To Walk the Path (Star Plague Journals Book 4)

By Paul Smith

The Winter Solstice approaches, and with it the anniversary of the Wraethi's ultimatum. The threat of war hangs heavy over the Arc as the two sides gather their strength for the final confrontation.
But what of Rivan and Caitlin? Are they simply pawns in all this, or will theirs be the deciding action that finally brings this debacle to a close? Read on and find out as we take to the floor to stamp out the embers one last time...

'To Walk the Path' is the fourth and final installment of 'The Star Plague Journals', my cyber-fantasy epic.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Paul Smith
• Release date: Aug 28, 2016
• ISBN: 9781370988358

Paul Smith

PAUL SMITH is a dedicated father of two and an expert trainer in leadership and storytelling techniques. As the author of the popular Lead with a Story, he has seen his work featured in The Wall Street Journal, Time, Forbes, The Washington Post, Success, and Investor's Business Daily, among others.

Book preview

Act 1: Echoes

1.

In this quiet moment of repose it was almost possible for the majority of its inhabitants to believe normality had returned to the Arc Sea. But for the few...

Time had marched on, and with it much of the Congregate as well. People looked up at skies free from dragons, saw violence recede from their streets, and assumed war had returned once again to her slumber. Even the plague of murder and disappearance that had beset the mainland's western provinces seemed to die off, in the face of the oncoming winter. With the first snows came a fresh sense of tentative peace that the commons welcomed with open arms in the face of the summer's unrest. Yes there was still the odd voice raised in dissension amongst the night time tavern crowds, but such behaviour no longer automatically presaged a show of steel, though there were still politically motivated brawls and the usual slew of stabbings in the larger cities. Out in the country such disturbances were shown a deal more forbearance, the perpetrators thrown in the lock-up for the night to cool off and consider the error of their ways. Only repeat offenders were shown rougher justice, and these were few and far between given the usual punishments of exposure to the now frequent snows.

Winter was an unforgiving ally for the authoritarians, and even the troublesome recognised the futility of tangling with her. She did not pull her punches.

On the streets of Kharpal it was very much business as usual once more. The merchants had holds to stock and the Manses of the Pleasure Quarter orifices to fill. No one had time for grudges when there was coin to be made.

Whilst across the water on the mainland Incarnate spread her wings high above the surf in proud triumph, her people crowing proudly over their victory and the fresh flow of commerce it had brought to their shores. Even the grey sails of Isklar had been sighted once or twice in port, a thing unheard of in almost two centuries.

Only Ishamu remained subdued. But for her people it was not the silence of fear, but rather expectation. Change was afoot, they could smell it on the wind. See it in the myriad sails that came and went from port, disappearing up the Gold Leaf in the dead of night. Tongues wagged (though quietly, and always behind closed doors). They spoke of restitution, of change. Action, finally, from the house on the ridge. And they whispered also of darker rumours, of parties visiting the far shore under cover of night, stirring up secrets amidst the ruins of their city's night time twin.

Mark raised the napkin delicately to his lips, realised he was resting his other hand on the very slight paunch he'd developed this last few months. It was the combination of a more sedentary life and these weekly repasts. Say one thing about the Imperials, they put on a good spread.

There's nothing wrong with a bit of comfort in your old age, Trillion had replied when he confided his concerns to her. He was not a vain man by nature, but the sight of his distended abdomen lolling about amidst the sheets as Anara took him in her mouth had rather put him off his game.

Yes but what if I need to run somewhere or something?

You? Run? With that hip... The pathfinder's cackle had turned heads in the common lounge, but by now her and Mark's nightly meetings were routine enough to be almost part of the furniture. A tacit bubble of privacy seemed to have grown about their nocturnal rendezvous. He'd even seen others warning off recently returned Daiku who'd been away from the Library and made to approach them whilst they were still tête-à-tête.

More wine?

He looked up at the man sat opposite, raising a carafe in question. Where age seemed intent on turning him soft it seemed to be having the opposite effect on the other man. They were of an age yet Traetan sported the physique of a man ten years their junior, arms and shoulders all corded muscle above a trim waist. Surreptitious enquiry suggested a rigorous regime in the training yard was responsible. That and frequent trips inland. Life in the city may have returned to a normality of sorts, but out in the farmlands things were very different. The Commandant spent a great deal of his time as military adviser to the Five managing the Imperial side of the guerilla war that still fizzed and spat amongst the drug fields of the island interior. Praesus had finally lifted her embargo on traffic upriver some time round the fall equinox (for reasons that remained obscure, thanks to her refusal to communicate). Whilst this did at least make getting to the interior easier, the fighting itself remained bitter. You'd never know the island now technically resided under the Congregate's rule.

No, thank you, he replied, covering his half full glass with a palm before raising it to his lips to sip. It was an excellent vintage (as always), just as was everything else at the table. Even the music (it was the straw-haired lass again) had been superb.

Traetan rose, gesturing that they should retire through to the conservatory. Mark nodded, bracing himself against the table as he lever himself up, doing his best not to wince at the familiar ache from his hip.

It getting worse old man?

Poker face not working apparently. He smiled lopsidedly at his friend, waving off an offer of help as they strode through to the next room. A clatter of dishes at their back announced the arrival of the servants to clear the table. It's just the cold, Mark explained, lowering himself carefully into one of the overstuffed couches. Gets to these old bones.

Hmm, I can imagine.

Oh fuck off with your smug pity. But he smiled to take the sting out of his words. I'll pass on more wine, but something stronger wouldn't go amiss.

Traetan smiled, rising to move towards the sideboard where they both knew full well he kept the brandy.

So I have news.

Mark looked up at the other man's broad back, the pleasant fug of inebriation clearing with an unpleasant abruptness. Oh? This can't be good if he's waited until after food...

I had a bird from the capital.

Really? 'I' not 'we'... Mark pulled a face of concern, rearranging his features quickly into polite enquiry as the other man turned with their tumblers.

Yes. They want me to return to Incarnate.

Mark raised an eyebrow. And leave poor dear Lore and Marielle to fend for themselves?

Traetan made a face. A replacement is being sent.

Oh my, this is serious. It's to be a permanent posting then?

They both heard how painful the words were; the sentiment hung between them for a moment that way strong emotion tends to between men. Mark finally plucked up the courage to meet the other man's eye, offered him a faint smile. Have they said when?

Traetan nodded. Within the fortnight. A ship's on its way.

My, they do have a bee in their bonnet about something. Did they say why they want you back?

Not as such. My brother can be frugal with his words, when the mood takes him.

Your brother? Mark asked.

Jaicon. God knows what he wants...

Oh I think I might have an idea. With an effort Mark kept his smile in place, above the sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach.

Galairel turned from the window, a smile touching his lips in anticipation of the figure making his way up from the lobby of the house on the ridge.

Finally. This was it. This was (he hoped) the news he needed, the nod that everything was in place and they were ready to proceed. These last six cycles had been a torture of exquisite proportions, forcing himself to be patient. Odd, how after centuries of patience it was these last few weeks that had proved the most difficult.

Like a freshman before Prom, Rivan had teased him as he stood naked brewing tea.

A light tread on the boards outside. He crossed the room, straightening the scarecrow's head on his shoulders as he passed him.

Lifaen peered round the doorway, high cheek boned features beaming as he spotted the other man and strode into the room to enclose him in a cheerful embrace. This is what he liked about the former militia man: his easy camaraderie. Lifaen's time on the streets of Kharpal had left him with an open acceptance of any and all.

Happy-go-lucky.

It was a trite phrase, but he'd never met another that suited it more.

Well met, my friend. Galairel broke the embrace with a squeeze of the shoulders. Can I get you a drink?

God yes. Whisky, if you have it, that has to have been the longest boat ride in the world.

Galairel moved to the sideboard. Winds bad?

Lifaen looked momentarily confused. Oh! No, sorry: I was talking about the taxi into shore. Guy wouldn't shut up about his daughter. Think he was fishing...

Galairel grinned, passing the other man his glass. We're going to do something about that – this... and he gestured to Lifaen, himself.

Lifaen nodded. Yeah. And genie's already out of the bottle on the mainland.

How are they coping?

Lifaen pulled a face. They are. Which is testament to Kel. Not many could have done what she's managed, though she has had help.

Hmm, this Nashiel.

Lifaen grinned. "Now there's someone who appreciates his lot in life. He met Galairel's look of polite enquiry with a shrug. You'll understand when you meet they guy. He's just... he shrugged again ...some people are just meant to be something. He held up a hand. Don't worry, the guy's solid. And from what Kel tells me he's been invaluable to her campaign. Between him, Tomen and that Rina woman they've managed to wrestle back control of the majority of the underground, though it's been a long hard slog. He took a swig of his whisky, doffed an imaginary hat southwards. She's been fighting a shadow war, and with people who've no real military training. It's impressive what they've achieved."

So the Ichthians are ours again.

And the Orphans... a quick smile for Galairel's grimace at the term ...in the capital at least. Beyond the city walls? That's not as clean cut. Lifaen's eyes sparkled. "Though we may have a contact in the Precinct..."

That is good news.

Just wish we could say the same about the rest of the mainland.

Galairel's expression sobered. Hmm, yes: the plague of stars.

Any idea whose behind it?

Lair shook his head, taking a swig from his glass as he studied the other man. It was a subject he'd been avoiding, putting off and off this last year as his circle slowly grew.

Who to tell. Who to trust...

So far it was a very short list that featured just two names. One was obvious, the other not so much unless you'd been present at the sacking of the city across the water.

Not this one. At least not tonight, at any rate...

But he'd have to start telling people soon, if they were setting wheels in motion. His army needed to know what they were up against. Who they were up against.

More of that later. Aloud, he asked: The stage is set?

Lifaen grinned. And the fat lady is ready to sing. He pulled a face. "Are you sure this is the best way to do it?"

Absolutely. Pleased at the certainty in his voice as he nodded emphatically. It's as I told Rivan at the start: Symbols, it's all about symbols. People need something to hold on to, a story they can spin after the fact to see them through the chaos that surrounds them now.

If you say so. Barran and Haili both say everything's ready at their end. They're just waiting for the nod...

Galairel raised an eyebrow at Lifaen's obvious amusement on the subject. What? What is it Lif?

The former Militia man grinned. Just Barran. She's like a kid in a sweetshop whenever I see her at the moment. I would say she's thoroughly looking forward to 'sticking it to the man'.

Galairel nodded thoughtfully. Yes, well, as long as she realises we're not looking to instigate anarchy as our final resting state here.

Oh she's well aware of that, Lifaen assured him. Personally I think she's viewing the whole thing as one extended bar brawl.

I suppose we should be glad she's on our side.

Lifaen produced a bark of laughter at that. Yes. Yes we should.

Galairel's expression turned serious. So, you have them? She managed to procure them ok?

Lifaen smiled. Slipped the envelope from his inside breast pocket and placed it on the table between them. Galairel reached out to take it, anticipation playing about his eyes as he met the other man's gaze. With a practised swipe he broke the seal, sliding the contents out.

It was a pair of tickets, for Solstice night at the Grand Opera.

Galairel met the other man's gaze with a nod of approval.

Time to tell Rivan we have a date.

2.

Timo stood beyond the Boundary. Two steps backwards and his wardrobe would become appropriate again. Up here on the ridge there were normally no visual clues to its presence. The Nym had purposefully set the seferik barrier up around the stony rim of the caldera that housed their hothouse paradise. The only thing that might clue an observant woodsman in were differences in the mosses and lichen. There was of course usually the lush rainforest below as well, for anyone who walked to the edge.

But following the attack the Boundary had become a one way mirror. Light came in, but did not exit. Nobody stood on this side could see in any more.

Paradise lost.

He jumped, turning to scowl at Ikari, who stood wrapped in so many layers it was difficult to tell he was bipedal.

Can you even feel your feet any more?

Yes. But not my toes. He rolled his eyes, stuck his tongue out at the Nym, who was giving him that tolerant look.

What...?

Nothing. Ikari produced a cigarette from somewhere (he and a few of the other Nym had finally given in and nailed the production process outside the Garden), took a drag before offering it to Timo, who smiled his thanks. Turning into a regular little prophet visionary you are.

What are you talking about? Timo passed the cigarette back, reached up to settle the mane of his hair about his shoulders in what he hoped looked like a natural gesture.

Let's see: there's physical trials. Testing yourself against the elements... he gestured about at the beautiful snow covered peaks ...not to mention the pilgrimages into the wilderness.

You told me to take those!

Yes but nobody suggested you disappear for a week. Or that you do it more than once.

Timo scowled. I needed time to think.

"Yes, well. One could understand that, given how popular you're getting round the fire in the evening. You know I don't think I've ever heard of an outsider getting quite so much attention in the grotto."

It wasn't my idea...

Ikari raised mitten-clad hands. I'm well aware of that. I think Kina's still a little put out over the fact you're queer.

Timo grinned. But his expression sobered as he saw the look in Ikari's eyes. We've had word haven't we?

Better: we've a visitor.

Who? Not...

The Nym shook his head. We should be so fucking lucky...

It was brief, but Timo caught it again: the odd expression that overtook his friend's face at mention of the Wraethi. There was some sort of friction there, but try as he might he couldn't decide what it might be. In the Efljos' company Ikari was unashamedly open and courteous. But in his absence...

Who then? he asked, shaking off the urge to pick at the scab.

Ikari raised an eyebrow, settling back on his heels. I'll give you a clue: if it weren't for his paramour I suspect he'd be rivalling you for offers this evening...

Rivan! He's here?

Calm yourself! Maggie's balls, he's only just arrived, the guys not going anywhere. The Nym gestured him back across the Boundary, the familiar frisk running through his soul as they stepped through.

Well, least I've learnt one thing, Ikari offered as they set off down the path, Timo carrying some of the Nym's shed layers.

What's that?

How to get you back inside in a hurry –No! Not the ribs!

Laughing, Timo gave up the chase, waved the Nym on as he went back for the coats he'd dropped.

Rivan shook his head, taking a swig from his mug of wine. I still can't get over how much you've changed...

Timo raised an eyebrow, sitting back in his seat. Looked down at himself pointedly before fingering the long queue of hair hanging over one shoulder. Don't really see it myself.

Oh I don't mean physically. Though there is a little more meat on those arms if I'm not mistaken...? Rivan grinned at the boy's blush ...and there's the self conscious kid I remember materialising with his Drake.

The mentioned of the dragon brought them both up short. Rivan spent a few moments quietly staring into the depths of his mug. Even now the boy would disappear on his own sometimes into the forests about the Grove, or beyond. The Nym had long since revoked the constraints keeping him here. A wise move it had turned out as one such sojourn had seen him stumble into Praesus' lair. Not only had the boy survived the experience (unlike the dozen or so envoys the Imperials had sent up river in the last half year), he'd gained the Queen's trust. Neither Grifarne (who'd been seeing to the bulk of his tutelage) nor Ikari (who'd been supplementing with the Nym's own brand of reality bending) could explain how the boy had managed such a leap, given he'd never been to Carpassan. Both had observed him perform his 'translocation', Grifarne wandering off afterwards muttering Isklarian oaths. Ikari's response was a little more prosaic, though he professed to be as baffled as the Isshjarta. His best guess was that it had something to do with the map function the Virgins had given Timo at the gates of the Dragon's Graveyard.

So go on, what's your secret? Rivan asked, deciding it was his turn to break the silence. I refuse to believe any of this lot are up for sparing sessions... as he gestured about at the gathering of emaciated aliens conversing in quiet groups. Ikari poked his head up from the collective slouch he currently occupied and stuck his tongue out. Rivan returned the gesture good naturedly, which drew the desired laugh from the boy opposite.

"Actually it's probably the Isshjartan corpa'ku Farn's been having me practice."

Hmm, yes. Ikari mentioned something about sitting out in the snow in your pants.

This time the laugh had a little more gusto. It's not all that. There's a lot of meditation, yes, but the physical discipline is important too. It's all about finding your centre.

Rivan nodded. A necessary skill, I suspect, if you're going to have your heart carved out.

Timo shivered. Do they really do that?

Rivan shrugged. You've seen the scar I presume...? They both shared a moment's dreamy eyed reverie ...yes, well. Rivan cleared his throat. Anyway. You're closer to him than I am, you ask!

What?! No...!

Okay, well. Just saying: enquiring minds would like to know...

Timo held up a hand. Ask him yourself. You're the one with the wiles.

Yes but they only work on people that like tight buns and big cocks. Which, far as I can tell, our illustrious northern friend doesn't...

Timo glanced about to be sure the individual under discussion wasn't present before leaning in conspiratorially. "You know, I'm not entirely sure he has a preference. We've been to the baths together a few times and I've never seen him bat an eyelid at anyone, and some of the caravan girls we get through here are gorgeous, if you like that sort of thing..."

You've been to the baths together...? Do tell...

Timo smirked lasciviously. "I believe you had your chance on the deck of the Run."

I was distracted! We were about to enter mortal danger. Rivan sat back, pulling out his smoking pouch and raising an eyebrow at Timo, who shook his head. Besides, that one was a bit of a case of 'spoilt for choice'.

And you still managed to miss everything.

Those wet suits are complicated! Rivan finished rolling and began the obligatory hunt for his lighter.

Allow me. Timo snapped his fingers, producing an enthusiastic flame on the end of his thumb.

Show off. Rivan placed the end of his cigarette into the flame and puffed it into life.

Timo stuck his tongue out. So, anyway: spill!

What do you mean?

Timo treated him to his best 'what the fuck?!' look. The boy did it well. I believe one of your recent dates involved a boat ride...?

Rivan shook his head. Is nothing sacred around here?

Only the trees! Ikari called from across the room.

Rivan swivelled on his seat. If you're going to listen in you might as well do it politely... his voice died away as the entire hall stood and shuffled across the commons. Timo sat opposite amidst the gathering Nym, a faint smile upon his face.

Rivan raised a sardonic eyebrow.

Timo grinned. You get used to it. He looked about as the last of the bound settled themselves like a kindergarden class waiting for story time. Well, come on then...?

Rivan laughed, shaking his head. Very well. Are we all sitting comfortably...? much nodding of heads ...then I shall begin...

*

The Gold Leaf was dark, a sheet of undulating silver lapping at the side of the boat. Overhead the stars were just beginning to emerge, the last of the sun's rays still painting the western horizon in rising lines of gold that burnished the underside of the storm clouds lurking there. For now there was hardly any wind, the world still, at peace.

Across from him, his back to the sunset, the Wraethi’s hooded figure was still. Galairel risked much, he knew, coming out this early. From the hints and scraps he’d garnered in those rare moments the immortal became loquacious on the subject even ringlight was a trial of sorts, though it by no means offered the oblivion of the sun’s touch. Simply excited the walls of his prison, whatever that meant. Requires greater conscious effort to remain centred, was Kelsaro’s only slightly less opaque explanation.

He caught Rivan’s eye now, from the shadow’s of his hood, the sparks of starlight drifting in his gaze twinkling as he winked, crooking a lopsided smile. You’re comfortable?

The former Consort nodded, offering a smile of his own. Yes, thank you.

Sea travel doesn’t bother you?

It does you? Rivan asked, voice incredulous.

It used to, Galairel confirmed, dropping his chin in embarrassment. When I was a young man. I was quite the joke amongst my fathers men; they used to say that the smell was enough to scare off the whales.

Rivan laughed, before the implications of the comment left him stood at the brink of the precipice between them: in Galairel’s time the only ocean would’ve been beyond Ibaeran, to the south. The waters they now crossed would have been buried beneath several meters of pack ice.

Shaking off the chill wind of the millennia, he forced a smile back onto his face. So where are we going, that required such secrecy? He held up a hand as Galairel opened his mouth to speak. "I know we’re travelling to the place they gave your name to, what I want to know is where within the city."

Lair grinned – a gesture that no longer sent shivers up Rivan’s spine. You’ll see… he glanced pointedly to Rivan’s right.

You’re such a spoil sport, said Lifaern, who’d volunteered to help watch the boat whilst they were ashore, and therefore by default drawn duty at the other oar.

And of course you don’t have enough secrets to fill a mermaid’s cave, Rivan retorted, though the effort of pulling the oar robbed it of some of the injured haughtier he’d been going for.

Actually I’ve enough to bed a Drake. But we’ll not split hairs, shall we?

Let’s just concentrate on getting there, shall we? the Wraethi suggested pointedly, peering up at the sky. Farn assures me that storm is coming no where near us, but I’d rather not tempt fate.

Grinning, the other two put their backs into it, pushing them on towards the looming darkness of the far shore.

They put in where the wall had come down, tumbled stones weathered over the intervening years so that the tortured edges were no longer quite so sharp. The surrounding forest had begun the slow process of reclamation in the intervening years, and the gap in the wall no longer resembled a breach in the fortifications, so much as a cleft in a cliff face, trailing foliage hanging down from the heights above. Rivan was eyeing the jutting edges of several overhangs when Galairel came up beside him, placing a hand on his shoulder.

The walls have stood like this for almost two centuries now; the dragon fire fused what was not torn down in place more permanently than any mortar. We’ll be perfectly safe, I assure you.

Rivan nodded, glancing back to raise a hand to Lifaern in farewell before beginning to pick his way carefully up the landslide, through the breach.

Galairel’s walls had risen straight from the shoreline, its harbour internal, so the stones they climbed now were slick with spray, seaweed and moss, where winter storms had pummelled the shore. Fortunately, there had been little bad weather so far this spring, and anyway his companion had done this many times before, and was careful to point out the safest route up the makeshift causeway, leading them on into the gap.

The walls rose sheer and imposing to either side. By the light of the ring Rivan could make out the cave-like mouths of what must at one point have been passages marring the surface at various heights to either side. It was difficult to tell in the darkness whether they still led back along the wall's inner length for any distance. He knew from his history that it was made from local granite, sourced from the cliffs to the north east. The structure was an easy hundred yards across, and it was only as they approached the far side that the ground they crossed began to even out, settling round the level of the street beyond, though it still bore deep gouges here and there.

Baelmont and his cohorts, clearing the worst of the rubble for the advance, Galairel explained sombrely, noticing the direction of Rivan’s gaze.

Pausing, he reached out to run fingers across one such gash in the wall at his side, tracing the line of the wound; he could fit his whole hand in one, bury it to the wrist. It ran with its three fellows for several metres before abruptly loosing depth.

Come on.

Shivering, he nodded. Followed the Wraethi out into the street beyond.

It was like stepping into a dream.

One of the moments that had remained with Rivan from the first year of his travels, before he’d crossed the sea to Taiiruz, had been during his brief sojourn in Incarnate. He’d hated the capital almost on sight, largely thanks to the slightly aloof impersonal attitude of the city’s inhabitants. But it did hold two places with which he’d fallen in love with.

The first was the city’s water gardens, which he’d visited at sunset as they were lighting the many coloured paper lanterns strung throughout the boughs of the swamp willows and white lepers.

The second was the Chapel of Saint Colleen.

As a young boy church