She saw it.
Discomfort at the weapon in his room was minuscule compared to his horror thinking Lotusfoil most likely found his poetry, too.
Redmaw was supposed to be strong, enigmatic, cold. He was supposed to be frightening. He made his Knives tremble and avoid him on his worst days, he pushed them to their limits on his best, he saw results. And now he was going to be a laughingstock because the secret would come out that he was a soft soul, a poor inarticulate sap who spewed his feelings all over paper. What was he supposed to do?
It was all Beocraft's plan; he'd goaded the girls into invading his space, and Redmaw beat the ever-loving tar out of him for it. But that didn't fix Coldstern being imprisoned and Lotusfoil seeing his poetry, and now he had neither of his most loyal allies by his side. After succumbing to his rage, he isolated himself in his room while the afternoon tasks were carried out, pacing, feeling betrayed and humiliated.
He wanted to clear the air with Lotusfoil. But he knew responsibility would take him to Coldstern first.
From the keep to the castle, Redmaw dodged glances, his destination obvious by his trajectory toward the long stony corridor that led to the dungeon. He didn't so much expect an explanation or apology from Coldstern as he did insight into Beocraft's motives, but wasn't destined to receive either—Evander waited for him at the stairwell.
"Hello, Knive Superior. May we speak?"
Despite the unassuming posture of hands folded behind his back, golden mask tilted and smile present in his voice, Evander's request was foreboding. "Yes," said Redmaw, changing course to follow the Court Herald.
They landed once more in Evander's office. "Tell me why Beocraft forged an illegal weapon and had it hidden in your quarters," Evander said as he sat.
"I assume it was part of a scheme."
"There were null shards as well. Lotusfoil dispelled them."
Nobody had mentioned the null shards. Redmaw wondered if Beocraft collected them from the mission last week. In response to his silence, Evander gestured for him to sit, but Redmaw remained standing.
"Lotusfoil and Coldstern are convinced Beocraft was trying to frame you," Evander continued.
"That seems clear to me."
"And you already punished him. Do you expect the Court to take action on top of this?"
Redmaw rumbled. Should he have left it up to them? "No."
"Then we will not," said Evander. A hum emanated from behind his mask as he curiously leaned closer. "What do you suppose he was suggesting you would do with the null shards?"
"The Type 1 sickness is caused by exposure to webbed shard. Coldstern and I can both create it. He means to accuse us both of infecting our fellow Knives," said Redmaw. "But how he made that connection without the knowledge we have, I do not know."
"Perhaps he has an alternative source of knowledge," suggested Evander. "I've noticed that the weapon he made resembles Nightchurch's dagger."
Before Redmaw could ask if he even had it, Evander withdrew the hand axe from a drawer and placed it before him. Redmaw lifted the axe and turned it over. Merely touching it evoked strange discomfort in him, sad anger which fought through an artificial numbness imparted by the weapon's metal. An unusual side effect, he wondered if it was attributed to the Type 4 material formed from null shard. "Is it possible this weapon could permanently kill someone too?"
"We wouldn't know unless we experimented with it."
"I'm not going to kill any of my Knives just to see if they don't come back," said Redmaw.
"I didn't ask you to. But perhaps you should hold onto it in the event you encounter someone whose death you aren't particularly concerned about."
Redmaw clutched the axe in one hand, testing its weight and how it maneuvered. He didn't like the feeling it gave him, nor the idea of wielding a weapon Beocraft made. But if Evander needed him to test out the hand axe in order to learn its properties, he had no choice. Tucking the axe into his tunic, Redmaw pondered. "Do you believe Beocraft has been in contact with Nightchurch?"
"Or one of her rebels has become a Type 4."
"That could be troubling."
Evander clasped his hands together on the desk. "But then why wouldn't all her rebels be armed with those weapons, instead of just her?"
"She may be exploring her options, testing what is most effective; or purposefully hiding her assets. Each Type has its applications. A Type 4 paired with what we've seen of her Type 5 ability could grow into an army that could destroy us," said Redmaw.
"An army of beasts and rebels armed with permanently-killing weapons? Yes," agreed Evander. In fleetingly lowered guard, his shoulders sank just enough to imply some kind of sorrow, or regret, preceding a sigh seconds later. "What concerns me worse is that we have no way to destroy her living shards."
Redmaw hadn't even considered that. Type 1, Type 3, and Type 5 individuals could transform null shards into different kinds—webbed shard, the oily black shard, and living shard respectively—but not revert them back. The only known Type 0, Lotusfoil, could dispel null shards, and only a Type 2 like Redmaw could revert webbed shards and oily shards back to null shards to be dispelled by a Type 0. Were the weapons created by Beocraft's Type 4 ability considered a shard of their own? And how did Nightchurch create her beasts in the first place? Was it like when Lotusfoil touched a living shard and created the aberration? Did Nightchurch merely touch her living shards and forge beasts within living shard chrysalises? Could anyone touch a living shard and create life?
If that was the case, living shards could be the most dangerous object in the realm. They needed to find a way to dispel them, or at least revert them. Just... how? Could Redmaw revert a living shard, too?
Then his mind wandered. Why could only Type 1, Type 2, Type 3, Type 4, and Type 5 individuals transform null shards into something else? Type 6 individuals instantly teleported null shards when touched, and Type 8s caused the null shard to split in two. A Type 0 simply dispelled null shards. They hadn't discovered a Type 7 yet, nor anything higher than Type 8. The Type phenomenon and appearance of shards was so new—having just began within the past year—that they knew frighteningly too little about it.
Despite his questions, Redmaw stayed silent. He would organize what he knew so far in his book later, but his stomach spoiled remembering how the privacy of his book had been lost to Lotusfoil. Maybe it wasn't such a safe place to consolidate his thoughts.
"The plan hasn't changed," Evander broke the silence, "of you obtaining Nightchurch's dagger and slaying Nightchurch to deliver her to the dungeon. Perhaps once we have her in our custody, we can understand the living shards better."
Redmaw nodded.
"Regardless of the outcome of your final trial, if you accomplish both of those tasks, I will see to it that you join the Nobles," added Evander.
"The Nobles are unfazed by Beocraft's accusations?"
Evander hesitated. "I know that you would not use your Type 2 ability to the detriment of others, let alone try to infect anyone with the Type 1 sickness." But the few seconds it took for him to answer made Redmaw skeptical. "When is your final trial?"
"Three days from now."
"Then in three days, be prepared to hunt down Nightchurch."
It sounded like dismissal, so Redmaw turned away.
"Do not try to speak with Coldstern," Evander said after him. "We don't fully understand the effects of the Type 1 sickness yet, or how to cure it. I don't want to risk you becoming contaminated. You're far too valuable to me."
A twinge of annoyance gave Redmaw pause. "Very well." Under different circumstances, he would have ignored Evander's warning, but the Type 1 sickness was a very real threat that Redmaw didn't want to risk either. He left Evander's office without another word from the Court Herald.
Since Coldstern was out of the question, his next target became Lotusfoil. Redmaw's stomach turned again. The part of him that felt relief and nursed his obsession with her clashed with his embarrassment. He almost wanted to delay speaking with her, find a different task, forget for an hour or two, but his feet continued moving of their own volition. No, he'd never been known to avoid confrontation. Not in terms of his work, not when his Knives were involved. Emotional complications aside, Redmaw would just have to strongarm his way through it. Maybe she would understand. She'd been so unfailingly loyal thus far.
Nearing the stable, Redmaw recited how he would approach the question. He wouldn't ask her what she thought of his poetry, just how much she had seen. He'd ask her not to tell anyone else, and if she wasn't totally disgusted by his poignant, hidden feelings, he'd schedule another training session for tomorrow, and then he'd flee with his tail between his legs to recover from that small terrifying moment of vulnerability. It would be fine.
Strange, he hadn't felt anxious like this since before he'd appeared in the realm. That revelation soothed him, if only a little, and made him feel more human.
Before he realized it, the wood-and-brick stable came into view. There was Lotusfoil in the sunlight outside, shoveling loose hay into a pile. Redmaw stagnated, watching her, until she looked up and noticed him there. He took a step.
The ground rumbled and shifted. Redmaw braced himself in surprise while twenty feet away, Lotusfoil dropped the shovel, losing her footing. The quake intensified, drawing Redmaw's attention to the ramparts and the castle, wary of walls crumbling as he tried to understand what was happening. The entire realm shuddered.
Then in surreal abstraction, the Sanctum vanished and Redmaw found himself on dark and endless plains. The ground became indigo rock distorted into peaks by centuries of meteoric terraforming, and above, the midnight was peppered with twinkling stars, a deep crimson nebula, and a bluish-white star twice the size of the sun partially obscured by—a moon, a planet? He couldn't tell. There were no clouds and such little atmosphere that he became lightheaded.
Lotusfoil staggered ahead of him, the same distance away. All around him, in the same places they would have been in the Sanctum, there were Knives who had fallen through suddenly empty air, and Knives looking around in bewilderment, and Knives running to unite with their companions. Further away, clusters of Nobles had become exposed, their habits no longer hidden behind the Sanctum walls.
On the horizon behind Lotusfoil, inorganic obsidian shapes caught the starlight. Their jagged anatomies of wings and thrusters and hulls struck him as some sort of spacecraft, but not human.
The realm shook again. The ground between him and Lotusfoil broke apart in ominous black rifts, caving downward, then pulsing up and out in a spray of stones and dust. A long black arm erupted from the rift, sinking its claws into the ground and heaving a massive creature onto the surface. Black oil comprised its leviathan body, dripping and smoking all at once. Its reptilian physique had a whipping tail and four slender limbs and a head that was taller than it was wide, its blunt snout housing black teeth, uncountable little eyes blinking and glowing vivid green. In the same second it emerged, three more arms appeared beneath it, belonging to more monsters; the first set its sights on Lotusfoil, screeching, launching toward her in hunger.
Lotusfoil turned to run.
Panic flared in Redmaw. He wasn't equipped to fight something like this, or fight anything at all. Mentally. Physically. Was this even real? Lotusfoil's name climbed up his throat and got stuck. His body leaned forward, preparing to move.
The scene changed again. He suddenly faced a wall.
Redmaw froze, unable to comprehend it. The air was thick and stale, dull light flickering from exposed fluorescent tubes, metal walls gouged with flaking rust. He heard nothing from the other side of the wall, but his mind clung to the image of Lotusfoil fleeing the dripping monster, fear coursing through his veins. Redmaw moved slowly in shock, pressing his palms against the wall.
Instinct screamed for him to tear down the wall and help Lotusfoil. But he couldn't. His body was still reeling, it felt like he'd just been thrown a thousand lightyears between planets.
What the fuck just happened?