Chapter Twenty-Nine: House of Illusions

There was no sense in arguing when Cemil and Sakina asked him to stay behind the next morning. It was one thing to tag along when they were only supposed to be observing, but another entirely to accompany them on what had already become a real hunt. Obviously Osmund would only get in the way.

Still, he felt a little ruffled when Cemil gave him a pat on the shoulder and told him to enjoy himself in town for the day. Tourism was all well and good, but not at the very moment his friends were rushing headlong into danger!

No. He quashed down the thought. Cemil and Sakina were capable. He had to trust they’d be okay.

(And that they wouldn’t re-kindle the feelings they had for each other. Not that he’d be able to do a damn thing about that, either!)

He had the idea of seeking out Nienos and his buddies, but that was a bust—the mercenaries were lounging around in the town’s central square, treating their guard duty assignment as an opportunity to get roaring drunk. Jauntily they informed Osmund that they worked best with a steady buzz in their veins, but be that as it may, he found he wanted more…sober company.

Which left him alone with his thoughts. Again.

Those thoughts were plenty dry as he sat alone in a tea house’s shaded courtyard, sipping from his cup and watching the Anshan as they went about their day. For the most part life continued, seemingly, as normal. Repairs had been undertaken on the damaged buildings. Villagers ambled to and from the markets, chatting with their neighbors like nothing was amiss.

Osmund thought of Emre. And, of course, he thought of the sword.

Would there come a point when the strain on Cemil’s body would become simply too great to endure? He wished he’d pressed for more details. If only he knew how much time they really had. But, Emre had always been the one to corner him for their meetings. It wasn’t like he knew a way to make him appear.

Wait a moment.

The answer was so obvious, he felt stupid for not thinking of it until now. He called up the memory of the map Emre had given him, and at once it flashed in full magical clarity to the forefront of his mind. It still wasn’t a pleasant sensation; having it placed in here without his consent felt like a violation somehow.

He said this was a safe place to bring the sword, Osmund recalled. He might be there himself, and even if he isn’t, I might still learn something useful! It certainly beat sitting around, anyway.

Abandoning his tea, he stood.

The map was a strange bit of magic. So long as he pictured it, he knew exactly where to walk. The moment he stopped focusing, it vanished, and he faltered.

His destination was here in Kaliany, a ways outside of the urban heart where most of the villagers lived their lives. The journey took him through increasingly unpopulated streets, until he stopped being able to hear the bustle of ordinary existence anymore.

Osmund’s head turned. There. Partially hidden between two gnarled trees and their drooping canopies were the decrepit remains of what had possibly been a family home, now scarcely more than a loose collection of wooden beams in the imitation of walls and a roof.

Strange. The map was leading him forward.

Osmund paused. He had begun to wonder if maybe it wasn’t the brightest idea to go alone at a mysterious map’s bidding to a remote location without telling anybody where he was. (He could practically feel the others’ disapproval.) With renewed caution, he peered between the gaps in the old wood as he advanced, on the lookout for anything suspicious. The scenario recalled eerie scenes from novels. If he saw a human skeleton inside, he was taking off in the other direction!

But no. Vegetation and woodrot—nothing more.

Some sort of…sensation came over him as he hovered here just before what would’ve been the door. He became very aware of the bracelet Emre had given him, and where it rested over his thrumming pulse. For reasons unknown, he felt as though he should go inside.

Alright, Osmund thought as he stepped through the threshold, from one unextraordinary patch of earth onto another. Here goes nothing.

And nothing is exactly what happened. Until, that is, the next time he closed his eyes.

The moss and rocks and rotted beams disappeared in the space of a single blink. Next thing he knew, Osmund was in an actual house!

This turn of events was disorienting to say the least. What he’d really liked to have called it was the freakiest experience of his entire life. Or just, “aaaaahhh!!!”, which was what he was gearing up to say. Osmund’s mouth opened in preparation for said scream, except then a bright-eyed woman stepped out in front of him and said, in a chipper voice,

“Hello! Glad you could make it!”

This was so unexpected that his lungs forgot the attempt entirely. He blinked back at her.

“H-hello,” he said unintelligently. “I’m here because, um.”

“Yes, yes, come in!” The woman was pleasant-looking, with a welcoming face. Osmund couldn’t think of any other words to describe her, even if he’d tried. In fact, he did try. “Sorry about the need for secrecy. If you’re here, you’re one of us! Go to the table—the others are waiting!”

Osmund started to follow. Something was tickling the edges of his mind in an uncomfortable way, but it seemed small and nagging and unimportant, so he simply said, “Um, okay!” and pushed it aside.

The building he’d found himself transported to had a cozy-feeling interior, exactly how he’d imagined a city tavern to look from his novels before he’d actually been inside one for the first time. Golden light filtering through glazed windows on the far wall gave the space a inviting glow, framing a motley group of travelers gathered around a table gaily laughing over a card game. For some reason he felt that if he came just a little closer, he’d understand their secret joke.

A chair seemed to pull itself out for him, and Osmund slid into it as easily as if it had been preordained. “Emre told us to expect you,” came a deep, masculine voice. Osmund turned and saw someone who was strong-big-heroic and tough-scarred-worldly. “Pleasure to finally meet.”

“Um, likewise,” Osmund replied, momentarily dazzled as he gazed around at the circle of faces. Everyone here exuded coolness and competence. Not to mention style. “So, you’re all…friends of his?”

“Friends, yes, perhaps, but also comrades,” mused another, who was wizened-old-experienced in a way that would reassure anyone. “Allies in our quest to aid prophecy’s chosen imperial son in his rise to power.”

“Ah!” exclaimed Osmund at once. “You all want to help Cemil!”

He was so delighted that these storybook adventurers were pledged to Cemil’s cause that he actually managed to forget why he was here. At least, for a moment. “And I know who you must be!” crooned a flamboyantly-dressed soul who was whimsical-poetic-spritely. “You’re the man who agreed to bravely put himself at risk for the sake of your prince.”

“That’s right—the one who said he’d bring the sword,” said a sly-cunning-rakish rogue, eyeing him up and down. “Quite an accomplishment.”

Oh no. He couldn’t handle all their eyes turned admiringly to him. “Y-Yes, I want to help,” he agreed, bracing himself for their disappointment, “but…I don’t actually have the sword yet.”

The reaction to this was—odd. Nothing had actually changed in their expressions or body language…so why did Osmund feel such a cold shudder down his back?

With a start, he realized there was a fifth person in the group, a human. Though they were sitting just beside the others, his eye had somehow passed them over. They had a short nest of brown hair and a long narrow nose, and when they glanced up, Osmund saw striking pale pink irises set against skin that was closer to ashen grey than any other color.

His head went woozy, and he looked away at once.

“I-I’m sorry,” he added frantically, finding he was frightened. The room seemed to swirl and twist, panic darkening his vision as he babbled on. “I just wanted to ask a few more questions, w-we’re in the middle of something here in Kaliany and, um, if you’d actually rather I leave I can just—”

“King’s ransom,” someone cried in triumph, throwing down their hand. The others all groaned and placed their cards face-up to compare.

Osmund’s eyelids drooped hazily open and shut. The light from the window was so comforting again. Everything was back in clear focus. Just the four champions, and Osmund, at this table. That’s right, he thought placidly. We’re only playing a card game. Nothing to get upset about.

They dealt him in and began another round.

“Speak then, good fellow! What did you want to know?” Big-Heroic asked. Osmund looked up from his cards.

“U-um…well, it’s a matter of timing, you see,” he explained. “Emre made it sound so urgent, but, I don’t want to distract Cemil right now—the gryphons are dangerous too. I’m trying to protect him, so I couldn’t stand if he got hurt because of me.”

“Such admirable devotion!” cried Whimsical-Poetic.

“Natural move to come scope us out,” said Sly-Cunning. “Believe me, we all want your prince to come out of this one alive.”

Osmund looked between them hopefully. “You do?”

Big-Heroic gave a broad smile. “We banded together to do what’s best by the people of this land. That means backing the best of its princes.”

“That’s right,” Osmund said eagerly. “He would be a really great emperor.”

“It’s unfortunate circumstance that he’s fallen under sway of that artefact,” Wizened-Old grieved. “A less extraordinary man would have crumbled under its power long ago.”

Osmund turned and nodded with enthusiasm at that, too. Somehow he knew it to be true. “Yes. It’s amazing how he’s managed to control its power for so long,” he marveled.

“But even heroes have their limits,” Whimsical-Poetic wept. “It truly pains one to think how very, very soon he might be taken from us. Taken from his destiny.”

“How soon?” Osmund cried. “I really need a straight answer!”

Something tingled at the edges of his mind again, the barest pinprick of awareness. Osmund’s head turned, and he looked right at them—the fifth member of the group. The only person whose facial features he had words to describe.

“What’s going on?” The words formed on his tongue in a daze. “Wh-who are you?”

No one, a voice in his mind supplied merrily. Just a random unimportant person. Ignore them!

But Osmund didn’t look away, fought the reflex to avert his eyes. He realized his thoughts became sharper and clearer the longer he looked at the figure.

“Tell me what’s going on!” he tried again, mustering all his willpower to keep looking. “Do you really want what’s best for Cemil? Are you actually going to destroy the sword? A-are you…” He licked his lips anxiously before continuing. “Are you the only real person in this room?”

In the blink of an eye, the figure had risen. They threw out a hand, not making contact physically, but Osmund felt snaking tendrils curling their way around his mind, burrowing deep. The intrusion stunned him. His whole body recoiled in alarm, fighting off the assault, but only for a moment before everything…faded.

Into a dull, distant numbness.

This is what empire is, he heard—a voice inside his mind yet not his own. He saw two slight figures, hands clasped tightly before being dragged one from the other, one shadow receding further, further, into the distance, while the other was swallowed up in a bramble of thorned flowers. The vision—the memory—drowned him in sorrow. But it was not his sorrow.

You are hunted, it said, probing, questing. Your enemy is stronger than you.

Lord Pravin’s image rose to the forefront, and Osmund’s muscles jerked in protest, or attempted the effort. In the moment’s distraction, the slithering tendrils buried deeper.

I see you, it said. I see who you are.

A prince, a thief. A coward. No! He wasn’t. Not anymore.

The intrusion was thorough, almost complete; he felt it everywhere, taking root. It was so tempting to just—give in. Cede control. Let that strange other do as it liked, moving his synapses around until he was nothing more than a puppet.

You are weak and incapable, said the voice.

You’re a burden. A distraction, it said.

You cannot handle what’s coming. Not alone, it said.

But, Osmund thought suddenly, I won’t be alone.

The images changed again. He saw himself at Cemil’s side. Banu, beside Anaya. And Cemil was looking to him for support.

You’re telling yourself a lie, the voice said. What can you do? What have you ever done besides fuck things up?

Sweet visions flooded his head: Certainty. Strength. Camaraderie. An end to doubt, forever. Oh, how badly he wanted those things. How he quivered with the hunger of it. The price was implicit: all he had to do was stop fighting. Stop fighting, hand over the reins, and lovely things would come.

Only, they wouldn’t be real, would they?

The meddlesome thought reached him through the sopor. He grew annoyed. Real or not, what did it matter? What was wrong with the fantasy of becoming someone else, someone worthier at last?

I promised I’d be there for him, said in his own voice in answer. I promised him. I promised myself. That’s something only I can do.

That’s when he saw it.

It was a mere glimpse, but once witnessed he fixed himself upon it, prodding and unraveling. It was that other consciousness. Exposed as he was, unable to shield himself from scrutiny, so too was his adversary, and the pure, unfiltered horror of their intentions. The trance, tested, broke apart. He staggered away from it. No. No. This he could not accept!

With all his strength he rejected the foreign presence, wrenching it free from the tributaries of the mind into which it had settled. As it retreated in fragments he saw it once more. The reality of what they meant to do.

“You’re going to hurt him,” Osmund gasped. His mind and body were again his own. “I don’t know why you want the sword, but it isn’t to save Cemil! Who are you and what do you want?!”

The pale-eyed person did not speak. They stared blankly ahead. Their spindly fingers curled in a spiderlike shape.

This time, Osmund felt in a sure, terrifying surge of animal instinct one important thing: it was either act, or die. He surprised them both by lunging forward, like some kind of flailing tiger.

Three things happened. One, he made contact with the figure.

Two, the figure’s loose robe parted, and Osmund saw a glint of something cruel and unnatural stuck in their shoulder.

Three—they vanished.

In fact, everyone did. And everything. Only Osmund remained.

And the light filtering through the wooden beams of the ruined house.