The rest of the interior looked different too. There were the same spindly towers that Bosh had called mycosynth, and the same mossy substance on the ground, but the landscape was more jagged, less open, and the tower in the distance was nowhere to be seen.
Everyone else piled out of the tunnel behind Glissa, shielding their eyes from the bright light.
Slobad put his hand up on his forehead and peered around as if he were a sea captain. “Where are we, huh? Look different.”
“It’s a different lacuna,” reasoned Glissa. “We’re in a different place.” She turned to Bosh. “Where do we find Memnarch?”
Bosh raised his still-bandaged hand and pointed through the mycosynth forest of chrome structures. “Through there. A long walk from here.”
Glissa started walking toward the microsyth. “Then we’d better get moving.”
* * * * *
Marek rested on the plains outside the swamps of the Dross. Fewer than half the warriors who had come on this mission had survived, and most of those who had were badly wounded.
Malil’s force of levelers fared just as poorly. The head of the vedalken elite guards had heard the metal man say he had left the interior with over a hundred of the killing devices. Now there were barely more than two dozen.
Despite the fact that Malil had lost more soldiers, he had a decided advantage over the beaten vedalken. The devices didn’t feel the emotional impact of defeat. The remaining levelers stood ready, prepared to fight to the death, even in the face of such tremendous losses.
Marek’s troops, however, were dispirited and broken. They had lost, and now they were tired, frustrated, and ready to go home. Sitting here on the plain, Marek hoped that they didn’t spot the elf girl and her retinue leaving the swamp. He and his men couldn’t take another battle right now.
* * * * *
Pontifex paced beside a field of razor grass, watching the edge of the swamp for any sign of Glissa.
Whatever that thing was that had come from the floor and wiped out half of his elite guard was going to pose a problem.
For that matter, Malil too was going to be a handful, but the metal man would be easy enough to manipulate.
Pontifex chuckled. That was the best part about constructs. They didn’t understand the subtleties of a simple lie. Somehow, while they could perform multiple complex tasks, often times more efficiently and effectively than an organic creature, they still maintained a childlike innocence. Malil would believe anything Pontifex told him. It was in his nature to do so, and the vedalken lord intended to use that to his advantage.
He’d keep the fool thinking that they were trying to capture the elf girl. Once he had his opportunity, he’d simply slip his dagger into her gut, and that would be the end of his problem.
Malil stepped up beside him, interrupting his reverie.
“She’s not coming out,” said the metal man.
“No? How do you know this?”
Malil tapped the side of his skull. “Memnarch has seen them enter the black lacuna.”
“The black lacuna? She’s going to the interior?”
The metal man nodded.
Why would she go that way? Pontifex wondered. Certainly the swamp and his own force weren’t a factor, after seeing what their protector did. Had he overestimated the power of that swirling blue monstrosity? Was it just a temporary spell?
Pontifex shook his head. “Well, if she’s going through the center of the plane to try to escape, she’s taken the long way out.”
Malil nodded his agreement.
Pontifex turned away from the razor grass field. “The question is where she’s headed.”
“It does not matter,” said Malil. “If we chase her down the black lacuna we will be perpetually in pursuit. We must travel North to the Knowledge Pool. We can move much faster on the surface than she can on the interior, and we’ll cut her off.”
Pontifex nodded. “Yes, but what if she heads South to the red lacuna? We’ll lose her in the mountains of the Oxidda Chain.”
Malil once again tapped his head. “If she does, Memnarch will tell me so, and we will be waiting for her when she surfaces.”
Pontifex smiled. “Then we’re off to Lumengrid.”
* * * * *
Orland stood on the floor of the People’s Grand Assembly Chamber. He looked up at the expectant faces of over a hundred representatives of the soon-to-be Republic of Vedalken.
“My fellow vedalken,” he said just above a whisper. His words were lifted up to even the highest perched citizen in the hall. “Until today, the name of this chamber has been a farce.” He paced the room, exhilarated by each and every set of eyes that silently followed his movements. “The People’s Assembly Chamber, indeed. With notably few exceptions, only the members of the elite-the lifetime appointed councilors who sat on the Synod-were allowed to debate within its walls.” Orland stopped and spun on his heels. “It wasn’t always like this. There was a time in our republic’s history when decisions were made by the people. When we were not ruled but ruled ourselves.” The vedalken councilor nodded, smiling. “A pleasant notion, don’t you think?”
The assembled representatives nodded silently.
“It is time that we took back that which rightfully belongs to us.” His voice rose. “It is time that we once again ruled ourselves.” Now he was nearly shouting. “It is time that we decide once and for all that no vedalken has the right to go on making poor decisions in the public’s interest, while the elected representatives sit powerlessly on the sidelines-” he paused, quieting himself-“no avenue of recourse available to them.”
There was a rustle of robes as the representatives nodded their approval.
Sodador and Tyrell sat on a bench on the floor of the chamber. They nodded their approval as well, even lightly clapping-a gesture which had all but been outlawed in the People’s Assembly Hall.
Orland continued. “My friends, those days are soon to be over.” He pulled a rolled up red scroll from a pocket in his robe, lifting it high in the air for all to see. “The measure before us today, good representatives, will create a free society for all vedalken residing in the fortress of Lumengrid. I trust you have all received a copy of this document.”
The rustling of robes again filled the chamber as each of the vedalken in attendance pulled from his or her garments a scroll, the exact shape, size, and color of the one Orland held.
Councilor Orland smiled. “Excellent.” He looked to the other two representatives who urged him on with a wave of their hands. “As you may know, age old vedalken bylaws require that in order to change the voting structure of our government, a unanimous vote by all the members of the Synod is required. In the absence of Lord Pontifex, you have been summoned here to vote in his stead-” he turned slowly around the room, taking in each and every face-“much as you voted to accept me into the Synod only a moon cycle ago.” He stopped and looked down at the parchment in his hand. “This time, there is no tie that needs to be broken. It matters not the weight of each vote, for any vote against this measure will be the end of it.”
Orland took a deep breath. This was the moment he had been waiting for since the day he had become a councilor. “So, I ask you now, good representatives-” he looked at Sodador and Tyrell-“and councilors, how do you vote? Up or down?”
Orland held two of his four arms out before him, his thumbs pointing toward the ceiling.
Sodador and Tyrell stood up from their bench. They too held their hands out, their thumbs stretched to the sky.
Orland smiled. His insides jittered in anticipation. Scanning his eyes up the long spiral, he took note of each representative’s vote.