30. THIRTY #2
He juggled the things he knew with the things he didn’t.
Calisto had helped to cover up the truth that Calver had learned only months ago in Chira’na—that his father had died bringing the last Ruxian heir to Methu’su.
Raimee had been told to stay away from the Nelfinden oligarchy, despite her legal claim to the throne.
Thacklore had suggested that the oligarchy covertly ousted the Ruxians—that Methu’su was involved.
And his father…? His father had deserted following an account sent by Blue Wing courier.
This had Deshpian Thacklore written all over it.
Thacklore had given the Red Wing false information, leaving them vulnerable to Chori attack in Casowhatan.
Thacklore—obsessed with obtaining a Ruxian—had led Calver’s father into an ambush when he’d brought Raimee to Methu’su the first time.
And when Thacklore discovered Calver’s identity in Chira’na, he’d called him a conduit.
What was a fated conduit?
Calver let the anger billow around him as he weighed the need to know and the repercussions of getting his answer. The scales slowly tipped, and he did what he’d sworn never to do again many times before.
Come. He impressed the summons with such vehemence that it echoed through the void.
The world dilated and slowed until Calver felt its presence blossoming from the depths like a dark flower. It filled him, numbing him. The comfort of its familiarity appalled him. Calver clenched his fists, clutching at his slowly slipping purchase on his headspace.
What am I?
The Survivor’s metallic voice was level as ever. {If there is one thing to be said for you, it is that you are endlessly predictable.}
Don’t toy with me. What am I?
{Two steps down from deity. A failed experiment. An abomination. A coward.}
Time stretched. Half submerged in the void as he was, Calver vaguely noticed Kian’s elevated voice. Niklaus’s rose to meet it: a battle of words, circling one another like snakes.
WHAT AM I?
Had the Survivor eyes, he felt they would have narrowed on him. {You know what you are.}
The truth turned the world around him to madness, the possibilities and insights stacking outward in an endless line.
All those years his mother had promised him his father was a loyalist…
His family had been on the losing side of a secret schism.
No wonder Cul’Mon had wanted him—chased him across the ocean.
Calver was an experiment, designed to produce a weapon.
And considering the prospect of a Tera’thian distortion stratum, the experiment had been successful.
The Survivor sifted through his thoughts, and Calver took equal advantage of the moment to search through the memories of their shared experiences.
It didn’t take long to find the feedback he was looking for: Fankalo.
Fankalo talking about Luck, about futures, about Fate.
Words that had entered his ears and he’d never heard or thought on.
Fankalo looking at him with broken eyes.
He’d been a burden all this time. Even before the incident.
How had he not realized how bad it had been?
Does Fankalo know?
{Of course she knows. A lot smarter than you, isn’t she?}
Get out. He had everything he needed now. VOID.
If the Survivor’s grip on his headspace lessened, it was imperceptible.
{Are you angry, Calverous?}
I don’t need you anymore.
{You keep saying that, and yet—}
I am in control now, and I will finish this without you. VOID.
Nothing happened.
Calver nearly put down his guard, thinking the Survivor’s silence to mean it had fled, until—
{I’ve always been the one in control. I descended, assuming you were a lost cause. But you are still here.}
Gooseflesh erupted down Calver’s neck. Void void void. When the Survivor had submerged itself in Chira’na, he’d actually believed himself rid of it. He should have known better. Things that were good were never things that were lasting.
{But you already know when you’ll be rid of me.} As the void mantra continued to fail, Calver’s panic spiraled around him, seeping through the cracks in his mind for the Survivor to lap like nectar. {How long do you have, Calverous? I know you count.}
The answer slipped out. Three-hundred and thirty-two days.
The Survivor hummed. Its weight deepened, crushing him. {Giving you control has only ever been a mercy: an entertainment. It makes no difference to me whether you claim your headspace until then. You’re still headed exactly where I want you.}
Calver’s gut plummeted. Despair clouded where he had begun to long for a future. There had only ever been one way forward. VOID.
{I might have turned in quietly, barring your hiccup of misbelief. Instead, I’ll leave you with this reminder of how little agency you have.}
Voi—
The thought was struck from him. Calver’s psyche became a brittle leaf in the Survivor’s palm.
The mind-djinn clenched its cold, iron fist.
NIKLAUS
Mastico held up a hand; Niklaus held his tongue. They all turned to look at Calver. His hands were clutching the sides of his head, eyes scrunched tight. The rings around them seemed suddenly darker than before. A vein twitched at his temple.
“Calverous,” Mastico said. “How did you survive?”
Calver had told Niklaus that Strikapa was a cover-up for a Tera’thian scourge of Kaidech—an act in which Thyatira was complicit. That Thyatira had silenced him and abducted him to use as a test subject for Limtush Pharmaceutical. Would he spin the same tale to Thyatira’s second?
Calver’s breath came in short gasps. His neck bulged. Blood began to dribble from his nose. A moment passed. And another.
“Cal?” Niklaus tapped his shoulder.
Calver’s hand snapped out and clenched Niklaus’s bicep.
Niklaus gasped—his fingers were like talons, his grip like iron.
Both Masticos drew towards them. Calver’s eyes rolled until only their whites showed.
His hand fell away as his body pitched onto the rug with a thump. Niklaus scuttled backwards.
“What’s wrong with him?” Mastico’s question was nearly a shout.
“I—I don’t know.” Niklaus massaged his arm and gritted his teeth before returning to Calver’s side. He patted Calver’s arm, half-expecting the mute to punch him square in the nose. Calver’s body began to seize.
“I’m calling for a medic,” the senior Mastico said, rising and striding from the tent.
“What did you do to him?” Kian accused Niklaus.
“Nothing! He—” He’d only had his back ripped to shreds that morning, marched five hours through the desert, fought two men in a ring, and unmasked childhood trauma. It was a wonder he hadn’t dropped like a sot hours before.
It took less than two minutes for Mastico to return with a medic, a bristly brick of a man who sped into the tent, bag tucked under his arm. Without acknowledging anyone, he squatted beside Calver and felt for a pulse. Niklaus tucked his hands beneath his arms.