Second Dominion (Fourth Age)
Aurean Cycle no. 462 of the Macbeth dynasty, reign of Aldric II
Fourth Quadrant, Calixis
Veynar poured hot water into two cups. The steam smelled of iron and burnt leaves. He set a cup in front of Jean without looking at her. Jean sat carefully, her flank bandaged and her shoulder still burning. She refused to show pain: she grabbed the cup the old man had put before her and brought it to her lips too fast. She burned her tongue, coughed, muttered a low curse. Lacrosse gave him an uncertain, almost childlike smile and thanked him softly. Law didn't touch his cup. He stayed standing, hands braced on the table, gaze lost on the wood scored by years of blows.
The inside of the hideout was rough stone and blackened beams. There were no decorations except those time had left: scratches on the floor, dents in the benches, a cold brazier in a corner. The prevailing smell was metallic and bitter, a mix of rust and burnt infusion. Veynar had lit a kettle and left it there, quietly hissing, while the three youngsters made themselves as comfortable as they could.
Lacrosse occupied half a stool, as if afraid to break it. Law stood in the center of the room, backlit; he looked taller than he was.
"Why did it seem like he knew him?" Jean began without preamble. "Snow. When he looked at him. When…" she bit her tongue, the last word surfacing like a reflux. "…when he fired."
Law let his gaze drop to the table for a moment. Veynar didn't move. The old man had a calm that didn't belong to the room, and when he spoke he did so like someone laying a knife on wood to show its edge.
"He didn't know him," he said. "He remembered him."
Jean gave a joyless chuckle. "We're doing poetry now?"
"It's technique," Law cut in. "Veynar is why I've been able to move around the last six years without getting shot on sight. Mostly."
"A technique?" Jean pressed. "Meaning what?!"
"There's a thing you haven't heard named because none of you had reason to," Veynar shot back, dry.
"Feels strange to talk about it to people who know nothing," Law added with a grimace.
"Astral Energy. It's a current that runs through people like blood, but it isn't blood. Some feel it, few handle it. When it manifests, it leaves traces—" he indicated Law with an almost imperceptible gesture. "When his flared back to life in there, with that… light, it did two things. It kept you alive; and it reignited dead memories in others."
Lacrosse slowly lifted his head. Jean pressed her lips together. Law stayed motionless, as if counting breaths.
"Reignited how?" Jean asked. "You're saying they already knew him?"
"They had known him," Veynar hammered the had like a nail. "Six years ago, I saw to it that his name went dark in heads and ledgers. Clean work. Not a cut— a veiling. You live, you feel something is missing, but you don't know what. Until you end up again under the same light—" he inhaled. "That light, in his case, is Astral Energy. And contact with it nullifies the effects of my Aegbara."
"Your what?!" Jean tossed her chin up, provocative. Lacrosse leaned in, curious.
"Aegbara," Veynar repeated. "To simplify: the act by which an individual imprints a function on their Astral Energy. You're either born to it, or you die on it until it becomes yours. Mine is called Mnemia. It isn't just a veil: it's a valve. As long as his flow stays off, memories sleep. When it brushes them, the seal opens in others who crossed him. It doesn't create them. It doesn't write them. It unlocks them. Which is why, the moment he…—" he searched for a word that wasn't "flared back," wasn't "rose." "—opened, in there, whoever had crossed him, or heard of his past, remembered."
"Snow included," Law said without looking up.
"Snow included," Veynar confirmed.
"And him, instead?" Jean pointed at Lacrosse. "There was nothing to remember, but Snow recognized him anyway. Why?"
"I don't know."
"We've never met," Lacrosse confirmed. "I need to call Clarisse… we have to figure out what happened…" He turned to look for the tablet, then remembered: it had been destroyed on Alay, during the shooting.
"She'll have called me a hundred times…" he said, worried.
"Let her call," Law cut in.
Lacrosse blinked at him, confused. "What do you mean?"
Law raised his eyes. "The Rouges invite us to their palace right after a commission from a House in the same Quadrant. They don't tell us to stop— they tell us to proceed— and they leave us their adopted son?" He fixed on Lacrosse. "Cause let's be for real, you're not one of them."
"What?" Jean asked. "How do you mean?"
"Oh, come on, look at him, the only thing he's got in common with those lunatics is the hair."
Lacrosse furrowed his brow. "Hey."
Jean ignored him. "You implying the Rouges… set us up?"
"That package was headed to Orenor," Law didn't raise his voice. "Last I checked, Rouge and Lysander are thick as thieves—" he arched an eyebrow at Lacrosse.
"Yeah, it's true," the boy confirmed.
"Then," Law went on, "we deliver a canister of Krava milk meant for the Lysanders to a Claw. In the middle, Raven greets us at Stella Nova, then Snow waits 'neutral and polite' and shoots us in the face. Best case, they stuck a bow on us. Worst case, they sold us."
Jean stared at her cup. "And why would they?"
"Because it suits someone higher up we three can't read," Law replied. "Rouges and Lysanders are playing a game that isn't our table. The Claws always play. We were used to move a piece. And that piece made noise."
"I remind you they paid us," Jean snapped, tapping the chit tied in her wrap. "Doesn't exactly fit the profile of someone who wants you dead."
"The pay was on the tray before he recognized Lacrosse," Law shot back. "You heard him. He thought we'd sold him out."
Lacrosse ran a hand through his hair. "So the Rouges…"
"You need to be ready for that possibility," Law admitted.
"My sister wouldn't do that…"
A flicker of compassion crossed Law's face. "Maybe. But your sister doesn't decide everything, right?"
"…," Lacrosse lowered his head.
Jean pushed back from the table. "Okay. Let's say the 'we were used' version is the right one. And then what? You go bark at Crestoria? You go knock on Alay with a sword that screams?"
Law let out a bitter grin. "Six years ago, maybe. Now, it wouldn't work. I'm getting my gear back," he said. "Then we go to the Schwarzhaus."
"The hotel…" Jean answered. "…the Von Edryck hotel? On Vossheim?"
"Everyone goes there," Law said. "Important people. If there's a line connecting what happened, you see it there. Without vaulting guards in a freezer."
"Ah, so straight to the slaughterhouse?"
"The hotel's neutral ground," he explained. "Violence isn't allowed…" he gave a cough, "...on a large scale."
Jean slid her cup farther away. "I see, so you can shank each other in the corridors as long as you don't drop the chandeliers."
"Yeah, something like that," Law admitted. "But it also means people talk. And that's the only thing we need now. They talk, measure, size each other up. If there's a link between Rouge, Lysander and Claw, it surfaces at the Schwarzhaus, count on it. And if someone tied a bow on us, there they betray themselves with a line. It's Von Edryck ground: contractual neutrality, no feuds in public. Everyone talks because they think they're safe."
Jean tapped twice with a finger, then drew breath. "Fine. Let's line it up. One: there's this Astral Energy thing. Two: there's your Aegbara that unlocks memories, so people who didn't remember, now do. Three: the word will spread. Four: you want to go where all words circulate together. Five: the two of us, what do we do?"
"…You decide," Law said. "I'd rather keep you close while you're banged up. But I'm not tying you down."
"Good," she shot back, flat. "Because you wouldn't manage."
Veynar let a short smile slip that didn't reach his eyes. "You've got a fever, girl. And a wound that, if you treat it with pride, will reopen. Two days of quiet and proper stitching are in your interest. Then you can go scold the universe."
Jean stood, her gaze hung on Law like a crooked nail. "And I'm supposed to… sit and watch while you 'see who tied the bow'?"
"I just said I'm not tying you down," Law snorted. "But you've got a fever and two open wounds. Two days, then move."
"Two days doing what?" The tone came out sharp, maybe sharper than she meant. She dropped her eyes right after, like rebooting. "You know what's the worst part? In that room… you stood up when it served you. When it served us, you stayed inert."
He didn't answer. The knuckles on the table stayed white. The stumps on the synthetic arm spat timid sparks.
"I don't want to hear excuses," Jean went on, softer. "You've never used them, and you won't start now."
Lacrosse started to intervene. "But, Jean…"
"Not you," she gave him a brief smile. "You weren't there when…" she stopped. "This isn't a trial. It's that I have to go. My father won't survive another day of the Tide."
Veynar set his cup down, crisp. "I'll do the bandage. Then you walk. But first, stop bleeding."
Jean nodded without looking at him. Then she turned to Lacrosse, and her hardness vanished for half a second. She straightened the oversized jacket on his shoulder, fetched from who knew where. "If your hands are shaking, it's because you're alive. Don't let anyone convince you otherwise."
"I can…" the boy stumbled, trying to find a shape. "Can I at least tell Clarisse that…"
Jean shook her head gently. "On this, they're right," she said. "Better not."
Lacrosse swallowed.
After Veynar finished the dressing, the girl stood and turned again to Law. "Don't go playing the hero now. It doesn't suit you."
The old man pressed a seal in the wall. The rock door groaned. Canyon wind came in like a clean whistle. Jean paused a second on the threshold. She looked like she wanted to say something. You could swear she even turned half a degree, but she started walking again at once.
The slit closed behind her, leaving in the air the kettle's hiss and a line of sand on the floor.
--
"Well, Veynar— it's time," Law declared.
"Yes," the old man replied.
"What are you talking about?" Lacrosse asked.
"My stuff."
The corridor carved in the rock ended in a low-vaulted little room, sealed by three mechanical joints and an engraved stone lock. Veynar laid his palm on it: the metal shivered green, then the door slid aside to reveal shelves, hooks, and crates with markings erased by time.
"The kids are waiting for you, boy," he muttered.
Lacrosse stopped at the threshold, eyes wide as headlamps. Law stepped in with a faint excitement: he was opening a time capsule shut for six years.
He went straight where he knew. Opened the first long wooden crate.
Lacrosse entered, curious, and watched Law peel back the waxed cloth cradle and draw out the weapon.
The boy started. It wasn't the first time he'd seen it. Selena, House Rouge's Discipline of Protection, had once shown him a section of her archives. One of her tasks was to keep tabs on dangerous objects or individuals in the galaxy. Among the archives, a section was dedicated to the so-called "Legionary Blades." Seven items with seven attached photos. Very little was truly known, only that they were powerful weapons dating back to the Third Age, most likely used during the War. Selena had then launched into a string of boring things Lacrosse didn't remember (accompanied by Clarisse's eye roll), but he did remember how they looked.
"That's…"
"Askamar." Law lifted a curved saber like a claw; it looked made of bone, blood veins pulsing just beneath the surface. Along the edge ran ultrafine teeth, misaligned.
"You… you have a Legionary Blade?! Where did you find it?!"
"On a mining colony. Some guy tried to wield it…" Law clicked his tongue. "…didn't end well. Don't touch it. I don't even feel like activating it now. The dude inside is a dick."
"What do you mean?"
"I'll explain later." Law set it back and opened the next crate. The sword inside was much more modest. Clean steel, crossguard, grip wrapped in dark leather. The only distinctive feature was golden script engraved on the blade's flat in an unknown tongue.
"This one looks normal," Lacrosse observed.
Veynar smirked from the doorway. "He's carried it around since he was a street delinquent," he said. "First time I saw him, an older kid was trying to steal it. He beat the living shit out of him."
Law snorted. "Right. You— hanging around to watch kids brawl," he needled, shaking his head.
"Is it… important to you?" Lacrosse asked. "Did someone leave it to you?"
Law nodded, a brief, melancholy smile. "I've had it… forever. Since I can remember. Nothing special, I think… but it's usable." He set the sword down.
"Usable— unlike that piece of crap over there," he griped, pointing to a third sword leaning against the wall under a cloth.
"To me, you still haven't figured out how to use it," Veynar teased.
"If I haven't figured it out, maybe it is its problem," Law shot back. "Or of the wreck who used it first."
"Oh, how modest we are."
Law stepped over and lifted the cloth with his fingers, doing his best not to touch hilt or guard. He revealed a completely black, thick sword without ornament. It reflected nothing: light stopped a finger before the metal, as if absorbed.
Lacrosse studied it a few seconds, then gasped: that one was in Selena's archive too.
"Mordred," Law declared.
"You have two Legionary Blades?!"
"Count one, and that's it. Like I said, it's unusable. Touching it alone drains energy."
"So what's the point of it?"
"Eh, good question." Law dropped the cloth over the sword.
"This one, though, is the Magatsu." He showed him the black chokutō he'd summoned during his clash with Veynar—the one that had bombarded the canyon. "A little keepsake from my time in Shinkai," he said. You could swear a lump rose in his throat for an instant. "Long story."
"It's the Hikari's sacred ritual blade," Veynar corrected, lifting his bushy eyebrow at Lacrosse. "Just one more House that wants him dead."
Law rolled his eyes. "Where'd you put the cylinder, anyway?"
"The cylinder?" Lacrosse frowned.
"Ah, right— there, look…" The old man rummaged on a shelf, dragging out from the back what was literally a cylinder: a glass canister with a handle over the ring. Inside lay a formless mass, liquid, granular metal. As soon as Veynar passed the container to Law, the mass came to life: golden gleams flared, and the static liquid became a heaving sea.
"Oh, a bio-armor!" Lacrosse said.
"Bingo," Law replied. "Saved my ass more than once… oh, hell! There it is!" Law set the cylinder down almost offhand when he spotted something on the shelf. He darted over, excited, and grabbed it.
"May I present…" he hoisted it proudly. "…the Multi-Slot Universal Scabbard!"
"Oh?"
To look at, it was just a sturdy belt with a front plate and two black "throats" jutting obliquely from the back.
"Think the microchips still work?" Law asked Veynar as he buckled the belt.
"I think so," the old man said. "Give it a try."
Lacrosse watched, baffled, as Law drew the Magatsu and slid it into one of the two throats, the right one. There wasn't room on the other side— a sword that long had no way to…
"What the?!"
The entire Magatsu slipped into a thirty-centimeter space and vanished completely.
"Pocket space."
Before Lacrosse's incredulous eyes, Law sheathed his swords one after the other into the throats.
"But… how…?"
Law grinned, tapping the belt's front plate. "Here's the fun part. Row of slots. Wrist microchips send the command to the dimensional pocket. If I think 'Mordred, right, raise,' she…"
Skkt. The black, matte hilt rose seven centimeters from the right throat, ready to grab.
"…pops." Law gripped and re-sheathed it with a reverse motion; the mouth "bit" and sucked it away.
Veynar snorted. "Clean it this time. Last time Askamar tried to eat the lining."
"Askamar is touchy," Law retorted, then tapped his left wrist. The Magatsu's hilt surfaced from the other mouth. "And jealous."
Lacrosse laughed nervously. "Are they… alive?"
"They're capricious," Veynar corrected. "Which is worse."
The boy nodded, but couldn't help swallowing. Eight people killed in under twenty seconds with a shard of glass. Two of the Seven Legionary Blades. A sword belonging to one of the great Houses. Who was this man? What had he gotten himself into?
"So… we're going to the Schwarzhaus now?" he asked timidly.
Law and Veynar turned toward him. "Not quite. First we'll do a bit of practice."
"How do you mean?"
"The hotel's neutral ground, but Jean was right," Law grunted. "There's a risk knives will fly. And other things. You'll need to learn some self-defense."
Lacrosse's eyes went round. "Wait… what you do? But how?!"
Law frowned. "Uh… they didn't teach you to use yourAegbara at home?"
"I don't… think I have it?"
"What are you talking about, I can literally see the fuel in you," Law insisted, backed by Veynar's nod. "You're not a true Rouge, okay, but you're telling me your sister NEVER brought it up? Every House has a specific Aegbara. A birth mark, something? Anything?"
"About that…" Lacrosse ran a timid hand through his hair. "…it's not like I was exactly... born there. It's complicated."
"Eh?" Law scowled. "They found you on the street, or what?"
"They never told me," Lacrosse said. "Even when I asked Cla, she said she didn't know… I've only been with them the last four years."
"And before?"
"I… I have no idea."
Law's eyes flew wide. He folded his arms and stared at Veynar.
"What do you want?!" the old man snapped.
"Well? You're Mr. Memory."
"Oh shut up, I've never seen the kid in my life."
Law turned back to Lacrosse. "Nothing at all?"
The boy swallowed. "Well… sometimes I get flashes of something. Of a place I don't know where, a time I don't know when," he explained. "There's an aqua-green meadow, a starry sky, three boys…"
"Oh, that's helpful. Really narrows it down."
"I'm sorry…"
Law and Veynar studied him a moment, then looked at each other. "We've got work to do."