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Chapter 38 - Time to Lie
🕑 Added 2024-06-22 19:39:55 +0000 UTC(Releasing this early because I think it will have a bigger impact when the previous chapter is fresh in your head.)
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Disoriented, Vincent sat up, feeling a wetness on his cheeks. Of course, he would be crying. He had been given a glimpse into a past when he was still innocent of all bullshit. He had seen his dead mother. But did he have an audience this time as he had the last time this had happened? He looked around and saw that he was tucked under the wing of a monstrous creature whom he recognized as Kyrotin. The zerok, sensing that he was conscious, lifted the wing and curled his head around to look at him.
You are awake?
Moments ago, Vincent had been standing alongside a version of himself that knew nothing of bitterness or of insanity. He had relived a portrait from his past, heard the voice of a woman long dead. But now he was back here, tucked into the wings of an oversized avian and for a moment, he had forgotten what transpired.
“What happened?” he muttered, hardly aware of what he was asking.
The screamers of Meldohv still blazed throughout the city and the sky was filled with the whirling of zerok flocks. He looked up at the opening in Meldohv's shell. The storm was still lurking, but it seemed weaker now. Bits of gray began to gleam through the black moiling, as if the laws of nature fought to reassert themselves. He felt a poignant longing to be up there among the churning vapors, the flickering in the ebony nimbus seemed to call out to him like the voices of his family. He did not want it to go, he did not want it to dissipate and leave him behind again.
Black storm. Came upon us by surprise. Very fast. Kyrotin projected, you slept. No...you lost consciousness. I heard Kirlon's cries.
Cries...crying. Little Vinny had scraped his ankle...he had scraped his ankle so many years ago. How had he known Vincent was crying?
“How...it was twenty years ago, how did you know?” he asked. He was just a kid. How could anybody have heard his cries? Vinny's bleeding ankle, his confusion at father's anger...how?
Do not understand. Kyrotin sat on his haunches.
Vincent looked up at the zerok and saw the creature’s blue eyes gazing at him with soft sentience. Not “Vinny”, Vincent thought. He heard “Kirlon”... Kirlon! That was the purple-feathered zerok that tried picking him up. It all came back to him. Jesus...he had blinded the beast, he was certain of it! In the midst of his panic, he had plunged his thumbs right into the creature's eyes!
He tried to stand up, but the world faltered under his weight, and he stumbled back onto Kyrotin's flank. The beast offered his head to help him up. Vincent grabbed a handful of the creature's feathers for stability, accidentally ripped a few of them out.
“Shit!” he whispered, holding the clutch in his hand. “Sorry.”
I am unhurt. Kyrotin said, Kiolai Reashos said you struck your head. Caution. After I carried Thal'rin's instructions, I flew to Kirlon. Saw you lying. I...and another of my kind, escorted you and Kiolai Reashos to Thal'rin's home. Salish left behind. Took shelter in a shop.
“Right.” Vincent let the feathers go, they were picked up by the wind and carried away. “That other zerok, Kirlon, is he...”
“He is not blinded,” said a dark figure leaning againstthe tree on Thal'rin's roof, “he still sees. Zerok eyes are tough.”
The sight of Slade gave him pangs of irritation. And that feeling brought him back to his situation.
“How are you doing?” Slade asked.
“I'm better...I think.” He was still disoriented from reliving his past. “I just saw my...”
He stopped and looked up at the dissipating clouds. As his confusion began to pass, a revelation slowly worked its way into his brain. The storm above had given him a memory just as the other one had. He had suspected this would be the case and his suspicions have been confirmed. He needed to think about the implications.
Of the threats to his identity, the fog that obfuscated his memories was still the biggest. Falius could wriggle itself into those gaps and assert a mask for him, a lie that it could use to control him and make him into a fool. But that storm had given him a weapon. A small one, yes, but one nonetheless. The gears inside his head began to turn. A seed of a plan was planted, one that would allow him to fight back.
“I...need to speak to Thal'rin,” he said, sitting down at the bench and looking out over the city.
Kyrotin looked up into the sky for a few moments and communed with his people. Then he looked down at Vincent. He was prepared to defend Meldohv. But the malice diminishes. No signs of stormspawn. He returns.
“What happened to you in the market?” Slade asked.
Vincent massaged his temples and ran his hands down his cheeks and snout “I saw something. I don't know...I don’t know what to make of it...I just need to speak to Thal'rin.”
He waited in the room Thal'rin had him staying in, with Slade standing outside his door. He paced around its perimeter, considering what he meant to do and flinched when the sirens slowly came to a stop. The relative silence that followed allowed him to hear his own simmering. He kept thinking about the things Salish said, both disgusted and haunted by the words of the nameless tuhli who called him beautiful, and also haunted by the reaction he had to them.
Beautiful? Yes, he supposed one could look at the creature whose flesh he wore and think it was beautiful. Silly, but colorful and vibrant, like a doll one would find inhabiting the toy aisle. How could somebody see it and know it was born of brutality? How could they guess at the violence needed to make such a thing from a human being? Dignified...nothing about it was dignified.
There was a clattering of claws on the roof above, then several orange feathers fell past the balcony. Vincent knew even before Kyrotin told him, that Thal'rin had returned. No doubt the High Channeler already knew what he had done to Kirlon. Vincent remembered the look on the creature's face when he had found Orth pinning him to the wall.
What had Kirlon called himself, some sort of representative? The creature was a diplomat of a sort, somebody of high ranking, and Vincent had tried his hardest to fuck him up. Why the hell wasn't he in a prison cell? Maybe he would be in one by the time Thal’rin was done with him. But Vincent had seen his own dead mother again, he had been given a brief glimpse of what he'd lost during his translation to Falius. So, when a knock came at the door, he prepared himself to meet fire with fire if needed.
He was disarmed when he opened the door to find Thal'rin, donning his hooded brown garment, dripping wet. Behind him trailed a series of puddles. There were pronounced shadows marring the creature's golden countenance, but his eyes lacked none of the daggers they had been shooting at Orth. They expressed only warmth and tired rue.
“Kiolai Reashos says you wanted to speak to me,” he said, his gilded voice seemed to drag as he spoke. “If you are able to speak of them now, I would hear them. But...there is a room down the hallway a bit. I would prefer we speak there. It would buy us privacy. I imagine you will wish for that.”
Vincent said nothing, instead he just nodded. Thal'rin walked down the hallway trailing water. He accepted a towel from Bayont to wipe his face. Thal’rin’s elusive wife was scarcely seen, as she appeared to have similar diplomatic roles to Thal'rin, which left her absent. After they exchanged a few brief, hesitant jests, she shot Vincent a concerned, perhaps even maternal look, yet said nothing to him.
Slade tailed them both as Thal'rin led Vincent to a door that opened into a domed chamber. The chamber was devoid of all furniture except a mirror and a stack of cushions near its edge. A bright yellow lantern of crystal lay tucked away within a hole in the ceiling. At the far end of the chamber, was a tap in the wall. From it trickled a steady stream of water, which cascaded over a cairn of round rocks before running down a winding trough carved into the stone floor. The chamber resonated with the current's chuckling.
“Thank you, Kiolai,” Thal'rin said, his voice resonating. “You may wait outside.”
Slade seemed unwilling to leave Vincent alone with the High Channeler after what he did to Kirlon. But she nodded and left the chamber. The door shut behind her. Thal'rin walked over to the waterwork in the far wall, removed the guard from his horns, and hung it on a wing. Then he lowered his hood, removed his garb and wrung its contents into the trough. He looked around for a place to hang the garment. Sighing, he wrung it a second time and just set it on the ground near the edge. Even the tunic which he had been wearing underneath seemed to be soaked.
“I must apologize,” he muttered, “I would prefer not to be drizzling when we speak. The light in this storm is that at least I will not have to bathe tonight. I have been thoroughly cleansed.”
He grabbed two cushions from the stack, walked to the center of the chamber and tossed them down. “You may sit if you wish.” he said, grimacing as he assumed a cross-legged posture on his cushion. Vincent could hear several of the creature's bones popping as he shifted into position. Thal'rin retrieved the guard from his wing, then strung it back over his horns.
Vincent hesitated, then grabbed a cushion and set it some distance from Thal'rin. Thankfully, he was still wearing his jacket, he drew the hood up over his head, a counter-response to Thal'rin's pose. The hood made him feel safer.
“You must be wondering what happened,” Thal'rin began, “we were caught unaware. I do not know how, considering our network of scouts is by no means small, but we were. I was meeting with the leaders of the Mid-Admoranian Syredels when the storm hit. It traveled faster than any of the storms the zerok have been observing, faster than anything we have witnessed. That is why it caught us by surprise.”
Thal’rin paused, giving Vincent an opportunity to speak. He remained silent, so the High Channeler continued, “by the time it was noticed, the zerok flock that spotted it were rushing to catch up to it. The only reason they arrived moments before it had, was because it had begun to slow before it reached us, as if this city were its destination. I asked Kirlon if he could ward you to safety, because that's what my instincts demanded I do. I was concerned about how you would react to this phenomenon, considering what transpired at Tulian's Waypoint. I did this knowing full well this would probably draw your ire.”
At this, Vincent scoffed. Thal'rin waited for him to speak, but again, he said nothing.
“Perhaps it was a mistake,” Thal'rin sighed, “we know very little about these gales. We only have educated conjectures. I did not know what threat they posed to you, if any at all. Since their appearance coincided with your arrival, it is not unreasonable to assume they are linked to you, perhaps sent by some entity who has knowledge of your existence. All I knew is that I wanted you safe, should the storm wards fail to hold back its malice. That is my defense.”
Thal’rin had an uncanny ability to quell Vincent’s anger. Why was the creature suddenly condemning himself? Vincent had attacked a diplomat! He should...
No. He had to hold onto his anger. He remembered Salish's words: beautiful, eldritch design, dignity. He was in the darkness, screaming as the Stalker's venom dissolved his insides. He was back at Lorix's observatory, falling off the cliff, breaking bones with every impact. He was being captured by Slade for a crime he had no knowledge of committing. He was running out into the storm, screaming after Deonte like a jackass. He was being tried by Meldohv’s ridiculous court and then heralded for being this figure of great lore. He had been dragged around enough. Now, he waited for an opening.
“We are trying to find a way to send you home,” Thal'rin said, “Gangen, the Diac of Rydic Syredel, has agreed to help us probe the depths of Lorix's Eye so we can try to find out how you were brought here.”
“...thank you,” Vincent said softly.
Thal’rin was the first person in Falius who truly saw Vincent for who and what he was. He felt safe in the High Channeler’s home because of it. He wanted to confide in the High Channeler and tell him the truth about the amnesia. He desperately needed somebody he could talk to. But he didn’t trust anybody, not even the High Channeler. Thal’rin was a part of Falius, part of the conspiracy even if he didn’t know it.
Thal’rin nodded and closed his eyes. “Now,” he said, “can you explain to me what happened between you and Kirlon?”
“I don’t mean any disrespect,” Vincent said, hardly louder than a whisper, “but are you being serious right now?”
“I am, Vincent,” Thal’rin said. His tone was soft, but there were warnings in it. “You nearly blinded an emissary of Gullreach. I want to know what happened. What led up to this?”
“He picked me up in his damn beak,” Vincent said, “he came over and picked me up like I was some sort of toy! How...how did you think I would react? ‘Oh gee! This is fine. I’m okay with this.’?”
“You dug your claws into his eyes,” Thal’rin said. He allowed the words to sink in.
Vincent closed his eyes and tried to calm down.
“I don’t know what Gullreach is,” he said, “all I know is that if Kirlon had done that to somebody on Earth, he would have been shot, his head cut off, stuffed, and hung above somebody’s hearth as a trophy. I told him to back off! I told him to leave me the hell alone! He didn’t! It’s bad enough that Salish said something really fucked up, then Kirlon came out of the air, grabbed me–”
Thal’rin raised a hand. “What happened with Salish?” he asked.
Vincent hesitated. “He said something, something that freaked me out.”
“Could you clarify the phrase ‘freaked me out’?” Thal’rin asked, “I think I can gather the meaning, but I just want to confirm it.”
Vincent chewed on his words for a bit. “He said something that disturbed me. I don’t...I don’t want to talk about it. But it shook me so bad, I had a panic attack. And then, in the middle of it, your sirens went off. Kirlon came out of the air and picked me up like I was a snack. I defended myself. We don’t have zerok on Earth. I’m serious, if he’d done that where I come from, he would have been killed.”
At this, Thal’rin let out a sigh of regret.
“I am sorry,” he said, “I suppose if you have never lived with the zerok as your neighbors, that action would catch one by surprise. Their hands are not suitable for grasping in most situations, so they use their beaks instead. It was not a sign of disrespect, not any more than helping one up off the ground would be. There is so little you know about us and so little we know about you.”
“It’s...fine,” Vincent said. He took a deep breath. “I’m glad he’s doing all right.”
“As am I,” Thal’rin said.
The spigot continued to chuckle as a silence passed between them both.
“I have been told something happened to you during the storm?” Thal’rin asked.
This was the opening Vincent was waiting for. He had to choose his words carefully. It was time to sell a tremendous lie.
“After Kirlon tossed me off, I landed on a tent,” he said, “it collapsed and dropped me on the ground. Then the storm passed over us and yeah, something happened. I fell asleep. One moment I was awake, I was yelling at Slade. I was telling her to leave me the hell alone. Then, I just collapsed.”
Vincent stopped for a moment and watched the water from the spigot run across the floor, its currents splashing and lapping against the sides of the trough.
“Is that all?” Thal’rin asked.
“No,” Vincent said. After he fell asleep, he found himself transported to his past as an unseen observer. But this is not what he would tell Thal’rin. He had to fabricate a fiction. “I had a dream. No...it was more like a nightmare.” He felt a wave of emotions rising, constricting his throat. He was remembering his family. The poignance of that memory would allow him to give the world's best performance. It twisted his face, and it fragmented his sentences. It allowed him to emulate terror.
“I don’t believe in visions,” he said, “I don’t know what to think about what I saw.”
Falius and its inhabitants wanted to drag him along, play him like a marionette. His schizophrenia was like a living entity that wanted to trip him every waking moment of his life. This was another game it played. The creatures it conjured saw this threat rising up before them and they would try to make Vincent the hero. The Saedharu was the role Falius wanted him to get lost in. It was what his mind always did. It lied to him. It fed him delusion after delusion until he could no longer tell fiction from fact.
“Take your time,” Thal’rin said.
Vincent would be tossed about like a toy. They, groundwalkers and zerok alike, would praise him, revere him. They would heap all the adoration upon the Stalker's creation. They would see his scars and call the wounds “beautiful”. Or maybe he was wrong. Maybe they would find some reason to condemn him again; accuse him of another crime he had no knowledge of committing. What could he do? He was trapped here in this body, in his mind, a victim to his own insanity. There was absolutely nothing. No tool, no resource he could use to escape. He had no medication to take, nothing to suppress the symptoms. The only option left was to compromise, to pretend to play along.
Thal’rin had people probing Lorix’s Eye. But they would find nothing there, it was no use. The Stalker had made him 'beautiful' in the eyes of these people. It would cover its tracks. Vincent could do nothing, nothing except lie to these creatures. And he hated it. He hated lying to Thal’rin. The High Channeler was the sort of creature that made the prospect of waking up so painful. If that ever happens, it will confirm that Thal’rin never existed. He was just part of a dream, and it would hurt. Vincent could not become invested. He needed to remember who he was.
“I saw your people dying,” he said. That was his plan. Lie.
When a phantom like Dave tries to hold a conversation, often the best thing to do is to ignore it. But if it persists, then Vincent can no longer deny that it is there. He can no longer deny that he is hearing it and so, he must appease it. He must treat it like a living entity even though he knows it’s not. Sometimes he had to make compromises with his madness, indulge in the personality to make it go away. He had to play along with its conspiracies while maintaining a precarious balance that teetered between awareness and immersion.
His mistake had been to ignore Falius, to flat out rebuke it. How often had that worked with Dave? With the phantoms? Medication was the only way to suppress them. But he had none. Falius would not go away simply because he insisted it wasn’t real. That had been his error; that's why he failed. He saw that now. This world was another entity that needed to be appeased. It needed to be acknowledged. Fighting it would be both difficult and draining, just like arguing with the phantoms.
So, he would make a compromise: He would pretend to play along with its machinations. He would rise up and make a show of “fighting” this evil. He would fabricate a vision given to him by the storms: A vision of slaughter. It is what Falius wanted to hear. It was an easy lie to sell because the memory of his mother, of his family, was fresh in his mind. The emotions fueled his performance.
“I saw one of your villages being torn apart!” he said, “these...these things! I don’t know what they were. I think they were animals that had been transformed by the storm. Just like the kelta. They were killing people!”
He had to be analytical and stop acting like a schizophrenic spaz. He had to follow the logic of this lucid dream and exploit it. Exploit it, he would. It had given him a weapon: the black storms. He didn’t know why they unlocked his memories, but they did, and he had confirmed it. Every bit he remembered of his past would be a threat to this world, he would become less susceptible to its suggestions. He had his past to remind him of every mistake, every victory. And so, the storms were daggers. What was it he had said to Thal’rin the other night? Once you learn the rules of a system, you can exploit them and make it do your bidding. That’s what engineering is.
He swallowed and took a moment to clench his teeth and focus on the ground. He raised his hand to wipe his eyes. He wore the mask of grief, feigning sadness at all the lives lost.
“I heard them screaming,” he said, “I just...I couldn't block them out. There was a little girl–” He remembered the photo from his past, he and his sisters smiling with their mother in the background.
He is just four years old! his mother had fumed,
Okay, smile! Then the camera clicked.
Tell him to stop licking me! his sister protested.
He used the powerful poignance of these echoes to construct the fabrication Falius wanted to see. The memories wrenched at him, forming a mask of dismay that a champion of the world might wear when evil blighted his beloved people. Falius had him strung up like a puppet and he would pretend to dance, he would pretend to appease the phantoms all while secretly using their logic as a weapon against them.
“I said something to the storm, I don't...I don't even remember what I said, but it just...vanished.”
He stole that idea from a movie he had seen as a child. He didn’t remember the plot, but he remembered a little boy running over to a window, opening it, and screaming something into the raging storm outside. The storm stopped. The fantasy world the boy had been reading about had been saved.
“And then I woke up,” Vincent said, “I saw Kyrotin. I saw Slade.” He waited, shifting on the cushion. “Was...was that real?”
Thal'rin considered his question for a few moments before giving his response. “Is your nightmare real? I do not know. Did you dispel the storm? That, I also do not know and it would be precarious to assume such a thing. It could be a coincidence. Are our people being killed by the stormspawn? Yes, that is actually happening.”
“Is...is there something I can do?” Vincent asked. At this Thal'rin raised a brow and scrutinized him.
“Something you could do? As in you want to help us fight this?”
“Possibly...”
“I thought you were afraid of losing yourself in our world, afraid of becoming a fivendai.”
“I mean...I am. But, what if this is actually happening? I mean...Jesus...that kid! I don't care that you're a different species, she was a little girl! For fuck's sake she was crying for her mother! Even if this is a dream, if I stood by and did nothing, it would still affect me! I would become a guy who ignores kids being murdered!”
There it was: the seed of contradiction. In the face of such evil, he had looked in upon himself and found that he could not be idle while a civilization he just might be able to save was imperiled. The “Saedharu” had his heart moved by the cries of young ones and wished to step up to face this menace that tormented them. This is what the historians would begin to write. This is what would trick them into carrying out his lie.
If Vincent had tried to tell this tale at any other time, Thal'rin probably would have seen through the lie. But the poignance of the memory, the power of sandy beaches and of laughter fed Vincent’s performance. It drew agony and terror on his face. It allowed him to masquerade torment at Admoran's plight. He felt unclean at the deception, as if a slug had crawled into him and died. It made him sick. He had to push the guilt aside. He felt bad for insulting command voices like Dave before, but that guilt did not mean the voices were real.
“Hmmm...and what makes you think you can help? What knowledge or talents can you bring to us?” Thal’rin’s tone, though serious, was thoughtful.
“I...I don't know. But I stopped the storm somehow.”
The High Channeler had his hands folded in his lap. He brought a wing down to scratch one of his ears as he pondered Vincent’s answer.
“Vincent, I remind you that is conjecture, a nebulous one at that,” he said. His eyes were thoughtful, but stern despite their weariness. His irises, while warm, seemed to see right through him. “Yes, this is the second time one of these storms has been stopped, the only other time being the moment you encountered one on Tulian's Waypoint.”
Thal'rin chose his words with care, as though he were stepping on landmines. “Both could be coincidental. Or it could be a grand deception laid out by your captor. There are too many unknowns. Your experience demands a response, but we don’t know your 'Stalker's' motives. Therefore, we do not know what role you play, if you have one at all.”
“You...you people are the ones who keep saying I'm this...this Paradox Incarnate–”
“–We proposed it. There is a difference,” Thal'rin said, “some of us, including myself, give it serious consideration. But even if you are, we still don’t know what that means. You demonstrate significant attributes, yes, but we do not know what you are, other than a kidnapping victim. It is not a coincidence that the storms began when you entered our world. If the entity that brought you here is responsible for them, or is in some way connected to them, we cannot ignore that.”
“Then let me do something,” Vincent pled. “Help me to find out what I can do.”
“It is not that simple,” Thal'rin sighed. “We must consider what that entity has to gain from bringing you here. If it is in league with, or if it is the one responsible for the storms, then why does it allow you to deprive them of their malice?”
It was a good question and Vincent floundered for an answer.
“I don’t know,” he said, exasperated.
“Neither do we. We know so little, we cannot risk playing into some sort of trap. We would need to know more about your world. We would need to know more about you. Why did your captor choose you? What did it see in you? What does it hope to gain from bringing you here? There are too many questions. This is new to us, so we must tread with caution. Besides, we are not powerless. And...to be blunt, I think it would be delusional to think that you alone can stop the storms.”
“I never said I could. I said I wanted to help. Use me!”
“Vincent, consider what your captor did to you,” Thal’rin said. Concern furrowed the creature’s brows. “We can only assume that everything you can do, the meddling of artificial conduits, the repelling a telen, comes from that being. Do you think such an entity has pure intentions?”
Again, Vincent was stumped. “I’m still me,” he said.
“I know,” Thal’rin said, “but your captor is smarter than you. It’s smarter than me, it’s smarter than anybody in the entirety of Admoran. It reached across realms and pulled you into ours. Anything that can do such a thing surpasses us. And so, we must walk as if the ground is covered in thorns.”
Vincent remained silent even though he was screaming on the inside. Everything Thal’rin said made sense. But those memories were Vincent’s birthright, they belonged to him. They were his identity. These people had no right to–no. He had to calm himself. Panicking would get him nowhere. Falius wanted him to slip into this role. Thal’rin wouldn’t be able to stop it.
The High Channeler looked like he was going to say something more, but then he looked up toward the ceiling.
“Kyrotin just informed me that I am needed. We will talk later?”
Sure,” Vincent said.
“To clarify,” Thal'rin groaned as he got up, “I do not believe you are defined by the entity that brought you here. If we found you could provide aid, we would welcome it. But for now, I want you to let your experience stir. You were adamant about remaining uninvolved in our affairs. Your change of heart comes far too swiftly. We both need time to consider this.”
“Fine,” Vincent said, “I'll sit on it.”
He got up and headed for the door, not bothering to ask Thal'rin for permission to leave. However, Thal’rin spoke before he could reach the door.
“Vincent,” he said, picking up a slight edge to his voice, “what you did to Kirlon...I sympathize with the circumstance that drove you to do such a thing, but if you wish to aid us, you must be aware of the image you set before the eyes of our people. If 'Saedharu' can aptly describe what you are, most will not see you as a victim of your situation, no matter how hard we try to convince them otherwise. They will see you as the incarnation of a myth. During your stay, I have said nothing to you of your temperament, but if you wish to step into any role, then you must learn to quell both your anger and your fear. Refuse to let either rule your decisions. Actions like those you did to Kirlon, who came to speak for Nextriix, the Mother of Gullreach, are dangerous. Under the right conditions, acts like those will not be seen as acts of desperation or as a loss of temper, but could be seen as proclamations of war.”
Vincent was two paces away from the door when he stopped.
“They already see me that way,” he said, “you’re the only one who sees how fucked up my situation is.”
Vincent waited for a moment to see if Thal’rin would respond, then he left the chamber. To his dismay, Slade was waiting for him in the hallway. She followed him back to his room. Thankfully, she didn’t follow him inside. So, was she going to be his full-time guard now, or full-time jailor?
Closing his door, he looked over at the balcony and walked toward it. He felt the flux lines of the ward that enshrouded the overlook coursing over his body. He had not yet attempted to modify the biddings of a ward. He had been hesitant about trying. But now, he took a step into its field, feeling the commands gliding over his shoulders like beaded curtains.
Meldohv was beautiful. Thal’rin’s home was beautiful. He liked the High Channeler and he felt scummy at the deception he just tried to sell. But Vincent was still shaken by Salish’s words. However, maybe Thal’rin was right. Maybe he had to let this stir for a bit. Vincent was being reactionary, not analytical. So, he would sit and think about it. But he wouldn’t be idle.
He reached up with his hand, and “grasped” at the lines of arcane code coming from the ward. He had expected his hand to go through them as it had dozens of times before, but this time, it didn’t. Alien intuitions came to him. He sensed that his intention to focus on their lines “attuned” him to their “frequency” and allowed him to interact with their lore.
“We can only assume that everything you can do, comes from that being, until we learn otherwise.” Thal’rin had said, “do you think such an entity has pure intentions?”
He clutched onto a strand and immediately felt the biddings coursing through his flesh, as if he were an extension of the ward itself. To his amazement, his arms began to fade before his eyes, blending with the optical obfuscation of the lore. In its place was another arm, unseen by any physical eyes. He recognized the arm’s aural radiance. It belonged to the same form he had sensed when he hijacked Slade's shryken.
But that was as far as he could get. He could feel the code, he could grasp the lines, but he could not penetrate any further into the ward. Perhaps it was too different from an artificial conduit. Or perhaps he was not in the correct state of mind to exercise this ability. How had he hijacked Slade's shryken? He had been asleep, or at least close to it. He let go of the ward, watched his arm recover its opacity, then he walked to the door.
“I don't think I can sleep tonight,” he said to Slade, who still guarded his door. How long was she going to stay there anyway? “You don't have any of that crap you used to put me to sleep, do you?”
She shuffled through her pockets and produced a small glass tub wrapped in some sort of weave for protection.
“Just a claw will suffice with lyanth resin,” she said, “no more. Open it away from your snout.”
“Just a 'claw'.” Vincent repeated, “got it. When do you want it–”
“–Keep it.” Slade said, anticipating his question. What was that he saw on her face, regret? It was difficult to tell sometimes with these people. Their expressions seemed to change depending on the viewing angle.
“Uh...thanks.” he said.
Then he shut the door and, for good measure, locked it. He set the resin on the table, shut the door to the balcony, then he began to pull a bunch of sheets from the bed over, so he could lie down on something soft while he did this. Though the doors to the balcony were closed, he could still feel the ward's emanations. He simply didn’t want anybody to see what he was doing, should its obfuscation fail.
He opened the container of lyanth resin, holding it at arm's length. The substance was white and wax-like with the consistency of petroleum jelly. He dipped a single claw into the resin and capped the tub with one hand. Then he laid back on the “nest” he had made and stared at the ceiling.
This was not investment, he told himself. He was not succumbing to another delusion. He was doing this because he was sick of being powerless. He needed agency in this madhouse. The next time they decided to humiliate him, he would do something about it. This world had rules, it had dictations. If it gave him unique abilities, he would turn those against the world itself.
“You have earned my belief, Vincent Cordell.”
Vincent stopped. He felt a pang in his gut, a twinge of guilt. He could still see Thal’rin’s haunted gaze and hear the shock in the High Channeler’s words. This felt like a betrayal. But, Vincent was tired...so tired of being hostage to this delusion. So, without further hesitation, he wiped a trail of the resin across his nostrils and inhaled the scent of roses and attar. The world pitched briefly under his back as if it were rolling down a steep hill, then came blackness.
