17. SEVENTEEN #2
Calver swam toward a stone dais, elevated inches above the pool.
He clambered out and flopped onto his back, clothes cold and heavy, heart still thrumming in a frenzy.
Waterways laced the floor, leading to the multitude of veins which spiderwebbed in every direction.
This was the aqueduct’s central maintenance ward; he was beneath the imperial palace.
Another shape trudged knee-deep through one of the waterways, carrying a lantern and bucket.
Calver’s coiled muscles relaxed when he realized that it was another Tume’amic: shirtless, ribs protruding, veins visible on his shaved head.
The boy caught sight of him and approached.
The flickering light from his lantern made visible the inky brand on the inside of his elbow.
He raised his recessed chin at Calver. “Trying to escape?” He spoke Tera’thian. Calver recognized, with surprise, that his mind didn’t have to translate anymore. Again, he wondered how much time had passed.
He came to a weary crouch, prepared to fight should the boy turn out to be an enemy.
The boy only shrugged. “Yeah, you’re not the first. I run into one of ours in the main aqueduct twice a year. Pointless, though. There’s no outlet from the palace.”
Calver’s hopes deflated. Knowing the precautions the emperor took on palace securities, he should have guessed the royal compound would be self-contained. He was trapped.
The boy rubbed the back of his neck. “I can try to get you into the palace. You can look for another way, but… they’ll mill you when they find you. That’s what happened to the others.”
Mill was temu’amic code for murder. Milled at eighteen. Milled in the coliseum. Milled if they failed to produce offspring within a year’s time.
Calver nodded.
“Don’t you talk?”
The question would irk him until the day he died. Calver jerked his chin sideways.
“Yeah.” The boy chuckled mirthlessly. “They’re definitely going to mill you. Let’s get you into the laundry ward. Slim opportunity there, but it’s better than here.”
He set down his bucket. It held mortar, a spatula, and a sharp edging tool.
He followed Calver’s eyes toward it. “There’s a dumbwaiter down here. Extended from the kitchens in case of drought, but they’ve never needed it. It’s just a safety hazard now. I was told to seal it off.”
An exit.
Calver stood and lifted the bucket.
“Ahm. It’s over here.” The boy splashed across the room, unminding of the water; he wore hip-high galoshes. Calver followed, trudging in his already waterlogged clothes.
At the far end of the maintenance ward, a patch of wall looked to have been freshly bricked off. The mortar was still slick in the lamplight. Calver’s newfound optimism fizzled.
“You wouldn’t want to go that way anyway. It’s too small. Goes directly into the throne room. The kitchen above us uses it to send refreshments up when the king has to sit for a long audience.”
Calver definitely didn’t want to wind up in the throne room.
The screech of metal on metal sounded from the opposite end of the ward. A light glared from above, illuminating a stairwell that led along the wall to the floor. Someone else had entered.
Calver flipped the switch at the side of the distortion lamp, and its light was extinguished.
Following instincts he didn’t understand, he pulled the edging tool from the mortar bucket and used it to break and pry apart the glass globe encapsulating the lamp’s rotating core.
Without it, the core was small enough to fit into the side of his boot. He stuffed it to the bottom.
Footsteps descended the stairs, followed by the silhouette of a man, larger than any man had the right to be.
Calver clenched the sickle-tipped edging tool in his fist. The boy’s eyes grew wide, and he scuttled into one of the aqueduct tunnels.
The penalty for assisting an escapee was a direct trip to the mill.
Calver would have done the same if he wasn’t sure the act would be futile—Cul’Mon would just find him again. He shifted into a dowagian guard.
Cul’Mon loomed closer. Calver’s anger rose again beneath his icy blue stare.
“I thought you’d grown past this,” he whispered.
{Submit. I will convince him to keep us alive.}
Void.
Cul’Mon’s twin daggers gleamed at his waist. Calver’s grip tightened on the edging tool. His master was bigger. Stronger. Faster. He anticipated Calver’s every move like no other could. He’d need to act fast; maybe a hit to the throat. Or the eyes. Or… using an unexpected weapon.
His thoughts flickered to the lamp, and something in his psyche suddenly shifted. He slipped into a trance-like state of flow. It had been years since he’d felt this—the feeling of invincibility which had always come to him while training in Calisto’s studio.
For the first time since his capture, Calver suddenly believed that, this time, he could win.
He launched himself for Cul’Mon’s knees, aiming his crude tool at them.
Cul’Mon was too fast; he thrust a knee towards Calver’s face.
A hair’s width from a collision that would have turned Calver’s nose into paste, he juked sideways and leapt over a water channel in the floor, putting distance between them.
“Don’t make this mistake.” Cul’Mon unsheathed his daggers, clenching their hilts in a reverse hold.
Master and apprentice stood still, engaged in a clash of wills for long seconds with neither gaining an advantage. Finally, Cul’Mon lunged over the channel for him. Calver hurtled his makeshift weapon, aiming for Cul’Mon’s eyes.
Cul’Mon’s knives crossed in a guard over his face.
Calver leapt, tucked his knees, and launched both feet into Cul’Mon’s solar plexus. He exulted as he landed without taking a hit.
Cul’Mon hunched, gasping for air. He’d actually winded him.
Without wasting a heartbeat, Calver jetted forward, latched on to Cul’Mon’s lowered shoulder blades, and swung around, clinging to his neck. He managed to gain a chokehold.
Cul’Mon raised his daggers. Calver gritted his teeth, preparing himself for the sting of steel. Instead, Cul’Mon took the hilts to him, beating them into his sides and head. Then he threw his back to the ground, crushing Calver under his weight.
Something cracked in Calver’s chest. He cried out, but still clung fast. Cul’Mon threw his head backward, smashing Calver’s into the stone.
Once. Twice. Calver released, stars occluding his vision.
He heard Cul’Mon roll away. Seconds later, a dagger lodged into his shoulder.
He screamed. Arms clenched around his throat.
First he beat at them, then tried to work his fingers beneath the grip.
Cul’Mon released him, but grabbed his wrists, pinning them to his sides. The pain in Calver’s shoulder was excruciating. He submitted, steeling himself for more pain. None came.
Cul’Mon shook his head. “Your predecessor was so much stronger. But more importantly, he knew I would always be two steps ahead. His compliance—his trust—is what gave him strength. It’s time you learned the same.”
Calver lay panting, hating and hating and hating.
“For this, I will give you three barbs. We will go to the labs, next ten-day.”
Cul’Mon made good on his promise.
When he threw Calver to the dirt floor of his cell beneath the manor house, Calver could scarcely move. Back torn, muscles aching, he fought his hunger for sleep and the Survivor’s lust to take back its control.
It was the first time he had chosen to bear Cul’Mon’s torturous insertions—he’d always let the Survivor take over before.
The barbs knitted their way into his flesh, permanent insertions that tore him open with every movement.
He’d received a dozen or more over the years.
They took months to heal. The itching never really stopped.
His whole body trembled. His breath caught in gasps. Even so, he was still victorious: he’d kept control over his mind, and Cul’Mon had only removed his shirt. The cell door closed with a clash, and Cul’Mon’s footsteps padded up the stone stairs. Only then did Calver take off his boots.
The distortion core was still there.
He clutched it in a fist of triumph. The core didn’t have an activator—just loose wires that had connected to the one on the orb’s exterior. Getting it to work again was a problem for another day, but—
A steady trickle of energy coursed through Calver’s limbs. The core burst into light, singeing his hand. He gasped, dropping it. It remained activated for several seconds longer before fizzling out.
Calver wept. It was the most beautiful thing he’d seen in all his life. It spoke in a language that was just for him. He felt like he could communicate with it—take its light and make it his own.
He pulled the lamp into his hands again.
{What are you doing?}
I’m not sure.
Calver let his soul pour into the core. It came to life again. This time he leaned in, feeding it more and more until it levitated from his hands. Its light grew brighter, then brighter still. Escape. There was still a way out.
{Don’t!}
I won’t do it anymore. I’m not his pet.
{You must Survive.}
No. That’s what you do.
{Your sibling is still alive and searching for you.}
The light went out instantly, blanketing Calver in darkness.
You’re lying. The world around him seemed deadly sharp, his mind thrumming so violently it threatened to deafen him.
{I’m not.}
They’re all dead.
{Only your mother. You made the assumption. I never confirmed it. I only ensured that you survived.}
How do you know?
{She sends ripples through the Fates.}
Calver tried to breathe. He couldn’t. A heaving sob cracked his chest. It was unbearable. The Survivor melded around him, dulling the ache in his back, dampening the agony in his memories.
{Sleep,} it whispered.
Calver didn’t argue.