Chapter Four

Midnight Prioriem

Cold and damp. Those were the only feelings that Rykker could muster as he walked through the dark tunnel. He had wanted to stay behind. He really had. But he was going to be damned if he let Marcus go alone. They had been walking for over an hour now, and the uneven rocky terrain was causing his feet to ache.

He glanced back at Sev, who was strolling down the tunnel, easily keeping pace with the rest of the group. It must be nice not to feel any discomfort. Oh, Sev, who followed him no matter how stupid the idea. Fantastic idea, Rykker. Follow the crazy, one-handed soldier into a dark cave. I’m right behind you.

His mind, struggling to distract from the dark, rocky tunnel, wondered for the thousandth time since finding him what compelled Sev. Humans, of course, had biological drives at their core. Some semblance of design by nature that gave them purpose. But Sev wasn’t human. He had been designed by someone. Or something. Every since he had uncovered the automaton—he never really had worked out what Sev really was—they became inseparable. Why had Sev chosen him? Simply because he was the first person Sev saw? He unconsciously fingered the ring on his right middle finger, the one he had also found amongst the artifacts uncovered that day. Sev remembered nothing from his time before Rykker had awoken him.

Marcus’ rough voice cut through the silence, disrupting his train of thought. “I think I see something up ahead.”

He said that a quarter of an hour ago. As they got closer, however, the unnatural rock gave way to man-made stone. The stones were rough-hewn and looked old, but they were better than the uneven, natural rock. It also meant that they were approaching what he hoped was civilization. After spending all night in the forest it was all he could hope for. Thank the Trinity.

The passageway led them to a set of stone stairs that spiraled up out of view. There did not seem to be any other way.

“Onwards and upwards, I suppose.” Marcus turned back, giving a nonchalant shrug.

“It’s not like we have a choice at this point,” muttered Rykker.

They ascended the stairs, and as they did the air grew slightly warmer—though it still retained the stale, slightly mildew quality that reminder Rykker of weeks-old bread.

Eventually, the stairs came to a trapdoor in the ceiling, abruptly blocking their path. There was a handle on the door, and Marcus pulled on it with no success. The door seemed to be sealed shut.

“Let me see.” Rykker squeezed past and examined the door. “There must be some kind of latch. If this really was used for smuggling, the smugglers would have wanted a way to seal off their escape route.”

After examining the door itself to no avail, he moved his attention to the stone walls surrounding them. There he spotted a brick that stood out from the others, ever so slightly a different gray then it’s siblings. He felt it, and found that he could push the brick into the wall.

A soft click emanated from the trapdoor. Rykker gave the handle a pull, and with little effort, the door swung down, thudding loudly against the top stair. The sound echoed down the tunnel. He cringed. “Sorry about that.”

As it turned out, the trapdoor led them to an empty basement. The cold and damp properties of the cave were also present here, and he made his way hastily to the wooden staircase that he spotted on the far side of the room. He needed some fresh air.

He ascended the stairs, his companions following close behind, and found himself in a modest but comfortable living room, sparsely decorated with wooden furniture.

Across the room was a cozy dining nook. An elderly man sat at a table, spoon halfway to his lips, his eyes wide with shock as he noticed Rykker standing in the living room.

“Who in the hell are you?” the man cried incredulously.


The man—who called himself Renold—insisted on calling the city guard, although Marcus had repeatedly assured him they meant no harm.

He had nearly fallen out of his chair when Sev and the engine came into view. Rykker signaled for Sev to put up his hood. It usually helped a little bit. He powered down the engine and stowed it away.

Warning them to stay where they were, as if the old man could have done anything about it, Renold stopped a guard that was passing by on patrol. The guard was surly, with an unfriendly scowl that seemed permanently etched onto his face. Once Marcus explained who they were, his frown deepened even further—if that were at all possible—and left, to Renold’s dismay, to go find his captain.

They waited for an excruciatingly long time, especially since Renold refused to share some of the soup he had been eating, before the captain of Valla’s city guard arrived.

Sira had dark hair, tied into thick braids that came down to her waist. She bore the deep blue of Valla, adorned with half-plate that looked like it was put to good use. A large sword hung from her hip, and she carried a shield on her back.

She eyed the four of them with an inscrutable expression for a moment. She talked slowly, as if still trying to process what she saw. “So, the four of you are from the Royal Military—a part of High Marshal Fastaar’s regiment, to be precise—that has been squating outside our doorstep for the last five days. You found an ancient smuggling tunnel and followed it all the way here, to Valla, a city which is currently under siege by a sizeable Antuzan legion.”

“Um—yes, that sounds about right,” Marcus said. “Our mission is to assess Valla’s situation, help any way we can, and report back.”

“Valla’s situation is that we’re fucked,” Sira said flatly, then sighed, shaking her head. “Well, come on then, the council will want to see you as soon as possible.”

They left Renold’s home and stepped into the warm night air. Ah, finally. Rykker breathed deeply, trying to clear his nose of the moldy bread smell.

Sira took them on a path through the city. As they walked, their surroundings changed from modest but well-built homes to market squares hemmed by taverns and shops, their windows empty. The squares themselves also had vendor stalls, but they too looked barren. Perhaps they would be filled with shopkeepers by morning, or perhaps they had been abandoned, for lack of customers.

Eventually they came upon larger manor homes, and arrived at their destination—an imposing building, ancient looking compared to many of the buildings in the city, built in the architectural style of the Caeteran temples of old, built entirely out of tan stone blocks, with towering spires and a great domed roof.

“Here we are,” Sira said. “The Prioriem. The Council will still be around, I’m sure. They’ve been quite busy as of late. Come along.” She strode through the gates, and they fell into step behind her.

Inside was perhaps even more impressive. They walked through tall, arched hallways, adorned with historical tapestries, many that looked to be as old as—or older than—the Sovereignty. Rykker supposed it made sense. The original city of Valla was founded during a time before the Sovereignty existed. And has continued to exist long past it’s destruction, he mused.

They were led to a set of double doors, ornate and made of a dark wood. Two guards, dressed in a similar fashion to Sira, flanked the entrance. Sira turned, and she looked almost apprehensive. “Wait here. I’ll introduce you.”

She opened the right-most door slightly, just enough to slide into the room.

For a brief moment, Rykker could hear voices inside.

“The vial was found on—” a male voice spoke, urgency edging his words to a tenor. And then the door shut, leaving them alone in the hall with the two guards, who refused to blink even once since they arrived.

Minutes later, Sira opened the door and beckoned for them to come inside. They entered a large chamber; a semi-circular table stood in the very center. The floor was laid with patterns of white marble, and the ceiling rose high above, arching into an impressive dome shape.

There were six people sitting at the table. Four of them, two women and two men, sat in the center of the table, while two men sat near the end, along the far right side. And they were all staring intently at Rykker and his companions.

With no chairs, the four of them stood awkwardly in front of the table, which was raised slightly on a dias, meaning that although the Vallan council was sitting, they were at eye-level with them. Well, except for maybe Sev.

Sira spoke in a formal tone. “Lord Governor Finn, Major Brixom, and the Council of Four—I present to you Marcus, a Captain in the Royal Ilrian Military and his companions. I have confirmed that their identities are who they say they are. They have entered the city through an ancient tunnel known as Tharin’s Passage, and have come bearing the word of High Marshal Fastaar.”

Marcus cleared his throat. “Yes—well, not exactly. You see, Fastaar didn’t send us, per say. Colonel Vincent Reld sent us. He believed that Fastaar has been too modest with his strategy, and sent us to investigate the rumor that there was a way into the city.” He stumbled over the words quickly, as if holding on to the words caused him physical pain.

The council was silent for a moment. Perhaps they were in shock, Rykker thought. When said aloud, it certainly sounded crazy to him.

“Yes, you see?” One of the men sitting to the far right spoke, breaking the silence. His accent gave him away as one of the nobility. His head was shaved completely bald, and he had a short, well-kept beard. His piercing green eyes shot daggers at the councilmembers in the center of the room. “I believe this confirms my suspicions. Fastaar has no intentions of coming to our aid. The bastard wishes to keep his precious record clean. Despicable, if you ask me. This new information presents an interesting new option for us. A way out of the city, unknown to our enemy. We cannot rely on a washed-up war hero to save us. We should begin evacuations via this so-called passage.”

One of the women, younger with dark hair and discerning eyes, furrowed her brow in exasperation. “Lord Gareth, you cannot seriously be suggesting that we leave the safety of our walls. If our people evacuate, they’ll be completely exposed. Fastaar is our best hope. There is a reason he has the record he does. He must have the greater picture in mind. I’m quite sure he understands the stakes that are at play here.”

Lord Gareth fumed. “You also seem to forget the ticking clock that looms above us all. You’ve seen the reports. Our merchants collectively have two weeks of food stores left, and that’s with imposed rationing. Are we supposed to sit on our hands and let our people starve while Fastaar polishes his sword?”

The man next to Lord Gareth, surly with age, said, “You underestimate the length of time that would be required to evacuate the city. It’s going to take days to mobilize tens of thousands of people and funnel them through the passage.”

While the leaders of Valla bickered, Rykker shuffled over towards where Sira was standing. “Er—this feels as if we’ve walked into something.”

Sira’s hard face softened slightly. “Yes, I suppose you have no idea what’s going on, do you?”

Another of the councilmembers, an older man with frost-white hair, pounded his fist on the table. “Our. Priority. Is. Our. People.” Each word was punctuated with the thud of his fist. “Enel, you are correct that Fastaar may have the best interest of Ilris in mind, but if the cost of Valla can ensure an even greater victory, how can we allow him to make such a sacrifice? We must seize our fate with our own hands.” He sat back in his chair, satisfied that his point had been made.

Sira leaned in and dropped her voice to a whisper. “The four in the center are the Council of Valla. Elected representatives that speak for the people. To the far right, you have Gareth Finn, the appointed Lord Governor of Valla. Cream of the crop from Achenar. The other man sitting with him is Major Brixom Umrad. He commands the division that is stationed here.”

“Hmm. Good to know,” Rykker pondered. He could see the appeal in an elected council. But it also meant that the decisions of such a governing body could move against you at every turn. Or—in the case of what he was seeing here—hardly move at all.

“Anyways,” Sira continued. “If you just stay quiet and listen, you’ll be fine. You and your team have done your part.”

“There’s also the wealth that the Antuzans would be gaining if we simply left,” a young man with pitch black hair pointed out. “On the other hand, what value can we place on our citizens lives? This is not a decision to be made lightly.”

The older councilwoman nodded. “I too conclude that more deliberation is required to determination the correct outcome. Too many variables are at play.”

“Zigil and Amina, you are undecided, then?” Gareth stared unhappily at the pair. “Time grows shorter by the hour. Deliberation is a luxury we cannot pay for. We’ll need a full majority vote from the council for this.”

“Well, you know where I stand.” The man who sat near Gareth—Brixom Umrad, Rykker figured—who had been sitting quietly and brooding finally spoke up. He frowned at the lot of them. “You distrust your own people with such ease. Men are risking their lives every day to liberate Valla from the Antuzan threat. And you think to just waste that effort because you’re afraid of a fight? We will fight, and we will win.”

The room settled to silence. Eventually, Gareth broke the stillness. “It seems we will not make any more progress tonight. We shall reconvene in the morning to further discuss matters. Perhaps we will reach an agreement at that time.”

“There’s still the matter of the vial,” Zigil said.

“I’ve tripled the guard patrols along the perimeter walls, but my men are stretched thin as it is.” Brixom withdrew a glass sphere, large enough to fit into both palms comfortably, and placed it on the table. It was filled with a dark ichor that swirled chaotically, of it’s own volition, against the glass. “I assure you, if we find any more Antuzans with one of these, they will be apprehended immediately.”

“What is that, exactly?” Rykker cursed himself. The question just slipped out, unconsciously.

The council turned in unison to look at him. For a moment, no one spoke. Then Brixom said, “We... don’t know.”

“That is to say, we know a Antuzan spy was caught sneaking with this container near the outer perimeter of the city’s walls earlier this evening,” added Zigil. “Although, as Brixom has pointed out, we know not what it’s purpose is.”

Rykker knew he should have stopped then and there. He should have just ignored it. But he couldn’t help himself. It was too damn interesting. “I have a fair hand at alchemy. I could take a look at the vial, try and deduce what’s inside.”

At this, Lord Gareth laughed. “We have our own alchemists for that. I’m grateful to you for your part in giving us hope at a way out of the city, but to impart a task such as this to a stranger whom I have no way of judging worthy is nothing short of absurd.”

“Wait.” Brixom looked keenly at Rykker. “You’re Rykker Adarien, aren’t you?”

“You’ve heard of me?”

“I saw you at an exposition in Achenar once. Your demonstrations were far better than any of the other engineers. I remember you had those goggles that could magnify your vision, and a small device that could fly all on its own...”

With the flourish of a stage magician, Rykker removed the engine from his traveling pack, activating it as he released it from his grip. The engine hummed to life, glowing with a bright orange, and began to hover, bobbing slightly up and down.

A few of the councilmembers audibly gasped. Lord Gareth’s eyebrows raised slightly, but he otherwise gave no reaction.

“If anyone can figure out what this stuff is, it’s him. In any case, it was my men who found the vial, so I have the final say in how it is handled.” Brixom stood with the vial in hand, looking down at Lord Gareth expectantly.

“Very well. Don’t make me regret this.”

Rykker approached the table at Brixom’s request and took possession of the vial. It was surprisingly heavy. The liquid inside must be dense. “I’ll need access to tools.”

Lord Gareth was, at this point, already turning his attention to other matters. “Yes of course, Sira can show you to the workshop here. Your companions are welcome to rooms here in the Prioriem as well. You are all to stay here until we’ve made a decision. We will reconvene tomorrow at first light.”

With that, they were ushered out of the meeting chamber, Sira following closely behind them. Rykker clutched the vial with both hands. He was eager to get to work.

“Do they ever sleep?” Viggo asked.

“Not much, as of late.” Sira herself showed signs of exhaustion. Dark circles masked her eyes, which where twinged with red. “They’re doing the best they can, I think, given the circumstances.”

“Why was Lord Gareth so insistent on beginning an evacuation?” Rykker asked. “It seems a little brash—even reckless—to abandon the safety of the city already.”

Sira shifted her eyes towards the doors, then dropped her voice to nearly a whisper. “It’s his daughter, Annet. It’s just been the two of them here in Valla, ever since he was given lordship. He would do anything to get her out of harm’s way.”

Suddenly things made more sense. Gareth didn’t care about his people, he just wanted to evacuate for his own personal reasons.

Before they could leave, the doors behind them opened. Brixom stepped out, alone. He looked back to make sure the doors fully closed before coming over to them.

“Captain Wyr.” He nodded to Marcus. “I wanted to talk with you before you retired for the night. Although the final decision is yet to be made, I’d like to send one of my men back through the tunnel to deliver a message to Fastaar.”

Marcus looked hesitant. “Oh. Wouldn’t it be better to wait until the council decides?”

“I fear that we may be running out of time.” He glanced at the vial still in Rykker’s hands. “We don’t know what that is; perhaps the Antuzans do not intend to lay an extended siege.”

Rykker saw conflict in Marcus’ face. The soldier clearly wanted to help, but seemed to dislike the idea of disobeying the council. Ironic, considering his reason for being here.

Marcus sighed. “What can I do to help?”

“If you’ll come with me, we can brief my runner on the location of Fastaar’s camp.”

He then turned to the captain of the city guard, her face a mask of concern. “Sira?”

She hesitated. ”Nilos incarnate, Brix. You can’t ask me to do that. I’ve already quarantined the entrance with a dozen guards. No one is going in there without my—and by extension, the council’s—permission.”

“Please, Sira. We’ve got to get word to Fastaar or this city is going to fall apart from the inside. What would Panra would have done? She always wanted you to do what you thought was best.”

A flash of fire in her eyes seemed to suggest she might hit him. Instead, she took a deep breath. “Damn you for being right. The council is in disarray, and what they don’t know won’t hurt them.”

She punched him lightly on the shoulder. “I’ll let one of your men through, but on one condition. Send Callin. That boy’s always had a good head on his shoulders. If anyone deserves to get out, he does.”

The pair left. Rykker stared after them. He was intrigued by Marcus. At first, he had thought the man a simple soldier. But the longer he worked with him, he came to realize his depth.

Clearly he was very skilled at combat, though he carried no weapon. And he was a survivalist, able to navigate his way through the forest at night and even find a cave that had been lost for centuries. On top of all of that, he seemed to have a strange sense of morality. A duality of duty and righteousness.

“If you’ll follow me.” Sira interrupted his thoughts. “I can show you to your rooms.”

She guided them through the halls and led them to a part of the Prioriem that contained guest suites. She showed Viggo to a room, and he bid them farewell.

She tried giving Sev a room, but Rykker had to awkwardly explain that they would be sharing. He was sure she had noticed the glow of Sev’s eyes, but she said nothing. It was good when people didn’t mind—or at least were indifferent—about Sev.

Eventually they entered a room that looked to be half-bedroom, half-workshop.

“We used to have a councilwoman who was an alchemist,” Sira explained. “Ryveria. Brilliant woman. She insisted on having her equipment moved to the Prioriem when she was elected. Lord Gareth decided to keep it here, even after she was gone. It’s come in handy a few times. For now, you may use it as you see fit.”

Rykker thanked her, and she left. After the door closed, he went over to the bed—dropping the vial on a pillow—and tossed himself onto it, groaning. “Oh, burned sands, my feet. What I wouldn’t give to be you right now.”

“But you cannot be me, Rykker. That is impossible.”

“It’s just a figure of speech, Sev.” He groaned, and shifted in the bed to face Sev.

“Ah yes, I remember you telling me about those. The use of speech in a figurative fashion, usually to denote hyperbole.”

“Uh-huh, exactly.”

For a few minutes, they did not speak. Rykker much preferred the company of Sev in that regard. He was content to sit. Perhaps his thoughts wandered, or perhaps they did not. Either way, Rykker appreciated the time to think. He closed his eyes, letting his mind drift.

This was officially the strangest day he had experienced in a long time. Only a few weeks ago had he decided—on a whim—to join the reserve force when it left to march south. The truth was, he had been bored. His life had grown easy and comfortable in Achenar.

A steady, and not insignificant, stream of income was paid to him for his designs. Schematics for more efficient crossbows, binoculars, blast furnaces—all of which had been acquired by the Ilrian military for a handsome sum.

Those designs, of course, were made possible by his archaeological discoveries. That was what people usually forgot. He was an archaeologist by trade, if his degree meant anything. But, as it turned out, the old Magi from ages past were quite good at engineering. His studies at the university had given him a wide range of skills, from alchemy to architecture. Still, even the most simple of their designs had taken him months to decipher. Now, even after years of study, understanding of their more complex creations remained a mystery to him.

The greatest of all—as far as he could gather—was Sev. He knew he couldn’t be sure. But he had found Sev, buried in the ground, not far from the dig site. It was the most logical conclusion.

He sighed and opened his eyes. Sev still stood, quiet as a statue. Not once had Rykker ever seen him sleep. He didn’t think sleep would come from him either. Not yet. He had work to do.

May as well take a look at this vial. He sat up, scooping the vial off the pillow, and made his way over to the other half of the room. Examining his surroundings, he concluded that this Ryveria had good taste in equipment. It was old, but well maintained. The tubes were relatively clean, if a little stained, and the glass of the beakers gleamed.

He placed the vial of black ichor on a stand that was too small. It would have to do. First things first. I have to remember that whatever this stuff is, it’s probably dangerous. The vial itself was stoppered by a cork. Perhaps the liquid was to be used as a catalyst of some sort?

He found a specialized vacuum chamber on a shelf and worked to set it up. It consisted of a small round vial, a hand pump, and a rubber gasket to connect tubing. He would need to extract a small sample of the liquid from the vial for testing, but he had to be careful. There was no telling what the liquid would react to.

He sterilized the equipment, along with a set of tubing and a small two-way syringe, with some strong alcohol he had found in a cabinet. He hoped that would be sufficient.

Using rubber gaskets, he attached the syringe, tubing, and chamber. He worked the pump, a simple push-pull mechanism, to evacuate the air from the system. He pumped until it became too difficult. The vacuum wouldn’t be completely devoid of air, but it would be good enough.

Carefully, he inserted the syringe through the cork, wincing as he did so, until the needle entered the liquid. He breathed a sigh of relief when nothing happened. He slowly pulled the plunger on the syringe, allowing it to suck in a small amount of the black ichor. He pressed the plunger back down, and the extracted liquid left through a secondary valve, into the waiting chamber.

He observed his prize—a small glass vial no larger than his thumb containing the dark liquid—with satisfaction. With this small amount, performing experiments on it would hopefully prove to be more safe, if only a little.

Now the real work could begin.