And Yet She Persisted 2 (2/2)

In a place beyond worlds, in the wreckage of his hopes and dreams, with his dead, dismembered friends lying all about him, Melos the first, King of Cylvania opened his eyes.

In the castle beyond, the projection that was him, but not him, laughed heartily and stalked the halls, looking for adventurers to fight. Clenching his eyes shut Melos exerted his will, groaning at the effort, until finally the thing that was better than his id but worse than his ego returned to his quarters. Painstakingly he tripped the wards and circles that would keep it in place for a few hours, let him get some semblance of rest.

It had found its way out once or twice before, when he’d succumbed to exhaustion. When he’d been weak, and foolish enough to think that he could risk sleep deeper than a fitful slumber.

The first time it had happened, he’d woken to find his blade in King Garamundi’s stomach, with a room full of horrified servants looking on.

And weeping, knowing there was no help for it, he’d had the projection cut the servants down rather than risk witnesses. The damage had been done, though, and no one believed his stories of an assassin. Balmoran had seceded a year later, prepared for war, and he couldn’t honestly blame the man.

At least Melos could honestly say that he hadn’t killed the king. He’d gotten very good at mincing words, over the last decade and a half.

But either way, he couldn’t let this dungeon’s master run free. No. No, he’d taken precautions since then. Gone without sleep. Balanced sanity on a knife-edge, which was hard, because you didn’t regain any, while you were in the green light. Not a bit, not any other pool either. Buffs didn’t work, healing didn’t work, bardsong didn’t work, nothing. He’d had to kill the bard afterward, too. Pity, the man had been a decent level and a loyalist. But no one could know, no one could ever know, until everyone was safe again.

Sanity. What was his? He couldn’t say status, not in here. Not in any way that worked.

He braced himself and stepped through the veil of light. “Status,” he croaked, and winced at the number. He’d need to sleep again soon.

Above him, the numbers pulsed, and words flashed up, broken, skewed, seventeen different versions of the same message, informing him that the master was out of his slot, and needed replacing.

“I know,” he said, feeling around at the table that Anise had left him. “I know!” he screamed, finally finding the bottle she’d left, ripping the cork free, and drinking the contents in three hasty gulps. He’d forbidden her to poison him or give him anything disgusting, but the week, watery beer was scant help. He’d have to sleep soon, and gods help him.

With seven seconds to go, and his bladder aching, he stepped back into the column of green light, gasping as his mind shifted, and the world blurred. The wards were undamaged, he saw. Perhaps his alter ego would be cooperative for once. Perhaps he could sleep, get the rest he needed.

“Nice try,” he told himself. “Never. Never trust you.”

He nodded off regardless, came to. Checking his projection’s surroundings, he shrieked in horror. The thing had his armor off, was halfway out the window, with a manic grin on his red-bearded face, and the green holes in its torso showing clearly for all to see. Fortunately it was dark, and nobody seemed to be around. But the wards on that entire wall were gouged, sparking, broken. Days to redo them. Reagents that would need requisitioning. How long had it been? How long had he managed to sleep?

Melos stepped outside, wincing as his brain throbbed, as the veil grasped it like it always did. “Status,” he whispered, and he stared in horror at his sanity.

“No,” he whispered. “So little. So little so little so little back. So little…” As the world throbbed, and his head bloomed with ache, he cried, just a bit. He needed to drink again, and he felt blindly back to the table-

-and felt his gauntlet close on flesh. A hand. A hand he knew all too well.

“Anise,” he said, retreating to the green. “Report, I’m listening.” Then it was in through the barrier, and watching as the thing that wore Amelia’s face moved to stand in front of the column, fearful and worried.

“Milord,” she said. “Your daughter has won her first great battle, but there were consequences.”

Melos’ eyes snapped open. Mute, unable to speak, he stared out of the light. But he let his fury show, and she quailed to see it. He could punish her later, through the projection. He’d done that before, hurt her, done worse to her, until she’d learned.

Learned to lie better, anyway, the shattered remnants of his common sense whispered in the back of his mind. Or was that his guilt? He didn’t know. Couldn’t know.

“I tried to keep her safe! But… the cultists. She lost sanity, when she explored their sanctuary.” Anise took a breath. “Cecelia lost her jobs. I brought in some trusted cohorts, to reteach her the basics. They’re doing it even now. She tells me she can pilot the Steam Knight suit, so no one should ever know.”

Melos closed his eyes. When the tears stopped, he opened them again, and stepped out of the column.

“My lord?” Anise said, stepping back.

“You swear to me that you had no hand in this? That you didn’t wipe her mind?”

“I never affected Cecelia’s sanity, I swear.” Anise held up her hands. “She won the battle. The old one is no longer a threat in that area, nor ever will be again.”

With the seconds ticking by, with a growl of frustration that was half a sob, Melos surged back into the column, then out again, resetting the count. Anise offered him a roll, and he ate it, wincing at the staleness, as she continued.

“There is one windfall from this,” Anise said, and Melos gasped as she held up a new dungeon core. Only a minor one, but still, but still…

He tore it from her hand, ran to one of the filled columns, one of the ones labelled “LOOT.” He clawed at it, reached in and pulled a burned black crystal from its plinth, and replaced it with the red dungeon core. Immediately it lit up brighter, the numbers flashing in its depths cycling up, going into overdrive and vibrating in the enclosure. A strange energy pulsed from it, green numbers flashed overhead, and some of the tear overhead seemed to mend.

It wouldn’t be enough, he knew. Not for long. Not even for a year. But it would buy time, and that was what he needed right now. He took a look around at the other columns, sprinkled throughout the black space. Of the sixteen other filled loot columns, fourteen of them held burnt cores.

He lost a precious second then, to self-pity, as reality pulsed.

“Teach her quickly!” He yelled, throwing himself back into the Master’s column. In there for only a few seconds, just long enough to make sure it registered, then out again. “Teach her quickly. Get her back up to speed. Crush the dwarves. No more traitors.”

“I did execute a few, in the town. I hope you don’t mind that I attended to that personally.”

“I don’t care.”

She smiled, and her posture unbent a bit.

He knew she’d screwed him over somehow. But he didn’t care, couldn’t care. The daemon continued, glancing around the room, at the other four columns that held figures. “I could more efficiently crush your foes if you let the rest of the Hand out. They’ve spent too long as mid-bosses, it can’t be good for their health.”

“No,” Melos rasped, staring at the faces of his dead friends, their nude forms hiding the daemons inside them, trapped in green light for eternity. “No, but you can have the golem. Have Emmet, like we discussed. It’s time for Amelia Gearhart to return to the world. Talk to me in the castle.” Then it was back into the column, to reset the count, and closing his eyes again.

Resting them. Just resting.

He knew she was smiling. Knew she was sneering. Knew that she’d surely screwed him over in some petty, spiteful little way. He’d never had the time to properly review the pact, never had time to iron out the details. How could he, when he only had thirty seconds and passing through the column disoriented him each and every time?

When he opened them he saw her leaving, heading toward the hidden door, picking her way over the dismembered bodies. Past the throne, broken and sparking, where once all the loot columns had channeled their energy, past the apparatus that Grissle had made long ago. Past HIS corpse, the only intact one left in the room.

Things didn’t rot here. Didn’t change. Didn’t fade.

It was immortality, of a sort. And by the gods he’d scorned, it was a horror he’d never be free of. Not until his daughter was ready, not until he had someone he could trust, someone the traitors hadn’t twisted, to share the burden. One day she would be ready for the truth, and then they could trade off, take turns in the column that supported all of his reality, all the reality that Cylvania had ever known for the last fifteen years.

And perhaps, someday, they’d find a way to fix it.

Be strong, Cecelia. Endure. Fight hard, but never lose your heart. The hardest part is yet to come. Thought the damned king, as he went back to his torment.