Ever Lord

Few of the servants in House Di Mattia knew that the sitting room on the top floor of the north wing was kept locked. Fewer knew that only the Countier, Countess, and Ladymaid Aisha held the keys. The few that did know also knew their place, and while curiosity tugged hard at their hearts, they kept their humility and allowed their Nobles their eccentricity.

Sarisa ran through the mansion, stopping only once in a panic when her fumbling failed to produce her key from around her neck. She found it a moment later, where it had bounced from her running. Gripping the key in both hands, she ran once more towards the locked sitting room.

When she reached the doors, she slipped the key into the lock, and entered their laboratory with a fimiliar mix of shame and pride.

Shame, because it was no laboratory worth the name. Indeed, the room’s only claim to the title was little more than intent coupled with a sincere effort. While the servants knew it had once been a sitting room, Sarisa didn’t remember the room’s previous purpose and didn’t much care to. It looked more like a storage room now, with thick wooden tables and chairs placed haphazardly across the floor, filling in the spaces between salvaged objects and their own manufactured equipment.

Pride, becuase it was theirs. Ever since the ruins had been discovered, Sarisa and the Countier had worked tirelessly to tease out their many secrets. Every step had been a new and frightening effort, seasoned with the knowledge that if the Church ever found out, they would be killed for their troubles, or worse.

Few of the servants in House Di Mattia knew that the sitting room on the top floor of the north wing was kept locked. Fewer knew that only the Countier, Countess, and Ladymaid Aisha held the keys. The few that did know also knew their place, and while curiosity tugged hard at their hearts, they kept their humility and allowed their Nobles their eccentricity.

Sarisa ran through the mansion, stopping only once in a panic when her fumbling failed to produce her key from around her neck. She found it a moment later, where it had bounced from her running. Gripping the key in both hands, she ran once more towards the locked sitting room.

When she reached the doors, she slipped the key into the lock, and entered their laboratory with a fimiliar mix of shame and pride.

Shame, because it was no laboratory worth the name. Indeed, the room’s only claim to the title was little more than intent coupled with a sincere effort. While the servants knew it had once been a sitting room, Sarisa didn’t remember the room’s previous purpose and didn’t much care to. It looked more like a storage room now, with thick wooden tables and chairs placed haphazardly across the floor, filling in the spaces between salvaged objects and their own manufactured equipment.

Pride, becuase it was theirs. Ever since the ruins had been discovered, Sarisa and the Countier had worked tirelessly to tease out their many secrets. Every step had been a new and frightening effort, seasoned with the knowledge that if the Church ever found out, they would be killed for their troubles, or worse.

The Countess Sarisa Di Mattia stepped through the opened door, and her heart sank. It was the same every time. She hated her drawing room. The rest of the Di Mattia Mansion was dreary — utilitarian at best — and infused with the staid airs and atmosphere she had grown up with her entire life. But the drawing room…

Alone, out of all the rooms in her father’s mansion, the drawing room had potential.

The fireplace was deep and made of grounstone — the fired mixture of resin, ground silt, and gravel. It felt heavy, squatting in the wall and spewing comfortable heat into the room like a demon. The walls were seasoned wood planks, with the distinctive smell of the forest in high-summer. She presumed some mold or fungus had settled into the planks back when the mansion was built, and now gave the room its distinctive smell. The walls themselves were covered with bookcases as tall as the room itself.

The bookcases…Sarisa grit her teeth as she walked to the closest lounge. The bookcases were abysmal. Only one had any reasonable number of books, and it was only after an evening of re-binding that the books’ contents — if not their covers — held anything of value.

Her eyes danced over the small collection of books. That was one joy she found in the room; she had met a great many lords, ladies, and dignitaries in this room since her father’s death, and none of them knew that the simple boring books that littered the room held heretical contents.

At long last, the Six Bells rang Eve’nbell. The Ever Palace, once as vibrant and active as any anthill, was still and silent. Behind countless wooden doors, the populous of the Ever Palace ate their nighttime meals, finished their journal entries, and bid their fellows goodnight. The day was done, and all were at rest.

All, that is, save the Resolute Lady Tania Maar, Raugraf of the Sixth Region, Knight-Domina of the Twenty-Ninth Infantry Band of Resolution, Knight of the Arrow, and tenth Heir to House Maar.

Tania Maar was filled with anticipation. Tonight, all her plans, her efforts, her accolades and duties came to fruition. Tonight, she would receive her due. Tonight, she was summoned by the Ever Lord himself.

She had no concern over defying the Eve’nbell curfew. To worry would be a sin against the divine command of her Ever Lord. Instead, her attention was focused entirely on how to present herself; the letter summoned her in the name of the Ever Lord, but made no mention of who she was summoned as. Was she summoned as the tenth Heir to House Maar? As a Raugraf? As a Knight-Domina of the Imperial Honor?

How long had it been?

Days? Years? What was time to the dead? There was no now, only then. The dead had no future, only a past full of pain and best forgotten.

Then, a point of light. He woke. The cold grip of life closed over his heart as the aches and pains of the burning air settled over him.

“Master Yebidesh, can you open your eyes?”

The voice was soft and gentle, a sharp needle in his ears through the rushing sound of blood and screams. He tried to open his eyes, stopping when the effort drained him. Nearby, the sounds of a medical monitor beeped at him, faint…too faint. He couldn’t fall asleep while he was holding a soldier’s heart in his hands. He needed to know what his patient was feeling. He reached out to adjust the monitor’s volume.

“Don’t try to move, just rest.”

Sen turned the corner, when a sudden sound made him stop in his tracks.

“Hey!” the call was from deep in the bunker. “Hey, is anyone here?”

Reinforcements!

Sen tried to run, but could only shamble forward like a broken toy. He wanted to shout and cry for help. He wanted to scream and bring his fellow soldiers running to his side. Safety! Warmth! Life!

No!

His legs wouldn’t listen, so with a surge of desperation, Sen pulled his body aside, crashing into the wall to stop his shambling run. They were dreams he shouted at his spasming body. Illusions. Hallucinations of a past or future that never happened.

The voice called from nearby, “my name is Captain Bellon of the Hyan Heavy Infantry, Third Echelon. We won’t hurt you.”

Sen’s eyes snapped open.

“Bad dream?” the Base Girl asked, her thick off-world accent tickling his ear. He curled up next to her, muttering platitudes as weeping wounds and bleeding eyes bubbled up from his nightmares.

She was cold; as cold as a corpse.

Struggling to surface from the torrent of dreams that pulled at him, Sen opened his eyes again.

His lungs hurt. They burned when he breathed in, they ached when he didn’t. His face was stuck to a metal floor, his mouth dry and cracked. He carefully tried to move, feeling his muscles resist, protesting in pain. With a sickening noise, he pulled his hands off the metal floor, feeling scraps of skin remaining behind. The pain cut through his confusion.

Pain. This was now.

“Sen?”

Sixty three, sixty-four, sixty five…

Sen of House Yebidesh, filial to House Hyan, burst into a sprint through the dark corridors of the underground bunker, his tiny bag tightly strapped to his back. Footfalls echoed like bullets, ricocheting through the metal halls and back to his ears. Stealth didn’t matter now; speed was what counted. If he was lucky, he would reach the other end of the hallway in time. He wouldn’t have to use the ChillPatch.

“Ho there, slow down! What’s going on?”

Frantically, Sen dodged the grasping hand. It wasn’t there. He kept moving, closing his eyes to the darkness, counting to himself in his head.

Without warning, his left leg, tired and worn from exertion, refused to clear the small lip through the central hatch.

Sen fell.

The Six Bells of the Ever Palace rang out its final call, Eve’nbell had come. The Ever Palace, once as vibrant and active as any anthill, was still and silent.

Bulquis Renner Torvis, Strike Commander of the Seventh Vanguard of House Torvis and Bearer of the Waliken Standard, was not still.

Renner was walking as quietly and swiftly as he could, moving from shadow to shadow on the streets, keeping himself hidden from the Doorsmin’s attention. It was nothing difficult. While it had been many years since he had fought as a soldier on any front-lines, his years as Strike Commander had given him a respectful understanding of both the limits of any guards attention, and the boundaries of even holy vows.

Besides, he had a holier charge than even that of the Doorsmin.

The cool night wind was refreshing after the heavily perfumed air of the ballroom. Navin breathed as deep as the tight clothing would allow. Pale fingers played along the edge of the stone balcony, tracing cracks and seams like a spider searching for a foothold.

The Viceroy’s Estate sat at the top of a great hill. From the balcony, the Port City of the Third World lay stretched out towards the horizon. In the distance, the giant Port Tower gleamed in the night, its marble walls glittering among hanging lanterns and guiding lights. Around the tower’s many docks and balconies hung both mighty and humble Velvet-ships of every shape and size. Each was built by the hand of their Ever Lord’s own engineers, by methods known only to the most secret of artisans.

The Eve’nbell had rung on the First World, and so too throughout the Empire. Lights were dim all throughout the Port City as trade, labor, and conversation ceased. Peasants and nobles alike returned to their homes to eat and rest.

A light flickered in some distant window, a single red crystal to mirror the thousand icy cousins that shone above. Navin watched as the faint glow burned brighter, a beacon in the darkness. A fitful child, perhaps, and their mother waking to comfort it. A merchant, returning late from the tavern. Perhaps a nightmare had plagued an old man, who now sat up to drink away the horror. A young maid, reading again the letters of her love, aching for the morning. A thousand possibilities, and Navin would never know which was true.