Waybound (Cradle, #12)

by Will Wight

She was the Phoenix. It was worth her life to burn one more infection from the universe. The Mad King’s sword appeared in his hand. “Let us die together.” Suriel held up her Razor. “Everything ends.” “Ahem.” Ozriel’s voice echoed in her head. “I may have an alternate plan.” His plan flooded into her mind, and she snapped her gaze to look at Ozriel in shock.

Lindon’s mind and spirit trembled as he tried to juggle all the authority, but his voice was clear as he commanded Mercy: “Be whole.” The result wasn’t as simple as Lindon had hoped. Each source of authority tried to restore Mercy in a different way. Unlike a living person, the items were inflexible and bound to a specific purpose. They fought one another and resisted Lindon. But his command touched something deeper, something that ran beneath reality. A force that reminded him of Suriel, and of the chambers at the very bottom of reality. That distant force echoed. A spark of blue light flickered through Mercy, and Lindon fell to his knees. He felt like he’d tumbled down a waterfall in less than a second. This was the force that held reality in place, the power that he’d only heard whispers of: The Way Between Worlds. The power of pure order.

“We’re missing a name!” Mercy cried. Lindon winced. Yerin appeared next to him in a flash of white light. As soon as she did, she wrapped an arm around his waist, but spoke dryly to Mercy. “Thought we could skip that part this time.” “No! We can’t live somewhere without a name!” Orthos eyed Dross. “You’re not going to call this Death’s Midnight Cemetery, are you?” [I told you to forget that! Forget it! Bring me those memories so that I can eat them!] Yerin grabbed Dross before he could fly over to Orthos. “You’re not all death and skulls anymore, true? All right, then, show it to us. What’s your name?” Dross glowered at Orthos for another second before drawing himself up and clearing his throat. [Ah, yes. As you know, I was born in the mighty world of Ghostwater. We should name this place after that one, right? Right. So, I present to you…] He spread boneless arms wide. [Drosswater.] Little Blue sounded like a strangled whistle. Orthos choked. Yerin openly laughed. Even Mercy had been struck speechless. “I told you they wouldn’t like it,” Lindon said.

Lindon looked over his friends coughing, groaning, and shifting on the ground. “Apologies,” he said. “Are you all right?” He could feel that they were unharmed, but a round of groans answered him. “I hate you,” Ziel said. “How about a break before we try again?” Lindon suggested. Mercy threw a pebble at his head.

Something Lindon couldn’t read passed through Ziel’s expression before he tilted his horns up to look at the sky of rainbow clouds. “How did I get here?” Ziel wondered aloud. “Preparing to fight a Dreadgod with someone who might really win.” Dross piped up helpfully, [Lindon dragged you here.] “I wouldn’t put it like that,” Lindon said. Ziel snapped his fingers. “Oh yeah, that was it. Guess I have some work to do.” Ziel turned back around to face the Paths of Heaven, the lazy wind tugging at the ragged edges of his cloak, then stopped and glanced over his shoulder. “Thanks, by the way. For dragging me.”

“You called for me?” he asked mildly. The moment Jaran said something critical or cutting, Lindon intended to toss him back and leave. [Drop him,] Dross suggested. Jaran gripped his cane, shifted on his cushion of wind, and looked here and there with his replacement eyes. Finally, he muttered, “I just wanted to see how you were.” Lindon hovered in place for too long. “Oh.” “Big fight and everything. Seemed like a lot, even for an Overlord. A man can wonder about his son.” Lindon considered pointing out that he wasn’t an Overlord anymore, but he pressed his fists together instead. “Gratitude, Father.” Jaran grumbled to himself, then shoved his cane in Lindon’s direction. “Be safe, all right? No sense in being the bravest on the battlefield if you don’t make it home.” Lindon felt lost. “Yes, I…I will.” [All right, fine,] Dross said. [Don’t drop him.]

She held the Scythe in one hand, though its authority clashed with hers. Ozriel may have lent it to her, which was why the Scythe tolerated her touch, but she was still no Reaper. She couldn’t unleash the full force of Ozriel’s weapon. The fact that he had lent out his Scythe at all shocked Makiel. He would have said that Ozriel would rather die than leave his weapon to someone else, even his closest friend on the Court.

His thoughts were cut off when Suriel reversed the Scythe and held it out to him. The weapon struggled in her grip, but she held it with a firm will. “Enough. He lent you to me, and I lend you now to my ally. The strongest among us.” Suriel, the Phoenix, met his eyes. “I have faith in him.” Makiel knew what she was doing. She was seeking to patch over the oldest wound in the Court of Seven. Even this, she sought to heal. She wouldn’t be able to do it. This wouldn’t lead to change. He took the Scythe anyway.

“Does it have to be a sword?” Lindon asked quietly. “Best if it is,” the Sword Sage said. He patted the weapon at his side. “There’s a reason why the cutting Icon takes the form of a sword. It’s the perfect tool for combat. But no, of course you can use sword authority through just about any cutting weapon.” Yerin realized what Lindon was implying, and a jolt shook her body. “Blood and rot, there’s reaching for the moon and then there’s jumping off a roof to touch the stars. How am I supposed to copy that?” “One of them did have a sword,” Lindon pointed out. “I’d rather copy the scythe,” Yerin muttered.

“Sloppy,” said a cold voice from nearby. It was familiar and unfamiliar at the same time, like a slightly distorted imitation of a voice he knew well. A black-and-gray Ozmanthus Arelius stood next to Lindon, broom braced on his shoulder. His features were sharp and his demeanor haughty, but his clothes were still finely pressed. He sneered up at the descending technique. “Dismantling should be clean. Like so.” Ozmanthus swept his broom through the sky, and the space-ripping golden sphere disappeared. So did the rain of orange-red blades, and the Silent King’s halo, and the indistinct Void Icon that had hovered over Lindon. Lindon gazed up into a perfectly clear sky. Ozmanthus gave a satisfied little hum. “You see? Clean.”

“I can strike once, with the power you have allotted me,” Ozmanthus said. “Afterwards, you will not be able to project me again for quite some time without destabilizing my memory.” Lindon turned to face Malice, as her attack seemed most imminent. “Which target would you prefer?” Ozmanthus barked a laugh. “I thought you knew me well. I said one attack…” Suddenly, towering ancient armor swallowed him, so he hovered at the center of a giant that stretched from the ground to the clouds. It reminded Lindon strongly of Malice’s bloodline armor. A gray, translucent cloak billowed from the Forger technique’s shoulders, and it held a spear in one hand. “…not one opponent,” Ozmanthus finished. “Brace yourself, future disciple.” [You need to take lessons from him on style,] Dross commented.

Blue gave him a reassuring pat on the foot, let out a chime of confidence, and strode into the column of blue-white light. Soon, all this power would be hers. Instantly, she was buried in the conflicting wills of six Remnants, all more powerful than her. They were weakened by the scripts and devices, otherwise their wills would crush her directly, but together their attention was heavy. Noroloth lightened the weight more, but not too much. The pressure was the point. The bound Remnants screamed at her, and Blue screamed back. Not in fear. She matched them for intensity. They should hurry up and give her their power. She had somewhere to be.

What did she really want? What had she always wanted? She wanted to make the world a better place. At some point, her mother had wanted the same thing. She had seen the darkness of the wilderness, and she had wanted to light it up. She used the power of darkness to push back the darkness. And she had seen Mercy as a light. Mercy spoke aloud. “I will bring light.”

Ziel’s own voice whispered to him from the past. “I will give my life for the sect.” His Archlord revelation. He had chosen that goal for himself and failed to meet it. The Storm Sage had crushed his future, making a mockery of his life’s purpose. Was Ziel going to let him do it again? Maybe Ziel had only failed…once. He had done everything in his power to save his first sect. Now, he had a chance to do it again. That was who he had been, and who he could be. A guardian of his sect. A protector. A shield. Though he gained no more madra, something inside him shifted. And overhead, a massive steel shield formed across the sky.

Lindon, the distant voice said. Let me help you. Lindon hesitated. This wasn’t an actual voice, just intentions translated through the labyrinth, so he didn’t recognize the speaker. They claimed they were here to help, but if he summoned them here, he wouldn’t be able to bring himself away. He was tempted. This was a chance to keep the labyrinth. But did this mysterious savior know they were about to go up against a Dreadgod? He sent his own thoughts into the labyrinth. The Weeping Dragon is here, he sent. The reply was only an instant in coming. Then hurry up!

A portal opened into a swirl of blue, and two people walked out. But not ones Larian recognized. The Archlord man had weathered, tar-black skin and gray hair. He wore dark leather that looked as though it had been made from dragon hide, with bits of armor strapped to it. The Archlady had navy hair the color of the deep ocean and skin like a summer sky. She carried a tank of something under one arm. Something that felt spiritually powerful.

“Alataraxa,”

“You can send us back home!” Mercy said encouragingly to the Oracle Sage. “I know you can do it!” Cladia Arelius looked doubtfully between the three of them. “If I could, I’m not convinced I should. Look at yourselves.” “Send us,” Ziel said. “I don’t need to be an oracle to see that you’re all on your last legs.” “Send us,” he repeated. “I’m not going to get far talking to him, am I?” the Sage asked, turning to Yerin. She had turned to the wrong person. “Send us,” Yerin said.

[We were going to make blank mind-spirits for all of you, which would then grow into your own individual partners, but that would take…] [We’re not sure. A long time. Instead, we started with a copy of me, so it’s useful immediately!] [And here’s a bonus: when we develop our own individual personalities, they’ll all be based on mine!] Blue’s Dross drifted in front of Orthos’ face. [I can sense you don’t think that’s a bonus. I can’t even read your mind, but I can tell.] His own Dross crossed a second later. [I can read your mind, and I can sense it too.]

She stood, wrestling with her own will. That hatred she felt before wasn’t just from Malice. That was malice itself. I am not Malice. I am Mercy. Forcibly, she changed the nature of her willpower. She changed her own intentions. To the arrow, she silently whispered, This is a necessary death. We’re cutting out a cancer. To the bow, she said, We are the ruler, so let’s defend our subjects. To herself, she said, This isn’t an act of malice. It’s an act of mercy. Though it took only an instant, she felt her power subtly change. She couldn’t control it easily—in fact, she felt like a toddler trying to lift a horse—but now it was hers.

The shadow of a dark future suddenly loomed in her mind. Malice saw where her arrow would pierce Yerin’s chest only a split second before Lindon awakened. His first sight would be what Malice had done. She didn’t see anything further in Fate than that. Her future cut off at that moment. “Return!” Malice commanded desperately.

[It’s hard for me to read your thoughts when you’re like this, but I’ve still hung around here for a while. You’re thinking you shouldn’t have trained them this far. You’re planning to fight all the rest of the battles on your own.] “I’m not.” Lindon cleared his thoughts so Dross could see them more easily, and Dross’ eye widened. “We will not stop,” Lindon said. Eithan had descended from the heavens in search of companions. Suriel didn’t fight alone, and she had encouraged him to seek out Yerin and to fight alongside the others. Clearly, no amount of power was worth moving forward alone.

“Ozmanthus wouldn’t back down,” she said. Ozriel felt like he’d slammed into a wall. He didn’t want to be Ozmanthus. He’d worked so hard not to be. He wanted to be Eithan. “I didn’t know you were going to say that,” Eithan muttered. Suriel didn’t give him a smug expression, but he could tell she wanted to. “I can at least hide that much.” “I will use the Scythe,” Makiel said. And, though it twisted everything inside him, Ozriel nodded. “Take it.” With that permission, the energy of the weapon suddenly flowed more smoothly. It still wouldn’t be easy for the Hound to use, but better than before.

Ozriel could feel the shift when the Mad King realized he couldn’t beat them. Once again, he redirected his attacks to the unarmored Ozriel. There were several options available. And this time, Eithan picked the one that Ozmanthus would never consider. “Tell Suriel I’m counting on her,” Ozriel sent. Instead of evading, he slashed out with the Sword of Makiel. His blow cracked the Mad King’s bone helmet in half. “Gotcha!” Eithan said. Just as the Mad King’s return strike erased him from the universe.

Yerin muttered something under her breath. “What’s it going to take for us to catch up?” [My turn!] Dross said happily. [For one thing, you are all far more effective than ever before, thanks to your access to a mind-spirit of unparalleled knowledge and cunning. As you know, Lindon has become a monster of terrifying proportions, since his body functions like a Dreadgod’s. But this has its drawbacks. He can no longer transport himself except by using the labyrinth, he can’t ascend, he’s gradually losing his body—] “Dross!” Lindon interrupted. “You were supposed to talk about them.” The damage was already done. The other five looked at Lindon like he was the one who had been grievously injured.

“Lindon will not let you be,” Reigan insisted. “We can always ascend, but he needs you to die.” “Not as badly as he thinks he does.” Leisurely, the Bleeding Phoenix stood from her chair. She stretched red wings behind her and smiled at him. “We’ll take that up with our brother.” This was the worst possible turn of events. Reigan Shen clutched the Wraith Horn. “He is not your brother.” “Didn’t you all give him a name yourself? The Empty Ghost.”

“I am the original,” Mercy said firmly. “You are my Remnant, and you will serve my will.” “Whatever I can do to help!” The Remnant held out a hand with rounded, stubby fingers. Mercy hesitated. Against her better judgment and her mother’s instincts, she said, “Are you…Are you sure?” “You’re going to do something hard, aren’t you? It makes you sad.” The Remnant patted her chest. “I want to help you.” It hadn’t been long since Mercy stopped crying, but tears welled up in her eyes again. “Thank you.” The Remnant beamed. “Don’t give up, Mercy! We’ll do this together!” Then the spirit flowed back into Mercy, weaving through her body. Archlord soulfire supported the process, and Mercy could feel herself changing. But not very much. In the end, the only obvious change she kept was her hair. It floated like a gas, or like it was drifting through water. The same sort of hair Uncle Fury had. And her mother. When she was finished, Mercy stood up and brushed off her knees. “Well, uh…I made it!” Orthos and Ziel watched her with flat looks. Little Blue cheered.

Yerin wasn’t just the disciple of the Sage of the Endless Sword; she was also Eithan’s apprentice. The student of the Reaper. She had used Penance, the absolute decree of death, to strike down a Monarch. She had learned to imitate Ozriel’s sword strike. And she remembered her Archlord revelation. It wasn’t to fight monsters. Yerin was meant to kill them. In that silent world, Yerin looked to Malice and saw a monster. She’d been using her anger at Malice, her disgust, for motivation. But that wasn’t what Eithan felt when he swung his scythe. It wasn’t what she had felt when she’d used Penance. Yerin chose. She decided who needed to die and made it a reality. This wasn’t revenge. It was an execution. In a world that still seemed frozen, Yerin pulled her sword back almost casually. An image in the sky mimicked her movements. Not a sword. A vast, black scythe. “Die,” Yerin ordered. She brought her sword down in a simple overhand chop. And at Yerin’s command, the Death Icon descended on Akura Malice.

Malice had become a poison, harming the very people she set out to save. Strength returned to Mercy. She pulled the string back, and she loosed Penance. No matter what, she did not want to do this. The attack gouged a hole in her heart. But when all other options had been exhausted, when all that was left in life was suffering, sometimes death was the only solution left. There was no joy in this attack. But it was…mercy.

“Makiel, stop,” she ordered. “My name was Tommess,” he said. “And I intended to give up my position on our return anyway. Consider this my revenge.” When she realized what he meant, she gave one dry laugh. “He will hate this,” Suriel agreed. By the way Ozriel reckoned things, he would consider it a loss to be resurrected at the cost of Makiel’s life. A loss he would never be able to wipe off.

What was a year or two? Lindon fully intended to live forever. Together, with his friends, on the other side of the Way. Apologies, Dross. Let’s go. Messages passed in an instant between the different versions of Dross, and everyone moved together.

He couldn’t think of anything to say that summed up everything he felt, so he tucked it all into one word. “Apologies,” Lindon said. Yerin had tears in her eyes, but her smile was brilliant. “I’ll tell Eithan to save you a seat.”

Lindon looked out the window. “Did everyone…make it?” “If they’d stuck around any longer, you wouldn’t have. But yes, I saw them off myself. They went into that blue river that takes you to the heavens. Left all sorts of messages for you, but it’s Dross’ job to give them to you.” “How long do I have to wait?” Lindon asked. “We’ll find out together,” Orthos said.

The Hound glanced to his broken and run-down surroundings with obvious scorn. “Usually, a team of Foxes would await you, as they are responsible for inter-world travel, but we are occupied with a greater war.” Ziel’s voice was flat. “Another war. Out here.”

“Yell for Eithan,” Yerin said. The Hound gave her a look of exaggerated pity. “Ozriel would not come here for you, even if I were to call him. He has greater duties than this.” Yerin took a deep breath and gathered everything she had. “Eithan,” she called, and even this strange world resonated with the name.

Kiuran gave her a crooked smile. “You may take the first move. There is nothing about you I do not know.” “I’d contend you don’t know my friends.” The Hound gave a skeptical glance to the others at her side, but none of them were likely to move. Which was fine, because Yerin hadn’t been talking about them. A man slipped one black-armored hand over Kiuran’s shoulder. His white hair still looked strange to Yerin, but his friendly grin was too familiar. “Thank you for taking such good care of my adopted daughter,” Ozriel said. The pressure from the Hound disappeared as he dropped to one knee. “Yes, sir.” Yerin’s heart lightened as she saw Eithan’s face. It felt ridiculous to admit, even to herself, but she had been worried about him.

“Well. You’ve worked hard to be here, haven’t you?” “Are you all right?” Mercy asked him. Eithan put a hand to his chest. “I have missed you all. Nobody here worries about me.”

Two Remnants slithered through the air toward him, Remnants that had become known as the Twin Guardians of the Twin Star Sect. “I have been giving pointers to the ones who wished to learn the Path of Black Flame,” Noroloth said. The black dragon Remnant smiled at Lindon, his too-wide head distorting. “If anything is not up to your standards, please instruct me so that I may improve.” The gold dragon Remnant at his side snapped at him. “Stop bending yourself in half!” Ekeri snapped. “You’re a dragon!”

Despite Suriel’s title as a Judge, she rarely sat in judgment of mortals. Even ascended ones. Their business was rarely important enough to justify her individual attention, so it was usually handled by lower-ranking Abidan. But the business of Executors was critical enough to require three Judges. Technically four, but Ozriel was hardly objective in this issue. In the Hall of Judgment in Sanctum, three members of the Court of Seven sat to decide whether the Executor program could be resumed. The Fox, the Phoenix, and the Ghost looked down on their subjects. And the grinning Reaper who stood over them like a proud hen. Suriel smiled over the Monarchs from Cradle. “Ziel. Mercy. Yerin. I’m pleased you made it. I’ve been watching over you for a long time. I am Suriel.” Mercy and Ziel were visibly astonished to be addressed by name, but Yerin was unsurprised. She regarded Suriel frankly. “Hear I owe you a debt. You sent Lindon my way.” Yerin straightened up and pressed her fists against one another, bowing over them. “Gratitude.” A Sacred Valley gesture. Suriel found that adorable.

“Then as the representative of the Court of Seven, I hereby permit the creation and operation of the Execut—” Ozriel cleared his throat. “Reapers.” Suriel stopped. “You have a division named after you,” Ozriel pointed out. Ultimately, it didn’t matter what they were called. Their role would be the same. And naming them after the Reaper would make him more responsible for their behavior. In theory. “…the creation and operation of the Reaper Division,” Suriel continued. “For the purpose of removing threats to preserve existence. They will report to Ozriel, the eighth Judge, who in return reports to this Court. As they bring light to the many worlds, may they go with the Way.”

Larian put on an offended look. “I was trying to preserve these unique pieces of Cradle’s history! For you!” [If I didn’t like you, I would have let Lindon’s unconscious body kill you.] That was a story Lindon had heard months ago. Apparently, in the day or two after losing consciousness while killing the Dreadgods, Lindon had attacked anyone who got too close. The only one who had tried more than once was Larian. “I learned my lesson,” Larian said humbly. “She didn’t,” Del’rek said. “We had to stop her two more times.”

“She has greatly regretted giving up the Dreadgod bow,” Del’rek added. “I had it in my hands! Why did I have to give it back?”

Larian shook a fist at them and at the other gold-armored figures who poured out of nowhere. “Fiends! Jackals! Vultures! Get away!” She leaned closer to Lindon and rubbed her thumb and forefinger together. “Their greed is so obvious. Doesn’t it just make you want to teach them a lesson? By rewarding those of us who showed up first, for instance.” Lindon pulled further weapons out of his soulspace. He had prepared more than enough.

Zyrellon

Before she vanished, Princess R’leya called after her. “Wait! What’s your name?” The girl called something that was partially swallowed up by the rush of the portal closing behind her. “Spread the word to all the Fractured Realms,” the princess announced. “We have been saved by a mysterious heroine from worlds beyond: the mighty warrior Heron.”

“Hello, Shen,” the Void Sage said. “I believe you were holding on to my inheritance.” Reigan Shen’s Remnant tried to cry, but it had no tears.

“Yeah! Just keep the Bison and the Trees alive, and there’s nothing to worry about! But don’t cross me. But enjoy! But don’t make me come back, okay?” [We’re clear on the Fate end,] Dross reported. [Their legends of you are going to get…weird.] Wait, how weird? Mercy asked. How weird, Dross? Dross wouldn’t answer her.

As he had sensed before, bringing something out of nonexistence seemed to resonate with the Void Icon, but that wasn’t it. Not entirely. There was something else, and he tuned himself to it even as he lost himself in his creation of the Phoenix Blade. He was so immersed that, when he felt something change, he couldn’t afford to stop. [Um, Lindon…] I felt it. Lindon continued swinging Genesis. Dross shrugged. [We’ll handle congratulations later, then.] Far above the labyrinth, in Sacred Valley, the image of a massive hammer spread across the sky.

“Li Markuth,” the Wei Elder said. “Do you remember me?” A shiver ran up Markuth’s spine. Lightning crackled along his wings, and he drew his sword. “Who are you?” “You killed me once.” The man spread open his left hand, and pure madra gathered in his palm. “Gratitude.”

The Wei Elder hopped casually off the arena and strolled closer. “My name is Wei Shi Lindon. We met seven years ago. Right here.” A dim memory surfaced in Markuth’s mind. He could remember virtually everything that had happened to him since his ascension. The memory wasn’t dim because of age, but because he’d paid it such little attention. “Are you that child?” There was a boy that might have grown into this man. A lanky teenager who had been nearby and had ended up dying. Markuth wasn’t even sure what exactly had killed the boy. The slightest movement of his wings might have sliced him in half. He’d never wasted a thought on the kid. Markuth doubted the memory even as he had it. Seven years wasn’t nearly enough to turn a Foundation-stage child into this. A cold smile spread on Wei Shi Lindon’s face. “You do remember. I’m glad. I remember you.”