Weight of Worlds

Yells and screams pervaded. Many tethered were trapped now, the full-force of their spirit slung onto Saleema’s bulging will. Yet more began taking flight. The full understanding of Asmar al-Firman’s words just beginning to register.

Sleeping Sons were pulling back, gathering around their space-tethered. Even they were clamoring to escape, fighting off others as they tried to push or sneak into their group. Only the ones gathered into collective forces remained standing. They understood. They had laid a direct hand against Saleema’s soul. There would be no escape.

She was not a raging lunatic, screaming her defiance into the ether as she razed the city- and landscape both. This would not be the fury that came after them. The cold calculation with which she registered the world could not be blunted by simple distance or time. She traveled too fast and saw too much.

Their tether-sense, knotted into thick ropes, was all that was keeping her back. Once her spirit was free, she would shatter the ritual and continue her attack. No more holding back. They’d revealed their trump cards, and she’d answered with the characteristic bluntness of the powerful. Trickery, cunning and sneaking about was for the weak and vulnerable. She took their best blows and budged not an inch.

They had nothing left.

Almost.

Sansir stood as still as her other captors, though not for the same reason. He was caught in a different trap. Staring across the snow and dust speckled courtyard, looking past Saleema. One of two wellsprings of power, greater than all other in the vicinity.

Grevor’s form was currently on all fours, the ground stained with the contents of his stomach. Sansir imagined he could see the gleam of the ring on his finger. But he knew the slight curl of newly cut hair, the clenched muscles of his jaws. He knew the strain and stress sculpted across his neck and chest. Worry and fear.

But he knew so much more as well. The laugh lines around his lips and eyes, developing too early. His ear had a scar from when he’d attempted to give himself a piercing against his father’s will. He’d used a knife and damned split the lobe in half. His father had refused to get it healed.

His left forearm had broken in his childhood. Now, when he worked too long, the muscle would bunch up around the old scar tissue. If you got him laughing, truly from the belly, his neck would strain from the effort. Managing it for long enough and he’d devolve into a hiccuping sort of noise that shook his entire body.

Despite his noble status, he had gained multiple scars from cooking in the kitchen. Multiple scars along his finger where he’d not guarded them properly. A burn above his right thumb as he attempted to replicate a cooking technique from Sankur. He’d damned near taking both their eyes out, splashing scalding oil everywhere.

He had three chest hairs, of which he was very proud.

But above all, Grevor was kind. He had a good heart and a well-meaning soul. Willing to put himself in distress or outright danger in order to protect the ones close to him. Sansir hadn’t treated him near as well as he should have. He deserved more and better, but this was all Sansir could give him.

He tore free of the memories. Grevor had fallen to the ground, his white-glowing eyes unfocused as they attempted to focus. Head-injuries were horrible, horrible things. But it would make this easier.

Sansir turned away, heading towards the Sleeping Sons. They’d opened pockets and were beginning their escape. Using the methods Ranvir taught them. He stifled a sneer and let his eyes wander across the entire group.

Tethered had stopped attempting to sneak and was just fleeing. Saleema would be free in a minute, maybe less. Asmar smiled and held out a hand as Sansir approached.

“You see sense, finally.”

There was recognition in those eyes, Sansir was damned sure of it. There were others, he suspected. He’d been unable to confirm many, and their shared bloodlines meant many features also repeated. However, a few of the Sons looked a little too much like Asmar.

Namely Idrees, currently standing next to one of the space-tethered ordering the entry. Tall, balding, and with similar harsh lines to his nose and cheekbones, it was a poorly hidden secret. Asmar’s wife did not like Idrees, either. Their eyes locked across the distance.

Idrees’ brows drew down, but Sansir looked away, returning his gaze to Asmar.

“You’ll have to serve some penance for the disobedience you’ve shown, but we’ll get you set on the right path.”

How to do it? Reaching out with his power would be difficult. Asmar was also an ice-generator, of a higher-stage and far more controlled. Sansir could not outmatch him in that regard. Sacrifice would already set them off. He couldn’t risk him reacting in time.

The Ability would fizzle ineffectually if the conditions weren’t met. The feedback was harsh enough to stagger him. He would get no second try. But Asmar was holding all of his power, near to bursting at the seams. Any less control and it would spill out of him like he was a glacier.

Yet… Asmar was not a Heart. To Sansir’s knowledge, he had no affinity for the Discipline of Flesh. A vulnerability. Perhaps not for a commander settling the combat at a distance, but certainly for a fighter.

An explanation of his cowardice? Or caused by it? Sansir shook his head. Asmar was frowning. Something in his posture, or perhaps his expression? Sansir was not half the actor Grevor was. Nor was he near as inclined as his husband.

Nor would that be the route he went this time.

“She will track us,” he said, turning to look at her. The lashed form was bulging. Moments away from freedom. Only Ayvir remained as an attacker. Grev had turned away, looking towards him. His white gaze flickered, and he shook his head.

Asmar turned to follow his gaze and sighed. “We don’t have long. What do you suggest?”

“Secondary and tertiary leaps,” Sansir said, activating Sacrifice and pulling his axe free. Hiding the motion with the bulk of his torso.

“What are you doing?” Asmar eyed him.

“A trick Ranvir taught me. Helps perceive her.” The Ability felt as if it was churning his watery stomach to butter. Violating the core rules of his spirit. It would only get worse.

“We won’t be able to move every—“

“General!” Idrees yelled. He stood at an angle that allowed him to see the freed axe. And in so doing doomed Asmar. Turning, the big man looked to his next-in-line. He never saw the axe.

For years, Sansir had labored towards this goal. He trained for days with Old Tore’s discarded weapons. His carpentry teacher had a history as blemished and sordid as any Sansir had ever known. At first, he had been teaching Sansir the forms, but when he realized how deep his desires went, he’d stopped.

For a time, Sansir had wavered. But that had not lasted for long. His mother was frail. The pregnancy and subsequent travel had been hard on her. Raising a child abandoned by his father had been difficult. The village did what it could, but they could not replace an absentee parent.

Sansir had swung his axe endlessly. Imagining how he’d cut down Asmar repeatedly. Back then he’d not understood what it meant to be a tethered. The strongest he’d met had been the mayor, who was just powerful enough to keep a bit of ice in the cellar year round.

If I don’t become a tethered, I’ll join the military and find him that way. Sansir had meant it too. Fully believed in it. That level of ignorance now seemed astounding. And yet, here he was.

Near upon twenty-three years dedicated to this one task. Sacrifice required the loss of something important to you. Working the old axes until his fingers bled, training until he convinced Tore to teach him once more. Reaching the academy, training with the best to improve himself.

Going beyond them and all known rules to forge his Disciplines and Concept together. Joining the Sleeping Sons and refining his technique in war. And it all came down to this. Let no one say Asmar al-Firman was not important to his bastard son.

Blood spurted as the razor-sharp edge tore through his old man’s throat. Something inside released. For a moment, he felt something harsh and raw, but it was torn away and devoured by building raging power within him.

Idrees stared at the pattern of scarlet playing in the air. The axe flew from loosened fingers, barely any blood stained it. Asmar fell, his throat gutted. Blood pooled in the gash, but it was already slowing down.

Thunder slammed through his chest. This was wrong. This was all wrong. He hadn’t acknowledged him. He was supposed to announce Idrees to the noble world. Any day now, he’d promised soon as they finished with the Purists, but then Saleema had gotten in the way.

He’d been preparing the announcement. He promised.

Sansir stretched forth his hand and unleashed an icy wind against Saleema. It struck with the force of a light breeze, yet her spirit recoiled from it. A scream tore the air. Her efforts crumpled and the ropes snaring her tightened.

Thunder boomed in Idrees’ ears. Others were turning to see what had happened.

Sansir slumped, hanging his head. Something had been ripped out of him. He’d killed their father. Rainbow light took him from behind. And for once on this cursed day, the warp did as it should. People cried out, but it didn’t matter. Sansir’s betrayal had been repaid in kind.

That one tethered appeared next to him. With the eyes like warp itself.

“Sir!”

Idrees shook himself. The last group was leaving. He turned to join them, just as power flared from behind. His own power, still raging like thunder in his ears, clashed with Elusrian’s. Straining against each other, his power dipped before blowing each other back. Stumbling, he landed in the pocket-space, the doorway closing before the other could recover.

He swayed and felt hands grabbing him. Idrees blinked and sat down. The space spun around him. People were muttering mutedly as they made room for him. Had the man cut through his defense? There was a pain in his side, only now blossoming.

He reached down to cup the injury and missed. Wetness slicked his fingers. It was dark in the space. He was lying down; he realized. Concerned, pale faces looking up at him.

“His hip,” one muttered. Idrees’ eyes fell shut and he couldn’t force them open again. He still hadn’t found the injury.