Unsheathe

A quake topples the pair to the ground. Glass shatters, wooden beams crack and crash, and ceiling tiles fall like stones that break the porcelain floor — Renard scoops Colette’s head under his chest protectively — and through the aftershocks of this abrupt pandemonium, wailing voices rise outside all from the estate down to the town.

But even the immediacy of this destruction is overshadowed by the sight outside the broken window.

A massive shearing has occurred, as if two layered blankets of the blue sky have been pulled apart and exposed a gap between them. That gap is pure blackness, which arcs violently down from the clouds and slices through the mountains. The span of the umbral cut is too great to figure, with trailing forks like fissures ravaging lines across the sky and occasionally tearing through the ground, which sprawl up and disappear far off in different branches all on different angles of the horizon.

Inside the veins of this cut there slides a subtle, rainbow sheen like the oily skin of an eel. It overlays the whole of the crack’s innards, never seeping from this boundary, but flows with a sure and sinuous movement. Only in squinting past this semitransparent, filmlike layer does a second image peek through, also constrained within the crack: the exact scene of the night camp that Renard had seen in Ashurst, magnified so impossibly large that it is distinguishable even from this distance.

Renard gasps, wrenching his eyes to the ceiling above as if he can see through it. The map of the rifts he charted layers itself over the sky. No arm is trailing toward Meurille, but one is certainly disappearing towards Ashurst, and another, visible straight before him, has extended decisively through the mountains towards Sebilles, matching exactly.

Trees have fallen and rocks have severed in the path of the cut. A deep instinctual horror rises as the trajectory of the arm boring through Sebilles’ mountains extends itself in Renard’s mind.

“But that must have stricken the water tower…"

Drinking water in Lacren is distributed into regional wells through aqueducts linked to a central reservoir. There are several such reservoirs throughout the country, but the largest and most eminent is within Sebilles, which is also the water source for Meurille.

Another quake shakes the house. More shingles fall and beams creak. Returning to his senses, Renard hurries to guide himself and Colette out of the house to the open garden outside. Servants whizz about the halls as they go, themselves collecting valuables and evacuating promptly. The fragmented remains of a china pot crack into dust beneath Renard’s boot as he turns the corner to the guest wing. Like a whale battering a tiny dingy, another quake hits, throwing the pair against the wall, where they must brace through the tide.

“Fidel!" Renard calls down the hall.

“—Sir!" Fidel’s voice answers, lightly out of breath, from the other side of a cloud of plaster and splinters. Having realigned his bearings, he shoulders through the cloud to join Renard and Colette, and the three quickly escape out a side-door to the garden.

Servants from the house, but also people from the village, are assembled for refuge here. Tremors still rock the ground intermittently, but with no trees or structures on the fieldlike lawn that could fall upon anyone, the atmosphere is one of hopeful, tentative calm through what is otherwise great stress. Women are counting heads and searching for neighbours, parents hold wailing children close; men are ushering people up from the village onto the grounds. Many stare at the sky in dumbstruck horror, this their first time seeing the anomalous crack.

Looking down the hill to the village, several buildings have collapsed. There is a greater panic unfolding down there, as teams assemble between screaming families to rescue loved ones stuck beneath wreckage, even as the quakes still continue on.

“Lord Baron! It is a relief beyond all that you and the Lady are safe. I Report!" Announces a servant of the house, having sprinted away from ushering villagers to instead address Renard. There has been obvious property damage across the area and though most civilians appear to be safe, there are still many people who are yet lost or unaccounted for. After the immediate business of rescuing people, Meurille will be facing two massive problems: of where those who have lost their homes should be housed, and more critically the issue of ensuring any lost souls are found and severed before this turns into a mass ghoul event. And then there is the crack in the sky…

The situation demands firm and fast leadership. Renard bites his scrunched lips as he thinks, palming Kingslayer’s hilt in its scabbard.

The servant glances furtively about and continues in a hushed voice, Preliminary reports also suggest Meurille’s aqueduct line from Sebilles has been severed. The well itself still holds what it had, but may no longer be sourcing new water — if this is indeed the case, rationing may be vital until the line can be repaired…

Renard’s jaw clenches harder as he rubs his chin. Colette and Fidel, too, wait to hear his judgement.

A hollering rises from the grounds. A grungy-looking man, joined by his seedy friends, hoots belligerently and throws a rock at the sky as if to strike the crack. Of course, the stone merely arcs through the air and falls back to the ground, but this apelike expression of aggression succinctly tells how attitudes are turning. The man and his friends retrieve more rocks to throw — a deputy of the village intervenes to urge the addled men calm, but they only spit, yell, begin a vulgar argument that could quickly become a fight. The servant reporting to Renard swallows his breath.

“Your orders," the servant insists.

“Yes," Renard muses, his gravelly voice reflecting nothing of the quivering ball of fire bouncing around his insides. “Yes," he snaps, more decisively. “You are swift of ear, quick to act, and well-ranked — I charge you to manage this conundrum. Convene with the mayor and others of station who have the insight to order this mess; ensure they are listened to well. Charge the huntsmaster to slaughter all the game he is able, and arm for him the old distilleries. Let the water he mills from his hunts be rationed, and be frugal. There is another store of water beneath the house; tap this if you wish. But most must be evacuated, to Pilamine or Bromhide or Joliet. Speed this travel for all who would go. I will be leaving to Sebilles."

“You flee the county? But Lord—!" “Quiet!" Renard roars. “Do you see the sky? Are we aggrieved by nature, a wind or a flood? We are struck by an old adversary, and I am reporting to my monarch for war. You hear your orders."

“Yes, sir," the servant concedes, though not without bitterness. He looks to Colette hopefully.

She nods and simply repeats, “you’ve heard your orders."

Another hoot screams out from the gang of stone-throwing thugs. The servant curses and peels away to address them, while Renard marches with Colette and Fidel for the stables. Fidel glances about, quietly, but intensely, at the people rushing to and fro over the green, calling for help.

“Colette," Renard announces. “Take a carriage and leave this place swiftly for Fayette. The water tower has been struck; this land will be thirsted within the month."

“Sir Renard," Fidel interjects. “The people need to know that."

Renard stamps his fist to his forehead, face burning red. Fidel is correct, but in Renard’s anger, he had forgotten to convey this message to the servant. Every second feels so precious that even the slight detour of correcting this omission is too much, and invites far too much deviation. Could it be another hour or another second before Arsene splits the world open further? Growling, Renard drags one of the spooked horses out of its pen and begins tacking it to lead a carriage.

“I hope we’re not abandoning them," Colette muses aloud. “If the Queen would reach out to Uncle, we would spend whatever we can. It does more, but it is so far." Her face falls morosely, but with a steady determination. “It’s painful."

Renard escorts her into the prepared carriage and dips in to kiss her. “Merely keep yourself safe," he whispers. “I will fix this all."

She smiles a warm, subtle laugh, but squints as if stung with a dagger.

“Fidel," Renard announces next, standing yet on the boarding platform of the carriage. Fidel breaks away from staring at the panicked people, slow to register Renard’s words, but stunned once he does. The invitation is open for him to leave with Colette.

Discomfort rises on the boy’s face as his gaze is pulled back to the people. Renard hops down from the carriage and begins swiftly tacking another horse.

“This situation, at least, should be calmed first…" Fidel mutters more to himself than Renard. Colette cracks the reins of the carriage, which begins rolling away. “Shouldn’t it, sir?"

Renard mounts his horse. “I will tell your message to the mayors on my way out. Fidel, if you stay here, you will soon be toiling against ashes. If it is not to fallen roofs or risen ghouls, those stubborn men with their roots in this county shall wither with it once goes the water." He straightens his back, bringing the horse around to Fidel. “The Queen alone is who relieves the drought and directs imports through Lacren. I am going to her."

Though hesitating, when Renard extends his arm to him, Fidel does take it. Renard pulls Fidel onto the saddle and ferociously cracks the reins, sparing barely a second to tell the mayors nearby of the water tower, Fidel’s forehead pressed hard against Renard’s back, before sprinting out of the county, that the clouds of dust trailing from the mount’s hooves, and the cacophony of human screams and panic, both wisp away in the wind.

Renard and Fidel camp on the road that night.

Though Renard would wish to press through the night, the horse is too tired. In all, at their pace, it will be another two days before they reach Sebilles.

Even with the sun down, the profane crack across the night sky is plainly visible as much as a violent crack in glass is visible. The blackness that sculpts the absence between the night is moonless, and its shape is jagged against the flowing sprawl of the constellations. Renard’s jaw juts out in consternation as he stares up at it.

People will be dying in Meurille. People may be dying in Sebilles. Their path on the road split from Colette’s very early, and she is an unguarded woman travelling through what could quickly become a lawless situation alone. These anxieties roll around in his head, but none truly catch into great meditation — the overriding sense of purpose, to by any means get to Sebilles, smooths and insulates his brain against these thoughts’ barbs.

Like a cat’s claw trailing down silk, a new fork sprouts from the crack and arcs down through the sky with the same laziness as a cloud. Its trajectory disappears behind the far mountains, but like thunder crashing laggardly after a lightning bolt’s flash, the shockwave of a distant impact thooms all the way to Renard and Fidel’s camp. Their fire sputters, their hair gusts about their faces, the horse spooks and pulls fruitlessly against its bridle, which is tied to a tree.

Fidel, seated before the fire with his arms crossed on his knees, also jolts, but only minutely. He glances up. “Will that keep happening?"

“The woman who knows of these things suspects so," says Renard. “That it will continue until it is stopped."

Fidel falls silent and feeds another twig into the fire.

“A retreat is no loss," Renard says, “as it is no loss to flee from under a wave, then return to plumb the lake once it has settled. Others too know this."

“I suppose," sighs Fidel. After some more minutes of prodding the flames, both he and Renard retire for sleep, the land quiet but for crackling embers and the far, fading thunder.

After two more days on the trail, Renard and Fidel arrive in the morning on the outskirts of Sebilles.

Many tentacles of the black crack in the sky have plunged into the earth around and in the city like spindly fingers of a looming hand, aligned to scoop the entire place up. At seeing this, Renard’s mind blanks with purposes as he pushes his horse ceaselessly through the gates, which are open and only loosely guarded, into the streets of Sebilles.

Though not as visceral as the panic seen in Meurille, given that citizens have had time to adjust to these new, tumultuous circumstances of ever-present quakes and emergencies in their home, chaos still dominates every road. Buildings have collapsed, and the only people skittering through the streets are pursuing shelter, water, friends, weapons, or loot. A group of guards shouts from down a passing block. In the three days of travel from Meurille, the souls of the men who perished in the first quakes have rotted and are now becoming the disaster’s first ghouls. Blades and arrows hail upon the creatures as Renard whizzes by, civilians and soldiers alike taking arms and forming patrols against the strange monsters that now dot the sky and shamble through the streets.

Death-keens of these creatures trail in the wind as Renard surges on.

Like any decent polity in the West, Sebilles does not keep the entirety of its water in its single water tower, which is indeed shattered on the hills overlooking the city. Many houses and halls have their own personal reserves for sieges and disasters as this, and the Crown especially has multiple secondary reserves for both private and civilian use. The water situation here is not as dire as it will be in Meurille; still, those who cannot brave the streets or who cannot reach these secondary reservoirs will now also be beginning to thirst.

All these scenes and considerations are fleeting to Renard, snippets he sees and passes within the same second. Given how quickly he travels, that he already witnesses so much trouble speaks to the true direness of the city at present, as he and Fidel arrive at the gates to the castle.

After brief identifications, the single guard at the gate frantically ushers him, and Fidel, and even the horse, in.

Many civilians are huddled inside the castle for refuge, with stressed guardsmen overseeing them. Leaving his horse for the staff to tend, Renard strides through the halls to the Queen’s office, knocks once as a formality, and invites himself in.

The Queen is seated at the desk, bent over a mound of papers with eyes so glassy, red, and sunken it is clear she has not slept in days. She startles belatedly at Renard’s intrusion, purses her lips, and signs off the paper she is tending before acknowledging him. “Sir Renard."

“Reporting, my lady."

She nods absently and scrawls a sign on the next paper in the stack, then pages through sheet after sheet, as if looking for something. She peers over Renard’s shoulder at Fidel. “And he is?"

“Fidel… of Ashurst, the Sir’s squire, Your Majesty," Fidel quickly recites with a bow.

The Queen’s brow crinkles as if perplexed by this statement, but she is too occupied to probe it. She finishes inspecting the stack, seeming not to find what she wanted, and heavily massages her brow. “Somehow, I did have faith you would appear in these circumstances — or at least, I’m surprised by how unsurprised I am. Can I pray you’ve come to cull the ghouls troubling the city outside?"

“Nay, my lady," Renard says with mild surprise. “I had thought I would do greater, and mend the crack in sky." He points up with one hand and lays the other on Kingslayer’s hilt.

The Queen nibbles her lip, torn between exasperation and a powerful, unmistakable hope that Renard is entirely capable of achieving the incredible things he claims. “Alright," she mutters to herself, and stands, scooping up her papers. “Wait for me in the parlour; we’ve the throne room occupied, and at this moment I must send off these papers. Might I borrow your squire briefly, as well? One hand is worth twenty at present."

“You’ve no need to ask permission of me, your grace."

The Queen quirks a sardonic smile, but ushers Fidel along. “Come then," she says, and the two march down the hall in the opposite direction of the parlour, with her handing him sheets, hurriedly explaining which must go where and to whom…

A mild sting pierces Renard’s chest as he watches them go. It has been a long time since he has spoken in person with the Queen. In that time, he forgot how much the woman distrusts him, or perhaps less than distrust, dislikes him. Stewing in this sadness is pointless, but Renard still pauses at a window to gaze over the city, an act that has become a habit in such sombre moments as these.

A flying beasts flags and falls, pierced by guardsmen’s arrows. Despite all the chaos on the way here, at this moment Sebilles below is quiet and still. Renard raps his fingers on the windowsill. That a lull can occur even in these circumstances sparks a queer flame of hope, like a promise, that all will go better than expected.

Renard splits from the windowsill and resumes for the parlour. It occurs to him, marching down these familiar old halls, that he is close to the old room of Pleione.

Renard forks left at the next junction into the guest wing and strides through the stone halls to her door. Approaching it, at the end of the hall, is a group of men in full military regalia heaving boxes down a corridor towards the main floors. Renard’s brow scrunches, but he shakes off the sight and knocks upon Pleione’s door.

No answer.

“Pleione?" Renard calls, and tries the knob. It judders against his hand, locked.

Renard laughs and repeats, “Pleione?". But there’s still no response.

She must be out, busy elsewhere in the castle. In these circumstances it was rather foolish and presumptuous to assume she’d be waiting for him in her room. This observation does not assuage Renard’s mild disappointment as he stares at the door. But in fact, what she must be doing is using her augury to grow more of those water-plants for the people. She is likely in the garden or the kitchen, then, and not so hard to visit after all. He can go to her at any moment he wants. A grin blooms on Renard’s face at the thought.

“Do you want to see her?" a voice asks from beside Renard.

Renard jerks in surprise. His thoughts had preoccupied him so badly, he did not even see the porter approach. Dumbly, and a little confused by the question, he says, “yes."

The man nods and withdraws a key from his pocket. As the key turns and latch clicks, Renard’s gut sinks to the bottom of his stomach, his instinct acting much quicker than his eyes or brain.

Pleione’s room is bare of all the things that previously marked it as hers — her books, her chemicals, her strange tools for augury — swapped instead for clean, flat walls and vacant desktops. In fact, the only thing present here that separates it from being an empty room is the figure lying on the bed, motionless but for the slow swells of breathing.

It is Pleione. Something is strange, though. Her arms are folded over her chest as if specifically posed, and she is not lying under the covers, but over them. Her cringing face is sickly and gaunt, as though she has not eaten or drank for several days, and her eyes, though open, stare vacantly at nothing, void and not even twitching. The floral ornaments growing out of her clothes are also all dead.

Renard’s brow scrunches.

This image makes little sense.

“Is she asleep?" Renard asks the porter.

The porter jolts as if shocked, and after a hesitant pause, simply nods.

Renard rubs his chin. Odd. It feels like his mind is squeezing, that there are conclusions he could draw if he spared them a few seconds of consideration, and that the puzzle here is truly not hard — but the tracks that would lead him down these trains of thought are being severed before they can start, and all he can do is wander repetitive circles of the same observation: ‘how weird’.

“Well," Renard announces. “The Queen summons for me."

Renard exits the room. The porter trails bewilderedly behind him and locks the door — again, the sound of that horrible latch strikes Renard with terror as keen as the tip of a spear. But, facing away from it in his march down the hallway, and unable to even reach to grasp for a cause or consequent implication, the feeling and even the memory of feeling aborts, as if vanished behind a fallen stage curtain.