Chương 46: Chapter 45: The Weak and the Weaker

Kandal in daylight was a duller creature than the one Elma remembered. The white stone still stretched overhead in tight, shadowed rows, but the Solarvines threading up every pillar had gone flat and purple, dormant, nothing like the blue-orange midday-mimicking glow they'd worn at night. The market stalls sold produce that looked shrunken next to what she recalled—mangos that would have needed both her arms to carry, now barely bigger than her fist. She filed it and moved on. There wasn't time for it.

"Disguises," she said.

"Now." The first stall they passed sold festival masks, cheap wood and paint strung up in rows along a canvas awning. Among them was a green frog mask, its round eyes bulging above a wide, lopsided grin. The paint was uneven in places, leaving streaks where the wood showed through, and two thin straps hung from either side to hold it in place. Elma pointed at it, gave the vendor a look that dared him to ask questions, and had it strapped over her face before anyone could object.

Jorm hesitated a little before reaching for a white snake mask. Its smooth wooden surface was painted ivory, with narrow red eyes and faint scales curling across the cheeks. The mouth was slightly open, revealing two small painted fangs. She turned it over once in her hands before putting it on. Silk pulled a plain brown cloak over her armor, the hood swallowing most of her face. Lucien stood in front of the stall, turning slowly, clearly out of his depth.

"What should I take?" Lucien murmured, tapping his cheek. Elma looked at him, then at the crowd moving past behind him. Plain coats, tired faces. Nobody spared him a second glance.

"I don't think you need anything," Elma said flatly.

"You're... common." Lucien sighed.

"Those are not for free," the vendor cut in.

"I… haven't received my allowance yet," Jorm admitted, lowering her gaze.

"How much is it?" Silk asked.

"One hundred barbs," the vendor answered, crossing his big arms. Elma glanced down at her hands, then realized she had no money. She had never needed to carry any before. Not a single coin was hers to spend. For the first time, she was realizing just how indispensable money was outside the manor. Food, clothes, masks, information. Everything seemed to have a price. Her gaze landed on Lucien. For once, she felt something resembling gratitude for his presence. Lucien blinked when he noticed her stare.

"Oh, no. Uh… I'm a little light right now," Lucien admitted, patting down his coat.

"You're the only one of us who has money at all," Silk said.

"So." He sighed, and reached for his wallet.

"Wait." Jorm's hand came down flat over it before he could open it.

"Master Lucien. Let me handle this." She turned to the vendor and launched into a fierce negotiation, citing the quality of the paint, the fraying edge of the cloak, and the going rate two stalls over, until the vendor threw up his hands and named a figure of ten Barbs, a tenth of the original price. The group fell silent, each of them looking at Jorm with the same disbelief. Lucien had been about to hand over one hundred Barbs for a handful of cheap masks and a cloak.

For a moment, he just stared at the vendor, the wallet still open in his hand. Then he paid, grumbling under his breath. Before he could tuck the wallet away, Silk plucked it neatly from his hand.

"I think it'll be safer with her, for now." She passed it to Jorm.

"That's my money!" Lucien protested. Silk glanced at him.

"I know. I'm not saying it isn't."

"Then why are you giving it to her?"

"Because she knows this place better than we do," Silk said.

"It's safer with her for now." Lucien frowned.

"It's still my money, not everyone here's money."

"Of course it is. She's only holding it."

"You'll get it back," Elma said, "when you return." Lucien dropped his hands to his sides.

"Unbelievable." Jorm drew herself up with exaggerated dignity, tucking the wallet into her apron with both hands.

"Master Lucien. I will do my absolute best not to take a bribe and sell you out." Lucien blinked.

"A bribe?" Jorm had already turned and started walking.

"Wait. What do you mean, a bribe?" Kandal moved around them in a low, constant hum. The street was tight, hemmed in by long, narrow buildings whose upper floors stretched overhead, their shade covering most of the cobblestones below. Vendors called over one another, cart wheels ground against the stone, and a dog barked somewhere behind a wall of canvas awnings. Jorm cut through all of it like she'd never left, ducking under a line of drying fish nobody else seemed to notice was even there.

Lucien kept pace half a step behind her, one hand hovering near his coat like he expected her to make a run for it.

"Nothing leaves that wallet," he said, for the third time.

"You ask me first. Doesn't matter if Elma tells you to. Doesn't matter if Silk tells you to."

"Yes, Master Lucien."

"I mean it."

"Yes, Master Lucien." Elma, a step behind them both, decided Jorm had stopped listening somewhere around the last corner and had simply found the correct noises to make instead. The streets widened progressively, the stalls thinning into stretches of open cobblestone. Sunlight began spilling down from between the long buildings, growing brighter with every step until it flooded the street as it opened into the heart of the city.

The Aurethion sat at its center, its dark form absorbing the light around it like a vertical crack in the sky. Elma stopped walking. The walls surrounding it would have swallowed the Altheris estate twice over, pale stone rising in one smooth, unbroken curve, without a seam wide enough to call a weakness. Guards paced the battlements at intervals, too regular to suggest they were undermanned, too spread to suggest complacency.

One gate interrupted the western face, iron-banded and flanked by enough Alloys that even a Strategoi would think twice before approaching. Around the towering form of the Aurethion, ring-shaped battlements encircled it at every level, stacked vertically like a series of massive stone crowns. Each ring carried at least a dozen guards, turning the tower into a fortress from bottom to top. Elma was certain that a Stillstorm launched from this range would be intercepted almost immediately.

She let the breath out and kept walking. Sable wanted the Aurethion gone in five days, yet she expected Elma to somehow find a way to do it. Elma was starting to suspect the whole thing about the Scale limiting her was just an excuse. As they began rounding the Aurethion's walls, Elma noticed a large building to their right. A massive statue of Arkanahra stood beside it, surrounded by a cluster of people kneeling in prayer. It was ten times larger than the statues Elma was used to seeing.

An old man seemed to notice them, his gaze following them as they passed. He peeled away from the group, falling into step beside them, uninvited.

"Come, good people," he said, gesturing back at the half-circle of kneeling peasants.

"Pray to the Goddess with us. If we join our voices, perhaps she'll listen."

"We have something to do—" Lucien started.

"Please, kind lad," the old man cut him off.

"Our rivers are running dry. We must know what angers the Goddess before we all die of drought." Beside him, an old woman Elma hadn't even noticed was there leaned closer, her face like a closed fist.

"Stop it, Ron. We know what angers her. It's those pagan Kresniks and their vile blood mixing with our sacred bloodline. I say we take the matter—""By the Goddess of Flow, you need to sew your tongue shut!" the old man snapped.

"If someone hears you saying that, you'll be apprehended at once." Elma's eyes flicked, deliberate, toward Lucien. Lucien squinted.

"What?" Jorm's hand found his sleeve first.

"So sorry—we're needed, actually, right now—" already towing him forward before he'd finished processing the sentence. Silk took his other arm.

"Wait—" He craned back over his shoulder as Silk hauled him past the Aurethion's shadow.

"What does she mean, no rain, because of Kresniks—maybe try blaming yourselves for once, instead of—" Silk's grip tightened. He got the message, though not gracefully, yanking his flask free and taking a pull long enough to empty a third of it in one go. Elma watched him for a moment. He was clearly affected by this. She hadn't known the Kresniks were hated this badly here. Did it have something to do with their connection to the "old gods"?

If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, it's taken without the author's consent. Report it. They continued around the Aurethion's eastern face, and Elma could feel the guards' gazes from the battlements above, each one seeming to pierce straight through her skull. The building they were heading toward was exactly where Jorm had said it would be, tucked into the fortress's shadow like it was embarrassed to compete with it.

"That's it." Jorm pointed.

"The Silver Bastion's headquarters." It earned the name honestly. Windows of hammered silver ran floor to roofline across the whole face of it, throwing the daylights back hard enough that Elma had to squint through the frog mask's eyeholes. Murals covered its walls. As she turned her gaze, she noticed they stretched across many of the other buildings around her. Her focus on the Aurethion had blinded her to them until now, it seemed.

Valerius stood twenty feet tall, sword raised through a wall of churning red mist that could only be the Tide, painted across the side of a bakery like it was the most natural thing in the world to sell bread beneath. There were a dozen versions of it, block after block, the same pose rendered by different hands. Some were skilled. Others were clearly painted by people who had never seen Valerius in person and didn't much care.

Then, smaller, tucked beside a doorway: a golden-haired child wreathed in green fire, standing over a boy on the ground. Elma stopped. Damian? That's me. They know about your strange fire, the Other said. Might want to keep it holstered while we're here. Her eyes slid to a strip of paper nailed to a nearby post. Smaller than the murals, it bore a rough woodcut of a dark-haired boy, his eyes inked red beneath a single line of text: ONE MILLION BARBS. A bounty. You need to stay holstered too, it seems. Damn it.

"They like you," Lucien said, following her line of sight.

"You and Valerius." He nodded at the mural.

"Half the city thinks you'll grow up to save them. Same thing they've thought about your father for years." Elma looked at the painted child a moment longer. Someone had given her an expression the real fight never had time for—serene, certain, untroubled.

"They're fools."

"Why's that."

"They should be able to protect themselves." Lucien took a long pull from the flask before answering, unhurried.

"Well, that's not how it works."

"Isn't it."

"Some people can't." He glanced sideways at her.

"Take me, for instance." Elma waited.

"If I hadn't been born a Kresnik, I wouldn't have made it this long. I know that." There was no self-pity in it, only a fact he'd made peace with long ago.

"When I was young, before I knew how weak I was destined to be, I'd always wanted to change the world so that wasn't true for anyone. Where what you're born as doesn't decide what you're worth. Where I don't have to spend my life hoping Silk doesn't have to bleed for me." Elma's eyes shifted to Silk, standing a step behind him, her gaze fixed on Lucien like a hawk. She looked back at him.

"If equality only helps the weak," she said, "why would the strong ever agree to it?" Lucien choked slightly and put the flask away with the speed of a man remembering exactly who he was drinking in front of.

"It helps everyone," he said.

"Or, here's the uglier version, if you want it. There's no such thing as 'the strong.' Only the weak, and the weaker." The words came out with the weary certainty of something he'd heard often enough to mistake for wisdom.

"The people you think are strong are just the ones who've learned to hide their weakness the best. Closest thing to comfort my mother ever gave me." He looked back at her.

"Do you really think you're untouchable? Do you think anyone truly is?" He paused.

"Can you guarantee your strength will last forever? No matter how strong you become, there'll always be something capable of bringing you to your knees." Elma didn't have an answer ready. For once, he had a point. There would always come a point in someone's life when they'd be desperate, like she was now. Being stronger than everyone around you didn't mean the world had to care about your opinion. Everyone was fallible. But that didn't mean strength, by his definition, was unattainable.

That was always the kind of strength Elma had wanted. If she became strong enough that her opinion mattered to the world, strong enough that no one could force her hand, wouldn't that make her 'strong'? And if she was truly strong, why would she need equality?

"Are we going or not," Jorm called back, already several paces ahead, Gund's hilt catching the light off the silver windows.

"We're coming." Lucien started walking before Elma did. She followed a beat behind him, the question still sitting somewhere she hadn't finished unpacking. The Silver Bastion's interior smelled of polished metal and old paper, the kind of hush reserved for places that expected obedience by default.

"So," Lucien said, low.

"What are we looking for?"

"Sekar," Elma answered. Nobody moved for a moment. Then Lucien tipped his chin toward a woman behind a long counter, and they crossed to her. Elma caught sight of him before remembering where she'd seen him. He was leaning against the wall near the desk, one shoulder propped against it, his spectacles catching the light. The little girl who'd been draped over his arm that night in the alley now sat cross-legged on a floating mirror pane a few feet away, swinging her legs idly over empty air. His hair had changed.

Dark at the roots, bleached white through the top. Hiding from the Other's wanted posters, Elma guessed.

"We're here to see Sekar," Lucien declared, settling both forearms on the counter. The receptionist looked up, unimpressed.

"And what do you want with him." Lucien glanced sideways.

"What do we want with him?"

"We only want to ask him something," Elma said. The woman's arms folded slowly across her chest, taking the four of them in one at a time.

"Sekar's busy."

"Could you just tell him people are asking?"

"Not until I know who I'm telling him is asking." Her eyes swept the group again.

"A sick man—""I'm not sick."

"—a woman who looks two seconds from drawing on me, and two masked... children? Karnaks?" Her gaze settled on Elma and Jorm and stayed there.

"Are you two Karnaks?" Elma had no idea what that meant. But she thought it would be safer than saying they were children.

"Yes." Something flickered across the receptionist's face—surprise, mild and genuine.

"Been a long while since I've seen one of you. Figured you'd all quietly cleared out of Kandal by now. There used to be plenty."

"Can you tell Sekar we're here." The woman considered it then shook her head once.

"Hmm. No."

"He's not here," the mirror boy said, without looking up from whatever he was doing to his own sleeve.

"Believe me. I've been waiting for him gods know how long." The receptionist exhaled through her nose and dropped back into her chair, visibly finished with all of them.

"How long have you been waiting?" Lucien asked.

"Two days." The boy raised two fingers.

"Two days!" Lucien stared at him.

"You've been sitting here for two days?"

"Well, you gotta prove you want it if you're going to have it," the boy said, throwing his hands to the sides. A hand closed around Elma's cloak and hauled her a few steps aside.

"Why are you looking for Sekar," Jorm whispered.

"I need to ask him something." Jorm's face tightened.

"He's dangerous, Elma. If you're picking a fight with him—""I'm just going to talk to him." Jorm studied her for a moment, then let out a slow breath.

"I think… I know where he'll be." Elma blinked.

"You do?" Jorm nodded. Elma reached up and patted her once on the head, then turned and waved the others toward the door. They left the receptionist to her paperwork. Lucien and Silk caught up almost immediately.

"Where are you going?" Lucien asked.

"Jorm said she knows where he'll be." Lucien slouched.

"My legs are screaming. I hope it's not far." Elma turned to Jorm and Jorm said nothing. Elma sighed. It was far. Outside, a strange hum followed them. They glanced back to find the boy already catching up, lying on his side atop a floating mirror pane, the little girl sitting behind him and watching them.

"You left so suddenly back there. I guess you found something?"

"No," Elma said.

"We found nothing."

"Then where are you going?" They didn't answer him. He tilted the mirror sideways, blocking half the street.

"You're walking? Who still walks anywhere?"

"Is there a way to get around without walking?" Lucien asked.

"Preferably one that doesn't cost money?"

"Well, I can get you where you're going a lot faster." He ran two fingers across the mirror beneath him, but Elma didn't hear anything from it.

"We'll walk," Elma said, compressing her Field. His expression tightened. His jaw clenched as he abruptly sat upright on the mirror pane, then drifted directly into their path, forcing the group to a sudden stop.

"Hey, I tried to be nice to you people. I even told you he isn't there." He stood up.

"I think I deserve something in return, don't you think?" The little girl grabbed his leg and tugged at it, peeking around him.

"No. Not again." A dozen water drills formed behind Elma, hovering in a tight formation as their tips aligned with the boy on the mirror. Jorm and Silk drew their weapons in the same breath. Lucien took a quick step behind them.

"Oh boy." The boy's eyes found Elma's, narrowing, and his Field brushed against hers, weighing. Her jaw tightened. Now she understood exactly how uncomfortable it was to be weighed without warning. The boy's expression shuffled through surprise, then something hungrier.

"I've never heard of a Karnak Resonant before!" He pushed his spectacles up with one knuckle.

"Let alone one built like this?" Maybe I should help? the Other asked. If you show up, the entire city will jump on us. We can handle it. I hope… Elma narrowed her eyes. The boy was strong. That much was visible without needing to weigh him back. It wasn't just his Field. The space around him seemed… irregular. The words on a sign behind him, for example, were inverted, the letters reversed as though she were looking at their reflection.

"Tsar," the boy murmured, mostly to himself.

"You'll be a good fit for my team."

"Team?" He didn't answer. Instead, he looked at her properly this time, reassessing.

"I see. You think I'm weak. Not worth your time. Is that it?" His Field expanded, swallowing them all. Elma felt its edges settle into place around them, forming a large invisible cube. She expanded her own Field in response, tracing the boundaries of it through the air.

"Well." His mouth curved, sharp and pleased.

"Guess I'll have to prove I'm the furthest thing from that."