Cloak Games: Truth Chain Read online

  In fact, it hadn’t changed at all.

  Brookfield looked the same. Traffic still buzzed up and down the streets. The surrounding parking lots were full. In fact, this coffee shop looked a lot like the one where Arvalaeon had taken me all those years ago to…to…

  Something huge and terrible started to stir in my mind.

  “You begin to understand,” said Arvalaeon in a quiet voice. “The first time is always the worst.”

  I stepped back, shaking my head in mute denial as the vast realization threatened to emerge. He had released me from his spell, but I was too confused to attack him.

  “I…I don’t…” I croaked, my heart thundering in my ears. “I don’t…”

  “Perhaps you should finish your coffee,” said Arvalaeon.

  “My coffee?” I said.

  I looked at the table where he had been standing. There were two cardboard cups of coffee sitting there next to a flat piece of black metal and glass that I recognized as a modern smartphone after a moment. An old memory floated to the top of my thoughts. I had drunk half a cup of coffee exactly like that in the final moment before Arvalaeon had sent me to hell.

  Exactly like that.

  I reached out a shaking hand and touched the cup.

  It was still hot.

  The huge thing in my mind stirred further.

  “I don’t,” I whispered, “I don’t understand.”

  “Look at your phone,” said Arvalaeon.

  I picked up the phone and hit the home button. The display lit up, and the phone felt familiar. I knew with utter certainty that this was my phone, that this was the phone I had left on the table before Arvalaeon sent me into the Shadowlands. But that was impossible. Smartphones lasted five or six years, tops. Not a century and a half.

  The lock screen displayed the date and the time.

  July 19th, Conquest Year 315, 1:42 PM.

  Five minutes. I had been gone five minutes.

  I dropped the phone on the table with a clatter, my chest heaving as I sucked in breath after breath. I backed away, and I did not stop until my hips bumped into the counter with the cash register.

  “The device,” said Arvalaeon, holding up the bronze plate that had once been the clock, “is called an Eternity Crucible.”

  “I…I was gone,” I croaked. “I remember. I remember it all. A century and a half. Fifty-seven thousand deaths. I died every single day for a hundred and fifty-eight years.”

  “Originally, the archmages of the Elves devised the Eternity Crucibles as punishment for the most heinous criminals,” said Arvalaeon. “The criminals would be condemned to relive the same day over and over again for the rest of existence. However, a flaw was discovered. Because the criminals retained their memories as part of their punishment, they could develop their magical talent to far greater heights, and they escaped their prisons to wreak vengeance. So, the Eternity Crucibles were put to a more productive use as a training ground for wizards, magi, and archmagi to vastly improve their skills in a very short amount of time.”

  “A short amount of time?” I said. “Short? A hundred and fifty years?”

  Arvalaeon shrugged. “You were gone five minutes.”

  “No,” I said. “No. I remember. It was a hundred and fifty years.”

  “Time flows differently within an Eternity Crucible,” said Arvalaeon. “It varies depending upon the configuration, but for every second that passed here, about six months passed within the Crucible. So, you are correct. You indeed experienced all one hundred and fifty-eight years within the Crucible, but only five minutes passed here.”

  I slowly sank to the ground, my back sliding against the front of the counter. My hands were shaking, but I couldn’t make them stop.

  “Why?” I said. “Why did you do that to me? I died every possible way that anyone can die.”

  “You said you wanted power,” said Arvalaeon. “This was the most efficient way to give it you.”

  I stared at him, stricken. In the end, had I done this to myself? I had wanted power, and he had warned me about the price to obtain it…

  No.

  “You should have told me,” I spat. “Thirty days. You said I had thirty days.”

  Again, Arvalaeon shrugged. “I also told you the process required a degree of psychological torment. Would you have pushed yourself as hard to escape were you not driven by vengeance? Would you have built your powers to such heights if you did not desire to destroy me?”

  I told him to go perform a carnal act on himself. The insult didn’t seem to bother him. Likely he had been called worse.

  “This first time I was in an Eternity Crucible,” said Arvalaeon, his voice distant with memory, “it took nearly two hundred and twenty years. The time after that, three hundred years. Though it was easier since I knew what to expect. According to rumor, Kaethran Morvilind once spent sixteen hundred years in an Eternity Crucible until he was satisfied at the level of skill he had achieved.”

  “Well, good for you,” I said. I pulled myself back to my feet. I wasn’t sure what I was going to do. Run for my life? Try to kill him? Scream at him some more?

  “There will be some long-term and likely permanent psychological damage,” said Arvalaeon, “but your magical skills have been vastly enhanced, and your powers and your mind should be sufficiently stable to be of use in the current crisis.”

  “Current crisis?” I said. “What current crisis? It’s been a hundred and fifty years.”

  “No, it hasn’t,” said Arvalaeon. “It’s been five minutes.” He grimaced. “Closer to eleven, now.”

  I frowned. “Then…then that means…”

  “Yes,” said Arvalaeon. “There we go. Think it through.”

  I blinked, and then I started to shake again as another realization came to me.

  It had been a hundred and fifty-eight years for me, but only five minutes for everyone else.

  And that would mean…

  “Oh my God,” I whispered.

  Russell was still alive. The Marneys were still alive. Riordan and the Valborgs were still alive.

  Castomyr hadn’t done it yet.

  “You let me mourn them for a hundred and fifty years,” I said, gripping the edge of the counter. It was both to help me stand upright and to stop myself from attacking Arvalaeon again.

  “Yes,” said Arvalaeon.

  I drew in a shuddering breath. Every fiber of my body wanted to rip the Lord Inquisitor apart, to burn him, to inflict as much agony as I could manage on him. Except I had wanted to do that to avenge the loss of everyone I loved.

  And if they were still alive...

  “Why?” I said at last.

  “Because,” said Arvalaeon, looking at his aetherometer, “we are out of time.”

  “What do you mean?” I said.

  “I have made a mistake. Castomyr is going to act tonight, it seems,” said Arvalaeon, snapping shut the aetherometer and returning it to his coat.

  “You said we had thirty days,” I said. Some scorn pushed its way through my rage and confusion. “Maybe the great Lord Inquisitor can tell a lie after all.”

  “He cannot,” said Arvalaeon, “but he can be mistaken. As he has been too many times before. It seems Castomyr has realized that I intend to stop him and he has started his summoning early. We have perhaps eight hours until he is finished.”

  “Yeah,” I said, pushing away from the counter, “well, have fun stopping him. I’m done.”

  I headed for the door.

  “Where are you going?” said Arvalaeon.

  “To see my brother,” I said. I didn’t look back, but I did stop. “I haven’t seen him in a century and a half.”

  “I need your help to stop Castomyr,” said Arvalaeon.

  “Good luck with that, asshole.”

  “If you walk through that door,” said Arvalaeon, “you will see your brother again. You will not see him for long. Castomyr will finish his spell, and you, your brother, and millions of other people will die.”


  I didn’t move.

  “The choice is yours, Nadia Moran,” said Arvalaeon.

  “The hell with you,” I said. “You locked me in a railway car, pushed it down the rails, and told me that I have the choice of where to go? Yeah.” I turned and glared at him. “Fine. I’ll kill Castomyr for you. But if I do, I’m holding you to your word, Lord Inquisitor. You’ll let me go, and you won’t give any trouble to Russell and the Marneys.”

  “Of course,” said Arvalaeon. “Nor shall I speak of this to Morvilind.”

  Morvilind? God, Morvilind. I hadn’t thought about him in decades. Since I had thought Russell was dead, I had no more reason to think about Morvilind. I didn’t dare tell Morvilind what had happened to me. I didn’t think he would react well.

  I wondered if I could hide the changes in myself.

  Right. Well, I could worry about that once Castomyr was dead.

  “It’s a five hour drive to La Crosse from Milwaukee,” I said. “If you want to stop Castomyr before he finishes his summoning, you’d better steal us a car or something.”

  “We are not driving,” said Arvalaeon.

  I scowled, and then heard the distant noise of an approaching helicopter.

  Several helicopters, come to think of it.

  “You called them,” I said. “Before I went into your weird little hell. I remember. You called them.”

  “I did,” said Arvalaeon. “I had hoped to take Castomyr unawares. Unfortunately, it seems he will be ready for us.”

  I didn’t say anything. I couldn’t think of anything to say. I wanted to scream at Arvalaeon, but that wouldn’t do any good. I wanted to attack him, but that might get me killed. I ought to have felt some hope. I could get out of this if I killed Castomyr. I might see Russell again. I might see Riordan again.

  I should have felt some hope.

  Instead, I felt only rage.

  Four black helicopters landed in the parking lot, and a soldier in black armor disembarked and jogged towards the coffee shop. He stepped through the broken door and pulled off his mask, and for the first time in a long while, I found myself looking at Captain Alan.

  “My lord,” said Alan. He glanced at me, and then looked back at Arvalaeon. “We are ready…”

  I remembered how he had beaten me up, how he had stripped me naked and shackled me to that chair, and something snapped.

  I cast a spell, and a wall of ice sealed off the door and the broken windows. Arvalaeon blinked, and Alan went for his carbine, but I was faster. I hit him with a grip of telekinetic force and drove him to the ground, holding him motionless just as Arvalaeon had held me motionless a few moments earlier.

  Alan looked up at me, and I kicked him in the face.

  “How’s that?” I shouted. “Every day! Every day for a hundred and fifty years I woke up with the headache you gave me! Every! Single! Day!”

  He tucked his chin as I kicked him and tried to twist away, and that just made me angrier. I probably would have held him there and kicked him until I killed him, but Arvalaeon grabbed my shoulder and pulled me back.

  “That’s enough,” he said in a quiet voice.

  “It’s not nearly enough,” I spat, but I released the spell.

  Alan got to his feet, cleaning the blood from his mouth. I was irritated that I hadn’t hurt him worse. His gun was pointed in my general direction, and he looked at me like I was a dangerous crazy person who might try to bite out his throat or something.

  That wasn’t entirely wrong.

  “Are you well enough to continue, Captain?” said Arvalaeon.

  “Yes, my lord,” said Alan, giving me one more wary look, and then turned his full attention to his master. “We are ready to depart. The entire squad is here, and we are prepared for battle.”

  “Good,” said Arvalaeon. “We are making for La Crosse as swiftly as possible.” He looked at me. “Come.”

  I hesitated. I didn’t want to do anything Arvalaeon said, largely because I had dreamed about killing him for so long. But despite the massive shock of learning the truth of what had happened to me, my brain was starting to work again, sort of. Russell was still alive. I had mourned him and vowed to avenge his death, but he was still alive.

  Until Castomyr finished his spell, anyway.

  I cursed and followed Arvalaeon and Alan into the parking lot. The wind from the waiting helicopters’ rotors tugged at my hair and coat, made the dark tails of Arvalaeon’s coat fly around him like black wings.

  If the only way to save Russell was to kill Castomyr, then I was going to make sure that Castomyr died screaming before he finished his spell.

  Chapter 11: Nemesis

  It takes about five hours to drive from Milwaukee to La Crosse, depending on the traffic. It takes four hours to ride the Royal Rail train from Milwaukee to La Crosse, and three hours if you fly commercially. Granted, I had never taken the train or a plane or a zeppelin to La Crosse but had always driven since I didn’t need to show ID for that.

  It turns out, though, that if you take a military helicopter, you can make the trip in just under three hours.

  The helicopters were fast, and the ground blurred beneath us. Arvalaeon had enough troops to fill four helicopters, and they flew in formation over the concrete ribbon of I-94. I couldn’t stop myself from gaping. For one thing, I had never flown in a helicopter. For another, I had spent the last century and a half looking at the same little town. The real world seemed like an explosion of color and sound and sensation.

  Blue skies. I hadn’t realized how much I missed blue skies, or that I had forgotten what it was like to look at a sky that wasn’t filled with twisting, fiery energy.

  The soldiers filling the helicopter’s passenger cabin helped keep my mind on the problem at hand.

  There were twenty of them, armored and armed to the teeth. It was crowded in the passenger cabin, but they kept well away from me. I guess word had gotten around that I was insane and dangerous. I wondered if any of them had helped strip me back at Arvalaeon’s warehouse. Just as well that they wore breath masks. I might have lost my temper and started throwing them out of the helicopter if I had been able to recognize any of the soldiers.

  I had a lot of rage, and I wanted to take it out on someone.

  Fortunately, Baron Castomyr would make an excellent target.

  “I need a gun!” I shouted over the roar of the rotors.

  Arvalaeon looked at me. He sat on one the metal benches along the wall. He was tall enough and the bench was short enough that he looked a little ridiculous sitting there. It would have been comical, but I knew firsthand just how dangerous he was.

  “Loaded with bullets forged from Shadowlands ore!” I said.

  “Why?” said Arvalaeon.

  “Because you want me to kill Castomyr,” I said. “I’m going to Cloak, walk up behind him, and shoot him in the back of the head. Can’t do that with normal bullets. So, bullets forged from Shadowlands ore.”

  I half-expected him to ask if I intended to use the gun on him. God knows I wanted to do it. But Arvalaeon nodded and turned. “Captain Alan.”

  “My lord,” said Alan.

  “A .45 semiautomatic for Miss Moran, please,” said Arvalaeon. “Eleven round magazine. Loaded with the special bullets.”

  Alan gave the orders, and after some rummaging, a soldier handed him a holster, a gun belt, and a .45 semiautomatic Royal Arms pistol. The captain gave the entire package to me, and I took it without saying anything, buckling the belt around my waist. It had been designed for someone Alan’s size, so I had to wrap it around my waist twice.

  “You know how to use one of those?” said Alan.

  I drew the weapon and checked it over. “Close your eyes and open your mouth and you’re going to get a big surprise.”

  He actually laughed, and I blinked in surprise. Well, I suppose a coward wouldn’t last long working for someone like Arvalaeon. Alan turned his back on me, and I looked at the gun in my hand. I popped out the magazine and
examined the rounds, and they did indeed have the dull gleam of bullets forged from the ore of the Shadowlands. I slipped the magazine back into the gun and hesitated.

  I could have turned and put a bullet right between Arvalaeon’s eyes.

  But indulging my rage would accomplish nothing. The soldiers would shoot me dead, or I would work a spell to protect myself and wind up crashing the helicopter and killing us all. And I would be very surprised if Arvalaeon did not have protections against bullets forged from Shadowlands ore. The bullets could wound and kill Elves, but I didn’t think they could penetrate magical defenses.

  This probably was not the time to find out.

  I holstered the pistol and looked at Arvalaeon.

  He wasn’t even looking at me. He had produced his aetherometer again, scowling as the dials spun. There was absolutely no sign that he considered me a threat at all.

  I scowled and looked at the ceiling.

  About two hours later Alan got up.

  “We are beginning our descent!” he said. “We will land and wait for his lordship to disembark. Once he does, we will return to the air and launch our assault upon the traitor’s estate.” Presumably, that was so the field generated by Castomyr’s Thanatar Stone would not kill Arvalaeon.

  “Do we actually have a plan?” I said. The soldiers looked at me. “Or are we just going to run into the mansion and shoot everything in sight?”

  “Castomyr has summoned and bound a great many creatures of the Shadowlands to act as his defenders,” said Arvalaeon. “Captain Alan and his soldiers will engage them and draw their attention. While they do, you will locate Baron Castomyr and kill him. Additionally, if possible, locate and disable his Thanatar Stone. Simply moving the Stone from its pedestal will be sufficient to put it into hibernation.”

  “What does it look like?” I said.

  “A black icosahedron about the size of a soccer ball,” said Arvalaeon.

  “What the hell is an icosahedron?”

  Arvalaeon sighed. “A twenty-sided polyhedron. It will look something like an angular black ball, for lack of a better description. If you succeed in disabling it, I will come to join you. Unfortunately, Castomyr will likely have it nearby, likely within sight.”