The Queen of Lies Read online

  Table of Contents

  The Queen of Lies

  Copyright

  Dedication

  -

  Acknowledgments

  1. Serra

  2. The Binding (Maddox)

  3. The Backwash (Heath and Sword)

  4. Deposed (Jessa)

  5. Death Sentence (Maddox)

  6. A Suitable Arrangement (Jessa)

  7. The Long Way Down (Maddox)

  8. Twin Shields (Heath and Sword)

  9. First Impressions (Jessa)

  10. Expulsion (Maddox)

  11. Apostasy (Heath and Sword)

  12. The Cage (Satryn)

  13. The Wake (Jessa)

  14. The House of the Seven Sighs (Maddox)

  15. When Kisses Can Lie (Heath and Sword)

  16. Refuge (Jessa)

  17. Bloodlines (Satryn)

  18. The Death Room (Maddox)

  19. Reda (Heath and Sword)

  20. Minas Creagoria (Maddox)

  21. Growing Pains (Jessa)

  22. Legacy (Satryn)

  23. The Dolmen (Heath and Sword)

  24. Achelon (Maddox)

  25. Reunion (Jessa)

  26. Landry Manor (Heath and Sword)

  27. The Shoppe (Maddox)

  28. Roomies (Satryn)

  29. The Sword of Saint Jeffrey (Heath and Sword)

  30. The Dark Star (Maddox)

  31. The Black Potion (Jessa)

  32. The Steam Tunnels (Heath)

  33. Parlor-Room Intrigue (Satryn)

  34. Parlor-Room Mystery (Jessa)

  35. Integrity (Sword)

  36. The Maelstrom (Heath)

  37. The Grand Design (Sword)

  38. Mother Knows Nothing (Jessa)

  39. Uprising (Satryn)

  40. Insurgency (Heath)

  41. Aftershock (Sword)

  42. Unfinished Business (Heath)

  Coda: The Dawn of C8-N

  THE MIRRORED CITY

  The Mirrored CIty

  Preview

  Glossary

  About the Author

  Copyright © 2015 MICHAEL J. BODE

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

  ISBN: 1507862970

  ISBN 13: 9781507862971

  Library of Congress Control Number:

  2015902016

  To J. Michael Wilbanks, for being the best friend ever.

  “The strong devour the weak. So it can be said that weakness is the source of strength.”

  “I don’t know what’s worse to believe—that life is random and meaningless or that it was deliberately designed to be shitty.”

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I’d like to thank my parents, sister, and friends for their support. I also want to thank the team at CreateSpace, particularly my editor Angela, for their support in making this book.

  I give a particular shout-out to the inventor of wine and the cast of drunks who inspired me.

  Also special love to my D&D group (Logan, Will, David, Erin, Dreama, Dan, Jason) who allowed me to develop some of the characters in this book. And of course… my Facebook friends whose likes actually did make a difference in making this book a reality.

  ONE

  Serra

  SERRA FLOATED UP the stairs to the eastern wing of Landry Manor, her long black robes billowing behind her. City Inspector Berringer followed, never closer than ten paces behind, torn between his fear of dealing with the Invocari and his desire to see that his case was cleared of foul play. There were six bedrooms in each wing of the house—twelve total, not including the servants’ quarters.

  Serra was a slight girl, but the robes of the Invocari and her levitation were designed to give her an air of menace. Her face was deeply shadowed under her heavy cloak, and her sleeves covered all but her fingertips. She was the dark specter of Rivern’s law, ever vigilant against all threats physical and metaphysical. Today was her first time assisting in an investigation.

  “The master bedroom is at the end of the hall,” Inspector Berringer said, clearing his throat.

  Serra didn’t reply. Her silence was as much a badge of office as her robes or her starmetal rings.

  It was a vast, well-appointed room, dominated by a large four-poster mahogany bed draped in purple silks. An ornate armoire was crowded into one corner. Serra noted the old nobility were loath to part with any of the ugly antiques from the days of the monarchy. So they crammed the little used spaces of the manors.

  She lingered in the doorway and looked to the ceiling. Inscribed above the bed was a circular warding seal of moderate complexity. It looked intact as far as she could tell. Warding wasn’t really her specialty, but the Cabal was short on wardens.

  The coroner, one of the few practicing necromancers in Rivern, was already on the scene along with one of the wizards from the college—a blood mage in red robes who wore gold-rimmed spectacles. The abbess was present as well. She wore long robes and a white veil that masked all but her eyes. Serra could tell she was dark of skin but could make out little else about her.

  “There are no eyes,” Isik the necromancer grumbled. He had a thick Volkovian accent and the surly demeanor to match.

  The body of Lord Landry and his wife were still in bed, their eyes burned out, their lifeless faces contracted in terror. The tableau was horrifying in the context of the ornate furnishings and exotic purple silk bedding. Black veins spidered out from the orbits of their eyes and corners of their mouths. Lady Landry was twenty years the junior of her husband and probably quite fetching while alive.

  Isik complained, “I can’t recover the final moments of a corpse that has no eyes.”

  “Can you at least confirm it was an attack by Harrowers?” the abbess inquired.

  Isik shrugged. “It fits. You didn’t need to drag me all the way across town to say this.”

  “We’re just being thorough,” Serra said. “We’ve never heard of two attacks occurring at the same time. And we still need you to confirm the time of death.”

  “Bah,” Isik said, shaking the wrists of the Landry corpses. “Midnight…ish.”

  The chance of having one’s soul carried off in the night, Serra knew, was vanishingly small. More people died by falling into one of the three rivers each year than those who died by the hands of the Harrowers, but the arbitrary and grisly nature of these deaths (the eye sockets burned out, leaving the skull completely empty) made the danger greater in peoples’ imaginations. With three of these deaths in as many months within the city proper, the people of Rivern were panicking.

  Achelon the Corrupter had unleashed the Harrows upon creation five hundred years prior. When they finally were banished, their echoes remained in dreams to return each night to claim twelve souls, one for each of the twelve Harrowers (the thirteenth abstained for some reason). With twelve people dying out of everyone in the world, every night and in different nations, the chances were extremely remote of it happening to multiple individuals in the same city.

  “Cause of death,” Serra said, “harrowing. This investigation is closed.”

  AFTER FINISHING HER reports at the Invocari tower, Serra walked home, exhausted. The sun was little more than an orange sliver on the horizon. Now that her shift was over, she wore civilian attire: a burgundy dress with black laces up the front. No one gave her a second glance as she jostled through the flow of people to her apartment. The Invocari were everywhere in Rivern; you just didn’t always see them.

  When they did appear like dark sentinels floating over the streets, people gave a wide berth. Even Serra didn’t recognize most of them in their hoods, but when they cast their gaze toward her, she placed two fingers to her collarbone in a salute of respect. The dark watchers sometimes returned the gesture by curling all but th
ose same two fingers into the folds of their sleeves.

  The Invocari were terrifying because they had to be, but beneath their robes they were the best men and women Serra ever had the honor of knowing. She loved all of them like family. Like her, most had been orphaned or abandoned. The Cabal had given them a home in order to gain their unwavering loyalty, but it was loyalty well deserved.

  Serra stopped outside her apartment building.

  An old man in tattered gray robes stood across the street, watching with milky eyes. His face betrayed no emotion, and he stood eerily still amid the people jostling by. As an Invocari, Serra had become accustomed to the unnerving, so the sensation of unease was doubly troubling to her.

  She regained her composure and marched toward him.

  He looked Genatrovan, and she guessed he was eighty or ninety; it was difficult to tell. “Excuse me, sir,” she said. “Do you need any assistance? I can guide you somewhere if you need. It’s no trouble.”

  He sighed and smiled kindly to her, the warmth in his face suddenly breaking through his stoic facade. His eyes were white from cataracts. “No dear. I have nowhere to be but here.”

  “It’s just,” she continued, “this isn’t a very good part of town for beggars. There have been a few disappearances lately, and with all the talk of Harrowers, it’s really better for you to sleep somewhere warded.”

  The old man took Serra’s hand. “Whatever is meant to happen will happen. I’m too old to spend what little time I have left worrying about what might or might not be. Death comes for us all when it is our time. What matters isn’t when, but what we did before those moments. You should spend time with friends and people you love. Surely there’s another man you’d rather be talking to. There’s one watching us from the window now.” He pointed at her building.

  She turned in time to see a pair of curtains on the second floor shutting abruptly.

  Serra blushed. It was Warder Vernor’s apartment. She’d been sweet on him for the last few months and suspected he harbored similar feelings. Had he been waiting up for her? It was strange how they always seemed to meet in the hallway.

  “My vision is better than it appears.” The old man released her hand and winked. “I’ll be fine. You should run along.”

  “Okay. Be safe!” She smiled and turned to her apartment building.

  She beamed as she entered the cramped lobby. Behind the desk, Loran the watchman was scribbling in his logs. He had a round, kindly face and a bushy red mustache. “Who were you talking to?”

  “That man out front.” Serra motioned over her shoulder. “He seems harmless. He’s just standing in front of the building and didn’t seem particularly interested in moving. If he’s a spy, he’s either terrible at concealing himself or brilliant at making it look like he’s terrible at it.”

  “I noticed him earlier,” Loran said. “What did he say to you?”

  “That life is short and we should make the most of it.” Serra grinned. “Shorter for some of us than others.”

  “It’s bad luck to joke about that—I’m a week away from retirement,” Loran scolded her playfully. He was only in his fifties but much senior to the other warders living in the building.

  Serra turned and ran up the stairs, half expecting to see Vernor coming out of his room. Her heart sank a little when his door didn’t fly open. He was probably embarrassed that he’d been spotted watching her. She readied her hand to knock but lost her nerve at the last second.

  No, it would be too strange after she’d caught him spying. She’d see him in the morning and maybe ask him to get a drink after her inspections. She chuckled to herself. If people knew the Invocari had silly romantic entanglements, their image as the menacing enforcers of law would be ruined.

  She went to her room and prepared a sleeping draught. If she got up early enough, she could catch Vernor before he went to the tower. She picked out her prettiest blue dress and laid it across the top of her dresser. She didn’t have many eye-catching fashions, but this one complemented her more so than her others.

  Serra prepared for bed then lay down on the mattress, anxious for the possibility of tomorrow. Even the daunting workload of ward inspections didn’t bother her. She waited for the draught to take effect and drifted off to sleep.

  She had nearly dozed off when a gentle knock sounded at her door. She gathered her night-robe and opened the door, just a crack at first.

  Vernor stood outside, looking timid and anxiously planning what he was going to say. He hesitated then said, “I had to see you. I had to tell you…”

  Serra beamed. “I’ve dreamed of this.”

  His expression darkened. “You’re still dreaming.”

  Serra stepped away from the door. Suddenly everything felt very wrong. Her room no longer seemed familiar. Vernor stared with cold blue eyes from the doorway, his mouth opening slowly.

  She glanced over her shoulder and saw herself fast asleep under her covers.

  A part of her knew that if she looked back at Vernor, it would be the last thing she ever saw. A cold hand gripped her shoulder.

  She never awoke.

  TWO

  The Binding

  MADDOX

  A GLYPHOMANCER, A necromancer, and an alchemist walk into a bar. The bar mage asks them, “What can I conjure you?”

  The glyphomancer provides a detailed schematic and says, “I want one perfect drink that only needs to be made once and keeps me drunk for life.”

  “Done.” The bar mage claps his hands, and the drink appears exactly as described. “What will you have?” he asks the necromancer.

  The necromancer communes with his dead granny’s ghost for a moment then rasps, “I’ll have a pink-raspberry lemon cocktail that turns to ash in my mouth. And I’d like two cherries as well.”

  “Done.” The bar mage claps his hands, and the drink appears exactly as described. He turns to the alchemist. “How about you, sir?”

  The alchemist hems and haws for a while before he asks, “Do you have anything bitter and foul tasting, made from poisonous plants, that won’t actually do much of anything?”

  The bar mage looks at him and says, “What do I look like, an alchemist?”

  —OLD ARCHEAN JOKE (ORIGIN UNKNOWN, LIKELY MID-SECOND ERA)

  MADDOX DUCKED BEHIND the statue of Armadel and sneaked a quick drink from his flask while the rest of the students were preoccupied with inscribing the circle. The long-dead old magus would have been rightly horrified, but the statue kept lookout with its implacable, sober expression as the junior Adepts busied themselves setting up chairs and preparing the space. Maddox knew he could complete the ritual blindfolded; a few sips wouldn’t kill him.

  There wasn’t much in the drawing room to detract from the Circle, a massive set of concentric rings and arcane inscriptions inlaid with metal into the mirror like polish of the granite floor. Standard stuff for any binding and conjuration, but it was one of the largest in the Free Cities. Chairs and benches were being set up around the periphery. Behind them the likenesses of the revered magi stared out from alcoves that were just barely large and private enough to squeeze into for a quick drink.

  “Maddox. There you are!”

  He quickly made to conceal his flask, but his fingers fumbled, and it went tumbling to the floor. His blood quickened with panic, but he managed to levitate it seconds before it struck the floor. He turned, startled at first, but then his expression returned to its brooding scowl. “Torin. Shouldn’t you be setting out appetizers?”

  Maddox’s nemesis, “Lord” Torin Silverbrook, was easy to despise. His family came from old money and title—his aunt was the richest woman in Rivern. So of course when young Torin, dense as a brick, had decided to study magic, he had been breezed into the Lyceum with a generous endowment to repair their stupid planetarium. And he was blond. And vexingly handsome, which didn’t help matters.

  Torin looked at the floor then directly at Maddox with his obnoxiously vivid blue eyes. “Hey. I know we don�
�t get along, but…today is a big deal for you. For the school. No matter what my personal feelings are, I just want to say that all the other students and I are wishing you good luck.” He put his hand out.

  Maddox made like he was going to return the handshake but at the last minute ran his fingers through his midlength chestnut hair. “Fuck off.”

  Torin grimaced and shrugged before turning and rejoining the others. “You’re welcome, asshole.”

  Maddox reached out his hand and willed his flask into it so he could quickly tuck it into his sash. People like Torin were a perfect example of the mediocrity that was ruining the reputation of the Lyceum. Yes, Torin did have three seals, which technically made him an Adept.

  So far Maddox had attained only the Seal of Ardiel, also known as the Seal of Movement. He had completed the entire inscription and binding in less than ten minutes, which was unheard of. It was that bit of confidence that had set him back two years from Torin as he prepared himself physically and mentally to attain the ultimate seal: Sephariel, also known as the Seal of Vitae, the Seal of Life.

  The doors to the drawing room swung open, and Magus Tertius marched in, his white robes flowing behind him energetically. He paused briefly to survey the room before seeing Maddox walking toward him, a spring in his step despite his advanced years. Behind him trailed Magus Turnbull, an effete, fat, sneering slug of a man with a bored expression, and a woman he’d never seen before.

  She had fiery red hair and wore a plain violet blouse and indigo trousers. Her face was pretty but in a plain, middle-aged sort of way. She could have easily been mistaken for a commoner on the street if not for the simple gold-and-silver sash across her chest. Maddox didn’t need Tertius to explain who she was.

  “Scholar Maddox Baeland, may I present”—Tertius genuflected to her slightly—“High Wizard Petra Quadralunia, preceptor of the Archean Academy, here to witness the first inscription of the Seal of Vitae at the Lyceum in nearly half a century.”