Page 43 of The Oracle of Dusk

More than hobby, it was her magic. Batea could enter the Tapestry to weave new creatures into being from those that already existed. It was a pity she could not alter fate, or kill from a distance, as some with her brand of wild magic were capable of. It was a pity that so few of them felt safe enough to live openly—after all, Viridis and its spies assassinated any they could find. Batea had survived because she was a king’s cousin and the most bloodthirsty royal relation in all of Trisia. And he let her do whatever she pleased to all those who tried to harm her. Theron shook his head.

“Go, see what you can find in the rubble.”

Batea frowned. No doubt she had more to say on the subject of an all-out war. But they were wasting time. Any longer, and it might not appear that he’d rushed to send his best to save the doomed clerics in the spire.

“One of these days you’ll wish you’d declared war,” she harrumphed, gaze drifting to the rubble in the mountains. “If I must go, then I’m taking mypets.”

Theron returned the frown. The more those damned creatures moved, the hungrier they became. The more they ate, the bigger they got. Soon, they would be unmanageable. Sometimes he thought Batea only desired war so her precious beasts would have more to eat. Though if they devoured that vile high priestess and her pet queen too, he would cease nagging her about them.

“If you must.”

Theron spared one more look for the scene of devastation in the mountains, his heart swelling in triumph. Orithyia had not expected him to demolish her ugly spire. So it would be all the sweeter when he forced her clerics to testify against her, to admit to her schemes. He turned from the sight.

“Where are you heading? Aren’t you going to watch your heroic cousin ride to the rescue?”

Theron snorted.

“No, your ego is big enough already. First, I’m going to heal my people. Then, I’m going to loosen the lips of some Viridian scum.”

“I don’t know why you bother. Beggars don’t bestow crowns,” Batea scoffed.

“No, but riots have been known to topple even the most fearsome kings,” Theron retorted.

Batea’s laughter chased him all the way to the outer courtyard, where the neediest of his kingdom had been brought. People lay on tarps, or in the arms of their loved ones, shaded by the fragrant orange trees. There were more who begged for succour these days, almost as many as when waves of torchlight fever coincided with another plague or earthquake. Pyres already burned through the night in the countryside due to the blight tainting the waters. He supposed he should be more worried for a time when there was no one left to light them.

Theron drew on his wild magic, cloaking the whole of the courtyard in its golden shimmer. He needn’t be quite so flashy with his magic, but this was the spectacle they had been summoned to witness. Broken bones, festering wounds, and maladies of all kinds were banished. He was the most powerful healer in the land, after all. But not everyone here could be healed permanently. Not all illnesses could be conquered by coaxing the body to repair itself. For those, he healed as much as he could. Others were too far gone, his magic recoiling as Death dyed the fibres of their threads a muddy red. All he could do for them was to ease their suffering, severing the link between their pain and the sensation of it.

“Triad preserve the sun of Aureum!”

The weepy, ecstatic exclamation met every success of his healing magic. The people here could have been treated by his legion of royal healers, but his aides had selected those among them who had some measure of influence or eloquence or were simply known as talkative or well-liked. These would be the people to spread tales of his benevolence and generosity. And if some of the more ambitious nobles thought to topple him, he hoped they would also be the first to riot in his defence.

“Your wishes have been heard. Go with the sun’s favour,” Theron replied by rote, dismissing each in turn, until the whole of the courtyard was empty.

By the time he was finished, the afternoon was nearly over. Duty done, his public image secure, he dismissed his guards and attendants.

Now the real fun began.

The prisoners should be secure, the first round of questioning commencing. He could hardly contain his excitement. Orithyia’s schemes were soon to be revealed. He hoped he would get to watch her execution. Maybe the high priestesses Myrina and Nerio would even appoint an avatar to strike the killing blow.

Humming a jaunty tune, Theron made his way through the palace, descending hidden stairwells that led to the dungeons. As he stepped further into darkness interrupted only by the odd oil lamp, the echoes of distant screams met his ears. His people were already hard at work, it seemed. But the closer he got, the more all-consuming the shrieks became. Theron hurried his steps as the cries began petering out, the stench of burnt hair and flesh reaching his nose.

Something was wrong.

When he stepped into the underground prison, the sight that greeted him was not of Viridian clerics in chains, spilling their guts both figuratively and literally. Instead, dismembered, blackened arms hung from red-hot chains. Charred corpses, piled atop one another, reached for freedom through melting prison bars. Pliers, knives, whips and more lay scattered about. The fire had burned so hot that there was no way to tell friend from foe. The smoke and the stench had Theron’s eyes watering as he searched for survivors.

“Majesty…”

Theron peered through the thick gloom. One of his men still lived—barely. He raced to the man’s side, lay his hands atop him, and dug deep for the magic in his blood. He coaxed it out, wrapping it around the injured man, healing him.

“How did this happen?”

“Magic…device…acolyte’s pocket.”

“And what of the other items secured from the spire?”

His magic dissipated, recoiling from the man’s body. He was too near death to save. Theron grimaced, pulling on a different power. If he could not save him, then he could take away the pain.

“Damaged…” the man whispered, breathing his last.

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