David Farland - Beyond the Gate

Orick bounded forward.

“No!” the Harvester shouted, and a Tekkar guard obediently leapt to intercept the bear.

Gallen snatched his pulp gun, shot the Tekkar as he rushed past, and the bullet popped under his right eye. His skull cracked and expanded outward for a moment like a burgeoning wine bag, and shards of bone ruptured the skin. His eyes flew out, and smoke issued from the holes. His upper teeth broke off unevenly, spitting out to the floor. White shards of skull cut through skin, and blood spattered Ceravanne’s face.

The Tekkar guard crumpled in ruin, and Ceravanne screamed in horror at the sight. Time seemed to slow.

Gallen cried out, and the gun fell from his hand as the Inhuman regained control. Suddenly Gallen dropped back to one knee.

Orick stopped halfway to the Harvester’s throne as the second guard rushed forward, swinging his sword in complex arcs.

The Harvester merely stood, watching them all, and Ceravanne studied her every tiny gesture, every seemingly unconscious movement of the eyes. The Harvester had not cried out at the horrible sight of her guard, crumpling in ruin. The image of it had struck Ceravanne to the very core, but the Harvester was merely watching. And suddenly Ceravanne felt very uneasy. She had come here imagining that she and the Harvester were one, single organisms that had branched out on different paths. But now she wondered just how far they might have diverged. The Harvester stood rigid, trembling, but the murder of a man before her eyes had not seemed to cause her undue discomfort.

Ceravanne knew that the Inhuman planted memories from the lives of warriors in its victims, but now she wondered what that would be like, wondered how the horror of committing such atrocities would leave their mark on the Harvester.

In ages past, Ceravanne had turned her back on the Rodim, let their kind be slaughtered, removed from the face of the earth. It had not been a sin of commission. She had killed no one herself, had never even seen a Rodim die. But she forced herself to remain silent as the slaughter began. It had taken all of her will, sapped her strength, left her unable to sleep for thousands of nights afterward. She could not imagine ever committing a crime more horrible than what she had done.

But the Harvester stood before her, and she bore memories of war, of her own hands bathed in another’s blood. Somehow, Ceravanne had imagined that the Harvester would be able to disassociate herself from such memories, to recognize that she had never committed such atrocities.

But Ceravanne knew better than that. The peoples of Babel had been created because of the Tharrin’s inaction, their unwillingness to control mankind. If the Tharrin asserted more control, they could end this madness. Human misery was the gauge of Tharrin inadequacy.

And so Ceravanne felt the stain of blood upon her, the stain of blood for every man who had ever died under the sword, the guilt of every good man who was forced to kill in order to defend himself. The stain was always there. Ceravanne could feel her conscience whispering to her, though she tried to block it from her mind.

But how much more horrible would it be to have the Inhuman show her true waste and destruction, to live through the horrors of becoming a killer, to suffer the atrocities committed by others? How could Ceravanne bear it, if the Inhuman were to show her the misery her people suffered? How could the Harvester even bear to stand, to breathe, to speak while under the weight of such guilt. It was not the lies that the Inhuman told that so much bothered Ceravanne, it was the threat of all the damning truths. How could anyone bear it?

Indeed, the Harvester only stood gazing at the room, and the muscles at her mouth twitched. She drew weak, rapid breaths, and her eyes gazed around in bewilderment.

The Harvester was struggling for control, struggling against the Inhuman.

Gallen climbed to his feet, turned and looked at Ceravanne. His eyes had rolled back in his head, and slowly, as if fighting a great battle with himself, he whispered, “Leave us!”

“Gallen?” Orick said, gazing deep into his eyes. “Are you in there?”

Gallen said nothing intelligible, but his voice gurgled. And Ceravanne looked at Gallen’s mantle on the floor, realized that his mantle was still fighting, trying to block the Inhuman’s signals, just as Gallen was still struggling against it.

Ceravanne stepped forward. The Tekkar guard swung his sword menacingly, still blocking the path, and though the guard would not let Orick pass, Ceravanne suspected that she herself might have a better chance of reaching the Harvester.

Ceravanne crossed the room, pulled back her hood, and the Tekkar stood looking at her in her splendor. She hesitated for a moment, waiting for her scent to fill the air around her, so that her powerful pheromones would have time to work on the Tekkar. By nature, Ceravanne was aware of subtle forms of manipulation. Tone of voice, gestures, scent-all worked together to create a mood.

The Tekkar stopped swinging his sword, considering, and Ceravanne watched his purple eyes. There was a hint of widening, as if the Tekkar were surprised by her lack of fear, but his eyes did not stare beyond her, losing their focus, as so often happens when one is planning to kill. Ceravanne held her hands together and hunched her shoulders, making herself seem smaller. It was a pose that spoke at once of unconscious authority and vulnerability. Her beauty and scent confused the Tekkar with a sensual aura. Ceravanne had called mortal enemies together and got them forging alliances within minutes, yet even after thousands of years of experience, she could not be sure that her persuasive powers would work on the Tekkar.

“Let me pass,” Ceravanne said softly, as if reminding him that she had the perfect right to command. “I will not harm you, and I do not believe you wish to harm me. There has been too much violence already.”

The Tekkar’s lips parted and he looked back to the Harvester in confusion, and in that moment of hesitation, Ceravanne crossed the room, stood at Gallen’s side, rested her hand on his shoulder, and looked up into the face of the Harvester. There was sweat running down the woman’s forehead, and she held her jaw clenched, trembling. “Fight it,” Ceravanne whispered vehemently to both Gallen and the Harvester.

“Fight with your whole souls.” Ceravanne stepped toward her, and the Harvester reached for the knife on her hip.

“Please, not one more life!” the Bock said, holding its arms high. “I beg of the Ceravanne who once was, do not let this Inhuman force you into taking one more life!”

The Harvester stood, and beads of sweat began dotting her forehead. “I can’t … stop it. I can’t hold … it!”

Ceravanne pulled back her hood, exposing her own mantle. “Yes you can, for a moment, at great cost. And in that moment, you are free. I’ve spoken with those technicians who designed the Inhuman,” she whispered. “The memories it shows you are flawed, and all of its conclusions are lies. You are not responsible for the sum of human misery. I’ve come to bring you truth. Put on this mantle, and let it teach you peace. It will free you.”

She began walking slowly toward the Harvester, who looked toward the exits. Ceravanne feared that she would jump and flee down one of those corridors. The Tekkar guard moved uneasily, as if to intercept Ceravanne, and the Bock hurried toward the throne.

The Harvester raised her hands, as if to ward Ceravanne away. “No,” she whispered. “Leave now! I do not want to hurt you!”

“And I do not want to hurt you,” Ceravanne said softly, all feigned vocal tones aside. The Harvester would know if she lied.

The Tekkar guard moved to intercept the Bock, and the Harvester cried, “Stop him!” The Bock stopped beside Orick, unable to advance farther.