I lash out. The blow would cut deep into her side, but she’s not there, fading away like a shadow with a liquid spray of dark energy.
I’m already turning back, knowing what comes next. But Erin surges forward, much faster than I anticipated, her limbs outlined in golden sparks. She twists her blade neatly around my parry, and I’m just able to turn in time to take a long slash across my belly instead of a hard impact. Melos energy spits and wars as blade and armor meet, and violent heat stabs at my skin. As I stagger away, I can feel blisters forming along the line drawn by her blade.
Xenos and Rhema. Shadows and Speed. Rotting wonderful.
The sisters look at each other, and something passes between them. Some plan, no doubt. They’ve clearly trained together, and I need to break up that coordination. So I charge at Erin, blades swinging horizontally, before they can set up their next attack. She dances backward, spinning out of reach of one of my blades and parrying the other with a fat green spark. I whirl, just in time to catch Arin coming at me from behind. She fades into shadow at my thrust, materializing to one side, blade swinging at my face. I bring my left hand up, dismissing the blade and unfolding my armor like a flower, summoning a shield of Melos energy that intercepts her weapon with a screech. She hops backward, pausing, and we square off again.
“Nice trick,” says the Scholar. “Zarun taught you, did he? He’s a tenacious little cockroach, that one.”
Erin and Arin come at me together, a coordinated flurry of swinging blades. I give ground, parrying furiously, staying ahead of them only by blocking strike after strike with the shield on my left hand. Their style is elegant, studied, nothing like the street brawlers I’m used to facing. Erin is fast, so fast she nearly gets around me more than once, and Arin switches positions with her shadow, trying to trip me up.