Chapter LXIII #2
The only strange thing is that I have already used the Will my spear imparted. Which should be impossible.
“Place your hand on the menhir.”
I spent years fighting this. I chose to be flogged, again and again, rather than submit at the Aurora Columnae at Letens. And yet, this is not the same. This is not the Hierarchy wanting me to become one of them. As hard as it is to separate, this is no longer about making a stand.
I still hesitate.
“Place your hand on the menhir.”
“Why?” I ask the word aloud. It feels like it’s swallowed by the viscous pool.
The throbbing of the Aurora Columnae seems to heighten in response, but there is no other answer.
I stand there for several more seconds. Reluctant more than indecisive. But there is still a clock on my time here.
“Place your hand on the menhir.”
I growl, and slam my hand against the vibrating, glowing veins of the Aurora Columnae.
In Caten, there’s a ceremony required for the Columnae to impart the ability to use Will.
Words that need to be said in order for anything to happen.
I know this, because I have touched the Aurora Columnae there many times before.
Been physically held against it by Matron Atrox as she screamed at me to submit, over and over again in the early hours of the morning, before there were any witnesses other than the priests.
But I never did, and so the touch was always simply skin against unresponsive stone.
This is different.
There’s a thrum as I make contact. Like a release of energy that’s been silently building around me, an invisible wave that explodes outward from the obelisk, racing through stone and away into the rest of Fornax.
Then pain in my head, sharp and cold and clear.
“SYNCHRONOUS!” The woman’s scream is panicked, a shriek so abrupt that I stumble. The word ricochets through my skull.
And then, there are pulses everywhere.
Nothing has changed in my surroundings, but to my mind, the city is suddenly alive with presence. Those statues outside shining like beacons. Thousands upon thousands of them.
As well as the two that are in here.
I barely have time to register the movement. A flicker of shadow interrupting the light cast by the Aurora Columnae to the left, a glimpsed glimmer of reflection off damp stone.
I dive to the side, rolling through the unnatural water as a spear slices the space I was standing a moment ago.
I sputter to my feet, the strange, thick liquid dripping dully into the motionless pool, to find the two silver statues have moved.
Are moving. Their intricately wrought heads facing me. Their spears held in attacking poses.
“Vek!” I shout my alarm and stumble backward as the nearest one jabs again, fast and fluid, belying the metal nature of its body. They pulse wildly to my vision as they stalk forward in eerie tandem. Slowly, but no hesitation or inclination to mercy.
I twist toward the entrance, just in time to see thick stone sliding down to seal the archway.
“Ohh, vek.” Hard not to panic. No other way out that I’ve seen. I keep backpedalling and then crouch, snatching up a pulsing blade I see in the water nearby.
UNWORTHY. The impression shudders through me, sick and unhappy, beginning as soon as I touch the hilt. UNWORTHY.
I flick the blade aside in horror and snatch another one, slightly longer and narrower.
UNWORTHY. I slap away another thrust from the statue, and resist the urge to drop this one too. UNWORTHY.
I scramble, out of the pool and between the columns and the thankfully motionless black statues. The farther silver statue circles around as the closer one engages me again. Trying to get into my blind spot. The dread trying to overwhelm me increases. They’re intelligent, then.
UNWORTHY.
“Shut up!” I shout the words in frustration.
Slide past another strike, months of training taking over.
These things are fast but they’re not inhumanly so; in fact, they’re slower than Tara and Pádraig, and maybe even Conor.
Not that it will matter. Even with this sword, I have no idea how to kill something that won’t bleed.
UNWORTHY.
I keep circling, dodging around columns and statues, keeping space and stone between me and my attackers.
They’re unhurried, seem content to let this gradual, awkward dance continue indefinitely, which at least allows me the chance to regain a fraction of my composure.
Could this be part of the test? Unlikely.
If nothing else, the way the word “synchronous’” was screamed—the term my father used for me, last night—suggests that I’m an enemy here.
UNWORTHY.
Oh. And that, too.
I dodge and deflect as one of the silver forms closes again, thinking desperately.
They’re being powered by Will, clearly. Does that help me?
Rotting gods. Maybe. Keeping Will imbued without ongoing line of sight needs a clear mental connection to the imbued object, a memorisation of its exact form.
If that form is altered enough—if it strays too far from the imbuer’s image of it—then the Will is lost. Returned to its owner.
UNWORTHY.
I reverse direction abruptly, slither forward into the restricting water to place the nearest statue between me and its counterpart.
My blade flashes. Parried. Again, and again, a flurry of frantic strikes as the second gleaming body moves to gain position.
I’m faster and my blade hits silver once, twice.
It scores and dents the softer metal. The statue appears unfazed.
I dance back, breathing hard. Not damaged enough, or an ineffective strategy?
Gods-damn it. Will shines at my feet, every weapon in the water glimmering with a softer pulse.
At some point, surely, these statues would become so broken that the force behind them would be simply rendered impotent.
But the number of hits even one would have to take …
It’s not like there’s a choice, though.
I stumble around the blinding throbs of the Aurora Columnae for a minute.
UNWORTHY. Three. UNWORTHY. Longer. Mostly out of the water weaving between columns, but then dashing in at irregular intervals too, metal ringing against metal as my blade becomes a hammer.
I take what I can, but after the first few strikes, begin focusing on their heads.
It’s not just the most distinctive part of them—it should be the easiest to deform.
But it’s also a difficult target, and I’m tiring rapidly, while they do not appear to be. They move no more slowly than they did in the first few seconds of our fight. They’re too heavy to shift, to ram into and throw off-balance.
I’m too many minutes into the awkward cat-and-mouse skirmish when, finally, I land a true hit on the silver head of one of the statues.
A solid blow, all my strength behind it.
The symbol crumples, interlocking silver lines jamming together and bending in on themselves three layers deep.
My arm shivers at the hit and I almost lose the blade before stumbling back, panting my triumph.
Half the gods-damned design is caved in.
The statue pauses, and for a heartbreakingly hopeful moment, I’m sure it has frozen in place.
UNWORTHY.
Then it comes again. As if nothing had happened.
I groan, my arm leaden now not just with exhaustion, but with the slow and heavy certainty that’s now crushing me with each passing second and each futile burst of effort. My heart pounds with sick dread. Vek.
I am going to die here.