Hour of the Middle Silence (just after midnight), December 9th
The deep winter didn’t change much in Gray Watch. It brought down the fog and made it heavy, coating the walls of Revan’s abandoned embassy in condensation. Phaeduin watched how the droplets shivered, a slight hint of the music the building contained. On the threshold stood Myrel in the green robes they’d been given by their mentor, and there beside them was the mentor: the sorcerer they’d met on the night of the Sickle-Sough Festival, an enormous man with a mane of cascading gray fur and a gentle demeanor. The man’s kind eyes smiled slightly as Phaeduin approached.
But Phaeduin greeted him with a grumble. “Mardo. I take it you’ll make sure the other sorcerers behave themselves with my child. They’re not to be sacrificed.”
Myrel laughed. “Dad. I’m not ten.”
Chuckling, Mardo set a huge hand on Myrel’s head, very much like they were ten. “This is no sacrifice. You’ve heard it, haven’t you? The blessings of your spirits are getting stronger in Myrel by the hour. No, it’s past time that Myrel met my own mentors. They’ll be a worthy sorcerer.”
“Soothsayer,” Phaeduin countered. “Those who sing of Wind and Sunfire are Soothsayers. Myrel, he’s not trying to push Gray Watch’s sorcery on you, is he? I only agreed to this to awaken the song in you.”
“Oh, dad, stop. I’m going inside.” Myrel waved their father off in annoyance and shouldered back into the ornate embassy doors. The loathsome dirge of Revash sorcery briefly escaped, a swell of sound that was shut away when Mardo – after giving Phaeduin a reassuring smirk and nod – followed Myrel in and closed the door.
Phaeduin scowled at the door. He turned away and walked toward the gates. In the predawn night, lamps hung like ghosts in the mist. Water sang all around: drops of fog a susurrus simmering against the stone, fountains splashing along the walkway, the sea groaning ever in the distance. Rivulets of moisture ran down Phaeduin’s armor. Inside, his fur was heavy and cold against his body.
Just beyond the gates of the property, Phaeduin paused. He stepped to a side and leaned against the outer wall, appearing just like any of the embassy’s armored Watch officers. Here, in anonymity, he drew his greatsword and held it in front of him. He thought about the sorcerer he’d killed with it. He thought about the Pharaul-issued pistol he wore beneath his breastplate, the iron slugs inside that could vex almost any spell. He thought about these things while he listened to the distant, almost imperceptible sound of Myrel’s magic. Even here, it reached him. He’d been listening to it since the day of Myrel’s birth. The one sound, the only sound, that he really cared about anymore.
It didn’t take long for the song to fluctuate with magic. At this signal, Phaeduin stepped back onto the pathway, trudging toward the fancy door that Mardo had shut in his face. There was no hurry in Phaeduin’s movement, though he listened to the distressing change of Myrel’s music, the thread that connected the two of them shivering in warning. As Phaeduin walked, his head grew heavy, his arms numb and stony with tension, ready. Ready. The sword wanted to move. The body wanted to rush forward and let it.
But Phaeduin was slow. In front of the ornate door, he waited. He counted. And when he’d counted to a hundred and twenty, he kicked in the door and stepped into the swell of the dirge.
* * *
The Angolhills
Hour of the Latter Silence, December 9th
Indirk slept. The bed was empty but for her, the window parted with cold wind moving over her body, streams of moonlight barely illuminating the room. She awoke to a great slam. Shattered dreams of violence threw her to her feet. She reached to her coat, grabbing by instinct for her gun, but it wasn’t there – she’d hid it in a strongbox beneath the floor – so she spun toward the slam with her clawed hands ready to grapple whatever had come.
The door to the apartment she shared with Mardo had been thrown inward, and Mardo himself lay on the floor halfway in. His huge body was still, his breath fitful. Indirk cast about for anyone else that might be there, any movement at all, but she saw nothing. She jumped over Mardo to check the hall, standing just outside the door and looking this way and that. Still nothing. She checked again and again, her blood hot, her instincts primed to be attacked from any direction.
Gradually, it faded, and she looked down at Mardo. She noticed the green robes of a sorcerer on him, torn open at chest and back, the sleeves burned and blown away. His fur was burned. Huge, bloody wounds were open across his body. For a long minute, Indirk stared at him, feeling like she was trapped in a dream or a memory, before she finally came back to herself and hissed, “Mardo, what the fuck?”
He didn’t answer. She pushed one of his shoulders up, got under him, and lifted him from the floor, even her carnivate strength barely able to drag his incredible weight the rest of the way into the apartment.
* * *
The Quay
Hour of the Steel Dawn, December 9th
Phaeduin’s sword was missing half its length, its midsection ending in molten slag. He stared at this, sitting in the fishmonger’s shop, his green tabard blackened by fire, his armor painted red with blood. The light of gray pre-dawn set uncomfortably upon his angular form.
Amo stood in the doorway, staring, honestly afraid to enter. “Phaeduin, the fuck happened?”
The old man’s head lifted. Magic clung to him strangely, a dirge-like song echoing out of the hollows of his armor. “Myrel’s gone.”
“You must’ve killed…” Amo shook their head. “At least five or six people to get that much blood on you.”
“Did you hear what I said?”
“I heard you. What happened?”
“We made progress.” His voice was flat and empty. “That’s what happened.”
Amo kept their tone level, careful. In truth, they were ready to bolt if Phaeduin made any sudden moves. “Is Myrel alive?”
At this question, Phaeduin was quiet. He must’ve been staring, but it was impossible to see inside of his helm. He was just an emptiness leaking magic, coated in blood and metal, blade in his hand. When he did speak, his voice was imperceptibly quiet. “Sorcerers took Myrel someplace.”
“That tracks.”
Phaeduin straightened. “Not a good time for quips, Amo.”
“It’s not a quip. You’ve been investigating kidnappings and we know that’s how the sorcerers power their magic.” Amo eyed the map of the city that Nymir had left on the table. “The someplace is probably the same place you’ve been looking. Somewhere in Slowrise. They’d abduct most people where it’s convenient, you know?”
“Oh, I know.” There was an element of warning to that. “I’ll solve this yet.”
Amo carefully stepped in to point at the map. “What about this street here? Nymir’s got it noted there’s only one patrol per day on that street?”
“I know that. Boutiques and upper-class services. I’ve searched them all.”
“Let me search them again for you. We should’ve put more of us on this before it came to this.”
Phaeduin stood, letting his sword swing down to his side. Amo flinched at the movement, but Phaeduin didn’t seem to notice. No longer looking at Amo, Phaeduin eyed the door. “It’s coming down to it. You know that.”
Amo backed against the table. “It?”
“I’m almost out of time.” Phaeduin’s half-melted sword moved at his side, like it was trying to swing on its own and he was holding it back. “As long as I’m dying anyway, I plan on doing something reckless about it. You’re going to have to take care of Myrel, once we’ve got them back. Just you.”
“Just me? What about… uh…” Amo shook their head and swallowed. “What about Nymir?”
Phaeduin’s helmet turned its eyeless gaze on Amo. “I want you to say you understand what’s happening right now. No matter what happens to me, or you, or any of us, we’re finding Myrel and getting them back. You say you understand.” His sword tapped the floor.
“Shit,” Amo spat without thought. Who’d thought Phaeduin had this kind of menace in him? Still, Amo was quick to nod. “You don’t have to talk me into it. I’m on the same page you’re on.”
