Worse than the discomfort was Dr. Veyl's incessant babbling. The physick's nasal voice wormed into Silas's ears, fraying his patience. To pass the time, Silas fantasized about commanding the physick to forfeit his life.
There was little cohesion between Dr. Veyl's strings of thought. He would sit still for tortuously long minutes, scrutinizing Silas like a specimen below a microscope. Without warning, he would jolt upright, open his mouth, and spill forth the idea that had solidified on the tip of his tongue.
"Are you truly human? Or are you something else entirely? Something novel—never before seen?"
"When you sleep, does your brain conjure dreams, or do you hear beyond human understanding?"
"Your cerebrum—does it have five lobes, or four? I must see for myself."
"Why do you not speak? Did the experiments that created you damage your language centers? Or is it a consequence of integration with Unspoken neurophysiology?"
"How far do your abilities stretch? How many people can you influence at once? What are your limits, and what happens if you go beyond them?"
"Unlike you, the Unspoken have never exhibited psionic control over humans—or each other, as far as we know. What makes you different?"
Eventually, Dr. Veyl's voice blurred into an unintelligible hum. Silas tuned him out, staring out the window at unfamiliar scenery.
They were heading northwest. The boiler chugged down the endless road, piloted by its statuesque driver. The woman and Sorne exchanged occasional banter. Silas listened hard, straining to hear their murmurs above Dr. Veyl's tedious oration. The talk was mostly small—short, clipped statements of minimal significance. But Silas did learn the woman's first name: Ilyra. He didn't yet know who she was or what she was doing here, but it sounded like she and the Archarbiter were acquaintances. Silas leaned forward, examining her uniform. It was plainer than those worn by Arbiters, but Silas found its simplicity more regal. The red material of her coat was fastened by four gold buttons. A thick band circled each cuff, its hue matching the buttons. Her red trousers were plain save for two parallel lines drawing gold down each leg.
Military, perhaps? Silas assumed. He had never seen a soldier before, so he wasn't sure. The palace Guards in Droswick didn't count—they were extravagantly decorated like the ceremonial ornaments they were.
Silas watched the infinite stretch of tundra speed by as the boiler bubbled down the dusty road. Skeletal cacti sprouted here and there, interspersed with desiccated shrubs. Low grass grew like stubble, its color so similar to the sandy soil Silas didn't notice it at first. Taproots as thick as Silas's thigh snaked across the ground and split the road. Out here, the Empire put little funding into the infrastructure. Unharnessed in his seat, Silas was jostled around each time Ilyra plowed over one of these tangled obstacles. She made no effort to slow down or go around them. The corners of her lips twitched when one notably impressive bump threw Silas against the door, his forehead bashing the window. Otherwise, she had the emotional range of a pebble. She and Ravelin could compete for most compelling display of apathy.
Dr. Veyl was still prattling on. But this time, his loose tongue let slip too much. Silas straightened, his interest piqued.
"My exuberance knows no bounds; I simply cannot wait to study you. For fourteen syzygies I have waited…" Dr. Veyl's cadence slowed, losing himself in memory.
"I was hired by the Imperial Logisterium to decipher the Covenant of Fallen Stars's data from Project Concordia," he continued, eyes unfocused. "Treasonous, yes, but there has never been a project like it before, nor will there ever be one again. Ambitious, it was, to inseminate genetic material from two unrelated species into one embryo. The creation of a chimeric brain in a hybrid body."
Dr. Veyl sighed wistfully. His gaze sharpened, turning to study Silas hungrily. Gooseflesh prickled along Silas's arms. He screwed his face in disgust and turned away, but continued to listen in morbid fascination.
"The potential for such a vessel is limitless. Dr. Harrow was brilliant for contriving such a proposal. But his experiments are near impossible to replicate. You, child, are one of a kind. The single success out of thousands of failed attempts. Animal trials showed promise, but the beasts were impossible to tame. Human trials repeatedly created inert failures without intelligence or consciousness. Project Concordia was about to be discarded—the Covenant grew frustrated with funding a program not bearing fruit. Dr. Harrow begged for one last attempt… and you were born."
Silas's breath caught. Pa was the one who proposed Project Concordia? He couldn't believe it. The Pa he knew was so gentle, so empathetic. Silas thought only someone emotionless—someone like Ilyra—could conjure such an idea and carry it out. He sagged forward, pressing his forehead into the back of Ilyra's seat. Was it all an act, a fabrication? The Pa I know or the logister who created me. Which is the real Pa?
"They never could complete their work," Dr. Veyl said, oblivious to Silas's turmoil. "You were successful, but unfinished. A gemstone in the raw. Now, your completion shall be realized, and I will be the one to bring you to your full potential."
Silas shivered. What's he going to do to me? he thought, glancing at Dr. Veyl from the corner of his eye.
The physick noticed and beamed. Silas looked away, his stomach churning. That smile stretched too wide, pulling his mouth up to his cheeks.
Silas wished he could wrap his arms around himself.
The Archarbiter glared at Dr. Veyl through the rearview mirror. "Be silent, physick. You've spouted enough. Any more and I'll delay the start of your work until after I've gotten what I want from the boy." Sorne flashed a sly grin, eyeing Silas with scorn. "And what remains of him by then may be too meager to satisfy your curiosity."
A wave of nausea crawled up Silas's throat. Breathe! he urged, trying to exhale deeply. It came out as a gag. He's… He's bluffing! He's trying to intimidate me after what I nearly did to him.
Silas met Sorne's gaze in the mirror and offered his most vicious glare. The Archarbiter only chuckled, amused by Silas's green complexion.
The boy drew his legs to his chest and squished his face between his thighs. Was Vera alright? Had Oscar finally gone to see her? She was so distraught when she woke before. Silas didn't want her to be alone the next time she opened her eyes. How much time did she have before her trial? Before her execution? His breath came in short, shallow gasps. It was a good thing he hadn't eaten any breakfast. Otherwise, it would be all over the floor of Ilyra's boiler.
Several hours of excruciating silence dragged by. Silas almost wished Dr. Veyl would start speaking again. In the quiet, his thoughts were all he had to distract himself from the other passengers. It was near unbearable.
The boiler slowed suddenly. Silas slid forward in his seat. He yelped and planted his feet on the floor to stop from rolling off the edge. Confused, he looked up.
For a while, they had been following alongside one of the Great Canals' sprawling waterways. Ilyra guided her vehicle into a parking space facing a small, drab building on the edge of the canal. Silas was reminded of Coldspire Depot with its cubical exterior and white stone finish. There were several other vehicles parked here, their passengers milling about, lounging on benches and conversing trivially.
Is this a way station? Curious, Silas scanned the area. What was inside the building? Washrooms? He hoped so. Silas squirmed in his seat. He needed to relieve himself, but had no way of voicing this.
"This will be a quick stop," Ilyra said, pocketing the starter rod. "We need to refuel or we won't make it through the Badlands."
"Perhaps let the boy stretch his legs," Dr. Veyl suggested, watching Silas carefully. "And allow him to empty his cache. He'll soil himself otherwise, and I'd rather not study him in that condition."
Silas flushed crimson, shame scorching his skin.
Ilyra and Sorne considered each other. They gestured—a silent exchange passing between them. Sorne waved his hand dismissively, rolling his eyes. Ilyra shrugged. She turned around, gripping the back of the seat for leverage.
"Alright, wretch," she began, her tone sharp but her face impassive, "you may do as you need, but the manacles stay on, and you will remain in my sight."
Silas shook his head violently, pressing himself deep into his seat like he could melt into it. He'd rather wet himself than be watched by this woman. She stared at him like he was an arithmetic problem she had no interest in solving.
She turned around, unbuckled her harness, and exited the vehicle. Silas's door was thrown wide. Ilyra folded at the waist, her expressionless gaze inches from Silas's face. He squeaked and shimmied away from her.
"It seems you've yet to grasp the position you're in," she said, her voice colder than the wind leaking through the open door. "If I order you to do something, you do it. If I command you to stop, you will obey. I do not compromise. I do not meet in the middle. You will listen to me, or there will be consequences, do I make myself clear?"
Silas gulped. He nodded once curtly, too afraid to move any more. Ilyra's expression didn't change. She gathered his chains, winding them around her arm. Then, she yanked Silas into the gusty afternoon, hauling him after her. He scrambled to keep up with her swift pace, his legs wobbly and stiff from hours crammed in the backseat.
Dr. Veyl was the last to exit the boiler, Sorne already lugging sloshing jugs of water back and forth between the canal and vehicle. Boilers were powered by steam. Water stored in their tanks boiled to produce the gas that breathed life into their engines. A little water could go a long way, but they had been traveling since dawn. Silas didn't know how long it would take to traverse the Badlands, but the amount of extra water the Archarbiter was loading into the trunk made him suspect it would be a long journey. He sighed, the air puffing from his nostrils and fogging the chill air in front of his face.
Silas was led toward the building. As he walked over a narrow bridge overlying the canal, passersby leered at him, hiding whispered gossip behind their hands. He caught snippets of conversation uttered in low tones.
"Is that—?"
"It is! The Unspoken boy…"
"I heard he has power akin to sorcery."
"—Careful! Don't make eye contact."
"That woman… is she General Curne?"
General Curne? Silas looked up at Ilyra questioningly as he walked through the building's sturdy metal door. What does a General want with me? He thought back to what Sorne said at the public address, about war brewing in the Western Quadrant. About turning him into a weapon to destroy the Unspoken. Silas’s thoughts spiralled. He wasn’t a soldier. He could hardly control his abilities. How was he supposed to stand on the front lines and slaughter what lay before him?
Ilyra ignored Silas’s fear, her expression like stone. Without stopping, she elbowed open the door of a unisex washroom and tugged Silas's chain. He stumbled forward before he could protest.
He stopped before an innocuous toilet. He stared at it, then at Ilyra. Her blank gaze barely moved. Silas blushed so red he felt feverish. He couldn't tell her, and even if he could, he wouldn't want to. How was he supposed to articulate that with his hands bound behind him, he would struggle to manage on his own?
"I see," she eventually said and took a step toward him.
Silas shook his head, scrambling backwards. His back slammed into the wall. He rattled his chains. What is even the purpose of the manacles? To spite me? My mind is what’s dangerous, not my athleticism.
But Ilyra would not be swayed. The manacles stayed on. To Silas's profound humiliation, he required help.
Ilyra was right—it was a quick stop. Boiler refueled and passengers refreshed, they were soon back on the road. Silas was offered a cup of water and some dry ration. He refused them. Naturally, he couldn't feed himself and after what he'd just gone through, he wasn't willing to risk hydration. Ilyra, ever the scourge, pried open Silas's mouth and forced a few bites down his gullet.
"The physick needs you healthy for quality results," she said with the same blank expression she always wore. "We can't have you weak before we even reach the facility."
Silas hardly resisted. What was the point? He couldn't win. Nothing he did would amount to anything. Obediently, he followed Ilyra back to the boiler and settled himself in the backseat. He slumped against the door, staring at his feet with lifeless, hollow eyes.
As afternoon slipped into evening and Dysol's ruby light dimmed to a muted burgundy, they drove into a vibrant city. Pulled from his haze by the thickening traffic, Silas looked up to read a sign beside the road. It said they were now entering the municipal limits of Ashmere.
The road widened into four paved lanes. Bumper-to-bumper traffic halted their momentum. Silas had never seen such a sight. Even Droswick—the capital city of Brassanthium—never got so busy. He scoured his brain, trying to remember what Ashmere was known for.
"Damn it. Of course we'd get stuck in rush hour." Sorne clicked his tongue.
"We might have gotten through the worst of it if the wretch didn't have such a puny bladder," Ilyra deadpanned, scooting the boiler forward an inch.
"Rush hour or not, Ashmere traffic is always like this," said Dr. Veyl. He was scribbling in a small notepad balanced on his knee. The physick caught Silas watching and smiled. The boy grimaced and turned away, slouching in his seat.
Glacially slow, they advanced bit-by-bit. Stop. Start. Stop again. Change lanes. Slam on brakes. Crawl forward a foot. The boilers waltzed to this jerky meter until finally, at long last, they breached the endless line of idling vehicles and broke free into the narrow streets of Ashmere. Congested as they were, at least these roads were advancing. Silas squished his cheek to the glass, watching through the window in awe. He almost forgot the situation he was in, mesmerized by the sights and sounds of this bustling metropolis.
Where Droswick was brick and masonry, Ashmere was steel and iron. The buildings, the lampposts, the infrastructure—each surface glistened with metallic sheen. And the lights! Silas had never seen so many different colors. The starbloom lamps glowed every possible shade—neon green, intense yellow, twilit cobalt, brilliant magenta, and blindingly bright white. The oil in these lamps, how did they work? What were they made of? Why did Droswick use the same boring blue-green for all occasions?
The people… there were so many of them! Where did they all come from? Where did they live? Merchants were ubiquitous; their wares were anything Silas could imagine. They lined the streets, setting up shop in front of permanent establishments offering even more options. Shoppers loitered on every block, throwing their money at whatever suited their fancy. And the selections were limitless. Services, clothing, food, furniture, real estate, jewelry, accessories, cosmetics, and—
Silas blushed, looking away. Ashmere had something to satisfy any pleasure.
The Archarbiter had not lied. Here, too, word of Silas's existence had spread. Posters displaying his likeness were posted in shop windows and tacked to lampposts. Newspaper stands distributed pamphlets transcribing Sorne's speech. Criers heralded the latest rumors from Droswick, drawing eager crowds. Silas's mood deflated. He hunched his shoulders to his ears, wishing he could pull his hood over his head.
"This city's as busy as ever," Dr. Veyl whispered, waving at a street vendor. "I suppose that's to be expected of Brassanthium's largest trade hub."
Trade hub? Silas risked another glance, ignoring his mirror image lodged between a door and its frame. That explains all the exotic merchandise. Silas squinted at a fruit stand, reading the small placards naming unfamiliar produce. Lychee? Coconut? Guava? He had never heard of these before, and desperately wished to try them. His mouth watered, empty stomach growling.
Leaving the city was easier than entering it. Ilyra sped up—her foot grounding the accelerator—as she cruised back onto the lone road travelling endlessly north. As Dysol set, the twin moons rose, bathing the boiler's cabin in their mellow orange rays.
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Vegetation became increasingly sparse. The farther they travelled, the less cacti and shrubbery Silas saw. In their place, alien rock formations jutted from the ground. Light from the moons cast intertwining shadows across the uneven ground, textured by layers of ochre stone. The rock grew precipitously taller, soon surrounding the road on either side. Silas felt simultaneously claustrophobic and wonderstruck.
They had entered the Badlands.
Silas dozed for a bit, jerked awake by the sound of the boiler door slamming. Jolting upright, he swiveled his head, dispelling the fog of sleep. Sorne was now in the driver's seat, adjusting the position of the mirrors. Ilyra reclined beside him, yawning and rubbing her eyes sleepily.
"Your vehicle is rather lacking in accommodations, Ilyra," Sorne grumbled, frowning at the steering disc.
"I apologize, Malrick, but not everyone is as financially advantaged as you," she responded, her eyes closed.
Sorne switched gears, leaned forward, and eased onto the road. The wheels clattered, grinding over the rough, jagged rock below. Silas relaxed back into his seat, settling in for a nap. Comfortable with his head nestled between his shoulder and the doorframe, someone whispered into his ear.
He jumped, startled. Angry, he turned in the direction he heard the sound, convinced Dr. Veyl was up to no good beside him. But the physick—half asleep—regarded him slowly like he was waking from a dream.
"Is there something the matter, Silas?" he asked, curiosity rousing him.
Silas shook his head and turned his back on the physick, trying to get comfortable again.
It happened again, louder this time. Involuntarily, Silas twitched, his head snapping in the direction of the unintelligible whisper. The sounds came from in front, behind, and then all around. Silas was surrounded, a wall of noise pressing in.
"You hear something, don't you?" Dr. Veyl was watching the boy keenly, leaning toward him. "I'm unsurprised. This is carrion wolf territory, and the Unspoken have a fascinating symbiosis with those beasts." He inched closer. "Tell me, child, what do you hear? What does it sound like?"
Silas refused the notepad the physick thrust at his face. He sniffed and wiped his nose on his shoulder. A smear of blood was left behind.
There was a hush. Then, the whispers swelled, louder and louder like they were stalking toward him. Above the din, Silas heard Sorne swear. Then, the boiler's brakes shrieked, throwing Silas forward. He tumbled from his seat and crashed to the floor.
He opened his eyes, staring upward at the roof. Dr. Veyl hovered above him, frantically scrawling in his notepad. Annoyed, Silas abruptly sat up, forcing the physick to flinch away or bash his chin into Silas's crown.
Silas glanced out the window—and cried out in fear. Scrambling backward, he crashed into Dr. Veyl. The physick dropped his stylus. It fell to the ground, ink splattering onto the carpet.
"Huh." Ilyra unbuckled her harness, reaching for the many blades fastened around her hips. She shot Silas a cursory glance over her seat. "I admit, Malrick, I thought you were exaggerating when you said the wretch is an attractant for these things."
The Archarbiter huffed through his nostrils, hand resting on the hilt of his sword. "Now you see why I know he'll turn the tide of this war."
Silas's heart hammered, the thrum in his ears competing against the deafening roar of a thousand whispers. Beyond the boiler, a horde of carrion wolves circled. They snarled and growled, fangs bared and claws clicking against the unforgiving stone. They prowled closer and closer, their proximity increasing the volume assaulting Silas's senses. Then, the lone wolf at the head of the pack lunged forward. As one, the mass sprang after it.
They leapt onto the boiler, scratching and biting the windows and doors. The vehicle listed side to side—rocked by the force of the assault. Dr. Veyl was unfazed. He plucked his stylus off the floor and calmly continued his scribing. Silas bunched himself into a ball, his head protectively squeezed between his knees.
"How am I supposed to throw my blades if I can't get the door open?" said Ilyra, watching through the window.
"If I may, General Curne," Dr. Veyl began, note-taking paused. "Physical combat may not be necessary." His gaze drifted to Silas.
Ilyra paused. She looked at Sorne and said, "Malrick, your little pet sword is cowed by our adversaries. Perhaps we should take the matter into our own hands."
With a rumbling growl, a carrion wolf swiped its claws against Silas's window. They raked along the glass with a grating squeal, leaving behind a deep fissure. Opaque venom seeped from the wolf's hollow claws, oozing from the crack like a weeping wound. Silas cringed, wishing he could cover his ears. Even if he could, it wouldn't block out the hurried, booming noise battering against his skull. The sound wormed its way into his brain, swelling until it felt like his head would burst. Blood dribbled from his nose, soaking his trousers.
"Silas." Sorne stared at the boy intently, ignoring the crack spidering along the windshield. When Silas didn't acknowledge him, he spoke again, this time his voice low, threatening. "If you fail to fulfill your purpose, there will be consequences."
Silas's heart lurched. Slowly, he looked up and shook his head. The motion intensified the pain. He stopped, closing his eyes until the dizziness subsided.
"Fascinating." Dr. Veyl set down his notepad and reached for Silas.
The boy didn't resist. The physick lifted Silas's chin with his index finger, tilting his head left and right.
"He's bleeding. Is this what happens when his… senses are overwhelmed?" Dr. Veyl released Silas, jotting something down.
"Evidently," Sorne said, eyeing a carrion wolf gnawing a headlight. "The same thing happened during his little tantrum at the Sanctorium." He frowned at the memory.
"Hmmm." Dr. Veyl nibbled the end of his stylus, studying Silas's wan complexion. "In that case, physical combat may be prudent. I want him in top form when we arrive at the facility."
Sorne scoffed. "No, I think not. I don't care if it weakens him." His eyes narrowed on Silas, gleaming with calculation. "Consider this training. If such a small group of carrion wolves is too much for you, child, you'll never tolerate the battlefield. And if you can’t be wielded, you will be discarded."
Silas only stared. It doesn’t matter what happens to me. I refuse to obey him.
The windshield shattered under the might of a dozen carrion wolf paws. Shards rained down from the growing hole, slicing the steering disc's delicate coating.
"Know your place, child," Sorne said, his measured tone drawing the boy's attention. "I hold the life of Vera and Elias in my hands. If you fail to heed me..." he cocked his head, grinning savagely "... then you alone are to blame for their deaths."
Silas's breath hitched. Against his will, his mind conjured the image of Vera and Pa swinging from the gallows—faces purple, swollen tongues poking through their lips. Trembling, Silas drew his knees closer, folding in on himself.
Satisfaction flashed behind Sorne's eyes. "Still not convinced? In that case, I'll bring them to you. The gallows would be a mercy. If you disobey me, I will torture them slowly while you watch."
Silas fought back tears. Slowly, reluctantly, he uncurled and sat tall. His fear and worry transformed into hatred. Face red with indignant rage, Silas scowled at the Archarbiter before turning to face the window. Sorne chuckled. The look in his eyes told Silas he never doubted he would cave before him.
Silas made eye contact with the wolf whining at him through the window. The beast salivated, its slobber exuding from its jowls and trickling down the glass. Despite the situation, Silas was averse to killing these creatures. He couldn't hurt another animal, not after Coldspire. But he didn't know what else to do. With practice, he could probably reign in his power so it weakened his adversaries instead of splitting their skulls. Silas recalled how he felt after his attempted escape from Sorne. Holding back would probably be easier on him, too, but he simply didn't know how to control his power yet. How could he—
That's it! Silas thought and shut his eyes, focusing. Carrion wolves are pack animals. If I can find the mind of their leader—if I can control it—I might be able to lead the horde away from us.
That was easier said than done. Silas ground his teeth, breath hissing through his clenched jaw. Unlike the trained carrion wolves at the Foundry School attack, the minds of these wild animals were simple and feral. Even at Coldspire, the animals were linked with a palpable thread of energy. Here, there was no cohesion, no discipline. Their nonsentient minds were driven solely by instinctual hunger. They craved Silas's flesh. They wished to sink their teeth into his skin and sup the marrow from his bones. Lost in their urges, Silas dimly felt himself drooling, their hunger becoming his own.
Concentrate! Silas took a deep breath, retreating a bit to regain his senses. Find the mind that stands out from the rest. Like the panther at Coldspire. There should be one that—
There!
Silas's attention sharpened. Buried deep within the horde was a lone wolf that watched with clear, focused eyes. While the other carrion wolves writhed and thrashed, fighting with each other to advance on the boiler, this one sat still on its haunches, waiting. Silas narrowed his focus, shrugging off the other minds. The lone wolf twitched, noticing Silas's scrutiny.
Silas ignored his other senses, the world fading away until only him and the wolf remained. He imagined himself in a dark room, the only light shining on him and the wolf. He no longer felt the clothes against his skin, the seat beneath him, his eyelashes brushing his cheeks. But he was aware of the pain; it felt like his brain was boiling. He needed to be fast and accurate. This was his only shot, and if he blew it, Sorne would have Vera and Pa killed.
The thought nearly broke his concentration. Silas used his breath to ground himself. Then, he built power between his eyes, letting it burn hotter and hotter. With a spark, it ignited.
His stomach flipped in excitement. Relax. He coaxed his heart to slow. If he lost his concentration, his control would slip, and the power would surge out of control. Silas curled his fingers, picturing the power as a ball he could squeeze in his hand. With it steady, he forced a bit of it out, projecting it to the lone wolf's mind.
The connection held for one perfect moment—then snapped.
Silas gasped. The world rushed back in: Dr. Veyl's blurry face above him, the seat beneath his cheek, his body sprawled sideways. When had he fallen? His limbs were numb, useless. He tried to sit up but could only twitch his fingers.
"Remarkable," Dr. Veyl breathed, shining a starbloom penlight into Silas's eyes. Where had he gotten that? From his pocket?
"How did he do that?" Ilyra asked, her voice unsteady. So she was capable of emotional expression after all.
"I told you his power was real," said Sorne. While Silas couldn't see his face, he could hear the gratification behind his tone.
Did… Did it work?
Slowly, sensation crept back into Silas's limbs. With tingling arms, Silas pulled himself upright and sagged into his seat. Dr. Veyl looked disappointed. He pocketed his penlight and sat with his back to the door, giving the boy space. Silas shook his head, washing away lingering wooziness, and looked out the window.
The carrion wolves were gone. If Silas strained his eyes against the dark, he could just make out a few retreating forms. The wolves sulked back toward the rocks, disappearing behind the strange, lanky protrusions with tails between their legs. He had done it. Vera and Pa were saved.
Silas sighed in relief, sinking into his seat. Overcome with sudden exhaustion, his eyelids drooped. His bound hands no longer bothered him. Any position was comfortable. He just wanted to sleep. Silas was just drifting off when Dr. Veyl's shrill, nasal voice jarred him back.
"Tell me, child, how did you do it?" The physick offered Silas his notepad. The boy swatted it away and turned his back on Dr. Veyl.
Undaunted, Dr. Veyl continued. "Details, details. I need the details. What was it like from your perspective? From ours, it was astounding. Simply astounding. It was a mental battle, waged in chilling silence. Did you target their leader? There was this one in the middle. It stiffened up all of a sudden, staring right at you. Then, just as abruptly, it turned and padded away. The others followed right after. What I'm curious about is—"
"Enough."
The Archarbiter's word silenced the physick mid-rant. For the first time, Silas was grateful for Sorne's intervention.
The Archarbiter tested the accelerator. The boiler sputtered and then lurched forward. "Leave him be, physick," Sorne said, glaring through the rearview mirror. "Soon, you'll have him all to yourself."
Was Sorne doing this for Silas's benefit? Or to ease his own annoyance? The boy stole a glance at the mirror. The Archarbiter's lips were pulled into a sneer. To ease his own annoyance, then.
A pleasant silence ensued—the gentle, effervescent hum of the boiler's engine a lullaby.
"Malrick?" Ilyra said right before Silas fell asleep.
"Yes?"
"You owe me a new boiler."
A pause. Sorne sighed. "As you wish."
Silas stared up at a bright, clear sky. A sultry wind ruffled his hair, carrying the scent of prickly pear to his nose. He inhaled deep, filling his lungs with the gentle aroma. Looking down, Silas noticed he was barefoot. The soil beneath his feet wasn't frozen. Dysol's warm beams kissed his skin and baked the sand beneath his feet. Elated, he laughed, crouching low to draw stick figures in the dirt.
"Dinner's ready, my lad!"
Silas perked up at the sound of Pa's voice. He was standing in the doorway of a quaint cottage, waving. Behind him, a river bubbled, the water a sparkling turquoise. Someone was standing on the bank, water up to her ankles. She turned and smiled before wading back to solid ground.
It was Vera.
She wore a wide-brimmed hat to shade her face and shoulders from Dysol's dazzling light. Her simple linen dress was a gentle blue, a pleasing contrast to the olive tone of her skin. As she walked, she turned to look back over her shoulder.
"Oscar, stop dithering over there!" Vera paused, spinning on her heel. "What? No. Put that back. We've plenty to eat already. At this point, you're just catching them for sport."
Vera faced Silas, shaking her head and snorting a laugh. Oscar emerged from behind the cottage, a fishing net slung over his shoulder. His trousers were bunched up to his knees, the hem sopping wet. Several fish writhed in the net, flopping against the twine. Oscar pulled the net over his shoulder and plopped it onto the ground at his feet.
"Impressive, eh?" he said, wiggling his eyebrows at Silas.
"Just two?" Silas answered with a flippant wave of his hand. "Pa clearly has more to teach you if that's still all you can manage."
Silas nearly woke from the shock. He had spoken. Not in writing, not with sign—with his voice. For the first time, he heard himself say words, felt his lips shape them into meaning.
This is a dream.
At his awareness, the dream world warped, threatening collapse. Desperately, Silas clung to it. Not yet! He willed himself to relax. Don't wake up just yet. His heart calmed, breath slowing. The world righted itself again, the scene as clear as if it were reality.
"What're you staring at your feet for, lad?" Pa held the door open. "The table's set. We're waiting for you."
"I'm coming!" Silas called, breaking into a trot.
Pa led him through a small kitchen and into a cramped yet cozy dining room. The square table had four chairs: one on each end. Vera and Oscar sat opposite each other, their plates already loaded. Vera glared at Oscar and slapped down his hand that was trying to sneak a spoonful of whipped potatoes. When Silas entered, she grinned.
"Hurry up, mouse boy," she said, intently watching Oscar. "Else, Oscar's going to finish off his plate before you've even been served."
"What happened to the fish?" Silas asked, sliding into a chair. He pulled a bowl of roasted vegetables toward himself.
"I was forced to put them back," Oscar grumbled, scowling at his plate.
"As you should," Pa said beside Silas, hands clasped below his chin. "We shouldn't be wasteful. There's more than enough food to go around."
Oscar mumbled something about salting the fish for later but didn't comment further.
Where had Silas seen this scene before? It felt so familiar…
He thought about it while he ate. Fluffy whipped potatoes dripping with hot butter, slow-roasted fowl that melted in his mouth, bread fresh from the oven crackling with a hearty crust. Silas closed his eyes and smiled deeply. He could get used to this.
Finished, Vera set her fork down atop her empty plate and slid it away from her. The mood turned somber. Oscar hid his frown behind a napkin. Pa's eyes flicked around, never landing on anything for more than a second. What was going on?
"We set out tomorrow," Vera said after a lengthy pause, her gaze drifting to each person. "Silas, is there anything you'd like to say beforehand?"
Silas opened his mouth. He remembered now! This scene—it was from the adventure novel he'd read at Vera's house. All of the characters were replaced with people he knew. Toward the end of the story, the heroine and her allies gathered for a final meal before traveling—
A voice boomed from above, so loud the table vibrated. Silas's gaze shot to the ceiling. Dust and chunks of plaster rained down, spilling from a growing crack. The voice was telling him to wake up.
Silas shook his head, his fingers gripping the edge of the table. "No," he muttered. "No, please. I don't want to. I don't want to go back. I want to stay here." His bottom lip trembled, tears welling.
The voice grew physical. It wrapped around Silas like a giant hand and pulled him upward.
"No!" Silas screamed, thrashing against the grip. "Let me stay! Please!"
The dream dissolved. Vera's smile faded first, then Oscar's disappointed expression, then Pa's kind eyes. The cottage walls melted like wax, and everything went dark.
"I said wake up, wretch."
A hand slapped Silas hard on the cheek. With a gasp, his eyes snapped open. He winced against the blinding late-morning glare. Ilyra guarded the boiler's doorway, Silas's chains wrapped around her arm. The last wisps of the dream floated away. It left a burning hole in his heart.
His throat was still voiceless, his hands still bound. Vera and Pa lay wounded, prisoners of the Sanctorium. Coming back to reality felt like a cruel joke. It stung harder than his cheek, which swelled with a red welt the shape of Ilyra's palm.
With a yank of his chains, Silas stumbled out of the boiler. He stared at the ground, trying to convince himself the dream he just had was reality, and now he was stuck in a nightmare. Beside him, Dr. Veyl's stylus went scritch scritch scritch, the physick's notetaking reaching maximum fervor.
"The Garrison Mordant," he breathed, eyes wide with wonder. "One of the finest facilities ever constructed by the Empire. A nexus where logics and war shake hands." The physick clasped his notepad between his palms like he was in prayer.
Sorne stepped next to Ilyra. Smirking at her, he said, "Your men are as disciplined as ever I see."
"Please," Ilyra responded, tossing her long braid over her shoulder. "These ornaments are for show. My soldiers are for war, not decoration."
She marched forward a few steps, pulling Silas along beside her. Silas kept his gaze downcast, refusing to acknowledge the soldiers lining either side of the paved pathway he treaded on. They stood at attention, their stares vacant, arms crossed in Imperial salute. Stopping before a gargantuan pair of dark stone doors, Silas finally looked up.
A fortress towered above him, blocking out Dysol's light. Figures traversed the battlements bordering the foundation, glaring down the barrels of alchemical cannons. Towers stood at each corner, narrowing from the base so their peaks stuck the sky—as sharp as needles. The portcullis was raised, the bottom of its grille gaping above the door like so many teeth. The keep loomed on a hill beyond the courtyard, capped with flags waving the Imperial star and crown sigil. Silas saw many similarities between Imperial Crownhold and the Garrison Mordant. But the structure before him—the lone bastion of the Empire in this desolate expanse of nothingness—was far more sinister. Crownhold was nothing more than a prison. Silas feared the Garrison Mordant would be his tomb.
The massive doors groaned as they lethargically opened to reveal a single figure waiting in the darkness. He reminded Silas of a ghost—tall and thin, with wispy hair the same shade as his pristine lab coat. Cold eyes studied Silas from behind a pair of wire-rimmed spectacles. They regarded him once, slowly, and then drifted up to address Ilyra.
"Greetings, General Curne." The man bowed in salute. He straightened, then bowed again and said, "Greetings, Archarbiter Sorne. I hope your journey was leisurely and congenial."
The man stepped to the side and held out his arm, beckoning them onward. "Welcome to the Garrison Mordant. I look forward to working with you."
Ilyra nodded and marched forward, rattling Silas's chains. He dipped his head and followed. Behind him, the doors clanged closed, sealing him inside the impregnable vault of the fortress.