The Bearer's Burden (Phantom Pact Book 1) Page 3

  “Listen, it’s not good for business if I lose one of my best customers to my own product. I can’t synthesize this in my lab, you know? I have to import it from black market military surplus, and no one even knows what’s in it. This is as nasty as it gets.”

  Cade’s hands shook, and he felt as if he were being pulled in many directions at once. He had shared his mind with his phantoms for too long. Cade tried closing his eyes, but it only made the sensation worse. He forced them open and took a deep breath to steady himself.

  Cade glared at Tic. “Either you give me the Nocturne right now or I’ll let your parents know how you’ve been helping pay the rent.”

  The young man paled. Even in his state, Cade still felt a pang of remorse; Tic was just trying to help. Tic reminded Cade of himself when he was a young man. A mess of brown hair, a lean but strong build, and a quiet disposition. That youthful image of himself came back for a moment before he remembered what he looked like now, too many scars to count, hair cut short, and his eyes had turned almost silver. Tic thrust the bag into Cade’s hand, stuffed the money into his pocket, and stalked off without a word.

  The phantoms within him pulled at his mind. He needed to get home, and fast. The town itself was nice but woefully small. Most towns on the Ends were, with more and more people being taken. If you had the means, you got out. This made Cade’s presence all the more difficult to hide. Thankfully, his house was off the beaten path.

  Cade crossed through the main street of the town and overheard two local men talking outside of the saloon.

  “Looks like the raiders took Wilks,” the first man said.

  “It’s only a matter of time until they come for us, too,” the second man said, expression grave.

  The first man spat. “We’ll have to move. It’s not like the king will help the likes of us. And we don’t want no Bearers coming here. Not after what they did in the war.”

  Cade took his hands out of his pockets as he hurried by them. It would be too conspicuous if he concealed his hands while walking. Bearers weren’t looked upon too kindly these days, and encoding rings were a dead giveaway. Most Bearers had been processed through the government’s poor excuse of a training system, and they had not been selective in their recruitment. This had led to a glut of postwar Bearers who abused their power within the smaller towns of the Ends.

  His head felt like a too-crowded room, thoughts tripping over each other while others disappeared completely. Twice he had to stop to remember where the house was, even though he had been there many times in the last few months. With some backtracking, he was able to find the familiar faded dirt road that led home. It was a simple house, long abandoned by a family that didn’t want to take any chances with all the recent disappearances. Luckily for Cade, it was far enough away from the town center to deter any unwanted guests.

  As he walked toward the front door, his vision began to fail. Thin black tendrils encroached from the periphery and grew until he could see nothing but darkness.

  “No. Not now. Not outside.”

  His legs became heavy, as if cast in stone. He considered encoding to diamond but had enough sense remaining to know it would have no effect. The darkness around him shattered into countless pieces, and the vestiges of reality disappeared. New pieces flew back into view. He was no longer in the Ends but was on a great grassy hill. The sun had almost set, but a sliver of golden light still peered over the horizon as the shadow of night lumbered across the countryside.

  He knew this hill. Gigan’s Hill, the doorstep to the Thread, which lay less than a mile away. In front of him he could just make out the great structures of the Ancients, an advanced civilization that had once inhabited Chalice. “The Thread,” he found himself saying in wonder. But something was different. The great beam of light, which lit the land through night and day, was extinguished.

  “Impossible,” said Cade, his voice hardly a whisper. The Wraiths had never turned off the Thread over the past year. Cade had almost forgotten the city of small structures that surrounded the Thread. Unfathomable buildings of silver alloy ringed the tower of the Thread, and an incredible concave dome the size of a castle courtyard sunk into the plain just past the hill.

  It was just like it had been before the Wraiths had come to their planet. “That would mean…” Cade turned around and could make out the distant skyline of Wythlain, the city due south of the Thread. Wythlain fell just short of the great mountains that ringed the center of Chalice. He had forgotten what the city looked like before the Wraiths destroyed it. But here it was, brought back to life. The sight almost brought him to tears. He admired the great city, a crucial mining hub of Chalice, as the sun slipped away and the night took its watch.

  Cade looked up, expecting to see the stars laid out before him. Instead, they began to disappear, as if a great blanket had started unfolding from the heavens.

  “No,” Cade said, reaching skyward. A feeling of dread crept over him as he brought his gaze once again to Wythlain. A great flash of light illuminated the entire countryside, and an odd thunder cracked overhead, so loud Cade could feel his teeth rattle. He ducked down, trying to shield himself from the event, but it was already over. When he leveled his gaze toward Wythlain, all he could see was smoke and ash. This was how the Wraiths had greeted them, one year ago.

  Something immense whirred to life behind him. At first it felt like a low thumping sound, but it picked up speed until it was an almost imperceptible buzz. The immense disc of silver behind him flickered with broken chains of white energy, as if it had swallowed a thunder cloud whole. In moments, the great beam of the Thread shot straight up through the sky, and the aftershock of its awakening knocked Cade to the ground.

  Cade shook his head, standing up, and found he was now somehow mere inches from the Thread, the beam pulsing only inches from where he stood. It was a pillar of pure light—he could feel the energy and heat emanating from it as it flowed upward.

  “This is not real, this is not real,” he murmured, frozen in place. It was impossible to be this close to the Thread; the Wraiths wouldn’t allow it. Wythlain was a testament to that.

  It was beautiful. He hated the Thread, yet he could not pull himself away. It was the symbol of Chalice’s enslavement to the Wraiths, disguised by the gift of free energy.

  He reached out his hand to touch it, and the energy surged while it pulsed rhythmically through him. He pulled his hand back, but the light stretched, sticking to his hand like luminescent tar. His heart beat faster as he pulled harder against the encroaching light. Undeterred, the light enveloped his arm and pulled him into the beam itself. He tried to encode, but his phantoms remained silent. His scream was cut short as the light continued to consume him, until he was engulfed within the beam.

  He saw faces in the light, shifting with mouths open, calling out in some alien tongue. “Eos…” the voices seemed to chant. Almost as quickly as it had taken him, the light receded. He found himself curled upon the ground in front of his house, heart pounding in his chest. His wits crashed back down on him, and he stood up, looking around to see if anyone had witnessed his hallucination.

  He made his way into the house, careful not to trigger the alarms. Once inside, he leaned against the heavy door, taking long and slow breaths to calm himself. At that moment, a reflex beckoned to him from a saner recess of his mind. The questions. He wasn’t sure how far gone he was, but the questions would give him a good idea. They were what grounded him; a simple tool he had devised to help him maintain his identity among the phantoms with which he shared himself.

  What is my name? The baseline. If he couldn’t answer this, he would be close to forgetting himself entirely. “Cade Elegy,” he replied, voice less sure than he would have liked.

  He could still hear the voices getting louder. Forever my song will play, a soft voice chanted from the back of his mind.

  Where was I born? A more difficult question, but simple enough. “Kayvant,” he said aloud. Except that was wrong.
He checked the tattoo underneath his forearm. “Hells,” he said, shaking his head. “Gallance.”

  And with you my heart will stay, the soft voice continued.

  It was worse than he thought. He decided not to ask any more. Must keep moving, he told himself.

  The house was sparsely furnished, the living area appointed only with a broad oak table and a few worn chairs. Next to it sat a pile of splintered wood and an old crate. Whoever had lived here before him had taken care not to leave much behind.

  He knelt next to the worn crate by the table and sifted through the array of broken leather straps and belts that lay within. He pulled out a length, which still had its buckle in decent shape, only a few spots of rust. Tucking it under his arm, he also grabbed a short piece of leather and set it on the table.

  Cade pulled out a chair, worn but solid. With luck, it would hold. He sat down in the chair and secured his legs to the makeshift iron bracers he had attached to the front. He ratcheted them as tight as the straps would allow. The rough metal edges cut through his clothes and bit into his skin, drawing blood.

  He took out the vials of Nocturne and fought the urge to drink. Stay focused, he told himself. He set them on the table.

  Hands trembling, he looped the belt and with some difficulty slid both hands into it. He grabbed the tail of the belt with his teeth and pulled it taut against his wrists until the buckle’s catch found its notch.

  Forever my Song will play. A different voice this time.

  What was I doing again? he thought. Cade sat looking around the room, forehead beaded with sweat, until his eye caught the black vials he had set down on the table.

  He snatched at a vial with his bound hands and used his teeth to draw out the stopper. Its bitter smell hit him straight away, a cross between freshly tempered metal and charred wood. Cade poured the contents into his mouth. A single vial had once been a month’s supply. The liquid coated the inside of his mouth, becoming viscous and bringing a soft warmth. It felt like he was trying to swallow a wet sponge. It hung there for a moment, as if reluctant to plummet to its fate, and then seemed to relax, allowing him to swallow.

  He felt a cold chill envelop him, covering both inside and out. He fought the urge to shiver, but his body ignored him as it shuddered under the overwhelming sensation.

  A sound, or rather sounds, crawled and scratched at the edges of his mind, growing ever louder. His arms and legs jerked as he convulsed under the harsh prelude of Nocturne. He felt his gut wrench as wisps of dark light materialized and swirled around him, a maelstrom of black energy. The sounds divided, the waves of notes crashing upon each other, with neither garnering purchase on the other’s shore. The sensations were too much for Cade. His eyes snapped open, feral and desperate, as he focused on the light that continued to pour out of him. His jaw nearly unhinged as he let out a primal scream, every muscle in his body protesting their restraints.

  The cacophony of sounds assembled, like tumblers of a lock falling into place. A song began to emerge. It was altogether beautiful and moving, yet alien, as if played with instruments far greater than any of this world could offer.

  He had heard the song before, and he hated it.

  The remaining light pooled into two entities before him. But there was also someone else in the room. A version of himself, sitting in a chair that didn’t exist, reading a paper. As if sensing Cade’s gaze, the doppelgänger lowered the paper and studied him, expression somber. He shook his head and resumed reading.

  As the beat of the music slowed, so did Cade’s heartbeat. Barely a whisper now, the music stopped. The room, and Cade’s mind, fell silent.

  Cade awoke to the sound of a bell. He opened heavy eyelids and found himself on the floor with broken pieces of the chair scattered around him. Blood trickled out of his mouth and onto the battered wooden floorboards. He spat out the blood-soaked restraint, wiped his mouth, and stood up.

  Cade turned and looked in the mirror that hung in the hallway. He hadn’t looked at himself in a long time. To him, mirrors only reflected the time he had wasted. His hair had gray streaks along the sides—when had that set in?

  Out of the corner of his eye, Etan, his son, bounded in from the front door and into the bedroom. But it was only a hallucination. Sometimes, while on Nocturne, when he left the house, he would look toward the door and see his wife smile and wave at him. The visions were strongest right after taking the drug, though there was no way of knowing when they would manifest. The voices were quieted, though, and that’s all that mattered.

  Or did it? For the first time in a year, he had no more leads. He had opened every door, turned over every rock, and had found nothing. Why did he continue to torture himself? He would never pay the debts he bore.

  Cade eyed the other vial of Nocturne, which still rested, unopened, on the table. He had heard of soldiers who had overdosed on Nocturne, an easy way to escape the horrors of the war. If he drank another vial… Carefully taking it in his hand, he pulled the stopper.

  A knock came at the door. At first Cade ignored it, thinking it another hallucination from the Nocturne. He raised the vial to his lips. The knock came again.

  He remembered the bell he had thought he heard earlier. He cursed under his breath that he was caught unaware. Someone must have seen his episode outside the house, and now they had come for him. He stoppered the vial, grabbed the rings out of his pocket, and hastily put them on. He holstered his guns, though he hadn’t had any real ammunition for them since the war. Still, he felt better having them.

  He heard them try to open the door. Good luck with that, he thought. Cade had set up an alarm perimeter around the house in case he ever had uninvited guests. The tripwire was the first line of defense. He had also built a special front door, reinforced with lead. One couldn’t be too careful in the Ends.

  He encoded to diamond, giving himself the strength to move the weighted door just enough to see out.

  As his eyes adjusted to the daylight, he saw the form of a beautiful young woman with long auburn hair and piercing green eyes. Squinting, he realized he knew this woman.

  On his doorstep stood Ashlyn Winshire, Princess of the Realm.

  Okay, maybe my dose is a little too high, he thought.

  4

  Hero of the Realm

  Bearers must only become such to help those who remain behind. Those whose songs continue to play can only find peace through the careful help of those who bear them.

  —Excerpt from The Book of the Traveler

  Being face down in the dirt, thousands of miles away from home, and running on suspect information from local youths who would make up anything for a chipcoin had Ashlyn second-guessing her entire plan. This was a mistake.

  She freed her foot from the strange rope that ran across the garden, brushed off what she could, and smoothed out her traveling skirt. She took another look at the house, if you could even call it that. Ashlyn had grown accustomed to the opulence of Toltaire, but this house had seen much, much better days. The roof was a disjointed patchwork of rotting thatch, the path to the front door was overgrown with wild, twisted weeds that went up to her waist, and most of the windows were boarded over. There was little chance the resident of this place was any more than a simple squatter, let alone a hero.

  But she couldn’t turn away—not yet. Bearers were almost nonexistent in Toltaire, and good riddance, for most were more monsters than men—wicked necromancers who preyed upon captive spirits. But a Bearer was what she needed if she were to get to the bottom of this. And who better than the most famous Bearer in all of Chalice? No one else would do. Plus, she was sure escaping the castle would vex her father, which was a convenient bonus.

  Battling through the dense tangle of overgrowth, Ashlyn made her way to the front door. She knocked and waited. No response. She tried once more. Putting her ear to the door, she thought she could hear movement inside. Her heart beat faster in anticipation. But still no one answered.

  This was a mistake. She
knew it was dangerous to sneak out of the castle, but what choice did she have? Toltaire had become so engulfed in politics and espionage after the war that if you had even the slightest bit of influence, you had to assume everyone from the housemaid to the postman was in on the game. She recalled a day when a florist brought in tulips to decorate the castle. She had mentioned to him how much she loved the yellow ones, and from then on, every caller to the castle had brought her yellow tulips. Information was a prized commodity, bought and sold like groceries at the market.

  She didn’t trust her father, who would no longer acknowledge her, and she didn’t trust her brother Elon, who had been sequestered at birth to be groomed for kingship. How could you trust your own family if the extent of your interaction was a handful of simple pleasantries exchanged during royal galas? The only person Ashlyn had ever fully trusted was Rolan, and he had been taken from her.

  Someone would pay for that.

  Ashlyn needed someone she could trust, but in absence of that, perhaps Elegy would do. She tried the doorknob—it was unlocked. She tried to push the door open, but it wouldn’t budge. Undeterred, she put her shoulder into the door and pushed again. Nothing.

  She sighed and turned to leave.

  The old door groaned as it opened a few inches. The interior was dark, but she caught a glimpse of the man she had met once, long ago. A look of recognition flashed in his eyes; he remembered her. She opened her mouth to greet him, and the door slammed in her face.

  Finding herself at a complete loss as to appropriate etiquette in such a situation, Ashlyn felt her face flush and caught herself feeling indignant. She was a princess, after all. Who was he to treat her like this? She took a deep breath to regain her composure and knocked on the door again.

  A faint but commanding voice sounded from inside the house. “Go away.” She could hear him making quite a commotion inside.