“How are you doing this? Stop at once!” Soren stumbles and shakes his head, swatting at the glittering images the way you would a swarm of flies. But his blows strike nothing but air, and the erratic swinging sends him lurching across the narrow summit.
“Do you remember this day? Because I do—despite your commandsto purge it,” Alaric says as the flecks of gold and copper coalesce into a face.
Besnik’s face.
Soren flinches away from the specter, but he’s confronted on the other side by a phantom of himself. He lets out a guttural cry as memory-Soren charges across the council room and levels an accusatory finger at young Alaric, who’s holding the broken Flesh of Callahan in his shaking hands.
“How is this possible?” Soren babbles. “You shouldn’t remember any of this.”
He watches in open-mouthed horror as the golden visage of Besnik falls through the crumbling floor.
Alaric sneers at his real father while memory Soren forces young Alaric to his knees, commanding him to expel all evidence of the crime.
“I knew you wouldn’t sacrifice the memory,” Alaric says. “You had to remember to ensure I didn’t—to make certain I never told anyone the truth about Besnik’s death. But I kept the memory too. I never wanted to forget how my brother saved my life, so I siphoned the memory into an object and discovered a way to bring it to life. Do you know what that means? I can show our people the truth about Besnik’s death. They can witness your crime firsthand.”
For the first time in all the years I’ve known him, King Soren looks afraid. He mumbles and staggers back again, trying to put more distance between himself and the golden rendering of Besnik’s corpse on the banquet table and the equally terrifying, and very real, version of Alaric, prowling closer.
For every step Alaric takes, Soren retreats two, drawing nearer and nearer to the cliff’s edge.
“Stop running from this,” Alaric says. “There’s nowhere left to go. All you have to do is agree to stop draining our people’s vitality and help me find another way to fuel our power, and all of this will go away.”
Soren’s jowls quiver, and he drops his head to his chest. For amoment I think he’s going to relent, but then he raises his hands and bellows, “Enough!”
The ground shudders so violently, Alaric crashes to his hands and knees.
Shock waves roll across the summit, and there’s a loud crack—like the sound of snapping bone. A moment later, the earth rumbles again, though Soren’s hands haven’t moved. It isn’t until plumes of dust fill the air that I realize what’s happening. A disconcertingly large shelf of rock has broken away from the mountain and is tumbling down the cliffside.
“Come away from the edge, Father,” Alaric commands, just like he did when I ventured too close to these unstable cliffs.
Soren shakes his head. “Shouldn’t you want me to fall? Vanzador will be better off without me. You think you will be a superior king. Isn’t that what you’re trying to prove with all of this?”
Alaric reels back with shock. “That isn’t at all what I’m saying.”
“You think I’m unnecessary. You’re trying to overthrow me.” Soren snaps, and Alaric shrinks lower with each accusation, like a scolded dog.
It’s horrifying to watch the swift reversal of roles. Soren knows just how to twist Alaric’s words and exploit his kind heart so Alaric turns the doubt and guilt back on himself. Just like he did when Besnik died.
“I would never conspire against you,” Alaric continues babbling. “I need you. Vanzador needs you. I only want your help.”
Every apologetic word makes me want to reach out and shake him. Force him to stop groveling and stay on the offensive. But Alaric continues spiraling, deeper and deeper into Soren’s trap.
“You couldn’t have known the memory tithes came at such high cost,” Alaric insists. “And accepting that something no longer works doesn’t mean you’ve failed. It just means we need to find a new solution, another way.” Alaric extends a hand to his father. “Help me fix this, Father. Please.”
But Soren laughs bitterly and takes another step back. “All I’ve ever wanted is to lead and protect our people—to live up to thelegacy handed down to me by my father—but I’m clearly lacking.”
“You’re not lacking,” Alaric cries. “You’re even stronger than the kings who came before you. That’s why you were chosen to rule now. The Gods of the Mountain knew you were up to this task.”
But Soren shakes his head sadly and steps back again, teetering at the edge of the world. Tears slide down his bearded cheeks. “Even if I was, there’s no way for me to come out of this unscathed. Like you said—once our people see the hospital and realize what I’ve allowed to happen, they’ll despise me. They’ll never forgive or trust me again. And if they discover what I did to Besnik…” He shakes his head again. “I couldn’t bear it. I’d rather be dead.”
“I don’t have to show them,” Alaric says quickly “If you agree to find other ways to fuel our power, they never have to know.” He carefully steps out onto the ledge and places a gentle hand on Soren’s arm. “Come back with me, and we’ll work all of this out.”
“I’m sorry.” Soren’s watery eyes look from Alaric to the ledge they’re standing on, and I suddenly realize what he’s going to do.
I leap from the planter with a scream and slam into Alaric’s legs, knocking him sideways. Soren lunges at the same time, but Alaric is no longer standing, and Soren cries out as he trips over our crumpled bodies. His head makes a terrible cracking sound when he hits the rock, and a second later, the ground makes a crack of its own.
“Get away from the edge!” Alaric shouts, but Soren doesn’t move or respond, and before Alaric can scramble out to retrieve him, the ledge sloughs away—into the midnight sky.
I can’t help but think Soren looks eerily similar to Besnik tumbling end over end through the floor as he falls.
