Chapter 9

Sorel arrived breathlessly at the clearing—the one Amalia had noted as the site of his transformation, where he had seen light and felt shadow. He dropped to his knees and felt the grass here: ambivalent to his power. The trees ignored, tolerated him—immune he guessed to the strength he possessed. He whispered to them; some replied bitterly, others sealed themselves from him. But they did not evict him as the old oak had done. He was not the first they had to endure. He asked them about his master, wondered if he was light or shadow.

None answered, except Amalia. “Your question is dichotomous. For is he neither light nor shadow, yet he is both light and shadow. He is light to those who love him; he is shadow to those who fear him. His essence changes to your perceptions—or he changes his nature to fit that which is in your heart. To the liar, he is darkness incarnate. To the trustworthy he is friend above all friends. And as such, Sorel, you must guard your heart. So do not bother yourself with the trees here. They have learned what you need comprehend,” she noted and raised her brows.

Sorel pursed his lips at her answer and spun, taking in the cold, harsh resilience of the forest here. The oak brush wove thickets beneath the insensitive pines, whose needles littered the forest floor. Then he found a path, dipping into a slight gulley and stretching off into the foothills. Closing his eyes, he retraced the steps. Felt the heavy hands guiding him, blindfolded, back to his reed mat under shadow. Amalia stepped lightly behind him.

“Yes, the Corcea camp is that way,” she intuited his question.

“Our destination?” Sorel wondered without turning.

“Of course.”

“You were there while I was prisoner,” Sorel deduced.

“While you were being liberated, I was,” she clarified.

“Who were the two fellows, my escorts? One self-confident—perhaps too much so, the other, a bit slower…”

“Marnal and Blisick. You don’t want to meet them again. Their hearts are as thick as their skulls.”

“I had to suppress a laugh, though, many times,” Sorel recalled.

“Had you glimpsed their faces, you would have been glad you did,” Amalia replied without a smile. “They are two of the many hands our master uses. Be glad you were blindfolded.”

Sorel scrunched an eyebrow, but said nothing more of the two. Perhaps he would meet them again—have a new chance to evaluate them with all of his senses. But the path beckoned him, the trees seemed old, silent comrades, from an era, long past in the few short days. Yes, he was something different now, but he believed Amalia—it could be for the better. He leapt down the path with a renewed energy to discover his maker with new eyes. To grow under him—to surpass him. But Amalia quieted his energy.

“Remember, Sorel, you have been transformed, and must live with us—with the Corcea; I gladly accept this, but others may not. Not yet.”

Sorel turned to glance at her cold stare. “You have joined a stubborn race, Sorel,” she continued. “Some will see you as a threat to their position with the master. Others, like myself, have yearned for someone to break the master’s control over us. They will befriend you. But be wary, Sorel. The master will draw out any subversion and punish it mercilessly. And his guards, the Loche—Marnal and Blisick among them—are completely loyal, brainwashed even…you will understand when you see them.”

“I suppose I’ll just follow your lead, then,” Sorel said sarcastically. Any sign of amusement left Amalia’s face. Sorel shrugged his shoulders.

“Be careful: that’s all I’m saying, Sorel,” Amalia cautioned. Sorel nodded, but still felt anxious to see the place of his imprisonment again, as if on the other side of the walls now. “Sorel,” she pleaded with a short breath. The trees turned with him. A wry smile crept across her face. “Race you there,” she challenged and broke into a sprint.

^*^

The first phone call did not confirm his fears. Dr. Livingbree had asked the head researcher to query the Imperial Databanks for his old friend—but not much more than that—a certain Farlile Gontha (the man he always knew as Fargon). The man had replied that yes, Farlile had been under Imperial employment for a time, but had been released from service, two or three years ago now. Livingbree had asked the occupation that he had held. After a brief silence, the answer had come: Imperial Inquisitor, serving particularly in commercial transportation. Livingbree had then questioned the man about Farlile’s dismissal. Retirement had been the man’s answer. Of course, Livingbree had thanked the man and ended the call.

Fargon had always seemed an interesting fellow, but his eccentricities hinted at a false base—that the Fargon they knew had his own realm, an agenda of his own, and that his real face and character rarely surfaced the waves of deception rippling across himself. Livingbree never liked Fargon’s lack of sincerity when they worked together, all those years ago, on the establishment of a new university in the capital. He would promise, alright, and sometimes would fulfill those promises—if they lined up with his own purposes. Ever the man’s pliability vexed Livingbree. Fargon had not seemed the assassin type to him. He was too short for the role. But then, his ability to lie and set his victims at ease—perhaps even kill them laughing—would make him a perfect assassin.

But that was over now. Olin had killed him. A part of Livingbree wanted to clap, to applaud Fargon’s demise. And yet, he had known the man—not on good terms always—for nearly thirty years. Should that alone not give him reason to mourn—if only a little—for this man? And who would mourn him? His family—did he even have one? His employer?

That question moved Livingbree down another path of thought, to what he had set out to discover in the first place: the Empire had not employed Fargon for some time, now. So if Fargon was not employed by the same Imperial Division that had likely ordered the abduction of Wilcox and Eva, who then hired him to assassinate Olin? Livingbree had assumed it was the Emperor, but now the waters had been muddied. It had seemed clear to him: Fargon, Imperial Inquisitor, discovered Wilcox’s old friend smuggling something important—or dangerous—and ambushed them at sea. When the girl escaped and fled to Wilcox, Fargon would have concluded that he had a hand in the plot—whatever it was—and captured both of them for interrogation. The Inquisitor would not risk someone as dangerous as Olin snooping around and would figure he was doing the Emperor a favor. But, Livingbree concluded to himself, it was no longer that simple.

He decided not to brood on the subject for too long. He punched Olin’s extension on the earphone. This would change his approach entirely. The other end buzzed several times. But when the voice answered, it was not Olin, but a smooth, rehearsed voice, one Livingbree recognized immediately: the ex-Inquisitor, Farlile Gonath.