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80. [Nortmost] Twenty Days Up, Conclusion
🕑 Added 2024-12-30 23:43:24 +0000 UTCTraveon Twiceblack, Skulker of the 2nd Renown, Soldier’s Rest, master of dumb luck
Cortland Finiron, Hammer Master of the 12th Renown, Kingdom of Infinzel, will have his answers
Carina Goldstone, Logician of the 3rd Renown, Kingdom of Infinzel, almost made it
***
19 Meltzend, 61 AW
Ascending the Nortmost Mountain
Day Twenty of the Trial
Traveon perched on his tiptoes and slammed the pommel of his knife against the sheet of ice that covered the cavern's ceiling. Powdery snow sifted down through the cracks and the sunlight leaking in brightened. A few more good strikes and he would be free. Traveon leaned back on the altar-shaped stalagmite that he balanced upon, not wanting to get struck by any of the ice when it crumbled.
The Ink on his chest was still warm and ready. This iced-over opening in the cavern ceiling had not been an [Improbable Occurrence], then. He had discovered it with his own natural ingenuity. Dumb luck, Carina called it. Watts was a little kinder in that he often referred to Traveon’s ‘blessed blunderings.’ Well, whatever name it went by, Traveon had always been proud of his good fortune. He considered only ten percent actual chance, with the rest equal parts improvisation and boldness. He had a knack for escaping high risk situations, but only because he had the courage to put himself there in the first place.
The little worm man had told Traveon that his Ink was a rare offering. The gods did not often grant control over chance. Yet, they had taken notice of Traveon’s natural abilities. Of course, that knowledge had appealed to him—to be rare, to be special. But, in the weeks since, Traveon had begun to slightly resent the Ink. Traveon had used loaded dice and marked cards—he was certainly not above cheating—but there was still some skill to that. Divine power took a bit of the rush out of things.
“Like a king can never know if he’s funny,” Traveon muttered as he tightened his grip on his knife. “Everyone compelled to laugh at his jokes.”
It had felt like one [Improbable Occurrence] after another since he'd left Cortland.
He had discovered the cavern in the side of one of the chimney-shaped spires that comprised the Nortmost's final ascent. He had only squeezed through the entryway because there were stone walkers behind him and they seemed oddly reluctant to pursue him into this part of the mountain, even though it should have been their domain. Strange, senseless creatures. He had planned to wait them out—to hide and to wait for Cortland to come smash them—but then his [Improbable Occurrence] Ink had fired and a modest avalanche had sealed him in.
Traveon didn’t panic. It wouldn't be fair for the gods to equip him with bad luck, right? There must be an advantage to be gained in this cavern.
And so, Traveon had delved deeper. He had a torch and plenty of lamp oil. At least it was pleasant to be out of the wind. There were collapsed bits to navigate here and there, but the cavern floor was surprisingly smooth. Traveon prowled comfortable passageways that led gently upward. Only when he counted a dozen jutting rocks in perfect sequence did it occur to Traveon that he was not climbing the north's most convenient rock formation; he was using stairs.
He had found himself in a structure of some kind. A castle, perhaps, or a fort. Built from the mountain or sunk into the mountain or something in between. The cavernous rooms were large, empty, and old. There was little to see beyond steps and ramps and eerie, empty chambers that led nowhere. Traveon figured this place had been picked clean and forgotten long ago. He found the silence unnerving, but only because he liked the sounds of voices, his and others, and had always lived close with people in Soldier's Rest. Never had he been anywhere as quiet as the stilled heart of the mountain.
Outside, his fellow champions hiked or climbed or fell. Meanwhile, Traveon ascended a series of staircases at a leisurely pace, faced only with the dangers of boredom and loneliness. He slept fitfully, huddled in an archway between staircases, worried about hauntings and cave-dwelling creatures. But nothing came for Traveon.
And finally, that day—weak light from the ceiling. A window or a hatch or a hole. An exit.
The ice broke and sunlight streamed into the topmost chamber of the hidden fortress. Traveon wondered if he should tell the others about this place. He wondered if he could find his way back.
Questions for later. He jumped upward, arms slipping across the snowy ground. He levered his legs and dug his fingers in, relying on [Agility+], and eventually kicked his way clear. Panting, he laid on his back and stared up at the blue sky—no blizzard, no threatening clouds.
No more mountain. It was the first time in weeks that Traveon could look up without seeing some looming chunk of the Nortmost. He had made it to the top.
Traveon sat straight as he sensed the Ink. There—at the center of the flattened peak—a cairn of obsidian rocks bubbled over with the stuff. Like a fountain, just waiting for Traveon to dip his hands in.
He laughed. “Gods. Am I first?”
“Second,” a man's voice responded. “Hello.”
A rather muscular man sat with his legs dangling over the edge, half-turned so he could look at Traveon. He wore a wooden mask in the shape of an elephant, the eyes slanted in rage, and trunk flaring outward in a curl.
Traveon groaned. “First men with stone for bodies, now one with wood for a head.”
Wrathful Elephant pulled one of his knees up, so he could peer in Traveon’s direction. “Where did you come from?” He pointed down, beneath his feet. “The way up is here.”
“I struck a deal with the stone walkers,” Traveon replied. “They carried me up here on their shoulders.”
“Funny,” Wrathful Elephant said. “But the creatures don’t venture this high. They’re bound to the mountain, yes?” The assassin drummed his fingers on the stone beneath him. “We aren’t exactly on the mountain anymore, are we?”
Traveon cocked his head and made a show of glancing around, though he never once looked back at the hole he’d crawled out of. “Not sure what you mean, friend.”
“Giants and their trolls lived here once,” Wrathful Elephant said. “Then, later, the mages took it from them. Centuries ago, this would’ve been. Before the Magelab, even. The sorcerers kept slaves in those days—suppose they still do, in a way. Regardless. If a slave dared to attempt escape, one of the punishments was to be made living stone. Bound to roam the Nortmost, forever cold and heavy, pining for living flesh. Imagine the madness in those stone bodies.”
“No, thank you,” Traveon said. He glanced toward the Ink—the cairn bubbled over invitingly. “Is this some kind of final test, then? Am I meant to dazzle you with an anecdote of ancient history before I take the Ink?”
Beneath the mask, the assassin sucked his teeth. He waved Traveon away. “I’m no gatekeeper. The Ink is yours.” Wrathful Elephant turned back around. “I only thought it was interesting. Old, dead magic. Coaxed back to life by the gods to challenge us. Don’t you wonder if there’s some deeper meaning?”
Traveon gave the assassin’s question a moment of sincere thought. “No. I think the gods just like to fuck us about.”
With that, Traveon crossed the flattened top of the Nortmost, shook off his gloves, and dipped his hands into the Ink. He watched the new power coil up his arm, disappearing into his sleeve, and he waited for the symbologist to take him. His mind was elsewhere—on an approximation of the island, receiving his next symbol—when the assassin spoke again.
“Ah,” Wrathful Elephant said. “Looks like some of your friends are turning back.”
***
Cortland could tell by the determined way the girl crawled through the snow and ice that she had a destination in mind. Even with what must have been a broken back, Carina always had an escape route. He tracked her trajectory and figured she meant to throw herself over the edge—some hidden outcropping below that she’d probably planned for as a haven. Not the best idea for someone with her injuries, but maybe she didn’t think she had a choice.
Perhaps she didn’t.
“You and me ain’t finished,” Cortland said. Even as the words were spoken, he sensed the empty space behind him.
Laughing Monkey had slipped away. Some combination of [Shadow Step] and [Camouflage] most likely. Cortland wondered if the assassin was still close and decided that she probably was and that it didn’t matter. She had baited him this far, might as well keep going. Nothing would be settled between them until he could cave her head in with his hammer.
With a grunt, Cortland started across the rocks toward Carina. Wind swirled around him, reddening his cheeks and ears, though the biting flurries of snow were beginning to slow. The snow was packed down tight where her [Force Shield] hit. Carina heard his crunching footsteps and contorted her neck to glance backward, moaned softly at the sight of him, and then somehow quickened the pace of her belly-crawl. Cortland felt the briefest flash of pride. Had he instilled some of that grit into the logician during their time in the training pit?
Cortland walked beside her for a moment, letting her strive for escape. A brief thrill of teasing, bullying cruelty. They both knew she wouldn’t make the edge. He pulled his hammer and dropped it—thunk—directly in her path.
“Far enough, girl,” Cortland said.
Carina loosed a jangling sigh and stopped. She peered up at him with one eye, the other half of her face pressed into the snow. Blood in her mouth and on her lips, her brown hair tangled and wet where it wasn’t frozen. Cortland thought about trying to sit her up, but worried that moving her might further rearrange her bones. Instead, he took a knee next to her, and placed one hand gently on her back.
“Can you speak?”
The logician wetted her lips. “Yes.”
Cortland nodded and turned to squint at the ascent. As the snow cleared, he could see vague outlines scaling the rock face, headed in both directions. He eyed those figures rappelling swiftly downward—away from the Ink. Someone come to check on Carina, he assumed, but to what end?
“How did this happen to you?” Cortland asked.
Carina swallowed. “Accident.”
He sighed and looked down at her. “Bad decision to begin with a lie.”
Carina tried to roll onto her side, but quickly became frustrated from the effort.
“Orryn,” she said after another ragged breath.
That made sense to Cortland. King Cizco would have made his grandson a back-up plan, if Cortland couldn’t find it within himself to do what the king clearly expected.
“King Cizco told me you killed Arris Stonetender,” Cortland said.
Carina’s lips twitched. “You killed her.” She patted the snow between her and Cortland’s hammer. “With that.”
“Cizco says you nudged her toward madness. You made her a scapegoat.”
“His idea,” Carina replied. “He said you were distracted. Didn’t want you running off to the Beach of Blades.”
“No, instead, the assassins came to me,” Cortland replied. “We’ll come to that, logician.”
Carina squeezed her eyes shut for a moment, a glistening track turning to frost on her cheek. “Arris wouldn’t have lasted another year. The fire was eating her. It was mercy.”
“You get to decide that?” Cortland asked. “What’s mercy and when it’s time?”
Carina knew better than to respond. She laid there—labored breaths knocking around in her chest.
“Why does the king tell me this story about you, like it’s something he’s just discovered?” Cortland asked. “On the night that Soldier’s Rest splintered from Infinzel, of all times. Did you do that, too?”
“He did,” she said. “With his ego.”
Well, Cortland couldn’t argue with that. He had seen Cizco’s performance in Guydemion’s tavern.
Cortland reached down and tilted Carina’s chin. She didn’t struggle against him. He knew she was still marked with the pyramid, but he wanted to see it for himself.
“Still ours,” he said.
“I’m loyal,” she replied. “Too loyal. To the city.”
“Cizco doesn’t see it that way.”
“I discovered how he powers the pyramid,” Carina said.
“With his life and our wish.”
“With his children,” she replied. “It’s why they turn sickly. It’s why so many wives and so many babes.”
Cortland stared down at the logician. She watched his face in turn, studying his heavy brow to see if he believed her. Cortland found that he did.
He shrugged. “Salvados are mostly assholes, anyway. What do I care what Cizco uses them for? At least they’re good for something.”
“Unsustainable,” Carina said. She must have been able to tell—immediately—that this evaluation meant little to Cortland. “If Cizco wants me silenced, it’s too late. Vitt knows. I think he can be kept from telling the others. It could mean disaster for the city if they find out before we’re ready.”
“Before who’s ready?” Cortland asked. “For what?”
“Us. The ones who will save the city.” Despite her pale, blood-streaked face, Cortland saw the heat of belief rising in Carina’s expression. “Ready to provide an alternative. I can do better than some old ways bloodline curse. Cizco could, too. But a new way wouldn’t keep him at the center.”
Cortland grunted. He did not appreciate being sent north to do the king’s dirty work, like an attack dog given only a whiff of the truth and set loose. And here she was—the logician who had strolled into the Battle Library and declared herself the savior of Infinzel. He had believed her then. Gods, he believed her now, even with her teeth jiggling loose in her mouth. Better to press on, before he listened to her too much.
“Maybe Cizco asked for Arris, but you were all too happy to answer,” Cortland said. “Someone else to take the blame for Ben.”
“Yes,” Carina said. “I wanted to protect her.”
“Your friend who the assassin introduced me to. Sylvie Aracia.”
“Yes.”
“Her name on the coin,” Cortland rumbled. “Convenient for you.”
“She suffered something horrible and I wanted to help her,” Carina replied. “I was not looking for that opportunity. But, later, I did take it.”
“Painting yourself to get the gods’ attention.”
“Yes.”
“Look where it’s gotten you.”
She dared to smile at him. “What do you mean? I’m almost atop the world.”
Cortland snorted. “Why do the assassins want you dead? They use their debt over that girl to make her confess to me when there’s a thousand things more valuable. They lead me here…”
Carina closed her eyes and nodded, as if something at last made sense to her.
“I don’t think they care about me at all,” she said, after a moment. “I think the Laughing Monkey has always hated Infinzel. And I think she has taken an interest in you.”
Cortland remembered the assassin’s words, pulsing under his fingers as he squeezed her throat. He had no doubt that he’d been steered to this place, perhaps by more than one person. A tool to be wielded. He looked down at Carina. She was no different. Even now, she probably gamed out in her mind how best to manipulate the brutish hammer master to her advantage.
His face had gone cold. Cortland could tell by the way Carina shuddered and then stilled herself.
“Promise you won’t hurt Sylvie,” she said. “I’ll take her debt. Let her part in this be done.”
Cortland’s lips curled back. “She’s no champion. Maybe you could sort a way to kill a Penchennese under the gods’ protection, but I lack your skills. And I’m fucking glad for it.”
Carina closed her eyes. “Thank you.”
“I would ask some promise from you, in return,” Cortland said. “But what would be the point? You would find some way out, if the need arose.”
“Yes,” Carina said quietly. “I probably would.”
Cortland turned to watch the descending climbers. One of them moved gracefully, speeding down the rock with predatory ease. Vitt, no doubt. The other came slower, legs swinging awkwardly, clinging to the ropes. Henry, perhaps.
The hunger for vengeance had seeped out of him. He’d gotten the answers he’d wanted—more answers than he’d wanted, in fact—and what he had learned was that he’d spent too long fighting battles for other people.
Carina gasped with surprise when he used [Bolster]. The ability wouldn’t heal her, but it would give her the energy to hold on until help arrived. Cortland could sense her eyes upon him, searching his face. There was a different kind of satisfaction in that—surprising someone like her with mercy.
“You can’t come back to Infinzel,” Cortland said. “Not until I’ve spoken with the king. Maybe not even then.”
“I know,” Carina replied. Her voice was louder now, stronger—yet he heard a sadness there. He knew how much returning to the pyramidal city meant to her. She would begin a second exile now. A champion estranged from her Quill. Some small punishment in that, even though he was sure she would find a way to turn it to her advantage. Well, perhaps that would be for all of their benefit, if she did. A better outcome than one more death.
Cortland jerked his chin toward the rock face. “Henry comes for you, I think, but we got some time still.” He turned to face her. “Tell me about your alternatives. Tell me how you’ll fix what’s broken in the pyramidal city.”
