Bloodline Plant Lord: Rise of the World Sovereign

The next one came at night, and Ren went to the tree to meet it.

He knew the feeling by now — the pull rising in his blood, patient and sure, a hand asking him to come and see. He settled between the two roots with his back against the bark, as he had the last two times, and let the warmth of his own world close around him.

”All right,” he said. ”Show me.”

The pull answered, and the world went away.

— • —

The memory took him, and this time it had a floor.

After the endless dark of the last one, that was the first thing — stone underfoot, walls around him, a made place. Somewhere old and real, built deep under something by human hands.

And he was inside the man again.

He knew it right away, the same as he’d been inside the hand on the wall, in the first of these memories — he was riding in a body that wasn’t his, looking out of eyes that weren’t his, and this body was tired. Bone-tired. It had crossed a very long way, very fast, and had dropped everything the instant it understood what was waiting in this room. It wasn’t fresh. It wasn’t ready. It had simply come, because it was the one that could, and there had been no time to be anything but exhausted.

Aldric.

Through his eyes, Ren saw the room.

There was a seam in the far wall. Not a crack — a seam, a line where the air stopped being air and started being that other dark, the thick still dark from the memory before. It bled through the stone in a thin cold ribbon, and the cold reached across the room like smoke, feeling for the low places.

A man stood in front of the seam with his arms open.

Ren knew what he was looking at before he understood a single thing about it, and this time the knowing had a name attached.

The man had a certain build to him — broad, straight-backed, a face made for giving orders. Ren had seen that face before, or one close to it. He had seen it across a duel platform, and in a matriarch’s cold projection, and once in a boy sitting six feet away in the dark. It was a Voss face. And the man wearing it stood at the edge of that seam with his hands out, reaching in, taking something from the cold and pulling it toward himself.

’Roderic.’

The name arrived quietly, from somewhere Ren had kept it for a long time. A principal, years ago, in an office with a face-down photograph, choosing every word: Aldric and Roderic’s confrontation was not a murder. What Aldric stopped was worse than what he did.

Ren had believed him then. He had never seen it.

He was seeing it now, through the eyes of the man who had been there.

The man — Roderic — was not a monster. That was the part that turned Ren’s stomach. He wasn’t cackling, wasn’t twisted, wasn’t anything but a powerful man who had found a door with power behind it and decided his house deserved to hold the key. He reached into the cold with the steady hands of a man who thought he was buying his family’s future, and the cold let him. It flowed toward his open arms, easy, generous, patient.

And behind him, through the widening seam, the dark reached back.

Because that was the trade, and the man didn’t seem to see it. He was pulling a thread of power out through the door. The door was using the thread to pull itself open. Every bit he took made the seam wider. He thought he was taking. He was letting it in.

Ren wanted to shout at him, which was useless, because this had all already happened — and because the body he was riding in did not shout. It moved.

— • —

Aldric saw what the open door would cost.

He saw it faster than Ren could follow — not the room, the world, all of it at once, like a flood already seeing the valley it would fill.

And Ren felt him decide.

It took less time than a breath. There was no speech in it, no warning, no offer of another way, because the memory did not contain those things and Ren understood that it was because there had been no time for them. There was only the cold arithmetic of a man who could see the whole valley and the water coming, and who had exactly one thing he could do about it, and who did not want to do it.

He did it anyway.

One strike. Clean, and final, and terrible in how little of it there was. The man at the seam never turned around.

Then Aldric was alone in the room with what he had done, and the seam was still open, and the tiredness in his body had a new weight sitting on top of it, and he did not rest. He turned to the cold ribbon in the wall, and he set his hands against it, and he began — Ren felt it start, the very first moment of it — to push the door shut.

The memory let go before Ren could see whether it closed.

— • —

He came back to the tree slowly, his hands flat on the warm grass, the sea running silver in the far dark.

[SEQUENCE: 3 OF ? — COMPLETE.]

[CONTENT ANALYSIS: THE FEUD IS A HALF-TRUTH. THE ANCESTOR KILLED TO STOP A BREACH, NOT TO MURDER.]

Ren read the second panel and let out a slow breath. He had known it already — the plain, secondhand knowing of a thing a trustworthy man had once told him. Now he had watched it. There was a difference, and the difference sat in his chest like a stone.

”He didn’t want to,” Kaia said.

Her voice was quiet, and old, and carried something under it that Ren had learned not to ask about.

”I know,” he said. ”I saw.”

She didn’t say anything else. She didn’t have to.

— • —

The notebook came out of his jacket. He clicked the pencil and wrote the third entry the same as the others, in short flat lines.

— 3.

— A man of the other house opened a door for power.

— The thing behind it reached back through.

— The ancestor crossed a world and killed him to stop it, then shut the door himself.

— The other house calls it murder.

He stopped there for a moment. Then he added one more line, set a little apart from the rest, because it was the only part of the whole memory that reached into the world he actually lived in.

— (Kaelen.)

He looked at that word for a long time.

— • —

He told Lyra and Iris the next day, because rule one was rule one, and this was a thing that mattered.

He gave them the shape and not the names. An ancestor of his, a long time ago, had stopped something terrible from getting loose, and it had cost a man’s life to stop it, and the man’s family had never been told the truth — they had been told a murder instead, and they had carried the hate for it ever since. He didn’t say Voss. He didn’t say Roderic. And he didn’t say Kaelen, because that connection wasn’t his to hand out.

Lyra took it the way she took heavy things — she didn’t try to fix it or lighten it, she just moved a little closer and let it be heavy.

Iris was quiet for a moment, thinking, and then she asked one question, and it was the exact right one, and she had no idea how right.

”This family that was lied to,” she said. ”The one still carrying the hate. Is there anyone in it you could actually tell? Somewhere they could hear the truth?”

Ren didn’t answer right away.

Because there was. There was exactly one person in the whole of that house who might hear it and believe it, who had already started doubting the story on his own, who had sat six feet from Ren in the dark years ago and decided the grudge didn’t fit.

And that person was walking a road made of fire, on the far side of a gate that had closed behind him, where no message could reach and no channel ran.

”Maybe,” Ren said. ”Not right now.”

Iris watched his face for a second, filed something away without saying it, and let it go. That was her kind of mercy.

— • —

That evening he sat at the cohort’s table, and Kaelen’s chair was empty, as it had been since the gate.

Nobody used it. Nobody pulled it in to make more room, or stacked a coat on it, or dragged it down to the crowded end. It stayed where it was, an empty seat at a full table, and everyone stepped around the fact of it without ever saying so.

Ren looked at it for a while.

He had the truth now. The real one, the whole one, the one that would take the thing Kaelen had been taught to hate about himself and turn it inside out. It was the biggest thing Ren could ever give him, and there was no way in the world to hand it over while he was inside the Road.

So Ren made a decision, sitting there, to an empty chair.

Kaelen would hear it from him. Out loud, face to face, before anyone else alive said a word of it. Not in a letter that couldn’t reach him. Not secondhand. Not while he was somewhere he couldn’t do anything but carry it. When he walked back out through that gate — and Ren had decided, with no evidence at all, that he would walk back out — the first thing waiting for him would be Ren, and the truth, and a chair that had been kept.

It was a promise made to a piece of furniture. Ren didn’t care. He’d keep it.

— • —

He went back to the tree that night out of habit as much as anything, and he was almost asleep against the bark when the next one stirred.

It was faint, just the first edge of it, the same as the others had started. But this one didn’t open on a floor, or a room, or a man.

It opened on the wall.

The sealed wall, the one from the first memories — the lines of light, the slow heartbeat in the stone.

Except he was looking at it from the wrong side.

He was behind it. In the dark. Looking out.