Son of Sunday Update

That part in italics is a jokey subtitle, as if Sunday Update 2: Son of Sunday Update were the name of both this post and a bad horror movie sequel.

Anyway.

Some progress has been made on what I’ll now be calling “The Solomon Saga.” It will have at least two books. Those being Solomon, which follows some of the adventures of Jacob Absolom and the Seven, and Son of Solomon, which follows Stephen as he reunites the Seven after Jacob’s death to avenge his father’s death. Depending on how Son of Solomon turns out, there may be a third book or something, but I’m not sure.

Monday’s Aldain update may be a bit late, but it will be posted sometime on Monday. I just haven’t gotten the longhand finished quite yet, much less the typed post.

That’s all for now. Peace out.

-The Drewcifer

“Ah, Maguerite,” I say, without looking up.

“I was told that you have a task for me from our Mistress?” The vulnerability she had shown earlier is gone; replaced by her standard harshness. That vaguely condescending, aloof attitude has been well cultivated in both of us. It has enabled us to survive these six years. We rarely drop it, even around each other.

I hold up a second crystal, identical to the one around my neck. “This is a copy of the aethernaut’s memories. Alter them so he will not know he was ever here and get him back into M-space.”

“You may tell our Mistress that he shall be gone by dinner, Sorcerer Aldain.” She takes the crystal and curtsies.

The curtsy is important. Coupled with the use of my formal title, it means someone is watching her. Watching us. I quickly stash the original crystal in my pocket.

“Enchantress Maguerite, Sorcerer Aldain. How pleasant to see you.”

So those are the eyes she was warning me of. Gerran. A weasel of man if there ever was one. A short, sickly thin creature with a personality as attractive as his appearance.

“I couldn’t help but overhear you mention the Mistress. Is there some task I may assist you in to help her?”

While Maguerite and I have special duties befitting our talents, Gerran is the highest of the mundane servants. Gerran is slavishly loyal to our Mistress. He tells her everything he sees, Every accomplishment of his, every breach of conduct by anyone else. To tell the truth, he’s more annoying than useful most of the time. Regardless, our Mistress knows the value of a set of eyes and ears among the servants, so she tolerates him.

“Gerran,” I say. I use no honorific; his false smile flickers at that. “This task of ours is of absolute secrecy. Depending on how much you have already heard, your life may already be forfeit.”

Coming from someone else, one could mistake that for a jest. Gerran knows me well enough not to make that mistake. His eyes widen. He stammers.

“But. I. That is. Sor-”

“Enough!” I cut him off. “Go to our Mistress and tell her everything you heard.”

He bows and starts to scurry down the hallway. Just before he reaches the end of the hallway, I call after him. “And if you’re thinking of lying to save yourself, don’t. I’ve seen what our Mistress does to liars. The possibility of a swift death for knowing too much is quite preferable.” I pause for a moment, then add as an afterthought. “And make sure you tell our Mistress that Maguerite says she will have her appointed task done before dinner.”

I wait until he is long gone and out of earshot. Then I turn to Maguerite to find we are both smiling.

“That was cruel,” she says, grinning ever wider.

“It’s the little pleasures that make life bearable,” I respond.

We go so far as to actually allow ourselves to laugh very briefly.

Maguerite’s smile fades, taking mine with it. “I do need to get to work. I’ll see you at dinner, Aldain.”

She turns and leaves me alone with my thoughts and the original memory crystal

As I slip into the pocket reality I left growing earlier, I let my thoughts wander.

I don’t know who’s the worse traitor, Gerran or Maxwell. Maxwell sold out his own people, but in so doing has defied the Elders. He did what he did to avoid slavery. Gerran, meanwhile, has embraced his slavery. His devotion is completely sincere. At least Maxwell is a man; Gerran is just a dog.

I return to my quarters to find Maguerite is gone. It’s hardly surprising. As the two highest ranking servants, it’s just the two of us in our room. The price of that is that we’re almost always busy. I sit on the floor and being working with the crystal. I prefer to work with minds this way, just pure memory with no personality to filter or obscure anything from me.

The aethernaut’s memories are interesting, but a project for later. For now, I find the information I need on Maxwell. My Mistress will be pleased to hear good news.

She has moved from the gardens to the dining hall. With a start, I realize I have not eaten since breakfast yesterday. More worries for later. I wait by the door while one fo the serving girls announces me.

“You may go on in, Sorcerer Aldain,” the girl says to me. I don’t even know her name. The turnover rate among the lowest servants is so high there’s no real point in getting to know them.

I step in. My garb this time is much more fitting. Before coming, I’d changed into an outfit my Mistress gave me as a gift. All rich navy blues with gold trim. It should please her and let her know that I do remember her fondness for nice things. She smiles at me as I come in and bow.

“Rise,” she commands and I straighten. “Blue and gold suits you well, Sorcerer. I am glad I got it for you.”

“Your gifts are always wonderful, my Lady. I have never been less than fully happy with any of them.”

Again she smiles. She gestures to the seat on her right, the place of honor.

“Sit, Aldain. I had a place prepared for you. I know how you tend to get caught up and skip meals. Tell me what you’ve accomplished.”

I sit. She eats as I give my report.

“Mistress,” I begin. “I have ripped the aethernaut’s mind. It was unusually easy; he’s obviously a rookie. I know where to find Maxwell.”

“Wonderful.” As she speaks, I eat. “When we come back into the world, you will act as my proxy. Find him. Kill him. Tell no one else of his whereabouts. The fewer places the information lies, the less likely it is to be found.”

She pauses, takes a sip of wine, continues.

“In fact, let no one know even that we have found Maxwell. Do not mention the aethernaut; only you, Maguerite, and I should even know he ever was here. Have Maguerite modify his memories and return him to his vessel.”

“As you speak, Mistress, so shall I make it so.”

The rest of the meal continues in silence. As I finish, my Mistress speaks to me again.

“You have three days to prepare, Aldain. This one means a lot, to both of us. Do not fail this task.”

I nod, stand, bow. “Rest assured, Maxwell will die by my hand.”

Pain flows through his body. Pain with no visible source, that will leave no marks.

“Just tell me where to find him and stop wasting time for both of us.”

I give him a few seconds to consider, maybe catch his breath so he can answer. He won’t; they never do.

Instead, he spits on my boot.

Once more, pain flows from my fingers into his mind and body. As the pain wears away his concentration, I attempt to dive into his consciousness. His mental walls hold, but only just. Unfortunately, feeling the intrusion gives him a goal and lets him withstand the pain that much better.

I’m fed up with this. As I told him earlier, he’s wasting my time. I stop the pain abruptly while simultaneously renewing my mental assault.

The sudden loss of sensation throws him off balance and I’m in. The information I need is in here somewhere, so I just take all of it. It’s faster that way, though a bit messier. I rip out his memories wholesale, transferring them to the crystal around my neck.

I walk away from the drooling half-man I’ve left in the cell. I close and lock the door and don’t look back again.

My goal for now is to update Aldain’s story MWF and to post a new chapter of Stephen’s story every Sunday. I’ve got quite a bit of Stephen written out in longhand. However, the beginning needs a considerable overhaul. The narrative perspective (hereafter called the “camera”) starts out much more distant, almost third person omniscient instead of the third person limited that the bulk of the tale is written in. After the first few paragraphs, the camera “zooms in” on Stephen and we get into the TPL POV that I’m going for. I’m thinking about reworking the opening of the book entirely. Anyway. I’ll post progress reports on how Stephen’s doing every Sunday until I actually feel comfortable enough to start posting chapters.

—————-
Now playing: Apocalyptica – Hall Of The Mountain King
via FoxyTunes

Maxwell is the only person I hate more than my Mistress.

Maxwell and I had been schoolmates. As the top two students in our graduating class, a friendly rivalry had persisted between us. We were each poised to go on to change the face of magic after graduation.

On the eve of our graduation, they came. Conquerers from a fading reality, falling from the stars. My Mistress was first among them.

We know little more about them now than we did then. We call them the Elders, for they are undying.

Maxwell became one of only three mortals to secure a holding. He did so by betraying our homeland to my Mistress.

I remember the betrayal clearly. My friend and ally turning on his own men, on me, in the heart of our most dire battle. The memory still makes my blood boil.

In light of this, Maguerite’s reaction when I tell her I’ve been given the privilege of interrogating Maxwell’s aethernaut is quite understandable.

“Stop wasting time! Put on a shirt and find out where that bastard’s hiding.”

She’s in rare form today.

My thoughts wander more as I make my way to the holding cells. My Mistress also has reason to hate Maxwell. He has betrayed her, too. He is the reason we hide in a pocket reality, rather than standing firm in the real. He so weakened us that retreat and slow recovery became a necessity. My Mistress went from first among her peers to last. But without him, my Mistress would never have allowed me to grow strong enough to fight as her proxy.

I guess that means I should thank him. I won’t.

I open the door to the prisoner’s cell and I can’t suppress a slight sadistic smile.

“Rise, Aldain. Explain. Astound. Preferably both.”

My Lady’s voice is still stern. It’s too early to tell how irrational her anger has made her. Slowly, I stand. Before I speak, I bow at the waist. There is one breach of conduct, though. As I straighten, just before I begin to speak, I make eye contact with my Mistress. Her violet eyes betray her. I am still her favorite. Still in her favor.

“Mistress,” I intone. “I lost track of time. I was investigating a new technique. One which will finally give you the upper hand required to seize Queendom.”

My Mistress is pleased. The thought of the others bowing at her feet is too tempting, too powerful for her to ignore. That will be her downfall.

“If you speak the truth, then your tardiness is excused. But if I ever find you have been lying to me, Aldain, I will make you find many, many reasons to wish for death. And it will be withheld.”

She pauses and sighs, her expression changing. I’m visibly in the clear now.

“Do you know why you were to come here today, Aldain?”

“No, Mistress.”

She smiles at me. “I have a gift for you, Aldain.” She pauses, looks away feigning disinterest. “In three days, the castle will fall back into normal reality.”

For a moment, my confusion must be plain on my face. I knew all this; I am responsible for pulling us into and out of the world.

“Maxwell, Duke of Carlisle, has sent a scout into M-space. We have caught him. The task of extracting information from him falls to you, Aldain.”

So that’s the gift. I bow repeatedly, stammering gratitude and apologies. She waves me on.

As I walk out of the garden, Maguerite is once again beside me.

“You astound me, Aldain, you truly do. You walk in fully in her wrath and she shows you favor.”

I shrug and continue on my way to my quarters. I need to change into a better tunic and fresh gloves. Shabby clothes are not intimidating.

Maguerite continues while I remove my cloak and shirt. “Some day, your recklessness will overshadow your usefulness.”

I shrug. Her eyes roam over my chest and back, lingering on each scar left by our Mistress’s lash. She’s seen it all before, of course. We’ve shared these quarters for six years.

“Aldain, please. You’re all I have left of home. Don’t let her take you away too.”

I look at Maguerite and there are tears in her eyes.

Interrogation can wait.

I embrace her; she still smells like our homeland. I feel hot tears against my chest.

“Maguerite,” I whisper. “One day we shall cast off these chains. We will be free to build our own dominion. To recover our homeland.”

She pulls away and looks up into my face. The fear and sadness in her has been replaced with hatred. The fury on her tear-stained, red, swollen face is a thing of true ferocity.

She says one word; it comes out as a snarl.

“When?”

Sometimes I forget where I am.

It’s nice when that happens. I don’t really care for the places I usually am. Most often this happens when I get caught up in my work. Sometimes it happens at the very worst time.

“Aldain!” comes the frantic cry, echoing across realities. It’s dangerous to give away your position like that. She must be truly desperate.

I fade back into the world. On a whim, I leave the realm I have made intact, there to grow and progress in my absence. Taking my cloak from its hook, I begin to walk quickly in the direction of the palace gardens, wrapping my cloak around me as I do. About halfway, I am joined by the woman whose voice called me back here.

“Aldain,” she hisses, falling into step beside me. “Where have you been? You were due in the Mistress’s presence over an hour ago.”

I keep my composure, even after learning how very late I am. Instead, I adopt a stern tone as I speak to her.

“Maguerite, regardless of how late I am, never call across worlds. I would rather I perish for our Mistress’s wrath than we all die by the hands of her rivals.”

“Do you think me a fool? There is a very narrow band of M-space that all of your demirealms reside in. I called only across them. No one will come that you can’t handle.”

We both stop at the huge double doors marking the garden’s entrance, glaring at one another. Maguerite stands a full head shorter than me, but her spirit is as strong as anyone I’ve ever met. Usually this manifests itself as stubbornness, like it is now. She’s in highly formal garb: Her straight black hair is pulled back, held in place with an ornate clip worked in gold and platinum; the black velvet dress with gold and silver trim must be the most expensive one our Mistress has given her. This worries me. Formality calms our Mistress. Formality means our Mistress needs calming.

Finally her green eyes break away from my black ones as she lets out a huff. She opens the door and steps in before me.

“My Lady, Sorcerer Aldain is here, as you requested.”

She curtsies so deep that she nearly falls. I suddenly become cognizant of the fact that my black tunic is one of my older ones. My cloak could use a wash and a press. There are holes in three of the fingers of the glove on my left hand. I am not dressed in such a way as to improve my position.

“Come in, Aldain.” My Lady’s tone of voice does not bode well for my fate.

Now it is my turn to rely on formality. I walk into the garden, straight down the path to the base of the dais upon which is my Mistress’s chair. I fall to one knee and press my forehead to the ground.

“Mistress, though sore unworthy, I can only beg your grace and forgiveness for my tardiness.”

My Mistress is unhappy with me, but I am still one of her favorites. And not easily replaceable. Still, I keep my head to the floor, my arms outstretched. I am frozen in my bow. Had I been watching someone else, it might have been funny.

I am not watching someone else.