Going Forth by Day: The Order of the Four Sons, Book VI

By Coyote Kishpaugh and Lauren Scharhag

“Our world is a lie.”

On Cerulean, the war between the Order and Starry Wisdom has turned into a standoff. Since Starry Wisdom has begun to deploy chemical weapons, Commander Emily Hayes is no longer able to send teams in to attack Starry Wisdom targets. Starry Wisdom, despite having taken Colonel JD Garnett and the Oracle Alyssa Calderon prisoner, are unable to proceed with their plans—they still do not have the fourth segment of the Staff of Solomon. Can the geomancers find a solution to counteract the enemy’s poison gas before Starry Wisdom manufactures a new segment? Or can the team come up with a new plan?

In Corbenic, things seem to have returned to normal for now, though Prince Leopold faces pressure from his father to marry. In Carcosa, things are looking more dire than ever, even with the harsh but capable MJ-12 Agent Aaron Vickers as the new boss of the five towns. Aid comes in the form of some unexpected allies. And back on Earth, things are also looking pretty apocalyptic—the sort of cosmic entropy that has affected Carcosa for decades seems to be leaking into Earth. Time and reality are starting to warp. The Order’s construct, the Field of St. Matthew, is in danger of collapsing, or worse.

Four worlds hang in the balance—the fate of four worlds may determine the fate of all others. Synchronicities abound, the multiverse works in mysterious ways, and help can come when you least expect it.

Read the exciting conclusion to The Order of the Four Sons series, thirteen years in the making.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lauren Scharhag
• Release date: Jun 15, 2020
• ISBN: 9780463226773

Coyote Kishpaugh

Coyote Kishpaugh was born in New York in 1970. He's been fascinated (obsessed) with self-mastery and the martial arts all my life. He started reading and writing early, and never stopped.In 1977 Coyote moved to Kansas, saw Kung Fu, and was enraptured by the training flashbacks. Lacking funds for martial arts, he dove into books, studying what they could teach him on yoga and meditation.In 2005 he got involved with a small movie operation, and started working with Lauren Scharhag. The project collapsed, but the two of them became friends and started writing together. The Order of the Four Sons is the result of their efforts.In 2007 Coyote was finally able to study Shorinji Goju Karate. The dojo closed due to financial strain his Sensei’s health in 2009, and he is still training whenever and however he can.Coyote still lives in Kansas City, perusing his degree in psychology.

Book preview

BOOK VI

Coyote Kishpaugh

Lauren Scharhag

Going Forth by Day

The Order of the Four Sons, Book VI

© Coyote Kishpaugh, Lauren Scharhag, 2020

Cover design by Rebecca Kenney

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the authors.

This book is dedicated to our families.

Thank you for all your love and support on this long journey.

Content Warning

This book has adult content, including violence, sex, strong language, occult imagery, etc. Please note that some scenes depict dark and sensitive themes that some readers may find disturbing.

PROLOGUE

It was December. Eight months had passed since Clayton Grabowski and his adopted daughter had disappeared. Anatole Stremy had wondered, off and on, what had become of them. They were last seen after Clayton had stormed out of the council room, in the company of that Corbenese lord who'd come seeking aid. Anatole wondered if they'd returned with him to Corbenic, and if so, what that might mean. The other council members had been skeptical of the Huey Event, but Anatole was not-- Clayton believed it, which was good enough for him. The Huey Event suggested that now, they were beyond all notions of coincidence, beyond destiny or chance. Instead of a neat chain of cause and effect, everything was tangled in a great web. Time and circumstance repeated, echoed, doubled back on itself. Most mortals had linear brains. It was difficult to grasp these arabesques, to track occurrences as planets fell in and out of sync, spinning toward some inevitable—what? Conclusion? Finale? Revelation? Dr. Schartz’s theory had not covered that part.

But Anatole had no time to ponder these theoreticals—there were far more pressing matters.

Last spring, there had been over eight thousand people on the Field of St. Matthew. That number had swelled to nearly twelve thousand by the time they locked the gates. Anatole had hated to do it. He was no stranger to suffering himself, and it was awful to imagine what fate they were consigning those people to. Locking the gates had also meant turning their back on their own—any members of the Order stranded elsewhere would be denied entry to the construct as well. Nevertheless, the decision had been made. Twelve thousand was more than enough to contend with, many of whom were in need of medical care. Twelve thousand who also needed food, clean water, sleeping and bathing accommodations, toilets, clothing. They had to be comforted, governed, shepherded. They had to have activities to occupy their time. Someone had to organize trash removal. In short, the Field, which had once been a sanctuary for the Order, had become a town. And Anatole had become its de facto mayor. 

His first order of business had been to help the injured. They rounded up all the doctors, nurses, medics, and healers and established a field hospital—though, initially, they’d scarcely had more on hand than hot water, bandages, and prayers. Communications and supplies could only come through the chapel gate. Joseph Sinclair had remained at the Rosslyn Chapel, running a small team that worked tirelessly to keep them in essentials. But five or six people trying to supply twelve thousand through a single doorway? Practically impossible.

The construct could provide a great deal, but it had never had to shelter so many before. It had expanded, the edges growing shadowy and wild, filled with misshapen trees and strange creatures—so far, said creatures were small and docile enough. But the people could all feel their environment struggling, the walls of the Great House groaning and shifting in confusion, new rooms and corridors appearing and disappearing, day and night swapping places. Outbuildings sprang up like mushrooms with bizarre features and dimensions. The mages among them especially had to be careful what they wished for; an errant desire could lead to things like a building with nothing in it but a hot tub, garden plots of exotic blooms, statuary of animal-headed creatures, and even a hedge maze with a minotaur-shaped topiary at the center. 

By the end of the first week, Anatole had made it part of his daily routine to tour the construct, noting the changes. Other members of the new Council of Names accompanied him, usually Isidora Lebedev and Maria Salamanca. When the oddities began to appear, Maria commented grimly, Constructs are like living entities. They can age, decay, and die. They can go mad.

We can't let that happen, Anatole replied.

From the mages, he rounded up anyone with any knowledge of geomancy and put them to work stabilizing the place and directing the ley line energy into practical uses, like living quarters and play areas for the children. Anyone with agricultural knowledge was tasked with starting proper gardens and irrigation channels so they could grow vegetables. Some of the refugees from other worlds had livestock with them, which meant milk, butter, and cheese.

The refugees had come from a dozen other worlds, all afflicted with the same constellation of problems: disasters both natural and supernatural, death, and, in some cases, mass extinction. Anatole wondered how many other worlds out there were suffering. He wondered just how dire the situation was on Earth—it was hard to gauge. When had there not been war, disease, catastrophe? True, it seemed that there had been more tsunamis, more earthquakes, more hurricanes, more of every conceivable problem, of late. And of course, Starry Wisdom had orchestrated most of the Order’s crises.

But within a month, things got—well, easier, anyway. The dead were buried with all due ceremony. The injured were on their way to recovery. A marketplace emerged, where people gathered to sell and trade. Anatole had seen to it that the Great House was open to all—its library, its gymnasiums, its swimming pools, and its lounge areas which were outfitted with televisions, videos, computers, stereos, and games. The people of their own accord set up a schoolhouse. A genuine sense of community was taking hold.

This was all well and good, but were they going to have to hunker down in this construct forever? What would become of Earth? What would become of all those worlds impacted by Huey? No one knew.

Perhaps the only place on the Field of St. Matthew that remained static was the Dormitory. Anatole remembered very well when Clayton’s daughter had testified about the conditions there. After that, the Order had taken steps to improve the Oracles’ quality of life. They’d installed a new lead physician, Dr. Gloria Perez. Anatole found her to be more compassionate than her predecessor, but that was damning with faint praise. She was more eager to embrace the status quo than Anatole would have liked. If an opportunity arose to replace her at some point in the future, he would do so.

In the meantime, Anatole monitored the Dormitory personally, meeting with Dr. Perez several times a week. Routine is very important for the Oracles, she said. Breaks in that routine, changes to their environment, new people—all these things are very stressful for them. So, I’d ask that we keep changes around here to a minimum. There’s no reason to move them. We are short-staffed now, of course, but as we get new handlers in, we’ll introduce them gradually.

Anatole complied with these recommendations. Dr. Perez gave him regular reports on the Oracles’ prophecies. The Oracles themselves, he visited regularly. He learned their names: Sophie, Vandy, Violeta, Liu Yang, Isoken, Tanvi, Shin, Jemina, Esma, Aracely, Lara, Hazel, Raiha, Manar, and the boy, Hani. Some of them were more responsive than others, but they all seemed to remember Anatole now.

The months wore on. Here and there, people grew brave enough to return to their homes—if they had a home to return to. The rest seemed content enough with this new life in the construct, limited as it was, without a sun, without a moon, without a sea. People of different nations celebrated their holidays. For the Earthlings, there was Midsummer, O-Bon, and Ramadan. Then Halloween, Day of the Dead, Diwali, Yom Kippur. Now, the winter holidays were upon them: Winter Solstice, Christmas, Hanukkah, Chinese New Year.

Then, one morning, as Anatole made his usual visit to the Dormitory, St. Matthew’s Field was seized by a tremor.

It swept the whole construct. This was no ordinary earthquake, shaking only the ground beneath their feet. This was everything-- earth, trees, buildings, sky. Rain and hail fell. Later, they would find not only fissures opened in the soil, but toppled trees and cracked walls. Anatole was not a geomancer by any stretch of the imagination, but he understood that something had disturbed the construct’s ley lines. God in heaven, what now? He’d been caught in a hallway, not close to any sort of cover. Dropping to his knees, he’d crawled over and huddled against an interior wall, shielding his head with his arms.

When it was over, he’d hurried on to the Oracles’ day room, where he’d found four of them crouched under the craft table, along with one of the new handlers, a Japanese man named Haruto. Anatole liked Haruto very much. He had helped the Oracles decorate the day room for the holidays: red-and-green paper garlands, popcorn strings, glittering cut-out snowflakes, dreidels, menorahs, dragons, and red paper lanterns. Haruto had started teaching the Oracles origami, which delighted them, as evidenced now by half-completed projects everywhere-- flowers, creatures, cubes, boats.

Is everyone all right? Anatole asked.

Hani crawled out. Someone’s at the door. You have to let him in.

* * *

To Aaron Vickers’ knowledge, only three towns remained in Carcosa, where there had once been five. Of course, Trapiche was long gone—that was where he’d come in, at the circle of arches. Then there had been Hormiga—something terrible had befallen it. Recently too, just before Vickers had arrived. His men, no matter how he goaded, bullied, or threatened them, would go there to show him, not even Horace.

Eventually, with great reluctance, they agreed to take him within sight of the hill, but no further. The fucking place wasn’t even on the road but about a mile, mile and a half off, accessible only by a rough wagon trail through the scrub.

Vickers’ mek stamped and snorted and refused to continue. He might have heeded that, but his intuition whispered that, whatever had happened here, it was over now. So, Vickers went on alone, on foot. Rifle on shoulder, he prowled through the empty town. The place had been abandoned-- literally. One day, the townspeople had just stopped whatever they were doing and disappeared. It was like Pompeii, everything in situ, minus the ash-covered corpses. There were the remains of a feast in what looked like an old schoolhouse. There were burnt loaves of bread in ovens. Farm implements leaned against the sides of houses and fenceposts, as if their users had only parked them there momentarily, intending to return to their chores. Laundry flapped forgotten on lines. The gardens lay dead in the unmerciful heat. The barns and pens stood empty, the hitching posts vacant. Vickers went into the chapel and found the well with the ladder leading down. There was a strange smell coming from below—not the sort of mossy, pleasant smell one would expect from a well, either. Something foul and decaying. There, the skin on the back of Vickers’ neck began to prickle. Caution, his senses whispered. Caution.

At the bottom, he found the chamber. It was dim, but after patting around, he found one of the lanterns on the wall and lit it. There was an altar at the front, its walls and floor coated thickly in some sort of shiny residue, like the slime trail of a slug. Clearly, an animal (or animals, possibly, it didn’t seem like a single creature could have made this big of a mess) had lived here a long time. The smell was stronger here too. There were a few more slimy patches on the floor around the altar, along with some scorch marks. When he touched the black marks, his fingertips tingled. Magic. Still powerful, all these months later. Whatever had happened here, it was a sure bet that either the Order or Starry Wisdom had been involved.

Not that it mattered now. Everyone had cleared out and taken their pets with them, and there was no sign that they’d be coming back.

Vickers went back to where the men waited for him, carrying bags of dried beans and flour under each arm, his pockets bulging with goods. He ordered them to go back and strip the town of anything they could find-- food, cloth, oil, matches, tools, even timber. No sense in letting perfectly good resources go to waste.

That had been some weeks ago. Now, representatives from families had come from the remaining towns—Elysium, of course, where the meeting was taking place, and where Vickers himself had taken up residence. Siloam. Pata Sur—he was glad to see Old Geb had come with his granddaughter. There were outskirters like the Okafors and Diego Luna, plus all the men who made up Vickers’ militia. Vickers had conducted an extremely informal census in his head and figured the population of Carcosa was slightly under five hundred—the parts he knew about, anyway. Whatever lay beyond the five towns or on the other side of the desert the locals referred to as the wastes, was anybody’s guess.

About two hundred had shown up, gathered in the old town hall. Horace had come early to run security. The meeting was scheduled for early evening, when the heat would begin to die down. Afterwards, they would all sit down to a communal dinner at the tavern. Vickers arrived with Nellie, who wore her best dress and a demure bonnet, clinging to his arm with a six-fingered hand. As they entered the lobby, they could hear the dull roar of conversation within. But when they entered the meeting hall itself, a hush fell over the crowd. All eyes turned to watch as Vickers escorted Nellie up the steps of the stage. When she was seated in the chair behind the podium, Vickers turned to address the attendees.

Ladies and gentlemen, he began. I’m sure you’ve all noticed a change in the larger sun. That’s the reason I’ve called you here today, so we can talk about what it might mean, as well as what we’re going to do about it--

Mr. Aaron! Mr. Aaron! a voice suddenly interrupted. The doors burst open, and a man came dashing up the aisle, pointing back over his shoulder. They’re comin’! Silas spotted ‘em first—still a few miles away! Ain’t none of us ever seed ‘em before—only ever heard tell of ‘em! We had no idea there’d be so many, and they’re headed this way--!

Who? Vickers asked.

The waste folk! Dozens of ‘em, comin’ in out of the desert! They’re headed straight for us!

A chorus of gasps and cries met this announcement, and Vickers frowned. "The what?"

Moments later, Vickers, Horace, Luna, Okafor, and all the able-bodied men stood in a loose line at the edge of town, every one of them armed, squinting in the still-brutal light.

As the guard had warned them, there, about three miles out, was a caravan of tiny figures. At the distance, they looked like children-- ghostly-white children, spattered red by the Carcosan dust.

Vickers would’ve given his left nut for a good pair of binoculars right about now, but he had to make do with a rifle sight salvaged from Nathan DePriest’s old stash. When he raised it to his eye, he saw that the creatures coming toward them didn’t appear to have much in the way of clothing or gear—they were basically wearing burlap sacks and nothing else, not even shoes. Probably not actual burlap, but something equally coarse and shapeless. They had also fashioned some crude canopies out of the stuff with a system of poles to keep the sun off their fragile-looking skin, forming a line of moving tents, like Chinese dragons in a parade. A taller lump in the middle of the procession implied there was—what? A palanquin under there? If so, who – or what -- were they transporting?

Since they were shaded, he couldn’t get a good look at their faces, but judging by the length of the line, he estimated there were at least a hundred, hundred and twenty of them. They were all mostly uniform in size, so he assumed they were all adults. But what he could feel, even at the distance, was the magic, practically ringing off them like bells. And was it his imagination, or were those creatures glowing?

Without lowering the scope, Vickers asked, None of you’ve ever had dealings with them before?

No one here, Horace replied. The outlanders claimed to.

Luna nodded. When they stayed at my home, they told me how the Eerin took them in, rescued them from the Cobar.

What the hell’s a Cobar? Vickers asked.

One of the old gates, Geb answered. Carcosa’s full of ‘em. I heard tell it draws you in, sucks the life outta ya.

Vickers said nothing. Everyone knew better than to interrupt him while he was thinking things over. At last, he lowered the scope and folded it. They look harmless enough. Let’s let them get a little closer, within shooting range. I’ll talk to them.

Horace looked at him. You don’t want no backup?

Doesn’t look like they’re armed. And the day I can’t handle a pack of albino midgets is the day I hang it all up. With that, Vickers strode out onto the old wagon trail to wait.

Indigo dusk was creeping out from the horizon by the time said albino midgets reached him. As it had gotten darker, Vickers could see that they were indeed glowing, faint and milky, like jellyfish. The ones in front lowered their canopy so Vickers was able to get a better look at them-- spindly, moon-white (Earth moons, that is, not the dead black rocks that orbited this godforsaken planet), and bald as cue balls. Their eyes didn’t look remotely human, glinting, iridescent in the play of light and shadow.

I’m Sheriff Aaron Vickers, he greeted them. What’s your business here?

One of the creatures bowed and made a strange, fluttery gesture with its hands. I am called Warudhar, it said in a sexless voice. It was a good thing Vickers was wearing his amulet—the creature was not speaking English or Carcosan or anything else he’d ever heard before. Some language like the twittering of birds. We are the Eerin. We have come because our elders wish to speak to you.

With that, the front line moved aside, and Vickers saw that his suspicions were correct—the large lump in the middle was a palanquin, draped in several layers of cloth. Its bearers set it on the ground with the utmost care. They parted the rough-woven material and propped the flaps open with their poles to make an entrance. An amazing blue light shone from inside—a bright, almost heavenly blue. It made Vickers suddenly and profoundly homesick for a world with blue skies, with clean, blue seas, with flowers and butterflies and everything Carcosa lacked. Cerulean, that was the color. Cerulean blue.

A creature emerged, then another and another, until there were seven standing before him. Their combined light created a shimmering blue corona that lit up the evening. They bore none of the human signs of aging—no wrinkly or saggy skin, no liver spots, no yellowed or missing teeth (did they even have teeth? Vickers hadn’t seen any of them open wide enough to be sure). Yet Vickers could tell that they were older than the others. They were nude, so he could see that four were female and three were male. Their skin was so delicate and fine, it was translucent, the organs clearly visible inside. Their eyes seemed even more radiant than the young ones’, regarding him with a frank curiosity that mirrored his own. It didn’t take a genius to see that this was the source of the magic he’d felt—was feeling. It moved through him in a low hum, its pulse reflecting the beat of their hearts, the flicker of their blue light.

Vickers cleared his throat. I understand you’re here to see me?

When they answered, they answered in one voice. Yes, Aaron Vickers. He couldn’t tell if their lips were moving or not. Christ, they even blinked in unison.

What do you want?

The storm is here, Aaron Vickers. We are caught now in its fury.

A storm?

You are a part of it, as are we all. You must help us, Aaron Vickers. If we do not act quickly, Carcosa will be no more.

For a moment, Aaron Vickers said nothing at all. He looked around at these creatures, these Eerin. Not a one of them stood higher than his chest hair. All the same, he found himself breathing a quiet little sigh of relief. All right. What do you need from me?

PART ONE

THE UNMAKING

Chapter One

Fallback

Miss Hayes? Quentin’s voice sounded shaky. Miss Hayes, we have a problem.

Fuck. Emily squeezed her eyes shut. Don’t tell me—

We are, ah, minus a seer.

Emily drew in a deep breath, held it, exhaled. All right. We’re pulling out. Get everybody back.

* * *

In less than a minute, Emily and her group had returned to the construct. She took in the situation: Quentin and Dion had opened the doors, Marc wounded, Gareth already working on him. She didn’t need them to spell it out.

Justin and his men came through next, then the last team with Murphy. What’s happened? Justin asked.

Starry Wisdom’s gassing the cities, Emily replied. The natives are immune. We’ve lost the Colonel’s team.

Lost? Justin echoed. Dead?

I don’t know.

From this gas?

I don’t know, Emily repeated. Alyssa Saw it. She’s gone after the Colonel. We have to assume the worst.

Justin looked around at the circle of anxious faces. But surely they wouldn’t kill Sir Calderon?

That’s not the worst, Kate said.

Ah.

Without her, we’re going to have to reassess this entire operation, Emily said.

Could she lead them here? Quentin asked.

No way. Not Al, Murphy said.

It may not be up to her, Emily said. MJ-12 has drugs they use on precogs to stimulate their ability. I wouldn’t be surprised if Starry Wisdom has something similar, something better.

How can we keep them from pre-empting us if they have her as an asset? Dion asked.

You’ve seen what ley lines do to her, Kate said. She couldn’t See the King because he was in a construct. We should be safe here. If you move us again, even better.

What about when any of us leaves the construct? Won’t she be able to predict our actions then? Dion asked.

Kate opened her mouth. Then closed it.

Dion nodded. Marvelous.

Look, we’ll figure this out, Emily said. Fortunately, we have some time. If the General’s gassing the cities, we kinda have to sit tight for now anyway. Long as we’re standing still, we might as well use that time to think. She considered the geomancers. Can you all find an antidote to this gas?

We’ll need a sample of it, Quentin replied.

We’re not totally dead in the water, Murphy said. We don’t have to leave the construct to be a pain in Starry Wisdom’s ass. Let’s not forget, Leto’s out there. She needs us. You guys can still make with the wild rumpus from here, right?

If you’re referring to the ley lines, monsieur, yes, Dion nodded. We can still make life very difficult for them. But again, I ask, to what end? Without Sir Calderon, how will we locate the targets? And as for the Mademoiselle Leto, she has her coin. If she needs to evacuate, she may do so.

Military operations get carried out all the time without psychics, Emily said a bit testily. We’ll think of something.

Um, excuse me? Kate raised her hand. I’m a lot more concerned right now about how we’re going to rescue Alyssa and the guys. Because I’m ready to go when you all are.

Emily shook her head. Not without a plan.

Well, I think the answer to both questions is rather obvious, Dion said. Everyone turned to him. We go back to Corbenic and bring in reinforcements. And perhaps-- here, he shot Emily a look, --additional leadership.

Murphy snorted. Oh, nice. Very nice.

Remember when he was the quiet one? Kate asked.

Good times, Murphy agreed.

No, Emily said flatly.

And why not? Dion demanded. If nothing else, doesn’t His Grace have a right to know that Sir Calderon has been taken prisoner?

If we tell him, what do you think he’d do? Emily asked.

That is entirely up to him.

It isn’t, actually. This is a covert operation. Your Prince is a statesman, not a military commander—

"Our Prince, Dion corrected. You are a Corbenese citizen, Madame Yeoman, are you not?"

Don’t interrupt an officer, Justin snapped.

Dion turned to him coolly. You forget yourself, monsieur.

"I forget nothing. I’m only a fisherman’s son, for true, and I never attended no Lodge. But I am Captain of the Palace Guard of Four Mothers, charged with keeping the King’s peace. I have a duty to protect him and the Corbenese empire above all else. Miss Hayes is quite right. This is a military matter and as such, we will decide how to proceed. My lord."

Dion did not quail. For a long, tense moment, the two men stared each other down.

Emily stepped between them. "What I was gonna say was, if we have the Prince come in, guns blazing, either alone or with a bunch more people, what do you think will happen? We scare off the enemy. They run and take the prisoners with them, along with the staff segments. Then where will we be?"

We’ve tried it your way. It’s not working, Dion said.

But it is. Despite everything, we were able to take out Rostov, Kang, Taghvaei, and all of their people. With minimal civilian casualties, Kate said.

If we bring in Leo and anybody else from Corbenic, it will turn into open warfare between two superpowers. At that point, there’ll be no control from either side, Emily said.

Dion laughed disbelievingly. You don’t think we could win?

"No, I sure don’t. Not with that strategy. Everybody here was almost killed by one – count ‘im, one – of their mages, Emily held up her index finger to illustrate. Not their oldest, not their scariest. Just one guy. These people are ancient and psycho. If it goes to out-and-out war, the smartest thing for them to do would be to just let both planets get reduced to cinders, then go someplace else and start over. There’d be nobody to stop them. Don’t you see that?"

Begrudgingly, Dion drew back. Very well.

What’s to stop them from doing that anyway? Justin asked. Especially now that they have prisoners.

Maybe nothing. If they wanted to bail, they could’ve done it by now, with or without prisoners, Kate said. But I don’t think they want to do that. They have too much invested in this place.

Gareth said, Sir Calderon said the General is planning to gas all the cities. She couldn’t give us a specific timeframe, but I think it’s best not to wait. We need to get out there and get a sample.

What if they switch up the formula on us? Dion asked. The next gas might be lethal.

His inspirer shrugged. Then we will have to prepare for that eventuality. Is it so very different from adjusting our personal elixirs? In any case, sitting here isn’t going to solve the problem, now, is it?

* * *

The men drew lots to see who would go, and Eliot was selected. While Gareth and Dion prepared the door, Kate, Ismael, and Firuz stood by. Kate had her bone wand out. Ismael, Eliot’s inspirer, hovered nervously, and Firuz was there just in case they needed an extra pair of hands.

Dion looped a rope around Eliot’s waist. As he tied the knot, he gave Eliot a chuck on the shoulder. The empire forever, hey?

Resignedly, Eliot replied, Yes, my lord.

Dion tied a section of the rope to himself, tethering them together. Gareth handed him a gas mask, as well as some sort of gadget Kate didn’t recognize, a box with rubber tubing attached. Dion put the gas mask on. Checking Eliot and himself over once more, he nodded to Gareth and Kate.

You sure this’ll work? Kate asked.

No. The only guarantee with antidotes is unicorn horn, but as we haven’t got any… Gareth looked around at them. Is everyone ready?

They all nodded, and Gareth opened the door. They’d opted to open the door to Evangelium—it was the closest thing they had to a capital city. Surely Starry Wisdom would want to protect it. They’d also opted to open the door in a relatively hidden spot, beneath a stretch of elevated train track.

Eliot stepped out, taking deep breaths. Dion followed, switching on the machine. Its motor whirred to life. He held out the tube, which had a bulb-shaped part on the end. Presumably, the bulb was sucking in a sample of the air. Behind them, Kate cast an airtight shield (at least, she hoped it was airtight) to make sure none of the knock-out gas could seep into the construct. She left a tiny opening for the rope. It was a delicate balance, one she prayed she would be able to maintain.

She didn’t have to sweat it for too long. Eliot got perhaps six steps from the door before he dropped to the ground, unconscious. Dion fared little better, even with the mask.

Kate’s magic scooped them both up and floated them back inside, into their inspirers’ waiting arms. When Dion had fallen, his grip on the machine had loosened. She picked that up, too, and Firuz offered to take it.

Once everyone and everything was safely back inside, Gareth shut the door. The infirmary, he ordered. Move. With that, he and Ismael whisked the unconscious men off to be treated.

Did we get it? Kate called after them.

Let’s hope so! Gareth called back.

Firuz stood for a moment with Kate, watching them go. Murphy joined them. Say what you will about the guy, he said of Campion, but he puts his money where his mouth is.

Lord Dion’s got sand, Firuz said admiringly. That’s for true.

* * *

Once Dion had awakened, he, Gareth, and Quentin analyzed the air sample. Gareth also took blood and tissue samples from Eliot and Dion to see how the gas had affected them.

The analysis took three days. When they were done, they presented their findings to the rest of the team.

The gas, much like our own, is absorbed through the skin, Dion said dryly. So gas masks will not be enough, as my practical demonstration has already illustrated.

The goal wasn’t to kill, but to capture. They meant to lure us out—to lure Sir Calderon out, Justin said.

Yes, and she obliged them.

Poison gas can be washed out of the air, Murphy said. Can’t you guys just conjure up a rainstorm?

We tested that, Quentin said. The gas is alchemical. It’s been designed to resist wind and rain.

What about Miss West’s shields? Justin asked. She was able to stop the gas from coming into the construct. Does that not suggest that her shields are airtight?

Kate said, I was able to shield a doorway for a few minutes. Like when I shielded the cave entrance from the cats—I could set something up and leave it there. But that’s not the same thing as shielding multiple people who are all moving and fighting. It would take all my concentration, so I wouldn’t be able to fight.

And if Miss West were to get hurt? What then? Gareth shook his head. I’m afraid that’s not a viable solution.

Why aren’t the Cerulean people affected by it? Emily asked.

It must be the TAV system. I thought they might use it to regulate health. I bet they could adjust people’s body chemistry to resist it, Kate said.

How could they do that so quickly, on such a large scale? Gareth asked.

It’s some sort of wireless network, Kate replied. I imagine they can basically—well, I don’t know if ‘broadcast’ is the right word, but send out updates, like computer updates. She looked around at the geomancers’ blank expressions and sighed. I know I’ve said this like a million times, but, man, I wish Bill was here. He could explain it better. Trust me, sending an update to a network is something that can be done in our world, and Cerulean has better technology than we do.

That’s not what concerns me at the moment. I’m more interested in what the enemy is planning next, Quentin said. Dion is right; I imagine now that they have Sir Calderon, the rest of us are fairly expendable.

Then we may be limited to sending out only one team at a time, Emily said. Surely they won’t gas the Starry Wisdom locations. Their people aren’t on the TAV system.

No, but with their technology, they probably have some other kind of protection, Murphy said. If the TAV system does operate through some sort of implant, they could have something similar, something less invasive, something that isn’t on the network. They get the benefits but get to keep their autonomy. Not to mention, those hovercraft things of theirs—they probably have great air filtration systems. Their homes probably do, too.

I’m sure you’re right, monsieur, Dion said. But there is something else-- how will we find the targets now, with Sir Calderon gone? They took her earpiece, so we can’t track her.

I might be able to find her. Her and JD, at least. I don’t know if I can help with the guys, Kate said.

Your knife trick? Magic snake? Murphy guessed.

Kate shook her head. I don’t think either of those would work in this situation. They might help if we were actually out there, on Cerulean soil, able to follow where they lead. But that’s out.

What, then? Dion asked. Divination?

That’s what I was thinking-- that is, if you don’t mind letting me play with your globe.

Murphy grinned. I love it when you talk dirty—ow! He rubbed the back of his head where Emily had smacked him.

JD’s not here. Somebody’s gotta pick up the slack, she explained.

Even Dion cracked a tiny smile at that, and Gareth arched an eyebrow. Mademoiselle, you are certainly welcome to play with our globe whenever you wish.

Kate ducked her head, blushing furiously. Are you sure? I won’t, like, screw up the balance between the four of you?

Not at all.

Good. Sitting back, Kate nodded to herself. And once we find them, we can go get ‘em.

At that, Murphy and Emily exchanged an uneasy look, both of them thinking the same thing. They might be able to rescue Alyssa—might. But there was no reason to think Starry Wisdom had let JD live. Not that they were about to tell Kate that.

Chapter Two

The Engagement

A widow... King Henri Sarpedonne echoed, stroking his beard. I see. Under the new laws, the lady in question would be her own mistress and keeper of her own property. There is no male head of house to contend with. Should the engagement be broken, there would be no insult given.

Lord Christophe Ecarteur inclined his head.

Henri peered at him. Very clever, boy, I’ll give you that. And what of the lady herself? An acquaintance of yours, I presume?

Yes, Your Wisdom. Lady Rosemonde Salacia Charnabon Catreus. Her late husband was Lord Stefan Catreus.

How old is she?

Thirty, Your Wisdom.

A frown creased Henri’s brow. Thirty?

Still well within childbearing years and in excellent health. She had a son by Lord Catreus, a good, strong lad. Fourteen. He’s at the Lodge and I’m told he’s an exceptional student.

Hm. And what of Lord Catreus’ inspirer?

Lord Nicolas Busiris. He has no objections, Your Wisdom.

The King gave Christophe a hard look. If this is some sort of scheme—

Christophe shook his head. No scheme, Your Wisdom. You asked for an engagement, and I have secured one.

Not just an engagement, the King barked. I want him married before the New Year, do you understand? I don’t care who it is, so long as she can give him heirs. There comes a time when we can no longer ask the people to wait upon us; we must wait upon them. If I have to drag a woman in off the streets myself, by the Architect, I will see him wed before sundown on the thirty-second of Almatheion. Have I made myself clear?

Perfectly, Your Wisdom.

Then Lady Catreus is still your choice?

Yes, Your Wisdom.

Very well. The King sat back. As he did, his face seemed to relax, shedding the royal mien. And just like that, he was simply Henri again, a concerned father. When will you tell him?

Christophe sighed. I had planned to go there directly.

* * *

Taking his leave of the King’s chambers, Christophe went to do exactly that. But as he reached the hallway that led to both his and Leo’s chambers, he found himself taking a slight detour.

Very quietly, he edged his own door open and peeked in. There was no one in the front parlor, so he stood for a moment, listening. He could just make out Madeline’s voice. Brightening, he made his way to the bedroom, where he found her stretched out on the bed with little Angelique. The two of them were surrounded by toys—rattles, pacifiers, a jointed wooden bear, a stuffed rabbit. Angelique was kicking and gurgling happily as Madeline dangled toys for her to grab at. Catching the rabbit’s ear in a flailing fist, Angelique stuck it in her mouth.

Christophe’s heart swelled at the sight of them. Madeline looked over and smiled. Leaning back down, she whispered in the baby’s ear, Who is that? Who is that over there? Is that Papa?

Joining them on the bed, he bent to kiss his daughter. Hello, little one. Hello, my beautiful girl. Papa’s home.

Angelique grabbed his nose. He and Madeline laughed. Picking Angelique up, he cradled her carefully. She sucked contentedly at one of his fingers, eyes half-closed, long lashes sweeping her cheeks.

Madeline rested her chin on Christophe’s shoulder, so they were both looking down at her. She is so good. So happy. The governess says she is a joy to take care of—hardly makes a peep.

Well, she is only two months old yet. I can still hold out hope for a little hellion. Christophe stroked the soft red fuzz on top of her head. She was almost entirely her mother’s daughter-- her features, her mouth, the shape of her face, all Madeline’s. But her eyes were undeniably his, the olive coloring that was so distinct to old families like the Ecarteurs.

Christophe stayed with them for as long as he could. When he could put it off no longer, he kissed them both, rose, and went over to the door that led to Leo’s chambers.

* * *

Inside, one would never have guessed that it was a fine autumn morning. The curtains were drawn. A single crystal lamp burned at Leo’s desk.

Leo himself was also at the desk. When Christophe entered, ordinarily, he would be able to see Leo in profile, but at the moment, all he could make out was the top of his head, surrounded as he was by books, scrolls, papers, atlases, and inkstands. More books were stacked on the floor around him. The only sound was the steady scratching of his pen as he wrote. His eyes were almost totally obscured by a pair of emerald glasses.

Christophe shook his head. Some men would drown their sorrows in drink, others in women. But Leo? Leo drowns his sorrows in books. He shut the door louder than necessary. I’m back.

Without raising his head, Leo said, I have found the most fascinating passage in Hyperboreios’ journals. It contains alchemical formulae that no one has seen in over eight hundred years. When I finish translating it, I believe it will be most efficacious in manipulating the structure of crystal matrices.

For a moment, Christophe could only stare at him. I paid a visit to Lady Catreus.

Ah, yes. And how is Lady Catreus?

She is your fiancée.

Leo’s pen did not even pause. Very well.

That’s it? ‘Very well’? That’s all you have to say?

What would you have me say?

That you have more than a passing interest in the woman that you will be producing children with!

You wish me to lie to you, then?

"No, I don’t wish you to lie. I wish you to respond."

I have responded. If Lady Catreus is your choice, then I’m sure she will make a fine wife. Make whatever arrangements you deem appropriate. I will agree to all of them. In fact, I need not be consulted. You know I trust you implicitly. The sound of scribbling continued.

Outraged, Christophe strode over to the desk, yanked the pen out of Leo’s hand and threw it. It clattered against the wall and broke, spilling ink onto the rug. Then he knocked the stacks of books off the desk, kicked at the ones on the floor so papers fluttered about like pigeons. Damn you, look at me!

For a moment, Leo just sat, arms still on the desk. Then, very slowly and deliberately, he turned his head and raised his eyes to Christophe’s. Are you quite finished?

His cold tone was only slightly diminished by the ridiculous glasses he wore. Christophe tore them off his face. "Are you?"

I don’t know what you’re talking about.

"Now you are lying."

Sighing, Leo leaned back in his chair. She’s gone. What do you want from me?

I want you to have hope.

She is a seer. If she said she is not coming back, then she is not. Accept it.

She’s wrong. She will come back, I know she will! How can she not?

Any number of ways.

Well, do not think of them because they are not going to happen!

Really? And how is it that you have gained this insight?

She will come back, Christophe repeated stubbornly. "I know it. She has to because I will it so!"

Leo looked at him pityingly, despairingly. Christophe—

She will come back if I have to go Cerulean and bring her back myself!

Do not be absurd, old man. You have a daughter, Leo stood up. Do not even think of gallivanting off to some strange, foreign world that is currently under siege! Even if you had some way of locating her, which you do not; even if you had some way of coercing her to return, which you do not; even if there was some reason to believe that she is mistaken about her prophecy, which there is not.

They were already standing close, but Christophe rose up, so they were practically nose-to-nose. She’s been wrong before. She couldn’t See that—that creature that murdered her own father! She is not infallible, I tell you!

You cannot compare a master magician who is able to make himself so thoroughly obfuscated that even the most talented seer we have ever encountered was unable to detect him and this situation. It is not the same thing.

You’ve given up on her! Why would you do that? Christophe’s voice turned pleading. Why would you give up on this?

Leo rested his hand on his inspirer’s shoulder, his tone softening. There are many throughout the world who, when a person they hold dear is gone, would continue to set a place for them at the table in the belief that somehow, the deceased is going to return. I am not one of them. I do not have the luxury of giving vent to grief and losing control. Moreover, there are certain realities in life that must be faced. Christophe started to look away. Gently, Leo cupped his cheek to turn him back. Do you remember how Endymion would look for James everywhere? Do you remember how disconcerting it was when he would call me to his bedside, searching for remnants of my grandfather in me? I am not going to do that. I am not going to hide from this.

Christophe shook him off. She is not dead yet. Stop speaking as if she were.

There is no reason to assume that.

I think you’d feel it.

In my experience, one does not feel the life or death of another simply because one wishes to, or because one is close to them. Unless, of course, one of them is a seer. And the one person qualified to offer such an opinion has already spoken on the matter.

All at once, Christophe rounded on him. I’ll tell you why you are so quick to give up on her. It’s because you do not feel that you are worthy of it! That’s it, isn’t it? I know you and your self-flagellating ways! You think this is somehow your fault. You think that you’re not worthy. You would never let yourself love or be loved in such a way.

That is no longer relevant.

It is completely relevant. If we found out that she was dead and you knew where her body was, what would you do? You would go get her and bring her back here, wouldn’t you?

Helplessly, Leo shook his head. Your point?

"My point is that it matters. It is relevant, the love you have for her. It doesn’t stop being relevant just because she is absent. Christophe turned away, both hands to his head. I can’t stand you like this!"

For a moment, neither of them spoke. Then, very softly, Leo said, If we knew where her body was, right now, this instant… yes. I would have her brought back to Corbenic--

Aghast, Christophe turned to him. "You would have her brought back?"

-- and I would have her buried next to her father.

You have given up on her!

Christophe—

I won’t have it, Leo! I won’t have it! Christophe’s voice rose. "You can’t give up!"

She’s GONE! Leo shouted over him. If I have no hope, it’s because she took it with her!

Breathing hard, they backed away from each other.

For a moment, Christophe hung his head. It didn’t seem possible that he could look any more anguished—until he raised it again. When he spoke, his voice was almost too soft to hear. You’re not the only one who loves her, you know.

Leo closed his eyes. I know.

Chapter Three

Into the Dream Chamber

The Bugmen had taken Alyssa up to a rooftop and held her there, hands and wrists shackled, until the General arrived. When the hovercraft landed, they pushed her toward it. I will not struggle, she kept telling herself. I will not show fear of any kind. But then Anglicus actually came out onto the roof and her resolution dissolved. The Bugmen ended up having to carry her as she fought and thrashed every step of the way.

Anglicus said nothing, but when the soldiers deposited her in front of him, he reached out and seized her by the arm. She had just enough time to shake her head, pleading, No, no— before he plunged a hypodermic needle into the crook of her elbow. He caught her as she slumped forward.

* * *

Not two hours later, Michael stood at the window overlooking the grounds of Naviim House. As the night wore on, the temperature had dropped below freezing, and the stars glittered all the more brightly in the cold, clear sky. In the morning, he had no doubt, the gardens and pools would be coated in a layer of ice. The building was mostly quiet now, the Oracles asleep in their beds.

Michael?

He turned at the sound of his mother’s voice. She stood in the doorway, her hand resting on the frame, looking at him expectantly.

We have her, he affirmed.

Joan expelled a low breath, half relief, half wonder. Oh, my boy. Crossing the room quickly, she held her arms out to him.

He hugged her, breathing his own little sigh of relief. Peace offering accepted.

Joan stepped back first. The gas worked, then?

Two terrorists captured, three dead, and the rest driven back into their hole.

She beamed at him. Well done!

Don’t get too comfortable. It’s not a permanent fix. The Corbenese will still be able to manipulate the ley lines from their construct, and of course, it’s always possible that they’ll come up with an antidote to the gas.

And then?

De Crevecoeur is developing other gases, lethal ones. I also have my people working on some new compliance weapons. In Corbenic, we used a sonic device to quell a riot. I hate to use such things here, but if it comes down to it, I will. And anyway, we just need to keep them at bay a little longer—don’t we?

Yes, we’re very close now. Have you told the others?

Yes, right after I called you.

Of course you did. She squeezed his arm. I want to see her.

Michael led his mother to one of the dream chambers. It had an observation window, but Joan opened the door and went inside.

There, on the bed, lay the Oracle, unconscious. There was an IV drip in her arm, equipment to monitor her vital signs, and a mesh cap of neurological sensors on her head. The information was being streamed directly to the house’s computers, where it could be recorded and scanned for content.

As for the girl herself, Joan had read her file, both the Order’s records as well as the brief Kang had prepared. She’d heard what both her son and Bathory had had to say about this girl. Now here she was, looking frailer than she had in the photographs Joan had seen-- thinner, paler, and shockingly young. Her hair had been cropped short, the curls mashed down by the sensor cap. Joan reached out and touched a lock on her forehead, traced the third eye chakra, entry point of untold mystical knowledge. How rare and lovely she was, a warrior girl, like something out of legend, brave and selfless and fiercely protective. Was it any wonder that she had won the heart of a prince?

Michael walked around the other side of the bed. For a moment, Joan watched him watching the girl. Her gaze sharpened. Has she produced anything?

Not yet, but it’s only been an hour or so. She can’t resist the drugs forever.

I thought she was supposed to be so very powerful.

"She is. She’s also tightly controlled. Technically, she has been producing images, but they’ve all been of her choosing-- scenes from personal events, mostly, nothing of any use to us. If you’d like, we can pull the feed so you can see--"

No, that’s not necessary. Joan turned away. If she doesn’t produce something soon, get rid of her.

She swept from the room. Michael had to trot to catch up to her. What?

You heard me. If she’s going to be difficult then we can’t use her. That’s not a problem, I trust?

You said you wanted her. If the plan was just to kill her all along, why have me go to the trouble of capturing her alive?

Because she may still choose to cooperate. I hope she does.

You’re saying if the drugs don’t work through her defenses, you’re going to destroy a unique resource the likes of which neither of us has ever seen before?

If we can’t use her, then she’s a liability, not a resource.

Define ‘soon.’ A week, two weeks, a month? What difference does it make, really? It costs us nothing to keep her here.

I don’t keep things that are of no use to me. You should know that by now.

I think that with what we stand to gain, patience is most decidedly a virtue.

As you said, this girl is unique. She has a history of getting out of, shall we say, difficult situations. I don’t want to give her time to plan or her friends time to find her. Because yes, she is a great resource, worth fighting to reclaim. There’s too much at stake to offer any possibility of jeopardizing the program. If she doesn’t produce, we dispose of her. I haven’t any qualms at all about feeding her to Lady Bathory. Joan turned back to the observation window to address the unconscious girl. And I trust you heard that, Miss Calderon.

Michael shook his head. Returning to the dream chamber, he regarded the girl for what he hoped was the last time. It’s over, he thought, it’s done. I’m done with you. Mother and the doctors can deal with you however they see fit. I don’t care. One way or the other, you’re out of my head and out of my life for good.

* * *

Later, Michael stopped at his flat in Evangelium. He longed to stay, he longed to be back in these familiar rooms. Most of all, he longed to see Millie. But he didn’t dare. Not yet. The blow they’d just dealt their enemies would leave them reeling for a few days but probably no more than that. The Corbenese were crafty and the Order persistent. Between the two of them, they would come up with a new plan. They may not be able to strike with the sort of precision they had before but strike they would.

In the meantime, Michael chanced a visit to his weapons room. For all of his long, long years, he had always considered himself, foremost, a soldier, and he had hundreds of weapons going back centuries. Maybe thousands. The room before him contained only a portion of his collection. Here was his arming sword from his Crusade days, his flambard, his rapiers and broadswords. Here were suits of armor and chainmail he’d once worn, a jousting lance and shield. Here were morning stars and axes, bows and crossbows, staves and spears, cudgels and flails, poleaxes and shurikens, muskets and rifles, pistols and knives. Among them were the many trophies he had claimed from his enemies: helmets, breast plates, scimitars, katanas, sabers, a gada, a talwar. Every new weapon he’d taken he’d made it a point to master.

Now, he drew from a large rucksack Sir Calderon’s sword in its emerald and amethyst scabbard. Unsheathing it, he gave it a few experimental swings. The lightness surprised him. It didn’t feel like anything at all in his hand. He’d had dirks with more heft to them. Yet the blade sang dark and sweet as a nightingale as it hewed the air, what the Japanese called tachikaze, sword wind. Which meant that its edge was perfect. And it was, unquestionably, one of the most beautiful swords he had ever set eyes on, its elegant hilt, its gleaming alloy like pure silver. Naturally, the Corbenese would be exceptional swordsmiths.

One of the display racks had a vacant tier. He mounted the sword and scabbard on it. Then he reached into his breast pocket and withdrew the ruby locket. He wound its gold chain about the hilt of her sword—now his sword. For a moment, he held the red heart between his fingers, thumbed its perfect facets. When he let it go, it swung gently for a moment, casting dots of red light along the wall like a blood spatter.

Chapter Four

Self-Talk

Hold that thought, Bill said to the mummy.

By now, Bill had become accustomed to this weird, dual-vision state in which he was both Bill-in-Cerulean and Bill-in-the-Kitchen (well, technically, Bill-in-the-Basement now, but that was really getting into the weeds). So, he’d been able to keep an eye on the TAV updates as they flashed across his consciousness. The most recent series of attacks appeared to be at an end, but the General’s forces still had to deal with the fallout-- casualties, mass structural damage, severe weather, earthquakes, and, from the sound of it, extradimensional critters. This all made Bill want to break out the big foam finger and the air horn for Team O4S & Friends, but that probably wouldn’t go over well with the Borg Collective.

As the hours wore on, the Cerulean Home Guard got the situation sufficiently under control that the General began authorizing people to return to their homes. Bill was still in the bathroom stall when his area got the all-clear. A neighbor found him curled up in the corner and assumed he’d fallen asleep that way. The man knocked at the stall door. Hello? Are you all right in there?

Bill-in-Cerulean pretended to wake. When he opened the door,