Hearma
Joma’s room was empty.
The floor was littered with dirty clothes and alchemical detritus—squashed corks, broken bottles and stirrers, little piles of ash. There was a peculiar lifeless feel to the room, that it was more of a tableau than a place where a person lived. It’d only been a few days since Hearma’d last seen his brother, but it felt like some kind of fairy tale where a day on the inside was a year on the outside.
Fresh acid stains on the desk meant Joma had still been here, recently. When it was discovered that he had an uncanny aptitude for alchemy, Rald wasted no time in installing Joma next to the main offices of the trading company. He must be alive…right? Hearma thought.
Voices echoed down the corridor. Hearma slipped behind the door as quietly as possible.
“…preparations almost complete?” That voice—silk over stone. That was Rald!
“There have been some delays. We had to gather some extra…reagents after our first batch proved to be a bit too feisty,” said Thilifor. No mistaking that voice either.
“You are a bit too eager to begin the time of destruction, Thilifor. I’ve warned you about these tendencies before. Do you require another lesson?”
“N-no, your greatness,” said Thilifor. “It was not our fault. The sacrifices realized what was happening, and we caught them mid-escape. We’ve drugged the rest to sap their wills. It won’t happen again.”
“See to it that it does not.”
The footsteps stopped outside Joma’s door. Breath held tight as rigor mortis, Hearma willed himself to be unnoticable.
“Did the final test go as expected? Did the boy’s key work?” Rald asked. They were talking about Joma!
“Yes, the test worked. The anti-mana field passed through as well. But…are you sure we can’t test it on the Council building proper?”
“No, the Nexus Council will know the moment we open a portal into the heart of their operations. We cannot tip our hand early. We must hit them before they understand what is happening.”
Peering through the doorway, Hearma could see the two of them talking; Thilifor, none the worse for wear from burning down a tavern. Rald stood straight as always, regal, like he knew better than you and was better than you. Even his posture told you so, with a rack of long horns that swept around his head and curled back up at the collar. His face was lined and kind looking, like an uncle who would be stern with you one moment and offer a sweet in the next. Hearma had seen that face convince crowds of fools of the unfortunate but ultimately necessary fact that the world was corrupted, and needed to be burned down to grow anew. Such a kindly face for a monster.
For a moment Hearma wondered what Cap would do if she were here—probably charge them both headfirst, heedless of the danger. Maybe she’d be right, this time. But thinking of her made him angry again. She had seemed like a good person, he’d even come to like her…and then she turned out to be just like Rald, and everyone else in the world: untrustworthy. He banished her from his thoughts.
“Is the boy in a safe place? We may need his talents again,” Rald said.
Thilifor nodded, eyes lowered. “The drying rooms at the top of the tree, under lock and key. Got a bit flighty and asked where his brother was, had to lay some hands on him.”
Rald’s eyes narrowed. “Do not harm him. He is an instrument of the Stars. Quite irreplaceable, unlike me…or you.”
“Of course,” Thilifor said, choking on the words.
Rald noticed he had pushed the unstable elf onto brittle emotional territory, and shifted his stance. “I haven’t properly thanked you for your brilliant plan. I can hear the cries of the city. You were right, the marshals and the guards won’t venture into the city now, but stay focused on the gates. A well-laid plan.” He laid a fatherly hand on the elf’s shoulder.
“Thank you.” Thilifor’s voice was ragged with gratitude.
“Now, I must prepare for the ritual casting. Make sure the gates are guarded and shut. I cannot be interrupted once it starts.” He strode away, his slippers whispering on the wooden plank floor. Thilifor’s booted footsteps echoed more loudly, receding into the distance.
Slowly, so slowly he could hear his tendons creak, Hearma peeled away from the door and quietly stepped into the hallway. They were gone. A door to the servant’s hallway was just a few steps away. Jiggling the door lock open, he began mapping a route through the complex web of stairs and rope ladders that wove the warehouse and office complex of the Seventh Star together.
Pain shot through his head as something struck him from behind. Hearma collapsed on the ground.
“Thought I felt something hiding in the room,” sneered Thilifor.
The howl that passed Hearma’s lips bit the air like a saw, teeth made of frustration and pain.
Bessemer Wordsmithy 
2 thoughts on “A Counterfeit Key – Chapter 14”