IGS #4, Chapter 28

Dameon

This wasn’t a disaster. Far from it. This was an opportunity. If he could play his cards right. If he could keep them both from killing him.

Dameon closed the door to his suite and pinched the bridge of his nose. Damn it. With each passing month he missed having the assembled might of Manticore at his back all the more. Confidants. Friends. Allies. Now he had to go it alone. Sure, some of them had only been there for him to manipulate, but there was no replacing Simeon or Ydrielle, ready with advice or support or a laugh. Nobody like Evelyn, indefatigably if morbidly cheerful.

No-one like Davelos, capable of analyzing a situation and determining their best course of action with dour efficiency and enough Gold mana.

Dameon dropped his hand and stepped over to his side table, where he uncorked a bottle of heady Cyrillix liquor. He raised it to his lips, then paused.

Damn it.

He recorked it brusquely, set the bottle back, then sat in his chair to close his eyes, hands on his knees, back straight, and exhale.

First he had to check how that damn meeting had changed things.

Igniting his Heart, he activated his Dread Blaze power and saw the darkness behind his eyelids expand into a veritable expanse. Streams of color stretched out before him, like a multitude of roads, some broad and probable, others narrow and ever more unlikely.

Frowning, Dameon set to examining the changes. His goal remained immutable: himself in the depths of Hell, an Imperator at long last, rewarded with wealth and power and acclaim. Ascendant. With equals but no superiors. The pinnacle of success.

But as always, the road there was fraught and crooked beyond belief.

Scorio’s arrival with Jova and their ragtag crew had already thrown his previous paths into disarray, and it was immediately apparent that the big, beautiful golden avenue that led him and a select team from the Red Keep to a Silverine Sun was gone. The odds of his overseeing a detonation, his consequent near instant rise from Pyre Lord to Blood Baron to Charnel Duke, and then on down to the Scorched Swale, skirting the Viridian Host and all that nonsense.

Just… gone.

“Damn it,” he whispered.

It had fragmented instead into a dozen slender paths, none gold, but with some silvers. Thank the gods. One by one he traced their paths, teasing out his different courses of action.

The brightest of them all cautioned him to simply flee the Unfathom a few days after Scorio departed the Keep. To race down the Red Road into the Lustrous Maria, and then seek safety amongst the Great Souls at the Coral Garden.

Dameon grimaced.

The next involved giving Scorio time to get away from the Keep, then sneaking out with a handpicked crew led by Artur to approach a Silverine Sun on the sly. But for that one to work he’d have to kill Artur, feed his corpse to the Silverines, then convince Lady Krula the fiends had turned against them.

Unable to resist his curiosity, Dameon turned his attention to the broad vermillion road that now blazed front and center. Of course. If he sought any form of partnership with Scorio he’d die. Either on the Keep’s steps, or in the waste itself, or after detonating a Silverine Sun. Each more improbable than the last.

Huh. Wait a second. There was golden thread hidden under the crimson: if he retreated to LastRock and laid low there a year, he was all but guaranteed to survive. He could rise to be Moira’s second-in-command, and—

“Pah!” Dameon reached out blindly for the bottle of Cyrillix, yanked out the cork, and took a swig. The heady liquid burned his tongue, his throat, but warmed his stomach. Settling back, he forced himself to concentrate.

There had to be something better out there for him.

Wait. At the far outskirts of the roads, another golden thread. That was strange. Gold rarely lay so far afield. Dameon traced its path. If he forged an alliance with Myla, the Dread Blaze who’d arrived with Kuragin, and swore a Heart Oath to do whatever she desired, his chances of…

Dameon took another swig and sat up.

That couldn’t be right. An open-ended Heart Oath to a Dread Blaze? He’d met her briefly a few days back. Not impressive. Sweet, sure, probably good in the sack, but too self-conscious and nervous to be of any note. Or so he’d thought. But this?

Again he traced the thread. Yes. If he completely threw himself at her mercy, swore to do whatever she desired, his chances of detonating a Sun successfully blossomed. But then…

Not for the first time Dameon cursed the vagueness of his power. In the near future he’d have to betray her—despite the Heart Oath—and then flee south.

It didn’t make any sense.

Dameon gazed at the tapestry of mostly red threads in dismay, then released his power. Were he a gambling man, he’d wager all he had on either Scorio or Jova killing him within the next month or two. In no encounter did he best them in a physical confrontation. And without the ability to teleport away, he was doomed.

He ran his tongue over his lips.

Heading back to LastRock was out. Fuck playing second fiddle to Moira. Hiding in the Coral Garden had no appeal. He couldn’t just keep running south ahead of Scorio without ascending in rank. Plus here in the Unfathom was the unique possibility of ascending immediately from Pyre Lord to Charnel Duke. Nobody else knew the technique except possibly a handful of Imperators down in the Cradle. And to come within spitting distance of such a massive power boost… it was just too good to pass up.

And what use was having a power that allowed him to recollect his past lives if he didn’t take advantage of that forgotten technique that’d effectively allow him to cheat at advancement?

No. He had to make the Unfathom work.

He had to detonate a Silverine Sun.

Krula. She was too cautious, too smart. Any path where he pressured her too much resulted in his expulsion. Thus far he’d used a light touch, but the fiends wept, it was taking forever.

He could try seducing her… ?

Again he tried to imagine himself between her long, pale thighs, grunting and straining as he avoided looking down at her crescent-moon face. He could do it, it wasn’t that the feat was beyond him, but then he’d have to kill Artur, somehow, and spend at least a month making Krula love him so desperately that she’d acquiesce to his plans.

Pah.

Not good odds, there, either.

Dameon tapped his lips and took another swig. So what if he’d lose his ability to read the future paths? Right now the booze was good.

Necessary.

A pang of loss sounded within his breast. What he’d give to have Simeon lounging on the couch, gaze heavy-lidded and amused, ready with droll advice and tempered wisdom. Or Evelyn to raise his mood, Ydrielle their caustic counterpart. Davelos, even damned Davelos would be better than this endless brooding.

Again Dameon sighed and rubbed at one eye.

He was tired.

He was alone.

And having scarily competent Great Souls eager for his death was draining. And now they were both here, below, just waiting for him to drop his guard.

Dameon sneered. He should have killed them when he had the chance. But the odds of their outwitting him had been so low. His paths had assured him he had them well in hand.

Until he didn’t.

Not for the first time, nor the last, he half-heartedly wished he’d never manifested this predictive power. Its vagueness and mutability drove him half mad.

Myla.

He exhaled noisily. Why couldn’t his power tell him more about her, or what she’d demand from his Heart Oaths? How by the bleeding hells was she, some random, no-account Dread Blaze, the answer to his prayers?

Dameon deliberated.

Fine.

Why not? It wasn’t as if he was going to win Scorio and Jova over with honeyed words, no matter how carefully he played his role.

He rose, set the bottle aside, then quit his chambers. It didn’t take long to find Kuragin and Myla’s chambers. Even as he knocked on their door, he wondered: were they an item? He’d not bothered researching them at all. Did it matter?

Kuragin opened the door wide. He was tall, fearsome looking, with the kind of harsh, bronzed features and forthright gaze of a warrior born. Dameon immediately sensed that he was violent, prone to moodiness, predictable, and vicious. A good tool, if he had any need of him.

“Is Myla present?”

Kuragin studied Dameon for a moment, then called back into the room, “Myla! Lady Krula’s advisor wants a word.”

A moment later the Dread Blaze appeared by Kuragin’s side. She was almost half his height, painfully young and with silvery-white hair hanging in curly locks about her jawline. Her gray eyes alive with curiosity, her smile half-ready to emerge. “Hey. Can I help you?”

Interesting. Dameon knew himself adept at evaluating his targets, but this girl immediately conveyed an overwhelming sense of… not incompetence, exactly, but… harmlessness? Which was completely at odds with what his own predictive power had indicated. It didn’t add up.

“Hi. Dameon, Pyre Lord.” He extended his hand. Young women found that charming, sometimes. Something about a handsome guy like himself treating them with faux-formal seriousness.

“Myla,” she replied, shaking his hand, clearly amused. “But you already knew that.”

“This is going to sound weird, and I apologize in advance -” He flashed his patented, rueful smile. “- but there’s something I would like to discuss with you in private.”

Kuragin crossed his beefy forearms and all but glowered. It was a pity. The man would appreciate a more brusque, stand-offish approach, something curt and harsh that would raise Dameon in his estimation as a fellow hard-ass. This apologetic charming approach that was so fitting for Myla was a complete annoyance to Kuragin.

Ah well. You couldn’t satisfy everyone all of the time.

“I mean—sure.” Myla glanced at Kuragin, as if seeking permission, then back. “Um. Do you want to come inside?”

“I’ll give you space,,” said Kuragin, barely hiding his irritation. “I’m hungry. See you down at the entrance hall.” Dameon half-expected the big man to offer some kind of threat, some promise of violence if he insulted or tried to hurt Myla, but the man simply gave her a warning look and departed.

“Come in!” She opened the door and stepped aside, smile wide. “It’s not exactly home sweet home, but what can you do?”

Dameon entered the stone chamber. There were two beds, both clearly recently used, so no, they weren’t a couple, or perhaps they just took advantage of each other before retiring to their own corner. The place smelled of them both, but not unpleasantly, and she had a decidedly floral scent that was quite beguiling.

He sat at a circular table. Myla took the chair across from him, and leaned forward, fingers interlaced, one dark brow raised. “So what’s this about? Lady Krula need me for something?”

“You know, there’s no good way to say it.” Dameon scratched the back of his head in mock-chagrin. “So I’ll just blurt it out, and you can laugh at me if you like and I’ll leave.”

“Uh oh,” said Myla, still smiling. “If this is a romantic proposition, I have to admit the sheer awkwardness of it is pretty novel.”

“Heh.” Dameon smirked. “Not that. Uh.” He was rarely at a loss for words, but his power had given him so little to work with. “I’m in a bit of a tight corner. Scorio and Jova, two Pyre Lords who just arrived, want me dead.”

“But there’s no violence to be had inside the Red Keep?” asked Myla hesitantly.

“I know. But they’re really dangerous, and I’m trying to figure out my best course of action. Obviously I’ve been working for Lady Krula, investigating the Silverine Suns and all that, but something occurred to me. A new path leading me out of this mess.”

Myla nodded encouragingly.

“Right.” Dameon sat up, eyed her, then grimaced. “I… I’m willing to swear any kind of Heart Oath you think appropriate so that I can help you out.” By the ten hells, it sounded asinine. “With whatever you’re working with. No questions asked.”

Myla’s brows shot up as her eyes widened, and then she reared back and made a face. “You what?”

“Yeah. I know. Yikes.” He fought to hold onto his rueful smile. It was one of his best, but never had it felt so strained. “Not something I’d offer lightly, but… whomever you are, whatever you are, apparently you’re my way out of this mess. So… there you have it.” He shrugged and sat back. “Now it’s your turn to laugh me out of here.”

She didn’t laugh, but nor did she immediately become solemn. Instead, her crooked smile became half-teasing, her gaze speculative. “Any Heart Oath I desire?”

“I mean, probably within reason.” Dameon shifted his weight nervously. “I wouldn’t agree to run into the Unfathom naked to attack a Sun with my teeth.” He considered. “Unless you could provide me with a good rationale for it.”

“And that… I can’t.” She canted her head to one side. “You know, my problem is that people usually don’t take me seriously. This? It’s the other extreme. What am I supposed to have you swear?”

Dameon shrugged helplessly, trying to remain calm and ironic and attractively chagrinned despite his mounting frustration. “That’s just the thing, it’s whatever you need? Or find useful? Damned if I know. My Dread Blaze power tells me where to align myself, but it’s not a set of written instructions. It simply indicated that I could be of use to you. And if we align in purpose, my chances of surviving the next few weeks—months—jumps.”

“Hmm.” Myla tapped her chin with a fingertip. She still hadn’t laughed him out, or told him he was being ridiculous. Which was surprisingly promising. “Fascinating power you’ve got there. And it singled me out amongst all the other worthies in the Keep.”

“I guess you’re singular. For some reason. So. What’s it going to be? Can you think of some use for me?”

Myla’s smile grew lazy, self-satisfied. “Perhaps I can think of something. But you’re right. You’ll need to swear some pretty extreme Heart Oaths before we continue, with the first Oath being a promise to not discuss the wording of the following Oaths, even if you choose not to swear them.”

Relief dawned on Dameon like a soothing sunrise. There really was something here. He sat up. “Now we’re talking. A preliminary oath. To set the table, as it were.”

“To set the table,” agreed Myla. “And see if you have the stomach for the main meal. Are you’re ready?”

“I didn’t come here to waste any time.” Prickles of excitement sent shivers down his arms, causing his stomach to tighten. “How would you word it?”

“Repeat after me,” said Myla, and her gaze had grown intent, her speculative manner giving way to something more solemn. “And let’s see just how serious you are about your offer.”