The Strength of the Few (Hierarchy #2)

I

FEAR, MY FATHER ONCE TOLD ME, IS SIMPLY OUR REALIsation of a lack of control. And that is why when we are afraid, sometimes the only way we can cope—the only way to dull the edge of that lack—is to put our faith in those who appear not to suffer it.

WAIT. RUN.

The words are barely visible beneath pulsing crimson.

Blood slides down my wrist, crawls across my palm and flicks dark droplets from my fingertips as I lope after Caeror through the red, flickering, fuzzing tunnel.

The circle of bronze blades is long behind us.

The Labyrinth not far ahead now. My cuts ache.

Ulciscor's brother tried to explain why I had to make them.

It was a message. To myself. In another world.

It's too bizarre to process yet. It was the steady urgency in his voice that swayed me to action—bloody and surreal and painful though it was. That, and the desperate, desperate need to believe that he truly grasps what is happening here. That he actually knows how to get us out of this nightmare.

That he is in control.

"How do we get past the Remnants?" I pant the words. Still weak from whatever it was that happened to me back there. My voice is small. Deadened by suffocating stone and hazing red light.

"They're in Res." Caeror doesn't look back. "So is the Labyrinth."

I don't have time to doubt him: the tunnel ends ahead, and he's proven right.

Nothing guarding the exit. No walls burst from the ground, no waves of chittering obsidian death spring to life as we hurry—me tentatively—out onto the same expanse of stone upon which I was desperately navigating a maze less than an hour ago.

And yet everything is otherwise identical. Same vast, austere hall. Same platform with its red glass balustrade at the far end, which we head straight for.

"Wait. We need to step on at the same time." Caeror pauses as I position myself beside him. "Now." It's a tight fit. "We need to touch the railing together, too. And … now."

The balustrade glows. We rise, me catching my breath from the run. The hall is quickly replaced by darkness all around, leaving us bathed in scarlet.

Caeror turns to look at me. Dark and wiry, scruffy beard and curly hair framing the violent old scar that stretches from cheek to where his left ear should be.

Different from Ulciscor in so many ways and yet with those same intense brown eyes, it's impossible to mistake them for anything but brothers.

"You're real. Aren't you?" His smile is suddenly there, a dagger to the tension.

Broad and radiant. He's giddy as he studies me. "Tell me you're gods-damned real."

"Yes?" I'm still disoriented. Don't know how else to respond.

He looks upward, and to my shock, releases a bellow into the devouring abyss ahead.

A whoop of unadulterated joy. Relaxing his grip on the railing as he stops, inhales, and then does it again before breaking down into plainly relieved laughter, shoulders shaking.

"Yes! Rotting gods, yes! Oh. Yes. Gods-damn. Yes. Seven years. Gods-damn. What's your name again? "

"Vis."

"Vis! Vis, when we get out of here I am going to give you a hug. It will last far longer than would normally be appropriate. I apologise in advance." He laughs again, a sound somewhere between jubilant and manic. "Rotting gods-damned gods!"

I'm nervous and confused and in pain, but something about his pure, near childlike joy is infectious enough to steady me, even as my heart still pounds.

"I'm glad you're happy." I follow his lead and cautiously unclench one hand from the glowing balustrade.

"What you said back there. You said we're in Obiteum.

That this is … another world?" I bark the last in a half laugh of my own.

I must have misheard. Aloud, it's even more preposterous.

Caeror's smile remains as he calms from his delirium.

"It's a lot to take in, I know. There's going to be more before I can explain everything, too, but we're in quite a bit of danger until we get off this island.

" Still cheerful, but something about the delivery says he's serious.

"Can we leave the questions until we're out? I promise you'll get your answers."

It's not really a request. "Alright."

He gives a genial nod, then sees me rubbing at my arm, which has begun to ache. "Hurting?"

I shrug. "From the cuts, I suppose."

"You sure?"

"I don't know. It just started." It's not something I've had time to focus on, but the way he asks makes me do it now. "The whole thing hurts, actually."

He nods again, unsurprised, as he draws an object from his pocket.

"Strap this to it. Skin to stone." It's an amulet of some kind, hung on a leather band that threads through a slot clearly made for the purpose.

I squint through the glowering red. An intricately carved scarab beetle, only about an inch across, peers back.

"What is it?"

"Vitaerium." He holds up his own arm, displaying an identical amulet. "Whatever you do, make sure it's not loose."

"Why?" No masking my unease. Vitaeria are for keeping people alive. Usually very sick people.

"It will prevent any damage from Res or Luceum from bleeding through." Caeror touches the scar tissue over his missing ear meaningfully.

"Not to mention that the air here is … shall we say, less than nice to breathe. Outside, without one of these, your throat and lungs are going to start blistering within an hour or so. But Vis?" He raises an eyebrow.

"Those were questions, and we're not out. "

I bite back both an uneasy retort and my desire to find out more, and swiftly loop the supple leather until the scarab sits snugly against my skin. From what little I know, there's a chance these only work on people who have been through the Aurora Columnae. "The problem is—"

There's a jolt as the stone settles. A thrill that arcs through my body.

The pain fades.

"Better?"

I massage my left arm. As surprised as I am relieved. "Yes."

"Then listen carefully."

The short remainder of our ascent through the void is filled with a combination of hurried explanations of what to expect outside, and simple directives.

The air will hurt to breathe, but that's normal and I'll adapt.

There will be a descent via some sort of platform from the entrance and he hopes, wryly, that I do not have a problem with heights.

It's dawn or not long past, and it will be my job to watch the skies and let him know if I see any sign of movement. Anything at all.

He says that last part three times, and even his evident good mood fades to seriousness in the emphasis.

Caeror pauses for long periods between each instruction, clearly thinking.

A half smile locked on his face. It's his ebullience, as much as anything else, that reassures me.

Allows me the composure to suppress question after burning question, and choose to believe that Ulciscor's brother knows what he's doing.

"Almost there," says Caeror suddenly, glancing up.

On cue, the surrounding void is broken by a sheer wall sliding down into the balustrade's bloody glow; the platform slows, coming to a stop adjoining the narrow opening that I know leads out. I let Caeror take the lead.

"Scintres Exunus." Caeror calls the words ahead. A deep grinding answers, and dawn floods the stairs in front of us. The light reveals smooth walls to my left and right. No eyeless corpses lining the way.

Caeror notes my surprise. Stops. "What are you looking at?"

"Nothing." His gaze is a silent interrogation. "There were dead bodies here."

"Obsidian blades in them?" His expression twists at my confused affirmation.

"Another adaption." His gaze flicks to my bloodied left arm, but he seems to discard the idea as soon as he has it.

"Well, we were always going to need a little luck. Nothing we can do now except get the hells out of here ourselves. Come on."

I follow him. The air has been growing gradually thicker, but about halfway up the stairs it hits me. Dense and cloying, suddenly sharp as it sticks to my lungs. I cough, then briefly panic as I struggle to inhale. My throat burns and closes up.

"The sweet scent of Obiteum." Sympathy in Caeror's blithe observation.

I lean with hands balled into fists against the nearest wall. Head down. Teeth clenched. It's like the insides of my chest are being cauterised.

"Alright." I eventually rasp it, forcing myself to straighten. I don't know how long it's been, but the pain has abated. Not disappeared—every breath is still an act of coarse internal violence—but bearable.

Caeror eyes me. "Your head's clear?" When I nod, he sweeps a curl of black hair from his eyes and starts up the remaining stairs. Energetic and determined. "Then onward."

We reach the top, and I see the entrance ahead opening out into the dawn. I slow. Trying to process that empty triangle of morning sky with no end. My discomfort, briefly forgotten.

The verdant hillside from which I entered the dome is gone, replaced by … nothing. Air. We must be a thousand feet up; as I edge toward the entrance, the view reveals miles upon miles of devastated dirt and stone far below. The forests and rivers are gone. Not a hint of green anywhere.

I fight a wave of vertigo. Of terror. Of denial.

Caeror's claim, for the first time, is real to me.

"Rotting gods." I whisper it disbelievingly into the expanse. "Rotting gods."

"Something like that," agrees Caeror from behind me.