Hubris: Vol. 1 - 39. The Ghost of Petras

Crowe and Barghast followed the woman in silence, keeping a weary distance. Who are you? How do you know me? Why have you brought me here? Where are you taking us? What do you intend to do with us? Half a dozen questions spun through the practitioner’s mind, but now that he was here it was as if the woman had cast a spell over him. Barghast guided him after her, refusing to let him go. The practitioner was grateful for the contact. The temperature in the tunnel seemed to drop lower the deeper into the tunnel they went. Dust motes floated lazily in the air, shimmering when they caught the light from Maeve’s lamp.

Barghast and he exchanged anxious looks. The lycan gave his hand a gentle, reassuring squeeze. His tail wagged slightly as if to say: I am here. I am with you. I will not leave you alone. As long as you and I are together there’s nothing we cannot withstand.

The practitioner squeezed back. He drew closer to the barbarian’s heat. Their shoulders brushed together.

The herald wasn’t sure how long they traveled like this - it could have been an hour, it could have been longer - without speaking, without stopping. Maeve did not look over shoulder once to make sure they followed. By the time Crowe noticed the change in the air his body ached with fatigue. It had taken a lot out of him to fuel the pedestal. He released a sigh of relief when the woman stopped at the end of the tunnel. At last she turned to face them. The wind blew her hair around her like a veil. Behind her the spires of Vaylin towered above the ice where they had stood silent vigil for thousands of years.

“Welcome to what used to be the city of Vaylin,” the woman said with a wry smile. Her silver fox eyes flashed with bitter amusement and familiarity. “Look at the spires. Note the architecture. Do they remind you of anything, Crowe.”

Don’t call me that, he wanted to tell her. He hated the fact that she knew his name when he knew nothing of her. He hated the way she looked at him, as if she could see right through him. As if she knew everything about him that he did not yet know about himself. He realized he knew that look. It was the same way Petras had looked at him and Bennett the morning Bennett had let him out of the cellar. In spite of the knot of discomfort that tightened in his belly, her voice pulled at him. He stepped closer to the mouth and looked up.

“Metropolis.”

She nodded with an approving curve of her lips. “There are dead cities just like this one all over the world, built in the Eternal City’s likeness. In its heyday, Vaylin was a majestic city, teeming with life. All this…” She gestured at the frozen, empty street behind her. “The snow, the ice…was not here. This land used to be verdant. Full of trees and life, everything our civilization needed to survive. This was a completely different climate.”

“What happened?”

Something dark flickered in the woman’s eyes. “The same thing that happens in every Iteration as the world begins to degrade and the Cycle approaches its end. Monad’s people…our people…always thrive in the beginning. There is peace in our society. Our people don’t have to hide who they are. They don’t cower in fear. Until the plague of madness hits.”

“The plague of madness?”

“An affliction every practitioner should fear. As you know practitioners have very long lifespans. We can live for thousands of years, assuming fate does not cut the thread early. Closer to death we become senile. We lose our memories, forget where we are, who we are…”

Petra’s empty blue eyes flashed before Crowe’s mind.

Maeve smiled cryptically. “You know of what I speak. You’ve seen it with your own eyes.”

Crowe gulped.

“The plague was different. It afflicted the young as well as the old. It passes at the beginning of every Iteration. It will pass through the next. When the plague of madness came, the Theocracy charged through the streets on horseback, slaughtering any practitioner who stood in their way. I can still hear the thunder of their hooves…” Maeve shook her head, freeing herself from the grip of the past. “Come. I could spend all night telling you what happened and longer. Unfortunately we do not have that kind of time. You bring trouble with you, herald.”

“I - ”

Maeve raised a gloved hand. “We have prepared for such an eventuality. Though the city has been dormant for many centuries, it is not without its defenses. Were it not for the plague, the Theocracy would have never been able to breach these streets. There is a reason why they always wait…”

Her voice trailed off. Crowe and Barghast had no choice but to follow.

The practitioner’s head craned in every direction. Though there was not another soul around them, the same eerie feeling they were being watched nagged at him. The spires were tall enough they provided a barrier from the worst of the wind, but the air was still frigid.

“Heeerrraaalddd…”

The voice sounded in his ear, a low moan that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. He jumped with a yelp, pulling his hand free from Barghast’s grip. He backed away, searching for the source of the voice, only to find a very confused looking lycan staring back at him.

“Twin o’rre?”

“I…I…” The sorcerer shook his head helplessly. “I heard something…”

“I’m not the only one who’s been looking forward to your arrival,” Maeve said. Another knowing smile, another playful glint of the eyes. “This city has been waiting for you.”

Crowe and Barghast continued to follow the woman. Phantom voices tracked their journey. Crowe kept searching the empty corners. Occasionally he would catch a flicker of movement, sure it was a person, only to look and find he’d been made a fool yet again. While the necropolis’ silent streets did not frighten him, he did not like feeling he was being made the subject of an elaborate trick.

“Oi!” he snapped when he could no longer keep his frustration at bay. He rounded on the woman. He no longer cared who or what she was. “I’ve had it up to here with the cryptic passages and riddles. We traveled here all this way because you said it was the only way we’d survive the necromancers. We killed the necromancers and we’re still on the run.. I think it’s high time you tell us why we’re here.”

“I know how far you’ve traveled. I know what it’s taken for you to get here.” Her gaze flickered down to his crippled hand. “Unfortunately I can tell you this is only the start of your journey and it will only get more difficult from here. For the both of you.” She wiggled her fingers to include Barghast. “One day you will find the answers you seek, herald, but that today is not today and it’s not for a while. I’m simply the next mark on the map to guide you on your journey. We are here.”

She’d stopped outside the flagsteps of the tallest spire. The front was guarded by a fountain replicated from the one inside the temple. Her words echoed uneasily in Crowe’s mind: this is only the start of your journey and it will only get more difficult from here…One day you will find the answers you seek, herald, but that today is not today and it’s not for a while…

Up ahead the entrance into the spire was as black and empty as the Void - nothing to hint at what the practitioner and lycan would be walking into. “Wait…wait!” Crowe jogged after the woman. He snagged a hold of her robes. He stepped back hastily when she turned. She did not look happy to be grabbed in such a way. Perhaps you shouldn’t be so bold, he reminded himself. Whatever she is, she’s about as old as Petras was before he died and she’s no mere practitioner. Those eyes…they’re the eyes of a demon. But surely a demon wouldn’t help me. “What you said about not finding the answers I’m looking for doesn’t work for me. You can’t just expect us to follow you blindly. Who are you? What are you?”

“Ah, Crowe. Is it really too much to ask you to take a leap of faith with me? You do it every day. You follow Monad blindly. You took a leap of faith when you saved your twin o’rre from the torchcoats. You’ve been taking leaps of faiths every day since then. You will have to take thousands more before your journey is over. Each one more difficult than the last. I can only tell you what will happen if you do not take this one.”

Crowe laughed bitterly. “What will happen? Please tell me.”

“We will all die,” Maeve answered in the same voice she might have used to tell him the color of the sky. “You and your lycan lover will never leave this place.” She arched a snowy eyebrow. “Is that incentive enough for you?”

They followed her into a large chamber. The floor beneath their feet was uneven, cracked in places and raised in others. Flakes of snow slid in between cracks set in the ceiling, gathering in clumps between the stone pillars. Faceless winged statues watched them from atop stone altars. The city of Vaylin was beautiful in all its empty glory. Just remember the society that existed here is dead. The Theocracy slaughtered them and enslaved those who were left. The same thing will happen again if you fail.

After passing through a series of equally empty corridors, Maeve led them up a spiral staircase. Crowe was surprised to find candles had been lit atop altars. He could feel voices raised in argument.

“Who else is here?” he demanded.

“Others who have been waiting for this moment as long as I have. Waiting for you. They’re friendly.”

The sorcerer frowned. “They don’t sound friendly.”

“You will meet them shortly. First I want to show you something.” She stepped through an open doorway.

Crowe glanced over his shoulder at the lycan. Still there. “I don’t like this,” he whispered. “I don’t like this one bit.”

Barghast’s eyes cooled from molten gold to pale amber. He settled a paw on Crowe’s shoulder; he squeezed it gently. “Together,” he said. Another word the herald had taught him.

“Together,” the herald agreed.

Maeve stood behind a large oak desk. A fire crackled merrily in the hearth. Bookshelves lined the wall, filled with leatherbound volumes. A room that was anything but empty. But none of the objects in the study captured Crowe’s entrance the way the two portraits over the fireplace did. He walked towards them with the gait of a man who finds himself trapped in a dream and can’t wake up. “These are…”

“You,” Maeve said. “Well…not exactly. They’re your predecessors.” She went to the fireplace. She pointed at the first portrait. A man stood in the center of a temple, surrounded by hooded figures: an echo of the image Crowe had seen in the room with the pedestal. He wore rich robes made of purple silk. The man in the portrait appeared older than Crowe was currently, but the shape of his eyes and the hooked bridge of his nose were the same. “Monad,” she said. “The Prime himself. The one who made all of this.” She waved a hand to indicate everything. “And this…You know who this is.”

Crowe’s blood turned to ice. He looked into the cold eyes of his tutor. Already he could feel his disapproval. You are a mistake…

Next to the portrait of his mentor was an empty space. “That’s where you would go,” Maeve said in her raspy voice.

“Would?”

She nodded sadly. “Things are different this time.”

“Different? Different how?”

“You’re different. Things have started early. The herald is not supposed to appear for another two-hundred-and fifty years.”

“Two hundred and fifty years?” Crowe scoffed even as the necromancer’s words replayed in his mind about things being different. “You can't expect me to believe you.”

Maeve's eyes narrowed. “Even after everything you've seen? Even with everything you have accomplished?”

“I grow tired of your riddles, woman! For over a month we have raced to get here, pursued from one end of the North to the other. You look at me as if you know me - know the both of us. You clearly can speak Okanavian. You told me you know Petras. What else do you know?”

“More than I'd like to and nothing at all,” came the silver-eyed woman's reply. “As you know Petras was your predecessor. We worked together. When he failed to change things at the end of the Second Iteration we went into hiding with the vow that the Third Iteration would be the last.” The woman beamed at Crowe with such appraisal it made the practitioner uneasy. “You are the product of that change. Now everything is in flux. Everything we think we know has changed. Petras…where is he?”

“Buried under the dirt, being feasted on by the vermin of the earth.” The words came out in a cold, sharp rush before he could stop their passage.

If Maeve heard the icy fury in his voice, she didn’t show it. “How long ago did he pass away?”

“A little over three months ago.”

She nodded. The way the blood drained from her face told him the news he'd delivered was not the news she'd wanted to hear; he could also see it didn’t surprise her. “Not so long ago we weren't just colleagues, we were friends. The enemies we fought together….the battles we won. I've never met anyone who had a mind quite like his.” She smiled sadly. “When we met I was trapped in a hell of my own making. I was in too deep and couldn't see my way out. He helped me to find a new reason to continue living when I had none. It hurts to see him in your face and feels good at the same time. Like I'm seeing an old friend I haven't talked to in years.”

Crowe tried to steel himself against her words to no avail. The genuine grief he heard in her voice hit an exposed nerve. Whoever she was…whatever she was…it was clear she had cared about Petras. He glanced at the portrait of his mentor. Even now it seemed he glared back at him with disapproval from the portrait. It never occurred to you in all those years you lived with him that you have the same face, did it? That centuries from now you will look exactly as he did and the madness will eat at your brain as it eventually does all practitioners…?

He turned his head away from the painting. He couldn’t bear to look at it a second longer. “I'm sorry for your loss.” It surprised him to find he meant it.

Maeve turned away. She wiped at her face with long fingernails. “He raised you, didn't he?”

“He's the closest thing I had to a father.” The bitterness crept back into his voice. He couldn’t stop his hands from trembling. “He became sick with the madness. I cared for him until the day he died. I didn't know him the way you did. It's like hearing about a perfect stranger the way you talk about him. All I know is I'm the one who has to clean up all his messes.”

The woman nodded as if she understood something he didn't. “I think it is time you met the others. This way, please.”

She led Crowe and Barghast out of the room. Crowe was happy to be out of the study, where Petras couldn't watch him from beyond the grave. Even now he hovers over me like a phantom that will not leave me be? Will I ever truly be free of him?

A dark gray tail brushed across his face, pulling him from his thoughts. Amber eyes bore into his with concern. “Safe?” the Okanavian rumbled.

Crowe looked away guiltily. He'd been so lost in thought over his mentor, he'd forgotten about the barbarian. Even if they could understand each other, how could he find the words to explain the complications of his relationship to Barghast? He reached over, giving the lycan’s paw an affectionate squeeze. “I'm fine. I'll feel better when we're away from this place. When it's just you and me again.”

Barghast’s tail wagged. “Together.”

The practitioner nodded. “Together.”

They could hear the sound of voices again raised in agitation. The source of the commotion came from a door at the end of the hallway; the door was open. A man dressed in robes marched past the door, rolling his shoulders in anger. Maeve looked at Crowe over her shoulder; the resigned look on her face told him this was a common occurrence. “Prepare yourself.”

They entered a large dining room. A dozen men and women sat around a long dining table made of wood. Crystal goblets had been placed at each seat. The faces that lined the table were cracked with age, hair shot through with streaks of gray; others had the same silver-white hair Petras had before he died and the same nimbus Maeve currently had now. The charged feeling in the air and the staves they each held at their side told Crowe they were practitioners just like him. Had he ever seen this many practitioners in a room at one time? Have they all been here the same as Maeve, waiting for me? The thought made the herald nauseous.

The man who he'd glimpsed from the hallway stopped at the farthest end of the table, having sensed the new arrivals. The angry flush of his cheeks and wheeze of his breath and the uneasy hush in the room suggested he had been shouting for some time. Unlike the others seated around the table, he did not carry a staff or wear the Lion-Headed Serpent around his neck. Bright red hair shot through with bristles of gray hung down to the meaty curve of his shoulders. His mouth twisted beneath the red whiskers that covered the lower half of his face. Sharp green eyes bore into Maeve's fox eyes. He raised a dark bottle to his lips; Crowe detected a whiff of whiskey.

“Finally you’re here. We've been waiting here all bloody night.”

“Ah, Matthias.” Maeve's answering smile was dry and mocking. “I've seen you found the stash of whiskey. I figured it wouldn't take you long to find it.” She scanned the faces around the table. “I'm sorry to have kept everyone waiting; I know this is unpleasant business we've been doing. There have been some recent developments I did not foresee, so we do not have much time. The Black King has found a vessel and is but moments from breaching our doorstep…”

Mutters and curses of alarm fluttered around the table. Maeve silenced them with a wave of her hand.

“We have spent centuries waiting for this moment,” Maeve continued. Her voice rang with passion, drawing every eye in the room to her. Not even Crowe could bring himself to look away. “Hiding in the shadows while the Cycles spun on without us with the hopes that our sacrifices would pay off in order to change things. That moment is here.” She stepped back, forcing Crowe to the forefront.

All eyes in the room turned to him, pinning him in place. Several bodies rose from the table. Crowe wanted to step back, wanted to cower behind Barghast where he could hide from their scrutiny, but his legs had turned to the stone.

“The herald…”

“He is here…”

“He should not be here yet. It’s too early in the Iteration…”

A roar of laughter broke through the room, silencing their whispers. Several pairs of eyes glared at Matthias with disapproval. He took a long pull from the bottle of spirits before pointing a fat finger at the herald. “That is not a herald, Maeve. That is a boy. He looks like he’s barely weaned off his mother’s teat. I don’t know what you’re looking so happy about, demon. All these centuries of toil, all these sacrifices only for you to bring a boy to fight our battles.” The man’s voice trembled with ill-concealed resentment. “Aye, things may be changing. Events are starting earlier in the Third Iteration than they did in the First and Second. But have you stopped to think of the consequences? You’ve already changed one event and look at what arose from it. Hamon stands on our very doorstep…”

A growl sounded behind the herald. Barghast stepped around Crowe, shielding him with his body. He showed his teeth to Matthias.

Many people would have cowered back, but the ruddy-faced man laughed again, wiping at the back of his mouth with a liver-spotted hand. “And where would our beloved herald be without his lycan lover? I wondered when I would see you again.”

“Matthias.” It was Maeve’s turn to glare at him. “You’ve had more than enough to drink.” She cocked her head in the Okanavian’s direction. “I suggest you hold your tongue lest you lose it.”

Matthias opened his mouth to argue. Seeming to think better of it, he snapped it shut. He took the empty seat near the front of the table at the opposite end of the room. Crowe leaned towards Maeve. He dropped his voice to a whisper, fixing her with a pointed glare. “I knew there was something else you were hiding from me. You are a demon.”

“Aye, as everyone here knows.” Crowe expected Maeve to look away guiltily. She didn’t. She looked him directly in the eye. “I am not a demon, though a demon resides inside me.” She widened her eyes in indication of this. “I am not a demon, nor am I your average practitioner - just as you aren’t. I am neither and both at the same time. We live together in harmony, she and I. We share this body. This mind.”

Numerous faces flashed through the practitioner’s mind. First Bennett’s, then Tannhaus’, then Lagerof’s. Their eyes were black as the Void. Hers are silver. Why are they different? Why is she different? “I’ve seen what happens when a demon from Inferno inhabits a human body. But you have found harmony with the one inside you? How is that possible?”

“Another question I cannot answer. Matthias, as drunk as he is, is right about one thing. We don’t know what the consequences this night could bring are. Against all odds you stood against Hamon’s servants and won when we did not think capable of doing so. Now Hamon has risen to take their place. He is a far more formidable enemy. Even with our combined strengths…” She flicked her gaze in the direction of the table. “...we are not strong enough to stand against Hamon…”

“We need Petras here!” Matthias piped up.

“Petras is dead!” Crowe snapped. He whirled around to face Matthias. However he must have looked it was enough to silence the man and drain the blood from his face. “I didn’t know him the way you did. So far all everyone as said about him is how brilliant he was, how kind he was, how there was none other than him, but the Petras I knew was cruel. Manipulative. Abusive. And by the end of the life he was but a shell of himself. I know. I fed him every day and emptied his bed pan. I’d also like to remind you he failed. Failed all of us…”

A bell dinged in the room.

He stopped, looked over his shoulder.

There was nothing there except the frost-covered window and the wail of the wind beating against the glass. You’re hearing things. Petras is dead and in the ground.

Back to the table.

“We’re not supposed to be here,” he continued. “This world is a mistake. Our people still remain locked in chains. I have seen firsthand what the Theocracy is willing to do in the name of their dogmatic faith. I don’t know if I can change things. I don’t know if I can make this Iteration better than the last one. But I will leave Monad’s people to suffer unjustly. Pope Drajen’s reign of terror will end.” To Maeve he said, “You brought me here for a reason. You said we cannot defeat Hamon on our own. Have I doomed us?”

“Not yet.” Maeve bit her lip.

“You don’t sound confident.”

“I’m not. It’s an idea. An experiment we have yet to try.”

“An experiment?”

Before the demoness could elaborate, a shriek sounded outside the window. Crowe’s blood turned to ice. I’ll never be able to forget that sound as long as I live. Already the practitioners around the table were getting up from their seats, staves in hand. The hairs on the back of Crowe’s neck and arms stood on end. The air seemed to draw in on itself as a dozen practitioners drew on their mana, runes ablaze with Monad’s fire.

“Reavers,” Maeve whispered. She didn’t sound any happier than Crowe felt. “Herald, it seems we are out of time.”