Redmane had never seen a Numantian city before.

  Up close, the sight was breathtaking.

  Lar Tathvaal said this place was called Novium. Its stone structures rose against the horizon, tall and mighty, the sheer size of the buildings and their fine workmanship a demonstration of the power and refinement of Numantia, They approached by air, Redmane floating on the silent wings of the Sphinx, Lar using some manner of Skill to fly beside him.

  “That would be the Governor’s tower,” said the Dicentis, as he pointed out the white spire, the tallest by far, its mere presence a declaration of authority.

  As they flew over the city streets, Lar continued to point things out. Nearby stood the temple of the Nine, columns reaching skyward, roof long gone, altar exposed. The bathhouse walls enclosed empty pools, their outlines clear under the open sky. The amphitheater, its tiers descending in a wide arc, steps smooth from use. Further along the forum opened up, scattered stones marking former market stalls.

  All of it existed in a state of ghostly silence, and the dull color of the sky drove home the sense of lifelessness.

  “Why would they build such things only to abandon them,” said Redmane.

  Lar smirked. “Perhaps you’ll see Numantia someday. Compared to its splendor, this is nothing.”

  It was nothing.

  This magnificent city. The grandest he’d ever seen.

  Nothing indeed…

  Novium overlooked a whole world drained of its essence. Redmane beheld the aftermath of an appetite which put Kraal the Devourer to shame.

  “What we seek will be up there,” Lar pointed at the Governor’s Tower. “If it’s here at all. Sometimes people pack up their things fastidiously when closing out a colony. Mostly they don’t. Why bother, after all? The world is empty. The Astral Bridge will be closed behind you forever. If you leave things behind, who will know but the dead.”

  The Numantian accelerated upward as if an invisible hand pushed him. Redmane beat his wings to follow, arcing along beside him as they circled and climbed. There was a wide balcony at the top of the tower which Lar alighted upon first, then Redmane, who folded in his wings and dismissed them.

  The balcony adjoined lavish living quarters. There was a bed fit for a king, fine furnishings, a marble basin which Redmane supposed was a bath. Lar Tathvaal took in the room with a glance, hastened to an enormous wardrobe which he opened and began rummaging through it as if he knew precisely where everything was.

  Redmane watched him.

  The words of the crone floated up to the surface of his memory.

  Not everyone who helps thee is thy friend.

  “Why are you helping me,” he asked.

  Lar paused for a moment. Redmane could only see the back of his head, but he guessed the Numantian wore one of those sardonic smiles.

  “Would the answer ‘mutual self interest’ satisfy you?” he said.

  “It would not. I also wish to know why you appeared moments before the Sicari attacked us. Surely you understand how suspicious that is.”

  Lar turned to face him, and though he wore his characteristic smirk, there was some steel in his eyes.

  “I came to you moments before the Sicari attacked precisely to warn you of the same. I wished to speak to you sooner, man to man, but caution stayed my hand. The circumstances are a little different now, as you can see.”

  Redmane’s eyes narrowed.

  “Your emergence caused somewhat of a disagreement between our Governess and her Praetor, you see. At first they were simpatico, when the Blight struck your world and all their productive workers became beastmen. The Praetor and the Governess both felt that finding and dealing with the cause of the Blight should happen as quickly as possible.

  “It took us some time to figure out what had truly occurred. What you were, what you became, what we unwittingly unleashed on our own colony. Our Praetor, Jarel Craith, was the one who discovered it. He reveres the Nine, which for your purposes means he’d have wanted you dead eventually regardless of the outcome. When the Blight suddenly evolved, he was about to choose ‘sooner,’ but I stalled him.

  “And then your lady friend did whatever she’s done to your Zones, which caused their Gnosis generation numbers to rise to inconceivable levels. This is where the Governess and the Praetor experienced… Well, you could call it a conflict of values.”

  Lar paused for effect. Redmane stared at him flatly.

  “Go on,” he said.

  The Numantian smiled. “Governess Mecia decided she wasn’t so upset about the citizens of her colony transforming into monsters after all. Not with those Gnosis generation numbers. Jarel Craith, on the other hand, is not so morally flexible. I awoke to the sound of them trying to kill each other, incidentally making a mess of Taracon in the process. Which is when I came to you.”

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  Redmane kept his gaze fixed on Lar Tathvaal’s face as he explained himself. He found he didn’t have to open his third eye to sense sincerity in the Numantian’s words. Even so, his story was all too convenient. Someone had told him ‘Dicentis’ meant ‘Speaker,’ giving him the notion that the man possessed Skills to help him seduce and betray with words.

  Lar Tathvaal’s entire demeanor gave off that impression.

  Redmane kept his stare fixed on the Numantian, who seemed as if he’d expected this sort of treatment. He looked relaxed. He also didn’t wilt under that gaze, as so many others did, which won Lar Tathvaal a little of Redmane’s respect.

  “You said you’d wished to speak to me before,” said Redmane. “About what.”

  A smile curled the corner of his mouth and he walked out of the Governor’s quarters, gesturing for Redmane to follow.

  In a hallway between rooms, he paused to open a set of cabinets and look around within them.

  “I’m the youngest of nine boys,” he said, with his head in the cabinet. “My eldest three brothers all hold rank in the legions. The middle four are an Artifex, an artist, a playwright, and a marriage broker. My youngest elder brother is a cleric of the Nine. And then there’s me. Speaker to a Governess out in the colonies.”

  He closed the cabinet, having not found what he was looking for, and walked a few paces to the next item of furniture to search.

  “My mother and father are accountants. Their plan was to have as many children as possible in the hope one of them would be a winner, so I suppose they’re gamblers as well. But not the destructive sort. No, they’re solid, sensible Numantians. They have faith in the Nine. They believe in expanding the light of civilization, in the potential greatness within every man, and all that other filler.”

  “I assume you’re going somewhere with this,” said Redmane.

  Lar Tathvaal closed the drawer he’d been inspecting, smirked and nodded.

  He moved on to the next room, which appeared to be an office. It was a circular chamber with a large map across the back wall, and a central desk with curving bookcases on the walls beside it. Lar started on one side of the room, checking over everything while he talked, clearly searching for something.

  “I had little ambition when I was young. In truth, I was quite irresponsible. A problem child. Why play along with a life chosen for you? Why put forth all that effort to satisfy someone other than yourself? To play a role for which responsibilities and rewards have already been designated, parceled out in advance like feed for the pigs?”

  Redmane watched Lar walk away from the bookcase he’d been searching, toward the desk and its chair. The Governer’s chair, most likely. The Dicentis grinned down at it, tapped his fingers on its fine leather surface. Then he pulled it back and took a seat, looking smug, as if what he were doing were a transgression.

  Lar Tathvaal leaned forward, placing his elbows on the desk and steepling his fingers, as if he were the Governor having a meeting with a co-conspirator.

  “I didn’t understand ambition until the day I saw a Primogen in the flesh,” he said.

  Redmane’s eyebrow rose.

  Lar appeared to understand further explanation was in order. “They are the heads of the Scion Families, each chosen by a Triarch to be invested with power and influence. Much like the Imbued, only on a far grander scale. Consider how far above the power of a mere mortal you are as a terrestrial divinity, and then look up. For the Primogen are that far above us all.”

  “Numantians grow up hearing stories about the Primogen, their powers and their great deeds. But even so, encountering one in living color is relatively rare. They spend little time in the public eye. It can leave a boy of a certain age with the sense that such things aren’t truly real. They’re fairy tales, nationalistic propaganda, something you tell your gullible followers to get them to carry on with their work.

  “When I was eleven years old, my brother Lucius, the Artifex had taken me to the heart of the city to see the Aedis Prism. He left me on a bench to fetch us a snack, and I snuck away.

  “I wanted to see behind the curtains. I had this notion that everything in the world was false. Everything the people around me believed was nonsense. I thought the Aedis Prism was some sort of light show they put forth as a miracle of sorcery. So I went looking for the truth.”

  Lar Tathvaal’s grin waned, and a wry smile took its place. “And I found it.”

  “I take it you saw something that changed your mind,” said Redmane.

  “I saw Ectoris. Primogen of the house of the same name. He was assisting an Artifex and his apprentices with the maintenance of some part of the Prism’s mechanism. The Artifex and his aides were accustomed to such a presence, but I… Heh. I gave away my hiding place with a gasp.

  “Ectoris looked right at me. And until that moment I had not understood what a God was, what its presence felt like, how insignificant we all are before them. He was like a sun wearing the skin of a man. Radiant. All-powerful.

  “He looked right through me, into my soul. For an instant I felt his displeasure at my presence, and even one breath of that sensation was enough for me to bolt in fear for my life.

  “Lucius found me and chastised me for sneaking away from him. He wanted to know why I looked so shaken, but I never told him. Regardless, I went through some changes that day. My parents were most pleased with what they considered ‘moral development,’ but ever since that day I’ve been reaching for something far beyond them.”

  “So, you stood in the presence of divinity and now you desire that power for yourself,” said Redmane.

  Lar Tathvaal smiled and nodded. “Yes.”

  “And you expect me to help you,” he said. “Why.”

  The smirk returned. “Why indeed? You find yourself in a dangerous position, without many friends. Jarel Craith would like very much to exterminate you on moral grounds. I won’t be able to persuade him from this course. He’s decided you’re a demon, and when he makes up his mind about something he can be vexingly obstinate.”

  “It sounds as though he doesn’t much like you either,” said Redmane.

  “That’s why I opened this conversation with ‘mutual self interest.’”

  The Dicentis rose from the Governor’s desk, with a hint of reluctance, and moved on to continue his search of the tower. Redmane followed, not sure whether or not to offer his help in the search. If Lar Tathvaal were even searching for something specific.

  They moved into a small armory, where Redmane’s interest piqued at the sight of Star-Steel blades and armor resting on pedestals and in neatly arranged weapon racks.

  “Even if I were to agree to help you in your—” Redmane searched for a good word to encompass ‘quest for godhood.’ “—Career, I need to return to Volos. And if they’re waiting for us, we must emerge with either stealth or overwhelming force.”

  Lar Tathvaal was inspecting a cabinet in the corner, his eyes squinted in concentration as he felt along a groove in its side. Then his eyes widened in delight as there was a faint click, before the cabinet slid to the side to reveal a hidden compartment.

  The Dicentis removed what hid in there, held it in his hands with a wide grin. It appeared to be a simple leather breastplate, plain in construction, but made of fine materials.

  “Stealth it is,” he said. And he tossed it to Redmane.

  —

  Castigator’s Lorica

  Vestment (Body)

  Passive

  When worn, the Castigator’s Lorica removes the wearer from all System tracking, unless the tracker is a member of the Ordo Inquisitoris. For a cost of 10 Gnosis per 30 seconds, the wearer may extend this effect to include creatures adjacent to him.

  Supple leather breastplate worn by members of the Ordo Inquisitoris. Sometimes awarded to high level Justiciars.

  At times it is necessary to move unseen, even from the eyes of the System.

  —

  PATREON