Lyssa laughed. “I don’t trust him. I just don’t think he’s going to kill me. I figure if I’m going to get targeted, I might as well have a deadly Eclipse backing me up, just like what was supposed to happen, in theory, back in the ghost town.”
She jogged around a corner, almost bumping into a six-legged, two-armed gold construct toting a silver box. A delicious herbaceous smell wafted from the box, Last Remnant’s version of takeout.
“Chris is gone, and I’m still processing that,” Lyssa continued, “but that wasn’t the only reason I came here, and St. James contacting me reminded me of that.”
Minutes of brisk walking brought her close to her destination. Whatever else she might say about Last Remnant, the main city was very walkable. Shadow college kids would love it.
The Garden of Glories was nestled between four towers near the western edge of the city. Circular platforms filled with dark soil floated in twisted and overlapping spiral patterns, the platforms increasing in height with yards in between them. At the bottom levels, smaller flowers and unassuming grasses dominated, but larger, more exotic flowers took over farther up, including plants and flowers that were unnatural. They sported an array of colors and complicated patterns, including swirls and geometric designs that were the result of careful sorcerous manipulation. Lyssa spotted some that were covered with Lemurian script, mostly pretentious poems.
Beneath the platforms stood living sculptures of wood, flowers, and leaves. They’d been twisted and shaped by sorcery until they resembled animals, people, and small buildings.
The sculptures were evenly spaced in nested hexagons. The eerie precision and detail of the decorations from a distance unnerved Lyssa.
Initially, they looked like nothing more than their subjects frozen in time. It was only up close that the lie was revealed by their textures. There was even a life-sized dragon.
Lyssa stared at the statue. The Society hadn’t allowed anyone to make a dragon for a thousand years. The grand scale of the required sorcery should have made it impossible to pull off without someone noticing, but given what had happened in Cochise County, she wouldn’t be surprised if a new one showed up.
A single tree stood in the Garden of Glories, situated on the topmost platform. The massive tree extended far into the sky, and its glowing roots stretched out to the soil of each platform. Colorful birds perched on its branches or flew to or from them. Many in the Society insisted that world-tree concepts in Shadow mythology had been inspired by the Prime Tree in the Garden of Glories.
Lyssa wasn’t as sure about that. The Shadows had good imaginations. Even though many legends had been inspired by sorcery, she thought the Illuminated tendency to insist that every myth and legend throughout history had a basis in Society activity was arrogant and dismissive. It was a way for the Illuminated to claim more control and influence over the world than they had.
Despite their power, their small numbers had always meant the Illuminated operated from a fundamentally limited position. The occasional well-placed manipulation might have put history on a different course, but the river of causation swamped even the dedicated efforts of Sorcerers.
Beyond that, the Shadows were capable of a kind of wonder curiously lacking among Lyssa’s kind. It was the wonder of the Shadows that took them from huts to the moon and proved they weren’t inferior.
The Illuminated might have the Heart of Remnant and the Garden of Glories, but they hadn’t landed a probe or a construct on any other planet. They didn’t have the market for achievement cornered.
Lyssa looked around for Tristan. He stood next to a sculpture of a small red wyvern. There were many people in regalia and masks in the city and buildings, but seeing the Eclipse standing there inspecting the display as if he did it every day struck Lyssa as odd.
The man was a walking legend who’d flung dangerous and powerful sorcery at her just days ago. One mistake during the fight could have cost her life. He’d admitted to killing Sorcerers without authorization and claimed he was digging into the heart of a decades-old conspiracy. Now he was here, blatantly challenging that conspiracy. They both were.
Lyssa took a deep breath. She couldn’t help her brother now, but she could take down some rogues.
“Jofi,” she said. “I’m going to assume the spirit density is higher here, beyond what you might expect on Last Remnant.”
“That’s correct,” he replied. “Do you wish to take greater precautions?”
“No.” Lyssa smiled. “It makes me feel better because it means he’s ready for trouble.”
“Or he’s ready to kill you,” Jofi replied. “You might have served your purpose.”
“I trust Caroline’s spell. He’s got no reason to kill me yet.”
“He might have told the truth at that time and later changed his mind,” Jofi replied.
“I’ve got enough paranoia without you feeding me those kinds of scenarios.” Lyssa sighed. “Let’s see what he has to say and go from there. I’m not unarmed, and I have showstoppers. Given how the Elders feel, if I end up killing Tristan St. James, I doubt they’re going to be broken up.”
She strolled toward Tristan, unsurprised when the soft whistling of the wind and the ripple of a nearby stream vanished when she got closer. “I’m here like you said.” She shrugged. “So, what’s going on?”
“Did you find what you were looking for in the Vault of Dreams?” Tristan asked with no hint of sympathy in his voice.
She didn’t mind. They weren’t friends. He wasn’t even a frenemy like Aisha. She and Tristan were nothing more than allies of convenience going after the same people at the same time.
“I don’t know.” Lyssa glanced at a platform filled with a rainbow array of sunflowers. “I found something, just not what I wanted. I’m having a hard time doubting the Northern Trickster returned to the Vault of Dreams now, which leads me back to you. Either you already killed the man responsible for killing my brother,
