Tragic Providence

  BLESSING OR CURSE?

  Pylas Crier was too smart for his own good. His book, a secret cipher designed to take down the Sachs crime family, was a runaway success. With fame, though, comes revelation and reprisal, costing him his family and nearly his own life. Going into hiding, he learns the Divine Pattern Fist, which sets him on a course of mental and physical development that knows no bounds. He is not alone in his rise, and several seemingly unrelated threads converge when the sacred Viscain Tree undergoes a transformation. The world forever changes that day, and Pylas along with it, but in the end, will he merely be the victim of tragic providence?

  KING YELLOW

  1

  TRAGIC PROVIDENCE

  by Chris Eisenlauer

  TRAGIC PROVIDENCE

  Published in the United States of America

  by Chris Eisenlauer for Kindle.

  Copyright © 2017 by Chris Eisenlauer.

  All rights reserved.

  First published May 2017.

  Cover by BetiBup33 Design Studio.

  For Medical Science. Thanks.

  Thanks also to Joshua Davey, whose help, as always, has been invaluable.

  CONTENTS

  RATS IN THE WALLS - PROLOGUE

  PART I - PINE 1.1 PYLAS CRIER

  1.2 GOVAN JAY

  1.3 DIVINE PATTERN

  1.4 WIL PARISH

  1.5 ONE MONTH

  1.6 INTO MOTION

  1.7 INFINITE CASCADE

  PART II - YANA TOMON 2.1 OPEN GATES

  2.2 PRAY, PREDATOR

  2.3 LEILIA PUPURATA

  2.4 DIVINE WILL

  2.5 HAIL SAMHAIN

  PART III - THE WORLD 3.1 FIVE YEARS AFTER

  3.2 SEVEN YEARS AFTER

  3.3 NINE YEARS AFTER

  3.4 TEN YEARS AFTER

  3.5 ELEVEN YEARS AFTER

  3.6 TWELVE YEARS AFTER

  3.7 THIRTEEN YEARS AFTER

  EPILOGUE

  AFTERWORD

  RATS IN THE WALLS

  VOLUME ONE

  by Pylas Crier

  PROLOGUE

  Jardin was a little too smart and a little too sensitive—a bad combination, considering the wall he’d been born into. No rat chose his first wall. Some were good, some were bad, but all walls were full of opportunities for growth. It just depended on how you wanted to grow. That was the crux of Jardin’s dilemma. Had he been alone, he would have picked up and moved. He had no doubts that he would succeed, no matter the wall. But he wasn’t alone. His mother was sick, his siblings were hungry, and none of them could provide for themselves.

  His father, Rasco, had left them early. Some said that family just didn’t agree with him. Some said that he was the victim of a double-cross. Since Jardin’s mother never spoke of Rasco, and attempting to do so only saddened her, Jardin had decided to reserve judgment. When he came across his father’s bond knife, though, that had changed. Bond knives, in addition to their obvious utility, served as contracts between a rat and his syndicate family. He’d always known that his father had been a Forneo syndicate rat, but finding the bond knife, carefully hidden and wrapped in oilpaper, which was inscribed with a number of names, raised more questions about the nature of his father’s disappearance. Some of the names he recognized as well-known Forneo family members; some names he’d never seen or heard before; a combination of both had various hash marks next to them with no hint of what was being tallied.

  He had no proof of anything, but double-cross sat a little heavier on the scales now. Trapped by circumstance, and with a desire to trust in his father’s memory, Jardin decided to make use of the bond knife—his inheritance—and make his own way up through the ranks of the Forneo family. The knife would be his license, gaining him access to the inner world of the syndicate, a foothold at least, from which to start his climb. Given his father’s uncertain fate, Jardin knew he might be entering into hostile territory. Syndicate life was tough, but the worst threats were always those which were least obvious. Armed with his father’s oilpaper and an intellect sharper than any supposed, Jardin set out to make his fortune with the help of—or in spite or at the expense of—all the other rats in the walls.

  PART I

  PINE

  1.1 PYLAS CRIER

  To say the book was well-received would be a colossal understatement. They called him a genius. And he was, but being a genius wouldn’t spare him the consequences.

  Fame came quickly to Pylas Crier. Even before graduating from the illustrious Zelnia University, he’d finished and published Rats in the Walls, becoming the youngest and most successful novelist in the history of the greater city-states. Strangely, the work came late to his home city-state of Pine, but there, too, its popularity spiraled.

  With fame, though, came scrutiny. Everyone wanted to know the secret behind Rats in the Walls.

  Had the as yet unknown Crier simply put his name to a work written by one of the masters? Some said his style was reminiscent of Bali Kogill. But only reminiscent. There were experts to say that it wasn’t Kogill’s. And of course there was Kogill.

  Was it a piece of original fiction? That was the general consensus even now. But the question remained: how could someone so young with so little life experience produce such a tale? The plot was expertly constructed, the characters were so believable, so real. More than that, though, there were countless many who were already calling this story of crime-as-cancer the defining allegory of the modern age.

  The answer was simple. Crier was a genius.

  While not denying his genius, some argued that he had simply—or not so simply—documented a true story, embellishing where appropriate and dressing up the players as anthropomorphized rats, who scurried through the shadows, under our noses all the time, unseen due to their stealth or our apathy.

  This last was the most interesting possibility, and if it were true, who were the real players? How and where could the son of a Pinese gentleman, a student no less, get access to such a depraved and seedy lot? The people of Pine thought they might have the answer to the first of these questions.

  • • •

  “Mr. Crier, your novel is titled Rats in the Walls, Volume One. It clearly ends in tragedy with every last loose end tied up, but many have been speculating about the appellation of ‘Volume One’. Does it mean that we can expect another story in the same vein? Or, rather, does it lend credence to the rumors that Volume Two in fact already exists and is a cipher, identifying the real-world corollaries of the characters and their respective crimes as depicted in Volume One?”

  “Miss Barto, Tila—it’s been a long time, by the way—I have been accused of many things: of borrowing heavily from those better known and simply better than me, of being a naïve subscriber to poetic justice, of even being genuinely creative and entertaining, but never of being a magician. Because a magician is what I would have to be if what you suggest were true. Irresponsible, too. If there were such a book, it would ruin lives. Mine in particular. And I would never want to jeopardize my future, not when it’s just been broadened.” Pylas regarded the dark-haired girl next to him and squeezed her hand. She stared up at him with a combination of awe and adoration.

  Pylas pushed his wireframe glasses up the bridge of his nose with his free hand and studied Tila Barto. He’d known her years ago when they were children, had seen her more recently on the Channel 9 news, but echographs didn’t convey the truth of her presence. She was dark-complected and fit, and fairly glowed with intensity. Her copper, sun-streaked hair was, as always, pulled back into a ponytail that seemed to have a life of its own. He tried not to notice the swell of her bosom and the way it moved with the slightest provocation.

  “Tila,” he said, “the protagonist dies. Adding Volume One
to the title simply means that, regardless of the tied-up loose ends, the story is not finished. If you or I were to die tomorrow would the world stop? No. But I’ll tell you, if there were a Volume Two, a continuation let’s say, it’s a story that only a dead man could know. You see?”

  “But what about the Sachs family and their allegations of libel?”

  “I’m sorry, Tila, is Jeiman Sachs in fact a rodent? That is news.”

  She clenched her teeth against the response she wanted to give.

  “Now,” Pylas said, “if you don’t mind, my new bride and I have some business to attend to that requires privacy and involves just the two of us.”

  Tila blushed under the force of the young man’s meaningful stare. Her arm dropped, and the active microphone she held in her hand made a booming thump against her thigh as she stepped out of the couple’s way, giving them their exit.

  After they were gone, she sighed and fanned herself against the flush in her cheeks. “Damn it.”

  “Anything we can use?” her soundman said.

  “No. Maybe. I don’t know.”

  • • •

  Aya Crier lay in bed, squirming with satisfaction in the silky sheets.

  “This must be a dream,” she said.

  “Careful. Talk like that will go to my head.”

  “Not just that, Pylas. All of it. When my parents told me I was to be married, I was not pleased. What girl wants her future decided for her? Especially when it’s sudden and to be with a man she’s never met. But you, for all your arrogance—if I may be so bold as to say—are wonderful.”

  “Straight to my head.”

  “You are sweet and honest,” she said, ignoring him, “and funny and intelligent.”

  “You forgot handsome.”

  She smiled, brushing her cheek with the sheet curled in her fingers. “And you can provide for us. If you never write another page, we should still want for nothing. We needn’t be dependent on either of our families’ fortunes. As far as husbands go, no one could do better.”

  Pylas couldn’t speak. He could only stare at the girl, a girl he hadn’t known for more than three months, but who was here in his bed as his wife. She was beautiful. She was all the things she had just accused him of being and more.

  He opened his mouth several times but the words wouldn’t come. She was right. It was perfect.

  “I know it’s only been a short time,” he said, “and I wouldn’t blame you if you didn’t believe me. . .”

  “Go on,” she said playfully.

  He dropped his head. “Regardless of the circumstances of our marriage and regardless of the promises our parents have made. . .”

  “Yes?” She was enjoying this.

  “I think I love you, Mrs. Crier.”

  She smiled as she gnawed at her lower lip. “Yes. I do believe you do. That’s why this must be a dream.”

  • • •

  “You’re taking a substantial risk coming here.” The voice was flat and uninflected, quite at odds with the import of the information it conveyed.

  “My dear constable, you worry too much,” Pylas said.

  Aren Silestry, Pine’s Chief Constable, known to some as The Corpse for his unshakable morality and relentlessly cool demeanor, shook his head slowly, evenly, his face grave. “Did you hear Tila Barto’s e-cast? She’s not stupid, or at least someone on her staff isn’t. Your arrogance is going to be the end of you, Pylas.”

  “And you?” Pylas said, finally showing a measure of concern.

  The other shrugged, turned to face the black night that loomed just beyond the window glass. “Perhaps.

  “Your story was too good. Despite your efforts to control and regulate it, its popularity is going to bury you. And not with fame, fortune, and lavish praises. You don’t have a monopoly on clever thinking. Teasing Barto with that comment about Volume Two was going too far, especially when all attention is on you. Speaking of which, how do you know you weren’t followed? That we aren’t being heard and watched right now?”

  “I checked. Like you taught me.” Pylas lowered his eyes. “I’m sorry.”

  Silestry sighed. “What happens to me happens, Pylas. I chose this path long before you ever wrote that book. I am very grateful to you for all your assistance. I would like to say that I admire and respect your courage, not that I await the consequences of your ego and recklessness. You have a family. You’re little more than a boy yourself. You have your parents and your new bride to consider. Please, for your own sake, say no more to anyone about Rats in the Walls. Invoke the artist’s privilege of eccentricity. Say that you have moved on, that the work is behind you, that it is even beneath you and that all you can think about is your new project. I have known enough artists to know that no one will think twice about such behavior.” He paused, his face showing the slightest hint of displeasure. “Or they wouldn’t have. I’ll be honest with you, Pylas. It may be too late. Barto’s report was a bit too close to the mark.”

  “What did she say?”

  Silestry shook his head, smiling wanly. “You can read the account in the morning edition. There is nothing we can do or undo right now. You should get back home. But be especially careful.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Pylas.”

  “Yes,” Pylas said, turning as he reached for the door.

  “Whatever happens, I want you to know that what you’ve done is a good thing. A remarkable thing. Few people would go to the lengths you have for friendship.”

  Pylas stared at Silestry for a moment, trying as usual to rectify the emotionless tone with the words he knew to be genuine and sincere, and was nearly overwhelmed by emotion himself. “Thank you,” he managed to say. “I’ll do my best to not let you down.”

  • • •

  Pylas walked the dark streets, constantly looking over his shoulder. The ever-present estate walls made him feel both secure and trapped at the same time. He was nervous. Up until now, it had all seemed like a game, but too many people were glomming on to the same idea, the truth that would ruin him just as surely as it had propelled him to fame.

  He almost regretted writing the damned book. Almost. There was a purpose and it was being served, but everything could spin out of control, making his efforts moot and putting a lot of people in real danger.

  Aya. She really was perfect, more than he could have ever hoped for. He smiled and vowed to himself to do exactly as Silestry had instructed. Pylas was finished with Rats in the Walls. He took a deep breath of night air, feeling empowered by his decision.

  He walked along the wall of his family estate now with the gate just up ahead. It was funny how surreal things became in the dark. It was very late. No one else was out and so it was very quiet. Everything seemed so different, so on the edge of dream. Especially with the little isolated pools of electric light from the street lamps only revealing scattered pieces of the night. He would have to write a story about that some day. As he approached the gate, a strange sensation of stillness began to build. Despite the dark, his vision seemed abnormally acute, through his glasses, of course, but the clarity managed to intensify the pressing stillness.

  Pylas put his hand to the gate and felt the door give to the slight pressure.

  That was odd. Had he left it unlocked? Certainly he hadn’t left it open. Had he?

  His heart began to pound. His breath quickened and his imagination was soon racing with the threat of formless, faceless horror. He was just scaring himself, though, and he marveled at how easy it was to do. He was an adult, after all.

  Maybe there was a future to be had in writing horror.

  That pervasive feeling of stillness assailed him again. It was absolutely silent. Not even the night birds stirred. Pylas didn’t know if that meant anything or not, but he congratulated himself on the observation nonetheless. He walked the inner courtyard, all too aware of the sound of his own footsteps. Shadows took on menacing shapes and threatened to pounce with each incremental advance. Finally, he reach
ed the front door, only shaking his head in confusion and denial as he nudged it further open. There was some logical reason for it being ajar. There had to be, of course, but the logic of possible intruders was not something he was yet capable of considering.

  Something black and shiny covered the entryway tiles. Pylas fumbled for the lights, found the switch, and nothing. He slowed, almost unable to move forward. His breath, too, came in little hushed gasps. He realized that he was unconsciously holding his breath in an effort to remain silent. Pylas followed the shiny black trail, glittering in the diffused window light, in a stutter-step course, drawn inexorably by his awful curiosity, which won out over his fear. When he reached the receiving room he stopped, physically unable to proceed beyond the crushing dread of what he saw inside.

  Pieces. There were pieces everywhere, littering the room and wet with more of the shiny black liquid, which Pylas knew must actually be red in proper light. Here was an arm ending in a meaty stump with a knob of glowing white bone protruding. There was a head seeming to grow right from the floor, its eyes open, set in a frozen start.

  Mother.

  An eternity passed. When time suddenly resumed for Pylas, the dread reached down his throat, yanked hard, bent him double, and spilled the contents of his stomach in a splash over the kaleidoscope gore. He dropped to his knees, and clutched at his head where his heart pounded thunder. From this new angle, light glinted off something that caught his eye. Pylas squinted and saw a part of his father. It was his hand, his fingers clutching up at empty air, his wedding band gleaming feebly.

  Aya! The thought was a flash of hopelessness that made him vomit again. His stomach pumped and pumped, but here was nothing left. He tried to master his breathing. He wiped his mouth and attempted to stand, having some trouble with the slick layer of blood and sick on the floor. As he struggled for balance his eyes fell upon her. Her hair was all he could make out. Her beautiful hair, now appallingly decorated with beads of sticky blood. Some part of Pylas shut down then.