Chapter 25-18 Old Wounds (I)

Chapter 25-18 Old Wounds (I)

You’re going to get scars. That’s the way things go in New Vultun. You’re going to take some nasty licks and come out with parts of yourself missing. Parts of yourself that you need replaced by grafters and menders.

Don’t be afraid of that. I don’t mean this in woo-woo “you’ll get stronger with what doesn’t kill you” or “trauma sharpens will” bullshit sense. Getting hurt is getting hurt. No two ways about it. But you’re not a broken thing if you get hurt. The damage isn’t ontological—that’s for the ‘Clads to worry about. You get can get things improved and replaced.

Repair yourself. Rebuild yourself. Reinforce yourself.

Be willing to nod and go “well, I ate shit there” and adapt.

The best thing you can do is always be solving your own problems. Always be fixing as many of your own weaknesses and wounds as you can. You get in the habit of this, and you’ll start defining yourself by action and behavior instead of feelings and memories.

You can’t be soft if you want to burn bright. Fire always leaves its mark, and wick melts fast. Get your reserves replaced. Know when to back off. Know when to maintain. You fail to do that, and it won’t matter how nova you were—the city will grind you down, and you’ll be bound for the Maw.

Neglect is just a slow form of suicide, consangs. Don’t bullshit yourself about that.

-Quail Tavers, School of the Warrens

25-18

Old Wounds (I)

“It was the Gatekeeper that unbalanced her. The Gatekeeper. And Jaus’ fear.” Zein said the words quickly, like she was yanking arrows out from her flesh. Considering the content of their dialogue, the pain likely felt no different. “After the betrayal of Noloth and the banishment of the others, he turned introspective. Worried of humanity’s mettle. And his. More than once, I woke to find him gazing out into the darkness, haunted as I ever saw him during our great struggle.”

Naeko’s breath was returning to normal. An itchy patch was growing over his left lung. It hurt to speak, but pain was just a passing annoyance to him. “He wanted to... have the Gatekeeper run things. Or something like that? Was trying to get the Voiders to help us.”

“Yes,” Zein sighed. She looked upward into the colorless expanse that passed for a sky in this demiplanar prison. “I suppose one can claim that our erstwhile cousins do live more refined bubbles, feeble though their wills and skills might be. I cannot say I agree with his choice—ah, no more lies: it offends me even now. But in all our time, rarely was he wrong, and never about the hearts of man.”

The Godslayer’s gaze grew distant, as if she was peering through Naeko to another time altogether. “Do you remember the two struggles? The struggles that stood eternal before masters of the blade—masters of any sort.”

“Yeah. The struggle to keep your skill. And the struggle not to be consumed by it.” Naeko followed her point. “Jaus. I remember him asking me about my Heaven. Asked me how it felt to control violence itself. Asked me if I preferred just being mortal.”

“And do you?” Zein’s question was pointed—a spear thrust to the heart.

The Chief Paladin snorted. “Hell no. Being a Godclad’s the only thing that really separated me from being a...”

“Slave,” Zein finished for him.

“Yeah. How it feels, anyway.” A pause drew between them. Naeko clenched his teeth. “He was serious about it, then? He was gonna ask everyone to give up their Heavens? Their Frames?”

“Indeed,” Zein said, uncharacteristically somber. “He knew the magnitude of what he would demand. He knew that we were already consumed. Would be unwilling to relinquish our blades and accept the reign of another over us. All that effort to claim our freedom. To rebuild our world. To experience true power. We prevailed against the first test most easily.”

“He thought we were failing the second?” Naeko said.

“Some of us already had,” Zein replied. “The Guilds—each was a collective of aligned interests and cultures. They were never meant to become their own independent governments, but such was necessary during those trying times. Yet, if you addict one to control, it becomes like a drug. To live without renders the world gray. Dull. If he made his intent known before the completion of the Ladder, he would risk rebellion. Assassination. So. He proceeded down the path he trusted the most, and with only those he truly trusted.”

Her words drove a spike of pain into Naeko’s heart. It started as a pinching hurt, but turned into sickening agony. “Only those he trusted. Not me, though. Not me.”

Zein opened her mouth, and—in another moment unlike herself—gave him pity. “He adored you, dear boy. He pitied you so. But he also feared you. And feared what you might have done to Veylis.”

“What I might have done.” Naeko almost whimpered. It was a bad joke. It was all a bad joke.

“Jaus and I spoke about her. Veylis... she is brilliant. Capable. A pristine fruit of our union. High of strength and unparalleled of spirit. But she is also too much... Even for us. We believed our love would keep her in check. That her piety would prove dominant over her fears. But she also loved you. And when we considered how you might have reacted when faced with the Ladder, it might just unbalance her.”

“Yeah,” Naeko said, reconnecting the parted tissue in his leg through his utility fog. “There’s another thing you left unfinished. But don’t worry: Veylis got him done on your behalf. Made a real jackal out of a rat.”

To this, his master only rolled her eyes. “And what of you, Naeko? Were you feeble? Were you helpless? Could you have not guided the boy toward a better path?”

He sneered. “The little shit’s in love with her. The idea of her. Would anything she told him to—whatever the cost.”

“Truly? Between you and Osjon, I must wonder if my girl has some manner of disgusting predilection for slaves, dogs, and broken things that are easy to chain.”

The Chief Paladin’s rage didn’t detonate this time. Instead it simmered. “Well, she had to get something from you. Damn shame all the good was provided by Jaus.” The vanishing of her smirk painted a grin on his face instead. “Don’t glare at me now, master. What’ve you been doing to people using your Paths? Playing house? Moving dolls around to act out your plays? You sure Jaus wasn’t screaming because he saw the future? Saw what the both of you would do to all he built? Chains from fucking chains.”

Thousandhand’s gaze was locked. Naeko’s leg was healed. His missing eye could go fuck itself. Time to get bloody. “And the stranger? The one who saved Kare? Is he one of your pawns too? A ‘dog’ that turned around and bit you for once in your life?”

Zein vanished with a blink. A pocket of sound and air shattered around her. Naeko replicated her charge. Nanomechanical particulates hardened into a glaive between Naeko’s fingers. Both master and disciple thrusted, their forms and strikes becoming a showcase of symmetry between them. Tip sang against tip and both shifted back, dispersed momentum; another set of actions performed with uncanny similarity.

Centuries of duels came back to Naeko. He had been here time and time before. Had fallen to Zein time and time before. Had risen to fight her again time and time before. For years, this was how they talked, the only thing that made him feel whole. For years, Zein, Veylis, and Jaus were the only hopes he knew.

Right now, though, he wanted to dig his thumbs through his master again. He wanted to feel her come apart between his fingers. “Answer me. Is your—”

“Dead gods, I wish he was a slave.” Zein whipped her blade in from the right, then switched her grip—changed its vector. Naeko anticipated. Swatted its aside. Stepped in. Parried haft. Cut only air. Pivoted back before he lost his head. Made distance. “If I could only carve the plague’s mind and will out from flesh and graft it unto you right now—”

“Plague?” Naeko asked. Zein was always particular about her insults. Dog. Slave. But to earn an insult this specific meant she actually cared to think about you, and there really weren’t that many people Zein cared to think about. Realization dawned within Naeko as he probed high and low, seeking thigh and collar in random alternation. “They’re your disciple? You took another one?”

She nudged one of his stabs off course and flowed into a counter. He deflected her using the midsection of his weapon and swept out to create distance. “It was more a case of amusement at first.” Zein sighed. “At first. Damnable Strix. What a foe you have gifted me; what a thrill.”

What was she even talking about? “Who are they? Who? Is it the Acolyte? Aedon Chambers?”

A look of pure disgust overcame Zein. “What! No. The filth that cur bleeds makes me yearn to wash my blade.”

“Then a member of his cadre — the Pale Spider.”

He knew he struck true when her eyes brightened. “Such is one of his names.”

His. Then the user of the sheath was no Sang. “What other names does he have? Who is he?”

Zein closed. He met her. Their blows sang in a rhythmic series of chimes. Their duel was pure refinement. Internalized skill devoid of thought. They fought with minds on strategy while their bodies moved—motions perfected by the memory of their muscles. The glint in Zein’s eye only grew with each passing second.

“Who? Tell me? Answer me!”

He stepped into one of her blows—intercepted it using his superior weight. In the same motion, he drove the fist of his free hand toward her ribs, forced Zein to catch with her elbow. Her organs remained intact in the end, but the force of the punch sent her sliding by meters—forced her to her acceleration via sparking glaive. “You return to me,” she breathed.

“Glad you’re happy. Now. Answers.”

The Godslayer brushed off her shoulder and loosened her muscles. The warm-up between them was coming to a close. “He is the bastard legacy of dead Noloth. A traitor’s retribution against his once-master and parted selves. He is a monster uplifted and perfected. He is a black dream that threatens to devour all others. He is a beast ascending from the gutters. He was meant to be my pawn—my instrument against Veylis. Now, he is pawn no more. He has spoken to you. He seeks to claim you. He seeks to become the reigning player of the great game.”

“Noloth?” Naeko said. But that didn’t make sense. Why would Noloth protect Kare? Betrayal. Zein was speaking—

“Avo,” Zein said. “That is what he was named. A ghoul bestowed the name of a dead boy.”

“Ghoul?” He whispered. But then, the flashing image of the Pale Spider came back to him. The build. The fangs. The eyes. The hunger. Dead gods. Dead gods, what was happening. “The Pale Spider... is a ghoul?”

“Once, perhaps,” Zein murmured. “But he is of flesh no longer. You are being courted by a plague, Samir. A plague of mind and fire. He is all around us. Sweeping through the city. He is spreading. And you haven’t even the slightest clue the threat you face.”