Reigan Shen did not have time for the Silent Servants, and yet here they were. Standing in the middle of his white-and-gold courtyard as he prepared to spend yet another fortune in built-up spatial treasures to move on with his plans.
He bitterly regretted giving them access to his teleportation anchor, but it had been a different time then. Before the stars had gone dark, back when Reigan had planned to use the cults to defeat the other Monarchs.
With the world as it was, the cults had either lost their usefulness or become a liability. He couldn’t even send them to attack Lindon, ever since the man had a bow made from the Silent King. The entire sect would probably drop to their knees and swear allegiance the second they came within sensing distance of the Empty Ghost.
The Silent Sage, like all those of her sect, wore a white cloth over the bottom half of her face. Long, black hair flowed freely behind her, and she rested a hand on the sword at her side. Her Goldsign, a miniature replica of the Silent King’s halo, flared brightly when she caught sight of Reigan.
Dream aura burned around her as her anger boiled over. And despite the name of her cult, she had sworn no vow not to speak.
“Your oath is broken!” she declared. “Explain yourself!”
Reigan’s eye twitched as he contemplated destroying her. That was not the attitude to take with a Monarch, but her brother’s presence had made her bold.
Balari, the Herald of the Silent Servants, stood with his arms crossed at his sister’s side. He covered his mouth just the same and his Goldsign was similar, but he followed a different Path. While Reigan could certainly kill them both, Balari’s presence would make the battle a headache to win quickly.
The Lion Monarch forced a smile and spread his hands. “Clearly, I have broken no oath, as I am unharmed. I assure you—”
The Sage bared an inch of her sword. “Don’t lie to our faces! We know you can break your oaths. You’ve flaunted that power against our enemies, so don’t take us for fools.”
In fact, Reigan hadn’t thought the Silent Servants had known about his oath loophole. But he had leaned on it a little too easily, even loaning it out to others. He had been too arrogant, but he’d never intended to lean on his little trick against the truly powerful.
Now, he found himself stuck.
“My oath to you remains intact,” he assured them. “I have not betrayed you, I have treated you as my own sect, and I have empowered the Dreadgods. Are they not stronger than ever before?”
“Our King is dead.”
“And how is that a violation of my loyalty? Surely you can’t expect me to have predicted that a Dreadgod would need a bodyguard.”
The Sage looked like she was straining at her very limits not to draw her sword. “We were decimated by Emriss Silentborn, and you did nothing! It was only by the grace of the other Monarchs that we were allowed to survive at all, and now we’re so bound in oaths that we’re all but useless!”
“Then what good are you?” Reigan roared. The marble vibrated with his voice, as did the vital aura and space itself. “If I can’t waste the seconds it would take to kill you, then I certainly cannot waste another breath speaking to you! If you want to throw away your lives so badly, kindly do so before the Void Sage devours you.”
An annoying alarm in Reigan’s mind alerted him to a problem in his collection. He almost tore apart the Silent Sage in frustration, but this wasn’t her fault. Not directly, anyway.
Without another word for the Silent Servants, he tore open a gold-edged portal to one of his vaults and stepped inside.
For the first time, the Herald Balari spoke. “Soon, your empire will crumble. And it will be your fault.”
Reigan let the portal shut behind him, cutting off the Servants. They were right about one thing, at least. His empire was on the verge of crumbling, but it wasn’t his fault. It was Eithan’s fault.
Anything Reigan could salvage would be due to his own cunning.
The thought of Eithan ruined his mood, especially considering his surroundings. The lavish vault, filled with gold, marble, and stones much more precious, was being ravaged by three-colored lightning.
Reigan irritably slapped a bolt aside, watching a man-shaped Remnant convulse on the floor.
Tiberian Arelius, or the spirit that had once been him, shook like a Copper undergoing electrocution. Poetic, in Reigan’s view, since the man resembled a statue hewn from solid lightning. His jaw was clenched, teeth glowing like they were made of thunderbolts themselves, and sparks crackled from the eyes that had rolled up in his head.
Reigan didn’t need the spiritual sense of a Monarch to know the Remnant was in agony. But because he was, he knew it originated from the scripted golden collar around the man’s neck.
Irritably, Reigan reached out with his senses and expanded the Remnant’s physical form. It harmlessly enlarged; this was more of a technique to view the insides of a spirit or spiritual construct than a true increase of its size.
He had become much more proficient at this skill since absorbing the Soulsmith inheritance of Ozmanthus Arelius, and the man’s instincts gave him a more thorough sense of the problem.
Madra channels spun throughout the room in what should have been healthy loops, but the lanes of light were twisted, mangled, halfway cracked. Storm madra burst from them in uncontrolled flares.
Stretched to such a size, so that Reigan was standing in the center of Tiberian’s Remnant, the problems were clear. Reigan summoned a few scales of Weeping Dragon madra, slapping them on the broken channels haphazardly.
He had performed these repairs several times before. The process was growing less effective, but he didn’t need Tiberian’s memories or personality to be flawless. He needed the man to be a weapon.
Though he still wanted Tiberian’s appearance to remain intact. No sense in having a treasure you couldn’t show off.
When Reigan finished patching up the newest cracks, he shrank the Remnant back down. Tiberian shuddered on the floor now, twitching and groaning like he suffered a disease.
“Get up,” Reigan said in disgust.
A moment later, as though pulled by invisible puppet strings, Tiberian did. He held a hand to his head. “What…did I…”
Reigan stood over him, letting himself enjoy a moment of victory. “You shouldn’t break so many soul oaths.”
The Remnant’s hand drifted from his forehead down to his collar. “Ah…That’s right. Owning me and using me as a weapon wasn’t enough. You had to torture me as well.”
“You have to admit, that was a clever design.” While his hired Soulsmiths had made the device, Reigan had come up with the basic concept and structure for the collar himself. He had based it on his research into the armor of the Eight-Man Empire, and the collar exploited a link between his own soul and Tiberian’s.
Primarily, it enforced obedience. But it also allowed him to hand off the consequences of broken oaths.
Not too many, and none too powerful, lest Tiberian fall apart completely. But he had survived what would have been, to a living sacred artist, total spiritual collapse.
“I would admire your death trap more if I were not caught in it,” Tiberian said, tone dry.
“Maybe your ancestor will return from the heavens and save you,” Reigan said, but the taunt fell flat. As soon as he said it, he realized that might very well happen.
Tiberian had noticed the same thing, and eyebrows of crackling lightning lifted. “I look forward to seeing you caught in your own trap.”
Reigan reached his spiritual perception inside himself, into his soulspace, to caress his life insurance. The Wraith Horn.
He hoped it would be enough to preserve his life.
“If I am caught,” Reigan Shen said, “then I will not be the only one.” With his weapon repaired, he opened the portal again and left.