"Only truth can conquer lies. But what is truth? And in whose eyes?"
–The Lawless Frontier: Riddled with Lies
Leaning in to get a closer look at the glittering holoprojection before her, Meren squinted, her eyes tracing the dendritic pathways that pulsed and spread throughout the three-dimensional field. New data nodes bloomed into being as incoming telemetry processed, fine digital filaments branching out, intersecting with others, or joining the larger, mesmerizing web of light. Point after point, branch after branch, the neural map before her slowly continued to expand.
Beyond the display, visible through a transparent partition, Kotoc hung in a dingy, steel-paneled chamber. The Psion had been restrained in a complex apparatus, its limbs and head encased in a series of sleek, silver bands, a tangle of wires sprouting from each and vanishing into a nearby terminal. A faint, ethereal field shimmered in a sphere around the contraption, the air within seeming to warp and distort—a psychic dampening field designed to keep Kotoc's abilities in check, according to Variks. Awoken techno-magic at its finest.
"And the extraction doesn't hurt Kotoc?" asked Meren, still eyeing the neural map.
In her periphery, Variks' secondary hands folded, and he bent low to examine the hologram. A double ration of Ether had seemingly done wonders. Not so much as a wince had crossed his features all morning.
A low hum resonated in his throat. "Psion perception of pain is not as you and I know it," he explained. "Their minds, they are able to reinterpret physical reality. Make it into whatever is necessary."
"They can trick themselves out of feeling pain, you mean?"
"In simple terms," replied Variks.
The neural map flared, a new cluster of variegated nodes bursting forth. At the same time, Kotoc's glazed-over eye twitched, its blown pupil constricting.
"And in more complicated ones?'' prompted Meren, her brow creasing.
Variks shifted. He did not look up from the projection. "What is perceived as pain is distributed through telepathic bonds to be borne by all. Suffering shared amongst many lessens its sting."
"Variks," she sighed.
A pause, and then, "The extraction process is not entirely painless, no."
Meren shot a pointed look his way. "How do you sleep at night knowing what you're putting them through?" It wasn't just Kotoc, either. The more she saw of the Prison, the more convinced she became that every aspect of the facility's operations was steeped in some degree of torment or misery.
Variks seemed unfazed. "As I do each night," he told her. "On my back."
"And now you're making jokes."
At the current moment, his snide brand of humor couldn't have been less welcome.
Things between them had been strained since the prior morning's revelations. Following the whole debacle, the better part of the day had been spent talking—extensively. Arguing, at times. Meren's voice might even have been raised twice or thrice. There had been vaguely apologetic platitudes from Variks, too. Some of them earnest. Others ostensibly less so. By the end, they'd reached an uneasy understanding and had spent the afternoon working through maintenance reports in silence.
Come evening, they'd ended on a tentative note. Still, Meren had accepted Variks' dinner invitation and had stayed the night in his quarters. Little affection had been exchanged.
Now, a new day had dawned. The only positive to come out of it thus far had been Variks' suggestion to put the remainder of the facility audit on hold in favor of spending the day working on their Psion project. The current phase of the project itself, however, was proving a mixed bag.
"The Prison holds no innocents, Meren," Variks remarked. "What I do is for the good of the Reef. Of House Judgement. Do not presume my heart is not made heavy by my duty."
Meren didn't reply, returning her attention to the holoprojection. Arguing with him was an exercise in futility, and a headache was already setting in.
"If it concerns you so, know the discomfort is minimal. Temporary," Variks went on, two hands waving her off. "I endured similar to obtain the neural imprint for the Warden Servitor. The Flayer, too, will survive."
Or so he claimed.
Momentarily tuning him out, she grabbed a datapad off the lip of the projection platform and transferred a fragment of the neural map to its display, pulling a high-resolution render for closer inspection. Whatever Variks was gleaning from the dense wash of colorful nodes and blinking pathways was lost on her. Nonetheless, it provided a beautiful snapshot of the wealth of information the process was yielding. A visual deluge of data encapsulated in those infinite pulsing light points. It was easy to get lost in the endless complexity of it all.
If only the methods of obtaining it weren't so…dubious.
Meren decided to change the subject.
"You've made a lot of progress since I've been gone." A glance towards Variks found him still monitoring the progression of the extraction, pensively tapping a claw against his forearm. Looking anywhere but at her.
"Does this surprise you?"
His dry reply had her stifling an eye roll. "I suppose not."
Really, what had she been expecting? That he'd just put his pet research project on pause and sit around twiddling his thumbs, waiting on her improbable return? Hardly.
"Focus comes easier without distraction." He stated it casually enough, but there was no mistaking the emphasis placed on the word distraction. Or the target the reference was directed at. "Though the work is not without setbacks. Dissecting the mind of a Flayer has proven..."
"Challenging?" offered Meren.
Variks' tapping claw stilled, and he eyed her askance. "Amongst other things." His attention redirected, all four hands flicking out in a dismissive gesture. "Unfortunate, but such is the nature of pursuing the unknown. A decorated scholar should be no stranger to such struggles."
Meren almost snorted.
Oh, there had been struggles, alright. The entirety of her academic career had consisted of one trial after another. Long hours of thankless work, countless nights staring at a screen or binder with bleary, aching eyes. And the culmination of it all? Earning her place at the center of a masterful cosmic joke; a decade-and-a-half of her life spent painstakingly disentangling the intricacies of Eliksni language and culture, compiling the equivalent of ten doctoral dissertations. Only now to be sharing lab space with a primary source who could have saved her years of headaches with a few days' worth of ethnographic interviews. The irony was rich, indeed.
"Oh, no, of course not," she agreed mildly. "Setbacks and dead ends and bunk hypotheses are the bedrock of discovery. Every significant breakthrough necessitates the failure of ten more insubstantial theories. Or, no, make that twenty, actually." She flashed him a tight smile. "It's… unfortunate, like you said, but there's a saying someone reminded me of not too long ago. Puts things into perspective. What was it? 'We learn from failure, not success'? Sounds like you must be learning a lot."
Another sidelong glance was cast her way, Variks regarding her impassively. "Your wit may need resharpening, my dear. Its edge grows dull."
Evidently, having his own words tossed back at him had failed to amuse the dour Scribe. Too bad Meren didn't particularly care. Let him stew a bit. It was his own damned fault their collective mood was so prickly.
"I don't think my wit is the issue here," she came back. When Variks' only response was a blank, level-eyed stare, she went on. "Anyway, where were we? Oh. The challenges of dissecting a Flayer's mind..."
On cue, Kotoc shifted, a twitch spasming through the Psion's body, transmitted across the ghostly neural map in a surge of new connections. The projection flickered and waned, then stabilized. Variks' gaze had drifted to it. He appeared unconcerned.
Lifting a hand, the Scribe made an absent-minded gesture towards the hologram, fingers pinching the air as though selecting an invisible object. The map responded in turn, an exceptionally bright point following the pull of his claws.
"The complexity lies in psionic fragmentation," he elaborated, the node hovering before him now. It quivered, flared, then splintered into countless smaller fragments. "Confronted with adversity, the Flayer disassociates the psyche. A…defense mechanism." Long, gloved fingers wove through the projection before him, scattering the newly-born motes like luminous spores on the wind. On the projection's periphery, they coalesced again in a loose, discordant ring, a pulsating, twisting miasma of unprocessed quanta. "So compartmentalizes the mind, yes? Accurate data becomes difficult to extract. The work, laborious."
"And all this" –Meren motioned to the containment chamber and apparatus beyond– "is supposed to help you circumvent that?"
"It has complicated matters, but yes," Variks replied. "Somewhat."
His words barely registered, her focus back on the hapless Psion's current state. The process appeared to be taking a marked toll, evidenced by the sharp shivers that periodically racked its otherwise glassy-eyed languor. The frequency of the tremors had steadily been increasing, coming quicker and more violently each time. Either the extraction process was rapidly amplifying, or there'd been a dip in the subject's tolerance. Possibly both.
There had to be a better way.
"Whatever happened to just throwing it into the arena? That's your standard response to just about every problem around here, isn't it?" a suddenly terse Meren remarked.
To Variks' credit, he didn't rise to the bait, even if a tic of displeasure momentarily tightened his features.
"Combat data yields but an approximation of telepathic amplitude," he countered smoothly. "The margin of error would be unacceptable, given the nature of the project."
"I was under the assumption the data collected in the arena already had a built-in margin of error, and that it was well within acceptable parameters." Or at least that's where things had stood the last time they'd worked on the project together, a month prior. "Since when did that change?"
"Since you took issue with my methods."
"So you decided to shift to an entirely new collection method that's just as–if not more–barbaric than the one I criticized?" Meren nearly laughed at the backward logic of it all.
Variks, however, didn't even blink. "You forbade further use of the arena. It left little choice."
Those last words came out especially blunt, stated simply and without contrition. As they so often did when it came to matters concerning his duties as Warden. But maybe that was how you survived a near-century sequestered away in a place like the Prison of Elders. By embracing cold-blooded pragmatism and refusing to apologize for the decisions you had to make along the way. All the while rationalizing your actions as the necessary price to be paid in pursuit of a greater good.
That didn't mean she had to unquestioningly accept his methodology, though. Or her alleged influence on its evolution.
"Oh, Traveler." This time, it was impossible to smother a flat, humorless chortle. "I didn't 'forbid' anything. You're the one who unilaterally decided to backpedal on the skirmishes because you were afraid you'd end up offending my 'gentle heart,' or however you put it. I wasn't even here."
Variks chuffed. "A decision made out of consideration for your sensibilities, then. I was trying to be courteous, Meren."
"And this is what you came up with instead?" she shot back. At his head tilt, she stabbed a finger, wide-eyed, to Kotoc's abject suffering on full display beyond the partition. "That's some great lateral thinking, Variks."
The rebuke prompted the faintest perceptible click of his mandibles.
"If you have an alternative," he said slowly, "now would be the time to suggest it."
An outstretched hand accompanied the words, fingers beckoning for the datapad Meren held. Sighing, she relinquished the device. It wasn't like she was getting anything out of the render she'd pulled up, anyway.
As for alternatives...
"Maybe a more anthropological approach," offered Meren. Variks met the suggestion with indifference, a claw tapping at the datapad's display, navigating to a different module as he passively listened. "Instead of catalyzing psychic activity through forced environmental stress, why not try inducing a similar response using, I don't know, social stimuli? Opening a meaningful dialogue with the subject could theoretically prompt a spike in neural activity. Imagine what we could get once we've established a rapport."
Variks' finger paused, claw hovering. "With a Psion Flayer?"
"They're just as sentient as you or I."
"Have you so quickly forgotten the last time you and the subject's paths crossed?" he challenged, yet there was no bite behind his words. Instead, they were spoken with all the dryness and enthusiasm of reading aloud from a grocery list.
Meren swiped her fingers through her hair, unwittingly tugging a few strands loose from the messy bun she'd haphazardly thrown together that morning.
The memory of Kotoc's assault on her mind was not a pleasant one. The unwelcome intrusion, the stab of cold terror, the feeling of losing herself. And all for the simple offense of staring at the Psion a tad too intently. Well, it probably had more to do with being in the company of the Prison's Warden at the time and the perceived threat to its well-being, but still. The experience had shaken her to the core.
"All I'm saying is there must be alternative approaches that don't involve inflicting misery on a sentient being," Meren argued. Did she genuinely believe meaningful dialogue was viable with the Flayer? Not in the slightest. But at this point, she was a committed contrarian by principle. "Who knows. Maybe if we just sit down with Kotoc and ask nicely, it will divulge the fathomless, veiled mysteries of Psionkind. The secrets of...psychic wavelengths or whatever it is you're looking to learn."
"Doubtful."
"You're the one who asked for suggestions, Variks," came her flippant reply.
The discussion seemed to die there, Variks once again absorbed in the ongoing extraction process, fiddling with something on the datapad's display.
Several long seconds passed. At first, nothing changed, except for a barely perceptible decline in the fluctuations on the projected neural map. Then, Kotoc's form began to droop, sagging within its restraints. Its tremors, now feebler, ceased entirely. Meren watched, her breath catching.
Was it…? No, it was still breathing, and color was creeping back into its clammy features. Any trace of distress looked to have dissipated, its eye sliding shut as if in sleep.
"Better?''
Variks' murmured inquiry drew a glance his way. He'd set the datapad down and was watching her, all eyes trained expectantly on her expression.
It took Meren a moment for understanding to dawn. The process controls could be accessed through the datapad's user interface. By all appearances, Variks had made a manual adjustment; he'd turned the extraction down from something traumatic to something tolerable. The gesture wasn't lost on her.
"Getting there," she conceded.
If Variks was pleased with her reply, it didn't register on his face. He simply dipped his head and smoothed the fraying stoles at his chest, repositioning the ceremonial ornamentation so the embroidered ends were tucked into his belt just so. His many claws soon came together in a contemplative clasp as he studied the neural map anew.
"A step backward," he decided, "but perhaps one worth taking, yes?"
"How so?"
Placid as ever, Variks directed a careful nod towards Kotoc's limp form. "The less resistance the subject offers, the less invasive the process becomes. The less discomfort caused." The words hung for a beat, uncontested. "In exchange, the procedure will be lengthened, proportionate to reduction in stimulation. At the current rate, the extraction time will triple."
In other words, they'd be holed up in the lab for hours longer than initially planned.
"And?"
Meren crossed her arms, only for Variks to fix her with an owlish look. "Will the delay displease you?"
The benevolent concession only moments before was suddenly cast in a more patronizing light. A flicker of irritation rekindled inside her.
"Your attitude displeases me."
He chattered at that but otherwise didn't rise to the provocation. Probably for the better. Knowing them, it wouldn't take much to spark a repeat performance of last night. That would likely only degrade their civil standoff into something unproductive, landing them right back where they started. Or worse.
With no further argument forthcoming, Meren returned to the question at hand.
"What difference does it make? It's not like we've got anything else on the schedule for today." Not unless Variks had a mind to renege on postponing the facility audit. A prospect somehow less appealing than the ethically-dubious experiment they were currently embroiled in.
"Nothing to impede what remains of our work today, no," he answered. His inner eyes narrowed. "However. Your time here grows short, does it not? Would the day not be better spent otherwise? Perhaps with activities more tasteful, yes?"
"Again with the gentle heart thing." All care and concern for her delicate, innocent sensibilities.
"Simple courtesy," assured Variks. "Whatever your preference. Say the word, and it will be so."
That was all it would take. One simple request and Kotoc's ordeal would come to an end. No more hours spent being subjected to whatever neurological hell Variks had devised—however mild it now seemed. No more nagging twinges of moral dissent tugging at her conscience. In an instant, the whole matter could be laid to rest, and they could focus their energies elsewhere.
Such an easy solution. And yet...
"This is…fine," Meren allowed. "For now. Let's just keep going."
Wary silence from Variks. No question was voiced, but she could sense one all the same: Are you certain?
Meren lifted her chin. "What? House Judgement needs its secrets, doesn't it?" Secrets that would give Variks leverage. Secrets that would ensure his continued utility to the Reef. Secrets that could—somehow, she knew in her heart—change the fate of his fallen people.
What was the minor discomfort of one Psion compared to all that was at stake?
For a moment, Variks just watched her.
"As you wish," he finally said.
The words lingered.
And then Variks resumed his observation of the data, idly manipulating the holoprojection with faint passes of his claws. So nonchalant, as if they hadn't just been at odds seconds before. His fingertips brought forth a new sublayer, and a flurry of fresh data points began to conjoin with the existing synapses. Glimmers of blue-green interconnected, new pathways blooming as the web of light pulsed, shimmered, shifted. Like a cosmic wonder unfolding in the palm of his hand.
Did it make her awful, to marvel at a thing of such beauty while knowing what its creation entailed?
Meren pushed the notion aside, taking a step closer. "So, it's working, then? The data's still viable?"
"It appears so," said Variks. "Though how long the integrity will be maintained remains to be seen."
"Because of psionic fragmentation?"
Variks blinked, sparing her the briefest of glances as he drew away from the projection.
"In part." For an instant, it seemed like he'd leave it at that. But then, he went on, "Fragmentation will compromise accuracy over time, but the greater concern now lies in the process. The modifications."
"Meaning what exactly?"
Variks stood straighter. When he spoke, it was with the measured deliberation of someone choosing their words with exacting care.
"There may come a point at which this kinder methodology ceases to produce desired results, Meren. What choice then, except to fall back on proven means?"
Maybe it was the clinically blunt nature of his tone, or maybe the sharp glint in his eyes. Whatever the cause, something inside her reared, drawing the indignation back to the forefront.
"Why even bother pretending to care what I think?" she blurted. "Clearly, you're going to do whatever the hell you want as soon as I'm not around to put up a fuss!"
For a species whose body language often bordered on indecipherable, the exasperation that swept over the Scribe had never been more plain. All four arms slackened, and his eyes found the ceiling as if beseeching some silent, unseen deity for strength. A hissed sigh filtered through his mask, sending a wisp of Ether curling through the air. It dissipated almost as quickly as it had appeared.
"Do you think so little of me?"
"Right now? Honestly?" She didn't hesitate. "Yes."
Eyes squeezing shut in a wordless groan, Variks shook his head.
"Ai," he grumbled, followed by the barely audible thrum of subvocal frustration. "Why must you..." Whatever verbal riposte he was gearing up for fizzled out there. "The word may, I used for a reason. Meaning it is possible. For the procedure to fail. For the data to become unusable. Not a certainty. And not an outcome I wish to see realized."
"But you'll gladly go right back to your 'proven means' without batting an eye, if–"
"Do not make false-meaning of my words," he interjected. "Or, ah... jump to conclusions, as you say. Listen first. Think. Then judge."
Exasperation met exasperation. Meren's face drew tight.
"How else am I supposed to take it when you say something like that?"
"The way it was intended," he answered flatly. "A rhetorical question. Its intent merely to prompt consideration. To offer opportunity for input. From you. From your...perspective. The equal partnership we agreed to."
Like so many times before, his way with words brought her up short. Turning her indignation in on itself and derailing any argument she attempted to build in the same breath. Things would have been so much simpler if he wasn't so damn beguiling. Like Hiro. The man, her former flame—brilliant and driven though he was—had never managed to disarm her so utterly when their heads were at odds. The comparison struck an odd chord.
Something must have shown through on her face, because Variks was taking a hesitant step towards her now, a hand inching nearer. The approach was met with a backward step of her own, and that tentative hand dropped, fingers clenching.
"That's a funny way to ask for someone's opinion," she muttered.
"You are making this more difficult than it needs to be."
Her argumentative streak stalled out there. He was right. Rising above the petulance was the only way forward.
With a huff, Meren conceded. "Fine. Here's my perspective: if this other method doesn't work or degrades along the way, then try something else."
There came a flutter of those milky inner eyelids as she turned on her heel, adding, "Preferably, something less draconian."
Perhaps she wasn't quite finished being difficult after all.
No further comment followed as she strode across the lab, leaving Variks standing alone before his precious holoprojection. She needed space. Partly to gather herself. Partly to just...be away from him.
Listen. Think. Then judge.
Traveler above, he made her want to scream sometimes.
A bank of workstations lined the wall at the extraction lab's far end—if it could even be called that, given how small the whole of the space was. Meren snagged the nearest stool and planted herself in front of one of the monitors. The same old feeds stared back, security footage from every last corner of the Prison in grainy, miniature view. A halfhearted tap to the interface got her nowhere new.
Resigned to flip between the stodgy loops of empty corridors and shadowed holding cells, Meren slouched on her stool, elbows planted atop the control panel. Somewhere behind her, the hum of the extraction apparatus droned on, mingling with the buzzing of fluorescents above. Dull background noise for an equally dull pursuit. Her pride refused to remedy the situation, though. So she let the seconds tick by.
The terse, pointed silence between her and the lab's sole other occupant wore on.
How long it was, she couldn't say, until a soft warble caught her attention.
"Meren." When her name came a moment later, it was equally subdued. The hesitance plain. "We cannot continue like this. Please, let us put aside this adversity. Return to more...amicable terms."
So, Variks wanted to call a truce? Of course, he would.
She didn't turn. "And how do you propose we do that?"
Another low-pitched chirr. It was surprisingly hard to not glance over her shoulder.
"Lingering in silence will not mend this rift," he reasoned. "Only words. So, perhaps we should…talk, yes? Share our minds?"
"If this is about what happened yesterday," Meren started.
"No! ...no. Other things. More pleasant, perhaps. Perhaps, you would tell me more about your home. Your City. Perhaps share a place that is special to you."
Despite her resolve, Meren's attention was duly gained, and she looked his way.
The Variks that now stood alongside the holoprojection looked...small. Hunched, with all his arms drawn in. Penitent. A posture she'd seen once or twice before, just never with such intensity. He blinked back at her expectantly.
Her first instinct was sympathy, naturally. That familiar urge welled up, driving her to drop the stubborn act and join him, opening the door for reconciliation. But as quickly as the impulse took her, it was quashed. Suspicion came flooding in instead.
In light of the prior day's revelations, everything—every word, every action—had to be viewed through a cynical lens. Anything less would be naivety; she knew that now. Her previous estimation of Variks' benign nature had been so woefully wrong. It brought all that had come before into question.
How much of his perceived interest at the outset had been a ruse? How many honeyed words had been insincere? How many acts of camaraderie had been carefully calculated? Even now, he could be manipulating her still. Giving the appearance of remorse to lower her guard, only to toy with her all the more.
Or maybe he was just trying to make conversation.
Meren's eyes narrowed. "A place that's special to me..."
Variks nodded once, slowly.
What a strange request. What was the angle here? Was there one at all?
She chose to take it at face value. An olive branch extended, nothing more.
"Alright," she humored him. Letting the monitors claim her attention again momentarily, her brows knitted.
The obvious answers were her apartment, or the ramen shop, Kanikama. Or the Academy. The Cryptarchy's public archives. All were places she'd made fond memories over the years. Places she would forever associate with well-worn comfort and laughter.
And all of them, she decided, didn't feel quite right. What came to mind instead surprised even her.
"There's a spot by the northwest reservoir." She struggled to rationalize the selection. Why, of all places, had her brain chosen that? "The City Planning Division turned it into a park a few years back–sort of. Trees grow there, at least. Bigger than the scraggly ones you get in the Core. A few benches were installed along the retaining walls. A botanical garden, too." She fidgeted. "They closed the air traffic lanes over the north end, so it's not as noisy as everywhere else, and on clear nights, you can actually see a few of the brighter stars. And sitting out there at night when the breeze picks up... I don't know, the City's so built up in the commercial and residential districts, it's just nice to go there and enjoy the quiet. Pretend I'm not surrounded by a hundred kilometers of concrete and steel for a little while. Gives me space to clear my head. To just...forget."
From the corner of her eye, she caught the tilt of Variks' head.
"And what is it you wish to forget?"
She shrugged. "Lately? Everything."
The xenophobia. The prejudice. The fear that drove people, her people, to such wretched cruelty. Her growing disenchantment with the very status quo they all strived tirelessly to preserve. Never mind personal failures and deep-seated nagging doubts. They felt insignificant by comparison.
"I see," said Variks.
There came a longer lull as he seemed to digest her reply. His was the next question.
"And what about your family? Those closest to you."
Involuntarily, Meren tensed.
Her family.
Early on, she and Variks had broached the topic of personal relationships. It had been a fleeting exchange during one of their protracted evening conversations, touching only on the fact that neither had offspring and neither was currently committed to a partner. In subsequent discussions, talk about colleagues and the occasional friendship arose from time to time. But family?
It only then occurred to her that she'd never volunteered a word about them. Or her childhood, for that matter. Not once.
A photograph sprung to mind. Perched on a shelf in her apartment, faded and crinkled at the edges. Upon it, three smiling faces looked towards a warmly lit autumn sky, radiant with pride. A mother, a father, and a young daughter, arms wrapped affectionately about one another. Happy. Whole. And now–
"Gone" was all Meren said.
"Ah."
Long gone and never coming back. How long had it been? The ephemeral memories blurred. It left her crestfallen. Was the picture now all that was left to remember them by? How hollow it felt that, at that moment, the sum of her loved ones' existence had been all but reduced to a mere scrap of paper framed behind smudged glass.
To her relief, Variks didn't appear intent on pursuing her family history any further.
"What about you?" asked Meren. A painfully obvious redirect, but no matter. "Anyplace in the Reef that's special to you?"
She expected a vague reply, considering his mood. Some trite response about duty and Judgement and how it trumped any interest in trivialities like nostalgia.
What she didn't expect was the glimmer of wistfulness that passed across his gaze. Nor the ensuing fall of his eyes.
"Long ago," he said distantly, "there was, yes. A cove carved in stone cliffs, where the canals spilled into the golden sea. Its shade was cool. Its waters, inviting. Whenever time allowed, I would escape to its quiet. Just Variks, a much younger Variks, alone with his restless thoughts." He chittered. "It offered the peace I sought, if only for a short while."
His words painted a serene picture. But not one of the Reef. Meren had fully turned in her seat now, hanging on every word. He couldn't be talking about…
The next sentence out of his mouth confirmed her suspicions.
"Far be it from the Devils–Dancers then–to grant a Scribe tranquility." He chuffed, and the longing vanished, replaced by a note of good humor. "One clutch of hatchlings in particular. Took after their mother and proved most rambunctious. Wherever she went, they followed, even to me. Their interruptions I…came to cherish."
Amusing as the mental image of a flock of squawking hatchlings descending on Variks and robbing him of his solitude was, her priorities lay elsewhere.
"Hold on." Meren lifted a hand. "This was all back..."
"Home? Yes."
Riis. He was talking about Riis.
A wellspring of curiosity bubbled up inside her. The topic had rarely come up in their discussions. Variks had recounted the Whirlwind and the harrowing Drift that followed once, making it clear at the tale's end that it, and all that had come before, was a chapter best left closed. Apart from the occasional foray into sterile, ancient Judgement history or an offhand reference to a long-lost holiday or a religious practice, he had never again offered up anything of his homeworld. And Meren had respected his desire not to be pressed.
But now, here he was, opening the door of his own accord.
Now, she was listening.
At her captivated expression, Variks chortled. "You wish to know more."
"Please."
"Ask then, and I shall endeavor to sate your curiosity."
Questions. So many questions. Where to start?
Given what had just come to light, Meren began with the most pressing. "The Devils– er, Dancers," she managed. "You lived with them?"
Variks shook his head. "Not lived," he corrected. "Served. An emissary of House Judgement." He seemed to take stock of her questioning look, eyes shifting thoughtfully. "The old Pact made it so."
The House of Judgement shall have no ketch, but it will dwell among the other Houses to guide the Kells and keep their secrets.
Meren recalled the words Variks had once recited during one of his impromptu history lessons. They were an excerpt from something called the Covenant, an agreement struck between the warring Houses at the outset of the Edge Wars. As he told it, it was a last-ditch effort to quell the conflict and stave off total anarchy. To forge a lasting peace, the House of Judgement had offered a sacrifice of sorts, trading its power and autonomy for something far more precious: unity. That was the heart of the Covenant, Variks had explained—the Pact that bound the Great Houses. At its command, House Judgement had knelt, making way for the new age that had risen in its wake.
Variks had gone on to elaborate on the contingencies a bit further. Some Scribes, hand-picked and trusted, were appointed to fulfill the edits of the Pact in the most literal sense. Designated a custodial House, each contingent was subsequently sent to reside within their respective House's territory. While they spent their lives alongside their charges, to that House, the Scribes did not hold fealty, but rather co-existed as confidants and guides. In the event that matters of actual legal substance—violent crimes, breaches of honor, questions of succession—arose within the host House, the resident Scribes were expected to delegate the dispute to an independent Scribal council, to be heard and resolved in an impartial setting. This discouraged biased rulings, and prevented corruption from marring the integrity of Judgement. Or at least that was how the system had worked in theory.
That hadn't been the fate of all Scribes, though. Separate from the diaspora, those not appointed as emissaries pursued a different course, working in collectives as historians, archivists, philosophers, or researchers. Servants to the greater public good and the preservation of knowledge. They had maintained House Judgement's archives and saw to the dissemination of its scholarship to all corners of Riis. The work, Variks had indicated, had been both demanding and tedious, but vital. Yet others, Elder Scribes, took on more administrative roles, overseeing and directing the activities of their lesser-ranked counterparts. All while acting as House Judgement's delegates to the Great Council that presided over not just the whole of Riis but the consortium of far-flung star systems under Eliksni command.
All of that Meren understood well enough. And yet, up until now, somehow she'd never considered Variks' place in the whole arrangement. Where had her head been that it hadn't crossed her mind to ask him?
Thankfully, it didn't seem like she'd need to now, either. Variks was already elaborating.
"At the Elders' behest, the nobles opened their homes and nests." His words were unhurried. "To host a Scribe of Judgement, the highest of honors, and the Dancers welcomed my cohort's presence with pride. Embraced us with all four arms. They treated us as kin, and together we shared in their joys...and woes. Of their House I hold many fond memories. The faces of friends I remember even now, though they grow faint."
Such a touching vignette, save for one contradiction.
"Wait." Meren squinted. "How is that not considered living with them?"
"Perhaps some clarification," he amended. "My accountability fell to the Dancers alone. My dwellings were among them. Our lives enmeshed. But their home was not mine."
That made even less sense. Meren stared blankly.
Variks tried again. "In interest of edification, a Scribe's duties were...divided. Itinerant. Understand, the Harvest I spent in the company of the Dancers. Mediating, teaching, keeping their Kell's counsel, as the Pact decreed. But come the, ah–" A thoughtful hum escaped him as he sought the correct word before settling on "Hearth. Yes. Come the Hearth, I traveled to the Palace of Judgement, the archives. To study our laws. Learn their intricacies. Reflect. After, the wet season demanded my presence in the Capital, ah, All-Hearts-Home in your tongue. To stand in council with the Elders. A privilege," he added, "though taxing."
Variks took a second, a claw scratching lightly alongside his jaw. "Then, the Sowing. Once again, my travels recommenced, wherever need was greatest. Perhaps a return to the Dancers' hunting villages by the sea, or venture to a distant House to mentor an Initiate; perhaps both." For a moment, he appeared lost in nostalgia's grasp. Then, he blinked himself back to the present. "And last of all, the Refrain. A season of pilgrimage to the site of the Great Machine's first-coming. Where all would go and seek communion. It was there, we Scribes gathered. Offered prayers and praise. There we found...fellowship." Variks shifted. "That was my home, Meren. Among House-kin, brothers and sisters of Judgement, claw sharpening claw. In their company, I was whole. My purpose, certain. But always did the cycle begin anew. Always, did the Harvest return, and I alongside it, to the Dancers."
If Meren had been staring before, she was outright gawking now.
"This was– every year you did this? Or…"
Maybe year wasn't the right word. A people from a star system thousands of light-years away might not gauge time's passage by the movement of celestial bodies as humans did. For all she knew, the old Riisian Eliksni could have based their calendar around something completely arbitrary, like the number of days it took for some ancient Kell's pet Psakilaas to molt.
If she was wildly off-base, Variks didn't correct her; all he did was nod.
Meren's jaw threatened to drop. "That's quite a commitment," she said. "I can't imagine how taxing it must have been, living in a constant state of flux. Having to leave the place you call home again and again. Spending all that time away."
"When one's life-course spans millennia, the burden of time weighs…differently." His lower arms shrugged. "What is a season away when countless more lie ahead?"
She supposed from his perspective it made sense. Still, Meren shook her head.
What a rich and varied life he'd lived, full of comings and goings. And here she was, having hardly ever ventured beyond the confines of a singular city. It was difficult not to feel a bit envious of the freedom he'd once been afforded.
"You must have seen all of Riis in your travels," she marveled.
"Perhaps. Perhaps not," Variks replied. "Ours was a world of prosperity. Ever changing, growing. One could walk the same path a hundred times over and find it altogether different each journey."
A slight grin formed, teasing. "Were you this cryptic back then, too?"
Variks just chuckled.
"The way you talk about Riis," Meren went on. "You make it sound so idyllic."
"And so it was. Once." A wheezing noise followed the remark as Variks seemed to draw a deep breath, turning away to once again appraise the status of the extraction. He prodded the resolution controls at the base of the projector. "Perhaps someday, Eliksni will again have such beauty to call our own."
"Let's hope so."
Forthcoming as the Scribe had been up until this point, Meren could sense his mounting reticence. The respectful thing to do would be to stop there, grateful for what had been divulged, and not press further. She owed him as much, if not more.
Except when she didn't immediately jump to her next inquiry, Variks spoke again.
"Is that all?" He cast a look over his shoulder. "Surely there are more questions in that inquisitive mind of yours."
"Oh, plenty. But I'll spare you the interrogation."
A hand waved her concern off. "Ask," Variks insisted. "Indulge. Please."
Meren hesitated. Even with his explicit invitation, his limit on revisiting the past was likely fast approaching. How much more would he tolerate before the door slammed shut?
Tread carefully, she told herself, adjusting her balance on the stool as she crossed one leg over the other.
"Oh-kay." Meren drew the word out, considering.
Predictably, their exchange thus far had sparked a host of burning questions about the particulars of Variks' life: his duties, life in the Capital city, the Council of Elders, cohabitating with the Dancers, the ins and outs of old Riisian society. Too many and likely too sentimental to bombard him with at once. Better to save them for a time when they both weren't on edge. Besides, something more pressing had just occurred to her.
"You told me once, that you'd left Riis with the House of Rain when the Wh– when it ended."
"Correct."
"Why not the Dancers if you were so close with them?"
The question had seemed innocuous in her head, but the strange look it earned told her otherwise.
"What?" she asked.
For a long moment, Variks held her in that odd, sidelong look. Then, he sighed, withdrawing the rest of his arms from the holoprojector's interface. In the following motion, he pivoted to face her directly, and a hand rose to his mask.
A perplexed Meren could only watch as he slowly reached for the clasps holding the rebreather in place. With a twist of his claws, they came undone, and the mask fell away, revealing a face she'd seen so often as of late.
"Look at me," he rasped in a voice made harsher without the modulation of the mask's vocal synth. "Tell me what you see."
In the bright, sterile lighting, the now-familiar lines of his features—the hard angles of his jaw, the sharp point of his mandibles, the wispy scars marking his cheeks—stood in stark relief. His emerald green robes hung about him in regal folds, the furred mantle draped over his shoulders ruffling faintly in a passing current of recycled ventilation. His expression remained neutral, all eyes unblinkingly fixed upon her.
Meren studied him. And saw...what? What did he expect her to be seeing?
"Variks, I don't…"
"Look," he said again, "and answer. What do you see?"
Still nothing. Or nothing that stood out.
At a loss, Meren responded, "A Scribe of House Judgement."
"Yes, but what more? Look beyond the mantle."
Mouth pressed thin, she scrutinized his face anew. It dawned on her, then, what he was getting at.
To hear the people of the Last City tell it, all Eliksni looked the same. Four eyes, four arms, mouth full of razor-edged teeth. Indistinguishable, one from another, especially where faces were concerned.
That couldn't have been further from the truth.
Even before she'd met Variks, the subtle differences in facial structure from House to House had been evident in her studies. Some populations had smaller, rounder heads. Others, sloping brow ridges and broader muzzles—like Chiisori and Drekhis. Still others sported prominent cheekbones, elongated mandibles, or larger, deeper-set eyes. Not to mention unique, individual variations and mutations, which abounded as well.
So, no, they did not all look the same. But could she discern any given Eliksni's House ancestry just by studying their face? Also no.
Another Eliksni absolutely could, however. They'd know in an instant.
Which brought her back to Variks.
Variks, with his gaunt features and slender frame, who looked so strikingly different from any other Eliksni she'd encountered, and who was currently staring her down with an expectant gaze.
"I see..."
His head cocked the slightest bit to the left.
"...a handsome Scribe of House Judgement," she finished.
No sooner had the words left her mouth than said Scribe's eyes fluttered shut, an exhale hissing through bared teeth. Meren didn't miss the irritated flex of his mandibles, either.
"I don't have Eliksni eyes, Variks," she reminded him.
"Your eyes see more clearly than most."
That shut her right up.
Variks regarded her in silence for a beat, then began again. "My features, look upon them. Look, and see not a Scribe, but the shade of a House lost to time. The House of my forebears."
Obviously, it wasn't House Judgement he was referring to; Judgement had no enduring lineage to call its own. The roots of his ancestry lay with another of the great Houses. An extinct one, evidently.
Putting two and two together, it wasn't difficult for her to surmise which.
"You're Rain-born," she said.
Variks' muzzle dipped in assent, arms spreading in the slightest of bows. "Astute."
"That shouldn't have any bearing on– on anything, though, since your allegiance belongs to House Judgement."
"It should not," Variks agreed. "To Eliksni, one's House-pledge transcends all bonds, even those of birth. It matters not where one comes from. Only where loyalty lies."
He let the statement hang between them as he replaced his rebreather, taking a moment to ensure the delicate ringed ventail fell neatly into place, shrouding his features once again.
"To your question," he circled back, the mask's familiar modulation restored. "Yes, I had close ties with the Dancers. And yes, Judgement is the calling to which I was born. But my old-blood… my old-blood sings the songs of House Rain." He made a low, throaty noise that Meren couldn't quite interpret. "It was they, not the Dancers, who granted me refuge as our home burned—lines of protocol blurred by desperation. A small mercy amidst a sea of anguish. Many were not so lucky."
Meren eyed the tension that had settled into his posture and got the distinct feeling there was more behind the fortuitous rescue than he was letting on.
"But wouldn't the Dancers have done the same?" she wondered. "Certainly, they'd have been honor-bound to protect one of their Scribes?"
Variks chuffed. "Had authority been placed in more compassionate claws, perhaps." A hint of bitterness crept into his voice. "Alas, it was not so. For some, fear outweighed honor in our darkest hours. Countless lives doomed by the cowardice of those meant to safeguard them."
A coldness swept over her as she imagined the terror that must have descended in those waning moments. The confusion, the pillaging, the mad scramble for berths on departing Ketches as death rained down. It must have been utter chaos.
Variks' gaze had fixed on a spot over her shoulder, eyes squinting in recollection. He went on.
"You see, the Dancers were the first to flee Riis after Chelchis' ruin," he explained. "In their haste, they abandoned those unfit for war—hatchlings, Elders, ill, dying. All left behind. A fate I, too, might have shared, were it not for the mercy of House Rain." He shook himself, sending a ripple through his mantle. "Such is the Dancers' shame. To become devils in truth, that day."
"Variks…"
His attention refocused on her. "Now you know."
"That must have been–"
"A long time past," Variks deflected her empathy, stepping back towards the holoprojector as it let out a soft chime. "It need not worry you."
"I was going to say horrible," Meren murmured.
"Hm."
She followed his progress as he circled around to the other side of the projector's platform. Through the scintillating web of psionic pathways, she could make out the way he hunched, eyes slitting as he peered closer, inspecting a particularly bright section of the neural map. He seemed wholly engrossed, but Meren knew he was still listening. Always listening, no matter how preoccupied or detached he appeared.
She pushed forward.
"So, House Rain took you in and ferried you off-planet when Riis fell," Meren recapped, picking at the thread he'd started to unravel. "How long did you, uh, drift with them?"
"Weeks. Perhaps months. Difficult to say."
The stool squeaked as Meren repositioned, leaning forward. "And then you ended up with the Wolves."
His head lifted at that, eyes finding hers through the holographic veil. The look he gave her wasn't so much reproachful as resigned. Like a long-suffering lecturer having to field yet another redundant query from an obtuse pupil.
"A...reassignment," he clarified.
"Because of ancestral ties?"
"More or less."
At that, Meren quieted. Nosing further into the Drift didn't seem right. The horrors told by the Eliksni of Sol were many and unspeakably cruel. The few recordings of firsthand accounts she could get her hands on spoke of death and docking, starvation and sickness. Impossible choices made out of grave necessity. It was hard enough to listen to. How could she subject Variks to reliving that nightmare, knowing the suffering he'd likely endured?
Still, for closure's sake, one question remained.
"And what became of House Rain then?" she asked. "I know they're all lost now, but how?"
Another chime drew Variks' scrutiny to the datapad this time, a hand plucking it off the interface and swiping across the surface.
His head didn't budge from its bowed angle, his eyes glued to the readout as he responded, "The same fate suffered by many. Too few warriors, too many hungry mouths. Dwindling resources. Inevitable, that the Drift claimed them in great numbers. As for those that remained..." The chitter he gave sounded anything but pleased. "When the scattered children of the Whirlwind reached your star... Sol became their tomb."
While not voiced aloud, the implication was clear. Humanity had dealt the killing blow. Funny that the Vanguard's archives made no mention of the incident. They usually took great pride in senselessly slaughtering bands of starving alien refugees.
"May Silence welcome with arms-open?" Her broken High Speak didn't feel sufficient for the occasion, but she offered the words anyway.
"May Silence welcome them with open arms," echoed Variks.
Meren's eyes dropped to her hands folded loosely in her lap. What did you say in the aftermath of a story like that?
"Forgive my questions, Variks. If I've overstepped or been too nosy..."
"Not at all." The reply that met her was far gentler than his usual, gravelly tenor. "So few care to ask or listen. It is…good. For an old Scribe to be heard, from time to time."
In spite of herself, Meren cracked a grin.
"What happened to the Variks who got onto me for asking too many questions?"
The datapad lowered. "Still here. But perhaps in a more…generous mood."
"Generous enough that he'll let me keep going?"
"Ahhh, perhaps not that generous," he demurred, claws curling in reluctance. "But one more? One, I will allow."
She'd been teasing, of course, and would have left off there if not for the opening he'd provided.
"Just one?" Her smile broadened.
"One."
Meren hummed.
It would need to be something lighthearted, she decided, to offset some of the emotional load. Happier memories of times gone by, rather than bleak tales of tragedy. Maybe something about himself, something personal yet innocuous.
So, with just the thing in mind, she looked Variks straight in the eye and asked.
"What do you miss most about home?"
The reaction it garnered was immediate.
Variks went still. Eyes that had been playfully narrowed a second before widened, their glint lost in the bleakness that overtook them. At his sides, his fingers flexed.
Meren's smile disappeared just as quickly.
What a stupid, stupid question. The second the words had left her mouth, she'd realized as much. What did he miss most about Riis? It was, quite possibly, the most callous thing she could have come up with.
So much had been taken from him. Friends, House-kin, community—the most basic sense of belonging and security. Gone was the foundation of his culture and everything it represented. His identity and calling had been reduced to a mockery of the esteem they once held. All that remained of the places he had loved were ashes.
He had lost everything. And here she was, asking him to quantify which of his innumerable losses he mourned the greatest?
He should have scoffed at her ignorance. Rebuked her. A lecture on insensitivity would have been wholly deserved.
But somehow, instead of facing the Scribe's ire, Meren found herself staring back at softening eyes. Melancholy played at their corners as hands upturned.
"The rain," came his reply, oh so soft.
So simple a sentiment. Yet a lifetime worth of sorrow bled from each word.
"Not, ah, House Rain," Variks quickly clarified.
"No, I– I know." She swallowed. "...Thank you."
The returning dip of his muzzle absolved her of any further need to atone. And then he was straightening. Like a switch flipped, his eyes sharpened, and that familiar air of composed authority settled over him once more.
The conversation, as far as Variks was concerned, had come to a close.
With one of his mechanical arms, he beckoned, drawing Meren back to the task at hand. "Come here," he urged, the arm opposite motioning toward the holoprojection. "Join me."
Glad for the excuse to move, she slid off her stool to do just that, rounding the platform as Variks stepped aside, making space for her. A clawed hand skimmed her shoulder in passing as she drew alongside him. Meren pretended not to notice.
"What are you seeing?"
Variks indicated the bright spot he'd been studying earlier, a pulsing knot in the network of fibers. "Fractal recurrence. There. Notice how the patterns repeat? This may be the key."
Squinting into the projection's glow, Meren thought she saw what he meant. The digital filaments and nodes converged in a tight cluster, overlapping and interlacing in a complex, web-like lattice. The telemetries could have been repeating, she supposed. Still, identifying a pattern amidst a host of seemingly infinite, shifting points could just as easily have been a trick of her human brain, trying to make order from chaos, rather than actual, meaningful repetition.
She looked back to Variks. "Are you sure?"
The next thing she knew, the datapad was pressed into her hands.
"See for yourself." He tapped the screen, bringing up the raw numerical data for her perusal.
It was, in a word, overwhelming.
Rows upon rows of tabulated values scrolled past as her thumb swiped downwards. Here and there, cells had been highlighted. Beside them, notations in Eliksni had been inset—Variks' doing no doubt. It went on and on, each column representing some measurement of synaptic activity. Voltage outputs, neurotransmitter levels, something labeled spike-timing. None of it meant anything to her.
Then, a single claw intervened, redirecting her attention to a column at the far right side of the display.
"Here," Variks said. "Neural activity index."
Sure enough, from the numbers, a pattern emerged. A set of six data points, always in the same sequence: 0.0026, 0.0003, -0.0009, -0.0045, 0.0058, -0.0071. Over and over again.
"The key," he reiterated. "Applied to the proper algorithm, this permutation may decode the frequency of Psion Flayer wavelengths. A step closer to understanding their secrets."
With that, the claw retreated, its owner stepping back. Meren swiped through a few more lines, then she handed the datapad off again.
"Well, I'll let you handle the calculations." He was far and away the more mathematically competent of the two of them. "In the meantime, if you happen to need a scribe for anything…"
"Of course. I can think of none better suited." A playful glimmer lit his eyes. "Perhaps a bit talkative at times, but...more than qualified. Hm?"
She sniggered. "I'll take it."
As they both turned back towards the projection, the smile lingered on Meren's lips.
For a while, they stood like that, side-by-side, observing the masterpiece that was the Flayer's mind laid bare, occasionally sharing an observation or comment on its progress. The longer they lingered, however, the quieter the Scribe beside her became. Eventually, his remarks petered out altogether, a pensiveness overtaking him. Meren could sense it in the way his stance shifted and his gaze fixed on some point in the middle distance. Something was weighing on his mind.
At length, Variks spoke up again.
"Meren."
She glanced sideways. "Mn?"
"Meren," he repeated, "I...am sorry. Very, very much so. For what happened. My deception. The harm it did you. The fear and hurt caused. That I was its architect..." He drew a long, slow breath, his voice lowering. "...this I will forever regret."
"Variks–"
"No," he gently cut her short. "Allow me to finish. Please."
With an apologetic nod, she obliged, falling silent once more.
Variks looked at her then, really looked at her. "You are more than a curiosity," he told her. "More than a would-be pawn. And whatever it takes to undo the wrongs I have wrought, I shall see it done. Beginning with the matter of…Spider." A soft hiss and click of mandibles followed the name. "Should you ask it, Spider shall be dealt with. Never will he trouble you again."
Blindsided by the ominous-sounding offer, Meren could only gawk.
Despite the stupid look on her face, the severity of Variks' expression didn't falter. He was dead serious. She dreaded to think what his idea of 'dealing with' someone entailed and just how far he might go should she agree.
"I– Variks," she managed at last. "Thank you. That's...very sweet...I think? But it's really not necessary."
Even as she said it, she could feel herself waver. The temptation to take Variks up on his offer was suddenly very real. As was the vindictive voice whispering in the back of her head. Do it. Let Variks deal with that bastard. See how he likes it when the tables are turned. See what it feels like to have the claws wrapped around his throat.
Variks, however, was having none of her polite declination.
"Please, let Variks fix this," he pressed, taking a step nearer. His hand came up to rest lightly on her shoulder.
The temptation grew for a moment, only to be quashed by the voice of reason.
"Listen," Meren said, "I don't doubt your ability to make my Spider problem go away. And trust me, there's nothing I'd like more than to never have to deal with him again." Her eyes closed for a second. She couldn't believe what she was about to say. "But that's the thing: it's my problem. Not yours."
Variks didn't move. "The burden of resolution should not fall upon your shoulders."
"I'm the one who made the decision to go to the Tangled Shore. On your recommendation, yes, but the choice was still mine."
How did she intend to disentangle herself from Spider's web? Honestly, Meren had no clue. But neither could she rely on Variks'—or anyone else's—intervention every time she got herself into trouble. Nor was it prudent to be further beholden to yet another influential Eliksni, even one with whom she had an intimate rapport.
The hand on her shoulder squeezed gently, and Variks shifted to face her more fully. "It is honorable to own the consequences of one's actions," he conceded. "Most honorable, indeed. Yet to bear them alone? Sometimes even the mightiest warrior must stand with the many-armed support of others."
"Old Eliksni proverb?" she guessed.
"Older than even I."
That earned him a snort.
"The decision is yours, Meren," he concluded, hand slipping from her shoulder. "As always. I only ask you consider my offer."
And she did. For all of two seconds before she craned her neck to look him square in the face. When had he gotten so close?
Almost by reflex, one of her hands lifted, finding its way to the fringe of his mantle. Fingertips brushed the downy tufts of fur, then sank into their softness.
"How about this," Meren began, palm flattening against his chest. If Variks took issue with her boldness, he did a remarkable job hiding it, standing perfectly still, even when she dared to give a small pat. "Instead of...passing judgement on Spider on my behalf, why not lend me your counsel? Maybe you could advise me on how best to, uh, dissolve our business partnership. Diplomatically."
The ensuing rumble that vibrated against her palm could have meant any number of things, from approval to indignation. Still, the fact that Variks didn't pull away seemed a positive sign. If anything, he leaned in a fraction, eyes half-lidded as he considered her.
"My counsel?" he mused. "Such a modest request."
"Is that a no?"
Variks' gaze dropped to where her hand rested, then flicked back up. "Far from it," he assured, outer eyes falling nearly closed. "If it is my counsel you desire, consider it yours."
"Fair warning: I'll probably be asking a lot of questions." She gave his chest a final pat and then withdrew. "A lot."
"So long as there is tea and the pleasure of your company in equal measure, my generosity shall know no end."
A lighthearted scoff escaped her. "You'll have plenty of both, don't worry." Meren took a beat. "Thank you."
The bow he offered in return was shallow but no less elegant for its subtlety, hands spread, palms up, eyes never straying from hers. No words could have conveyed his deference quite so adequately, nor so sincerely. For an instant, it was easy to picture him standing not before a simple human woman, but the resplendent Elders themselves, adorned in the finery of old Riis. A proud and dignified Scribe.
The vision vanished as Variks straightened, taking a step back. He gave her one last assessing look, seemingly satisfied with the outcome of their discussion. Then, without missing a beat, he promptly pivoted the conversation.
"Perhaps the day can be salvaged yet, hm?"
The grin she was struggling to contain had nothing to do with the adorable way his head canted to the side as he said it, Meren assured herself. Nor was it a holdover from the stately bow offered mere moments before.
"If by salvaged you mean the prospect of a happier ending than yesterday..."
The chuckling sound Variks made told her the innuendo hadn't escaped his notice.
"Oh, I would not presume to be so bold," he purred.
Beyond the partition, Kotoc shuddered, a feeble hand straining against its restraints as a trail of blood-tinged froth spilled past its lips. The hand went slack, the spittle dribbling down, down, down.
Neither paid it any mind.
