“An expelled Gardener,” Hiero clarified, glancing at the throne hall doors to see if they were shut tight. He then strode down the hallway, beckoning Alluverius to follow. “I swear Rebecca has an uncanny sense to detect any mention of Mitho’s name. Don’t let her hear you referring to him as a Biosyn magus if you don’t want to become—I don’t know—perhaps a smudge-brained slug.”

“A minor inconvenience,” Alluverius dryly said, his voice deep. He caught up to Hiero with wide strides, metal clinking with each step.

As Bollaghan noted, Alluverius Fahllyr had the face of his famous mother though roughened by the sun and scars. Alluverius had quite a story. Escaping from Edicta as a child—something about politics, infidelity, and assassination, the usual happenings for royals—he ended up in a Core monastery specialized in sword arts. To earn his keep, he served as an acolyte to the monks renting their blades to this or that lord.  

It took more than a decade for Alluverius to reunite with his princess Fahllyr mother, his father long dead by then. Notwithstanding all he had been through, Alluverius swore his blade to the Grammanus House, people he barely knew, in honor of the soldier who ferreted him out of Edicta.

Hiero couldn’t wrap his head around how that came to be. Honor was involved, so he didn’t bother trying to understand. It was sufficient to know that Alluverius was loyal without question to Grammanus, making him a perfect piece for Hiero’s plan.

“Better none from Biosyn Garden know Mitho is here,” Hiero said. “The attendants and students of the magi included. Mitho is listed as expelled in Biosyn records because he escaped before they could sentence him. Otherwise, he’ll be listed as a roasted slug or a brain in a jar.”

“That bad?” Alluverius said. “What did he do?”

“I’m not supposed to say. But it’s the worst sin a Biosyn magus can commit. Using knowledge gained from the gardens to do the unspeakable—”

“Did he turn people into bombs?”

“Turned people into bombs, you’re right.” Hiero sighed, shaking his head. “Is it that predictable?”

“Sadly, and surprisingly, yes. Every other Biosyn magus gone rogue that I’ve heard of seems to have experimented with making living bombs.”

“Life is energy.” Hiero circled his index fingers in front of him as if stirring the air. Golden dust swirled to his finger as he pulled aileh from the fabric of existence, a skill forcibly inherited from the dragons. “Easy for someone to think that energy can go boom—the Khayo and Fulguren Magi do. Someone crazy enough can look left and say, ‘don’t people have energy in them?’ Further left, and they’ll think people can… go boom.”

“Should have I had him guarded?” Alluverius asked, bristling to alertness. “Only Daven is with him.”

“Mitho is no harm at his age,” Hiero said. “Or at all. Away from Biosyn, seeing the world for what it is, made him see people as… people.”

“More magi should get their heads out of their mind gardens,” Alluverius grumbled. “And their asses.”

Hiero chuckled his assent. “When Mitho bought me into service,” he continued, subtly stressing his similar experiences to Alluverius, “his business was using forbidden Biosyn arts to heal nobles and rich merchants with illnesses uncurable by usual means.”

“That is… questionable.”

“His heart is in the right place,” Hiero said. “Figuratively speaking. I’m unsure where his real heart is located or how many he has. But Mitho does want to help people. Sometimes it wouldn’t turn out so well, and we’d have to run for our lives from angry guards or the accidental monster he’d spawn.”

“Tabither’s Grace, he won’t make a mistake with this matter you’ll ask his assistance for. He looked a step off life’s stairs, and half his mind wandered when I talked to him.”

“The gods are with us.” The words tasted bland on Hiero’s tongue. “That Mitho is alive, and you found him is proof.”

“Credit goes to my squire,” said Alluverius with perceptible pride and fondness. “Daven’s a resourceful lad who’d go to any lengths to complete any task I give him. I can scarcely leave my place to scour the land for an elusive magus no one had seen or heard of for seven years.”

Hiero and Alluverius navigated the labyrinthine palace—the grandest of many bounded within the innermost walls of the ancient Gaolyan fortress. All passages within led to a central area, a hollow column atrium that reached for the blackened sky. In its middle, rising the entire height, was a marble gargoth tree—a network of branching stairs and ramps, lily pad balconies, unnatural arcs, and striking constructs unthought by builders of the present.

Peering over weaved stone tendrils lining the edge of a balcony, Hiero wondered why the Gaolyans built the throne hall far into the heart of the palace. It would’ve been better if it was near the entrance for receiving guests; the castle and manors he had visited were laid out that way.

Was there some other path to the throne hall? Perhaps magical waypoints of legends?

Another curiosity was the lack of dust, cobwebs, or anything that’d show the thousands of years gone by. Dried dragon droppings and skeleton leftovers from dragons’ meals were also lacking in the palace, though many were outside when the armies arrived. Did the dragons not live here? Would Tiskas know?

Dozens of Grammanus soldiers had set up camp on the ground floor, their weapons, cots, and clothes strewn along the sides of the circular entrance hall. Nobles and officers claimed the rooms in the wings spiraling outward. The floors above and below could house hundreds more, a few thousand if needed, but the superstitious soldiers didn’t want to risk Gaolyan ghosts supposedly haunting the night, entering the bodies of those sleeping with mouths open.

The colossal main doors could be considered moving walls in their size, incomparable to any wrought by mortal hands, dwarfed only by the gates of the Citadel. Passing the yawning portal, Hiero and Alluverius stood on top of stairs made for giants, each step coming up to Hiero’s waist.

This was also a puzzle as the stairs inside the palace and everything else, like the thrones, were built for humanoids slightly taller than men. But for whom were the outside stairs made? Giant slaves of the Gaolyans?

And yet there were none for the Gaolyans themselves. The soldiers had to construct wooden ramps over the steps so people didn’t need to clamber to enter the palace.

Alluverius led the way down the incline to a bloodred sea of tents, accented by the royal griffin gold and other beasts chosen by lesser Houses.

Fiery brands spaced along the rows of tents staved off the oppressive darkness. Glowing crystals dangled from the tops of some tents like ornaments. Many men gathered around different-colored bonfires, their weapons about them, but seemingly not for light or to keep themselves warm.

A soldier emptied the contents of a pouch into a nearby blaze—a chalky powder that caused the flames to puff blue smoke. Other men crowded nearer to inhale it.

Hiero caught plucks of Teket and Maraan circling the crowd, but most spoke low Grammus in a far cracklier manner than their high king. Noticing Hiero and Alluverius passing by, the soldiers bowed, murmuring awkward greetings in memorized high Grammus. They hurriedly returned to their peculiar ritual as the flames turned from purple back to familiar orange.

“Ground horn of the mowgdon,” Alluverius answered Hiero’s quizzical look. “Could rid the lungs of traces of the Blight and focus the mind in battle. Or so the merchants claimed.”

“Is this the same as when the soldiers mixed powdered dragon dung into ale for strength?”

“Sales talk drivel, all of it,” Alluverius dismissively waved his hand. “But Daven bought me a small sack of the powder. I have to tell that boy he should be above such nonsense.”

“We know so little about the Blight that may turn out true,” Hiero said, maintaining his amused look. “Though mowgdon horn is similar to the bone that plates their spine. And it’s not supposed to burn blue. I don’t know what those men are snorting. At least, with the dragon dung, they were sure what it was.”

“If it’s not dangerous and could calm their hearts, then I say, let it be. The peace it gives might be worth the scamming prices charged by the merchants.”

“Our… guest,” Hiero began, avoiding the mention of Mitho’s name, “used to say something similar before he’d conduct business. Where is he? He might sell Daven something not so harmless.”

“By the camp of the knights from Dol Kabo,” said Alluverius, pointing the way to the easternmost gate. “I borrowed a tent from a trusted friend to be our meeting place over there and avoid going through the camps with our guest.”

Wading out of the Grammanus tents cordoned by a low fence, Hiero and Alluverius joined the intermingling streams of people—humans, Romo, Delves, and others—from different camps, a rainbow of emblems and colors as if there was a festival.

But the mood was far from jubilant; the continuing night amplified the sinking gloom permeating the camps. Even the six-legged groffs pulling carts of food and weapons looked displeased while chewing cud. Then again, they always looked like that. A shade was behind every man’s eye. A needling suspicion in each one, not only of those next to them but also themselves, of catching the Blight.

Faces perked up, recognizing Hiero.

“Draecontyr! We fight together!” A cry shouted in Basadhin drew the attention of others.

Many flocked to greet Hiero, unreserved, unlike the Grammanus soldiers. Most of them had only heard of the Draecontyr in legends. And it wouldn’t surprise Hiero if soldiers spread embellished stories of his battles on the outer walls to their fellows. It took some effort to extract himself from the crowd.

“I should’ve worn a cloak with a hood,” Hiero said. “A hat pulled low might be enough.”

“Mold into a groff and pull a cart,” Alluverius suggested, his face serious, eyes on the lookout for anyone shadowing them. “No one will suspect it is you.”

“Except for the Core on my chest.”

“A groff with a scarf then,” Alluverius said in his usual earnest tone. It was hard to tell if he was joking or not.

“Sounds more conspicuous.”

Hiero didn’t need to worry further about people stopping him when they entered the area claimed by Escrimans. The soldiers, wearing green surcoats emblazoned with a side-facing lion, were set on their duties, not sparing more than a glance at Hiero. A Draecontyr wasn’t a novelty to them, having fought several times alongside Aman-Lura. But they glared at Alluverius, his striking red standing out in the dampened greenery.

“We should’ve gone around—” Hiero cut his sentence short, noticing an intensely annoyed stare among the Escrimans. Another blink and the man was gone. Hiero halted, looking for him.

Alluverius also stopped. “What is it, Draecontyr?”

“I thought I saw…” Hiero Molded into an owl king—the transformation of a single creature easier than the merging of many—but controlled it with such precision that only his eyes changed, spare a few feathers dusting his arms. Was that Aman-Lura? 

It couldn’t be. The Escriman Draecontyr was attending the war council. Aman-Lura wouldn’t leave Sinra-Jul and return to their camp.

“Must be a trick of the light,” Hiero said, continuing to the Dol Kabo tents.

Walking up to the eastern wall was reminiscent of when Hiero first reached the edge of the gargoth forest of western Meghindr. In place of tusked halkors swinging on the treetops, the magi of the Ruvek mind garden floated above the towers, commanding the winds to make whirling domes over the camps that buffeted back the strange miasma from the Blighted dead. The howls of gusts echoed on the walls, like injured beasts bellowing.

Rebecca mentioned that the Biosyn hadn’t detected anything wrong with the shadowy fog but needed more tests to confirm. She was sure they couldn’t cause Blight. But the black smoke smelled terrible—enough reason to drive it away.

Alluverius led Hiero to a circular tent, not unlike the many around it, and pulled aside the curtain with mud-soaked ends, gesturing for Hiero to enter first.

A solitary lamp lit the inside. The lanky Daven, wilting half-asleep in a chair, scrambled to attention upon hearing the rustling and footsteps.

“Sir Allu—” The fair-haired squire rubbed his eyes topped with thick brows. “Drae-Draecontyr Hiero! An honor to meet you, sire. Am unprettily dejected I haven’t witnessed your Melding. My master won’t let me—Sir Alluverius!”

Alluverius stepped in after Hiero, letting the curtain fall behind him, dimming the tent further. Daven attended to his master, unfastening the clasps of his cloak and undoing the belts securing his armor. “Don’t let me keep you from your reunion,” Alluverius said. “I’ll just get out of this stuffiness and join you.”

Hiero regarded the hooded figure sitting on the other side of the table, the lamp’s light catching the exquisite threading of his ancient cloak. The writings on the faded green fabric were familiar, the same Gaolyan runes Hiero had seen etched on aileh wedges—towers of stone hewn into the likeness of swords, stabbed deep into the earth to extract pure energy. All mind gardens had aileh wedges, as did the more prominent Core monasteries.

“Mitho,” Hiero said, bowing in greeting after a moment’s hesitation. “It’s been a long time. I was worried you were already dead.”

The frail form ambled forward—lopsided in his body, peculiar in his steps. Time hadn’t been kind to the expelled magus.

“Worried?” Mitho removed his hood and spoke in a weak voice matching his wrinkle-racked face. “Worried you couldn’t bury me with smoldering charcoal while I coughed out the ashes?”

Hiero smiled at the clumsy translation of a Biosyn idiom into low Grammus. “I’m not thinking of revenge. Didn’t I tell you before we parted that I hold no hatred for you?”

“I may be old, but my memory is as good as stone slates. I remember you didn’t say that out of forgiveness or understanding.”

“How can you—?”

“You cannot feel hatred, you strange child.” Mitho’s cloudy eyes focused on Hiero as if seeing him clearly for the first time. “Every emotion to you is but a—"

“Enough talk of the past,” Hiero interrupted. Alluverius would hopefully dismiss Mitho’s words as senile ramblings. “I need your help.”

“Are you holding me indebted to you?” rasped Mitho. “I fed and clothed you. If not for me, you would’ve died in the mines. I owe you nothing.”

“You’ve read my letter, did you not?” Hiero looked over his shoulder. “Daven, did you give it to him?”

“That I did, sire,” Daven replied as he arranged the breastplate of Alluverius facing down on a rack. Three Cores slotted on its inside gleamed brightly. “But he… uh, burned it. He followed me after, so I assumed everything was fine.”

Turning to Mitho, Hiero said, “You knew what I wrote.” It wasn’t a question. The expelled magus remained sharp despite his age, unlike Alluverius’ impression, and had come to the same idea as Hiero. “And you’re willing to help.”

“How can you be so sure?” Mitho asked, trying to hold on to any ground he could.

“Because you came. You could’ve waited for the Blighted Multitude to march over wherever you’re hiding or waited for natural death—it wouldn’t make any difference.”

“I have long years ahead of me!” Mitho shook a bony fist resembling knotted branches.

“But you’re here,” Hiero went on. “Which means you’re willing to help. Not me. All the other people. You’ve always been willing to help, just that your methods are not… Well, we need your methods now.”

Alluverius chimed in, employing his voice that could inspire witless men to be heroes. “It is imperative the heart node not fall to the Blight. It is luck that this fortress stands atop the node, or the battle would’ve been lost before it began. When Hiero brought up the possibility of defeat, I doubted him. Many did and continue to do so. But I heeded his words just the same, sending my squire to seek you, Master Mitho. Now that I beheld the endless damned allayed on the horizon, I know this Citadel will fall.”

“Si-sir?” Daven shuffled forward. This was the first time he had heard of this.

Alluverius ignored his squire. “We mustn’t let the Blight seep into the heart node and flush their corruption westward.”

“How do you propose I help you?” Mitho said, knowing full well the answer.

“It’s the living bombs, isn’t it?” Alluverius guessed, his eyes darting from Mitho to Hiero and back. “Do you intend to blast away the Blight with bombs? No. That wouldn’t dent their numbers for long. Are you… are you going to destroy the node’s opening?”

Hiero nodded. “The heart node needs to be buried when the Citadel is abandoned, the pores of the earth’s skin collapsed.”

Mitho let out a harsh laugh as if he gargled gravel. “I was right! When the young lad here said Draecontyr Hiero wanted me to come to Aderenthyn, I had an inkling of your plan.”

“But I thought he stopped his experiments?” Alluverius said to Hiero, nudging his head at the expelled magus. “Isn’t that what you told me?”

“He did stop,” said Hiero, the musty smell of locked tomes stowed under the floorboards of Mitho’s wagon returning to him. “But it doesn’t mean he has forgotten or forsaken the knowledge. He waits for the right time.”

“And a subject,” Mitho said. “The time is always right. A fitting subject willing to participate in progress is a different question.”

“You came prepared?”

“What do you think?” Mitho raised his arms, revealing tools of his trade dangling inside the folds of his robes—scalpels inlaid with Core shards, globules with liquids unknown, trinkets and charms he swept before escaping Biosyn garden, and many more items Hiero hadn’t seen before.

“Very prepared…”

“My wagon is hidden amongst merchant wares,” Mitho excitedly added, rubbing his creaky palms together. It was like he shed years when the prospect of making living bombs was brought up. “My precious books and notes, bulky paraphernalia, select Cores, milk of Ignis, and jars of white alkahest. I paid the merchants a good coin to keep it safe from the noses of my former colleagues.”

“The merchants don’t know they’ll earn much more if they sell your wagon and everything in it,” Hiero muttered.

“Now, tell me,” Mitho narrowed his eyes, observing Hiero and Alluverius. His thin fingers resembling twigs caressed one of the scalpels on his robe. “Who is the willing subject, the brave volunteering to become a living bomb?” He faced Alluverius. “Is it you, Fahllyr Core swordsman?”

“I-I didn’t know…” Alluverius stammered, taking a step back. Then he squared his shoulders and spoke more firmly, “If that is needed, then I will do it! My life for Grammanus and the rest of Tabithala.”

“Sir, you can’t!” Daven blurted.

“The lad raises a good point,” said Mitho. “You can’t be on your own. It’s not enough power. We need more, far more.”

“That’s not—”

“Daven, quiet,” Alluverius snapped. “Don’t insinuate me a coward. We need to convince others with strong internal aileh systems to—”

“I am the willing subject,” Hiero said.

“Draecontyr…”

“You?” Mitho asked incredulously

“Turn me into a living bomb. I alone am enough.”

---

 

“A Draeconty living bomb,” Mitho whispered with childish giddiness as he sliced the length of Hiero’s forearm. “None had dared attempt this in history.”

The long cut didn’t draw blood. The emerald glare of a metallic charm fashioned into an eye perched on a holder on the table prevented it. Hiero had seen this happen many times when Mitho worked on his patients.

“None dared capture a Draecontyr for an experiment, you mean?” Hiero said through gritted teeth.

The wound didn’t bleed, but it was painful. Hiero rejected Mitho’s offer of a concoction infused with mandragora and henbane. He didn’t trust his former master enough to fall asleep under his sinister scalpel. And Hiero wanted to witness the operation. It was disturbing at the same time fascinating to see his skin peeled back to uncover reddish muscles, the aileh lines crossing his veins revealed by the Biosyn witness charms.

“It is as you say,” Mitho replied, croaking a laugh. He switched his scalpel for needles attached to rings that fit like claws on the tip of his fingers. “But the theory is there. After all, the inspiration for living bombs was derived from the dragon’s breath drawing and igniting natural aileh. Dragons and other creatures with Cores are almost… some say impossible to turn into living bombs. On the other hand, humans with our open aileh system are the perfect specimens for an instantaneous and powerful explosion if one knows how to arrange it.”

Arrange it? Hiero almost forgot the sanitized way Mitho would explain things.

With steady fingers, Mitho reworked the aileh lines within Hiero’s flesh into new networks, embroidering complex patterns with the thread of life. The needles would alternately illuminate as their Core shards activated.

Between finishing a pattern, around five minutes for the simpler ones, Mitho dipped the needles into this or that vial of liquid as if a quill pen in ink. All while he toiled, Mitho maintained concentration as if he had woken up for the first time, those years past, he was merely sleep-walking. His fingers danced in a strange rhythm, moving faster than a celebrated bard strumming his lute.

Minutes became hours. There was only silence in the tent, punctuated by expected war camp noises filtering from the outside, dulled by the thick woolen cloth enclosing them. Once, Daven entered to check their progress—he said Alluverius ordered him, but he might be satisfying his curiosity.

After three hours passing—the Dol Kabo had just finished their prayer song, so it should be around midday—Mitho finished arranging Hiero’s left arm, sewing it shut with aileh threads, and moved to the right. Neither of them had spoken a word.

Hiero broke the silence to divert his attention from the fresh deep cuts. “Is this going to work, Mitho?” he asked, as much to himself as his former master.

Mitho looked up, befuddlement embodied in contorted wrinkles. “Work? Have I not told you this had not been done before?”

Hiero nodded, looking at the exposed bones of his fingers. “This is too late to wonder, I suppose.”

“Are you asking about turning you into a living bomb or your plan to seal the heart node?”

“Both.”

“A human becoming a Draecontyr does not change one’s open system but provides an avenue for absorbing more aileh. An ordinary man tinkered into a living bomb—assuming he’d survive the arrangement—can generate the force akin to a volley of five or so magnicannon bombards. Nothing to scoff at, but a mere scratch on the earth’s skin if talking about node vents.

“Your Core swordsman friend could provide a force exponential in magnitude—I discerned his aileh system most accomplished for his age. However, it will be far from sufficient to collapse the earth as you planned. Two dozen of your friend might not even be enough. But, you! A Draecontyr is different. You can cycle absorbing and igniting aileh until—”

“Boom…” Hiero softy said.

“All theoretical, of course,” Mitho said, lifting his needles to shrug. Bottles clinked, and metal rattled. “Let the gods decide the answer to your questions. As I always say: if I fail, then I fail.”

“Then I fail,” Hiero echoed. “Only this time, I can’t fail.”

“Why not?”

“What do you mean? I can’t fail because people will—”

Mitho raised a brow, adding more creases to his forehead. “Do you care about people?”

An earthy bellow reverberated before Hiero could think of a response. The majestic note rang powerfully, shaking his heart. Then thunderous drums followed. Shouting and stomping. Silhouettes of men ran across the flaps of the tent.

“Another wave is coming,” Hiero loudly said over the drums and horns. “Close the wound. We’ll continue later.”

“I cannot stop this at a whim!” Mitho protested, holding up his needle-tipped fingers. “This is a delicate operation that requires hours of concentrated work! You cannot prance away and return as if I am drawing a portrait.”

“I have to fight,” Hiero said. He couldn’t bring himself to add, because I care for the people. “Close the wound, or I’ll bandage it myself.”