Chapter 28 - The sleep of the dead (First Evolution arc)

　　Artisan woke first, stagger-limped in a daze for the flask of mead. He could feel it was empty but he put the mouth of the flask to his mouth—it gives something extra, that visceral sense of disappointment we crave when foul moods abound; there`s a focus you get from knowing that this damn thing in particular is the cause... all my despondence and hatred. It starts small—the empty flask is both object and representation: it`s a miniature version of the world you hate but don`t quite know why—there are too many variables. Can`t isolate what you need. Apocalyptic levels of resentment start that way, always small.

　　Artisan tossed the flask harder than strictly necessary, and the prince knew the man thought as he—they were both wallowers. The grief and hurt, they`re slights from the gods who are gone, and now look at the world. All dead and hopeless.

　　The rage is the only thing that gets them living.

　　"Why did you pledge yourselves to me?" asked the prince to break the silence. To condemn it. There should be no free-flowing pleasantness.

　　Artisan turned to face the prince but found only his back—Cedric had shifted his stance toward the door, moving through some half-hearted stretches. The prince could not look upon the man who had penned Crucible, that horrid hateful soul with more rot now than gold. He kept up the routine, his body flowing from one flexibility drill to the next. He felt numb.

　　"It is too early in the morning..." Artisan started.

　　"You prefer the night for true talk?" the prince countered, doubling down on being surly—magnanimous as he was or hoped to be... he had a petulant streak he could not shake. He knew this and it shamed him. But it did not truly matter. He was what he was; his rank and standing proved as real a shield as the one he brought to battle. "What hold does time have on the souls of the damned?"

　　"Speak plainly, prince," Artisan said in a dull and dry tone. The dawn did not sparkle like drink the night before.

　　"The devil`s brother, an old friend?! Your words, wise Hannold." The prince fumed, fangs bared from fury—it was that or a dreaded deep sadness. At least lashing out had a power and passion. Something reaching the world and not just the mind.

　　Artisan shrank back, but Linaria rose, the tendrils of sleep shaken brusquely off. "Be silent, fool!" she intoned. "The walls here have ears." She covered her mouth then, as if to swallow the words she had spoken—a slight to the prince who had saved her from harm.

　　But her voice was alive, and the hurt fell away—the prince was glad she was fierce. It saved him the trouble of speaking his anguish. Her own rage was his, its force akin to a conduit. Shining hard on the world like a magestone aglow. The kanji of ruin ()) lit up a deep purple, breaking through the scabbed wound she had suffered for him.

　　The prince had been wrong—his shame did show through. There was a price to pay always, for the frivolous chidings he bestowed just like praise. Nothing comes free in this god-forlorn plane.

　　"I am..." the prince began, and it pained him to know how hard the words were. "Trying." It was as close as he got to admitting he was sorry. To seek quarrel among friends was a low thing; he should strive to be noble.

　　That was one thing his father could do: Bartold was liked by all, the king-conciliator. A universal appeal, but the downside was felt when real war was at hand—the banners were restless. Would they die for a king who sought nothing but middle grounds? There was a sense of respect, though it waned without fear or love, the true marks of a leader. The prince had always thought he himself would be different. More divisive and raw. The iron fist of old, an ode to Rodrich the first. No need then for diplomacy, its silken frailty, wont to shatter like ores when the hammer comes down.

　　"You are a fool indeed," Artisan said after some silence, an out-loud contemplation. "Not for your brash lively scolding, but for sneaking around like a thief in the night—where are your wits, prince? What if a guard had seen you? There is a time for fire, and it is not at night."

　　The prince then sat down, taking care not to look too long at the magestone items—they were venom now, the eyes of a serpent.

　　Artisan spoke on. "Would you have supped with me still, had you known then the depths of my mind? Though the name of the author is no longer mine, I do not denounce his words. The truth is more thorned than the stem of a rose, no matter how black."

　　"It took me a lifetime," Linaria added. "To collect the scattered facts you allege now to know. Bear it all as best you can, and do not dare doubt the path of salvation. We can walk it together if your mind stays firm, and your mark as well. Only a Blackrose can lead the way past our sin."

　　"Dicebolg," the prince said. "What good will it do, even if I reclaim it? Am I to wield it against him—a god in the flesh?"

　　"You would not be the first," said Artisan, "but you may be the last. Fail or succeed, the end-time is near. Forces beyond reckoning gather... and you, prince, may prove the greatest one."If you come across this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

　　"What did he say?" Linaria broke in before the prince could. She spoke softly, a windless brief whisper. "Did he praise you or scold?"

　　"Always both," said the prince, and his body shivered. It was stronger than him, the unholy dread. "I am to be reborn, he agreed. Today is..."

　　Artisan sprang to his feet, buckling promptly from the weight on his brace. He grabbed for the wall, to find balance and bearing. "I had stayed silent to keep the peace," he said, nodding up at Linaria`s wound. "My heart fares better if I know not all your dealings. But to think that you two would cause such a clamour as to rouse the taskmaster..."

　　"It was not what we wanted—that I assure you," Linaria snapped back, then turned to the prince. "Go on, please. Today is`...?"

　　"The egg," said the prince, shrouding his trepidation. "I am to evolve."

　　"And you dare speak of time." Artisan paced about, roamed the room like a wolf without pack. "You should be deep in meditation, thinking of home and of vengeance and nothing more. That is who you are now, and you must retain it." He looked at the prince, piercing through to the core, wild-eyed and hard. "Think of nothing but that—whoever it was that robbed you of true life. Hold on to the memory as though to a lover. You must not fail; it would cost us too much."

　　And the three then stayed silent. A moment that lingered, though not very long. The morning bell rang, the second time that meant more. There would not be a third—this was it, the call for swift action.

　　They filed out of the room, Artisan leading. The stride that may waver, yet each step was measured. His body and mind, they knew the right way.

　　--

　　"Another record," said the statistician, scanning the prince with her disparate eyes—the real keen and blue one, and the other like clockwork. "Level 13 already," she gushed. "You grow like a weed!"

　　She handed him his stats paper. The long night learning of hell had done him wonders—another 3 levels over the reading Gorkon gave yesterday.

　　The prince looked at his progress sheet.

　　--

　　Level 13 Rookie

　　Constitution (CON): 20

　　Intelligence (INT): 17

　　Dexterity (DEX): 19

　　Strength (STR): 18

　　Magic (MAG): 8

　　--

　　"Why is my Magic so low still?" asked the prince.

　　The statistician shook her head. "You`ve been blessed in every way—the growth rate you have is one in a thousand... no, more like one in ten thousand." She stepped over to Linaria. "Might as well scan you again, now that you`re here anyway... and that goes for you as well," she said to Artisan. "Be interesting to see if your old soul`s got some body-wise growth left in it." She stated it all plainly and from a distance, like her words were an afterthought to her brain that wanted to keep moving... always keep moving. She did not, in any event, intend to slander poor Artisan.

　　"Hmm... level 4 for you," said the statistician to Linaria, jotting down notes as she spoke.

　　... "And level 2 for you still." That was the verdict on Artisan`s progress. "I can fine-calibrate," offered the statistician. "To see how close you`ve gotten to the next level."

　　"Don`t bother," said Artisan. "Too many deaths clocked on this body. Its evolving days are over."

　　Linaria got handed her stats paper.

　　--

　　Level 4 Rookie

　　Constitution (CON): 7

　　Intelligence (INT): 8

　　Dexterity (DEX): 5

　　Strength (STR): 4

　　Magic (MAG): 9

　　--

　　"Bodies have a hard stat cap," Artisan offered to the prince, who was still staring at his paper, his laggard MAG stat. "That MAG won`t go past the 8 it is now, not while you`re a rookie. You could gain ten more rookie levels and your MAG wouldn`t change. It`s not your knack—your strength lies elsewhere, in other stats and well beyond. So don`t fuss over it."

　　The prince thought back to the second-grade goblins, the bastards who had harmed Linaria. They did not care for the stat-boosting magestones... likely because they were at their cap anyway—the CON and INT from the ring and locket would not further elevate their stats. In his mind`s eye he saw Zazra now, the first raider whose teeth got shattered by a god`s offhanded grip. His body quivered, and it would not stop. To fight a god... what madness was he in for.

　　"Ah, finally!" The cheerful-as-ever statistician turned to the prince, then to the door...

　　There were more words from her, but the prince did not hear them. He looked at the egg that was being carted in, a thick-ridged green egg that was larger than memory—it dwarfed those from the birthing chamber... no strider ostrich could lay one as this. Two foot tall and two foot wide, it pulsed like a heart might beat, though the top was sheared open, and no foetal form resided inside. These were unfertilized—the statistician had said as much, and the prince had picked it up, that part of her incessant chattering. He thought it best to believe her... to dismiss the arena captain`s slop-filled slurs alleging otherwise.

　　When the prince looked up, a seeress suddenly stood nearby, holding on to the handle of her sturdy wooden cart, with atop it both the egg and a jagged crescent of sheared-off shell—the top part that would be sealed back on once he was inside.

　　Trying desperately not to look at the egg until he damn well had to... the prince started noticing the third-grade seeress. She had a strange elongated frame, almost slender and almost graceful—the seeress looked hardly like a devilspawn at all. With chin up-tucked she stared down, her striking dark eyes meeting his.

　　Artisan clapped the prince on the back. "Steady now, think only of home where you lost your heart, and the bastard who did you in... nothing hopeless and nothing sad. Pure-blooded rage is what sets you right in there." He pointed at the egg, motioned for the prince to get in. "Don`t dawdle. There is no fear—it is just a word to you."

　　Hoisting himself onto the cart, the prince thought of home, like Artisan had said. He saw Gael and her frost, how it was never cold to him. He saw her dead and broken form and his unyielding rage. Gendrin. That bastard would get it. Nothing princely in the way he would dismember and break him. Crack him like an egg before... Ah, it was time to get in now. There was no fear, only the word, Cedric thought as he lifted his leg up and over, planting it in the liquid that was not merely thick—it was alive, wrapping around him like a predator its prey. There is no fear, only the word. He was all in now, and the tension eased, thankfully. The syrupy embrace of a strong and persuasive lover.

　　The seeress started chanting as she put the top of the egg back on, scattering blue magestone dust around the edges to reseal it.

　　It was dark now, and he started drifting.

　　"You are Cedric," the prince heard Artisan shouting from the other end of the world. "Prince of Lothrian, heir to the Blackrose throne."

　　There was no fear, only the word. But is there not power in words?

　　Bah, he would not dwell on that. Or on anything. He was tired.

　　The prince closed his eyes.

　　Somewhere far away he heard a desperate man`s loud voice: "You are Cedric... something... rose throne."

　　And then he was gone. Off to sleep the sleep of the dead.