The Deep Ether Campaign/Side Story: Banshee Goes Home

Banshee accompanied Prince Sigvald back to the Blood Court / Court of Terrors. The "Court" was a ramshackle collection of slave shacks and guard barracks, built around three central nodes: the port, the arena, and Sigvald's palace. All told, Sigvald and his cabinet ruled over a government of a few dozen, using an army of a few hundred to subjugate a city of a hundred thousand. The population of the entire planet might be a few million, with Sigvald's total army numbering ten thousand or so.

The Court had once been Banshee's entire world, and the Arena had dominated that microcosm: it was in the arena that Banshee first knew victory, but it was also a place of unrelenting, crushing humiliation: Banshee remembered well the baying, spitting crowds of slaves and the terrifying, brutal intercessions of the faceless guards, but perhaps most of all he remembered Sigvald's cabinet and the cruelties of two of its members — McFearson, the Master of Lights, and The Marionette, the Mistress of Sound.

McFearson was the longest surviving member of Sigvald's inner circle at 50 years of service, with the exception of Sigvald's Surgeon, who might not be so much a member of the circle as a literal extension of Sigvald's will. McFearson's title aptly reflected his psionic ability to manipulate light itself. He used this power to guide the lighthouse of the city's port, but true to the wasteful spectacle of the Court, it seemed that Sigvald valued him more as a lighting director for the arena. Like all psionics who served the Prince closely, McFearson had been handicapped by Sigvald to prevent rebellion: McFearson and the Marionette both lacked ligaments, courtesy of the Surgeon. Each was held upright by wires connected to a (separate) floating disk, which they could propel using telekinesis. Naturally, Sigvald reserved the means to detach the disks from their wires with the press of a button, literally "cutting the strings" of his puppets.

Others in Sigvald's circle were likewise impaired: Mario, the Mount of Sigvald, was possessed of phenomenal strength and the ability (telekinetically augmented) to jump distances of 40 feet in a bound. But he carried on his back a sinister pumping mechanism which siphoned away his blood and vital fluids, leaving him with a feeble constitution and providing the Prince with a supply of refreshing, revitalizing libation.

So it was that Mario, McFearson and the Marionette (who kept trying to remember their name) came out to greet the returning Prince and his heir apparent when they landed at the Court. Also in attendance were Sigvald's Reaper and another of his bastard sons, Sigurd the Banal (a title surely imparted by his father). The reunion was an unhappy affair indeed for Banshee: McFearson remembered an arena dog and did not see the difference in the returning heir. Banshee's attempt to cut McFearson's strings was thwarted by a bad draw.

The Marionette, McFearson's shadow, noted the attempt and began machinating against Banshee. To this bruising of egos, Sigvald added his own twist: he informed Banshee that his record as a champion of single combat had been bested since his departure, by a warrior known as Serghit. Serghit had four championship titles to Banshee's three. A duel, and Serghit's death, would set the record even and Banshee as his killer would break the tie. Sigvald gleefully explained that Serghit was a psychic blank, immune to all psionic attack and suggestion. Banshee, of course, agreed to the duel. And so the Prince's return, and the naming of his heir, was to be inaugurated with an arena battle.

The cabinet took up its position in Sigvald's Arena Box, overlooking a blood-soaked field ringed closely with stone stands and, further out, shoddy wooden extensions. Between the stands and the field was a barricade garnished with razor wire and punctuated by stakes. Banshee appeared on the side of the arena closest to the Prince's Box, with Serghit at the other end. A light shone on each: red on Serghit, blue on Banshee (blue being the Prince's color, and a sure sign of his favor, but McFearson saw to it that the blue upon Banshee was just slightly off).

Serghit, who had once been a mine slave, was clad not in metal armor but in a form of crude rock-mail: stone linked together by chains. Perhaps this was another of Sigvald's cruel handicaps, for even the towering gladiator was slowed by his armor. Nevertheless, as he strode across the arena and Banshee took his measure, he proved an intimidating sight: 6 and a half feet tall, swinging a warhammer in one hand and a metal spike clutched tightly in the other. Banshee, faster by far, drew his swords. While the accompanying psychic scream sent many in the arena crowd cowering, it had no effect on the blank Serghit. As Banshee made his first strikes against Serghit, lights from above flashed and both were starkly illuminated for the crowd to see.

The stone armor held, however, and Serghit answered with a swing of his warhammer: a deft feint and riposte from Banshee sent the warhammer flying into the arena mud. Serghit, still holding the reach advantage, hefted the spike like a javelin and launched it into Banshee, who caught the brunt of it despite his reflexes. Though seemingly disarmed, Serghit seemed intent on using his brawn, and the crushing weight of his own armor, to overpower Banshee. Banshee, swelling with memories of past victories and defeats in the arena, knew that a straight win would be unfitting — he must give the people a spectacle, just as Serghit seemed intent on doing. And so he spoke into Sigvald's mind: "I will win this battle as a king."

Turning the full force of his psychic intimidation against the crowd, he exhorted them to assail Serghit. The onlookers had not recognized Banshee at first, and until the blue light fell upon him, they had cheered Serghit. Now, desperate to prove their loyalty to the heir and his sadistic father, five onlookers clambered the stakes and razorwire. One did not make it, but the other four landed in the mud, armed with broken weapons and whipped into a frenzy by terror. Tthey seemed ready to leap upon Serghit, when the Marionette activated their contingency.

Long ago, when Banshee was not yet a champion of the arena, he had been one of dozens of aspirants: beaten and tormented by their instructors and the crowds
but in that time, he had found in one of his fellow fighters an ally, perhaps even a friend, a small island of mutual strength in a sea of brutality and paranoia. So it was that the Marionette, early into their tenure as one of Sigvald's cabinet, had exercised their most sinister power: Psychic Transposition — the ability to trick a combatant into switching the position of friend and foe. Banshee would likely not have survived the melee that first made his name without the aid of his friend: and, to the delight of the crowd, in the final round, when Banshee thought himself about to strike the killing blow against an enemy, the Marionette had transposed this enemy with Banshee's only friend. This one ally did not survive the stab that Banshee delivered to his back. How fitting, then, that in the present, the prodigal son returning should call his would-be subjects to the field, only for them to be manipulated into attacking him.

And so they did, their minds twisted by the Marionette. Banshee, of course, need hardly have thought long to guess the culprit. The more pressing matter of four slaves charging him was handled more quickly with another psychic scream. Some fled back to Serghit, who dispatched them with brutal ease, while others sought to bury themselves in the arena mud. Face to face again, Serghit battered Banshee with a bodyslam, but an attempted grapple failed and left the stone-clad warrior face down. Banshee struck Serghit's back, cutting away chains so that the stone armor would fall away from him. He then called upon the crowds again. More clambered over the walls, and again were twisted by the Marionette
but Banshee knew to keep his distance and wait for the opportune moment to turn them back to his side.

Serghit clambered upright, taking another spike from his belt and sending it into Banshee. As Banshee cut into his front, Serghit took a loose chain from his failing armor and wrapped it around Banshee's neck. Only a moment of fortitude saved the heir from strangulation and Banshee cut away these chains, leaving Serghit increasingly disarmed. Another bodyslam missed, and this time Banshee's psychic scream drove some of the assembled fight-crashers to stab at Serghit himself. Another missed slam, a successful riposte from Banshee, and the first sign of slowing from Serghit.

The blood of both fighters slicked the sand, but Serghit's flowed faster. Another cut, and only his prodigious fortitude kept him conscious. Now, the Marionette withdrew their influence, and the slaves fell upon Serghit, tackling him to the ground. But the final blow was reserved for Banshee. He struck it upon Serghit's exposed back, driving one sword into his foe's shoulder blade to pin him in place, and using the other to carve down the length of his spine. A flourish with both blades, and what remained of Serghit was turned out for the awed crowd.

The lights, which had darkened just before the final stage of the melee, were raised to glorious incandescence and fell upon Banshee, triumphant. From his box, an ecstatic Sigvald applauded and called for an encore. The Prince leaned to the Marionette and spoke into her mind, "I know what you did. You should go to my son and ask his forgiveness." For he had sensed his servant's ploy and delighted in it, both for what it was and for the opportunity it presented. The Marionette floated to Banshee, who had also guessed their effort against him. Banshee, still flush with his victory, chose to turn the crowd on the Marionette. When the Marionette attempted to reply with another transposition, Sigvald cut their strings and sent them to the ground. Banshee now leaned over the Marionette, and issued his psychic shriek directly into their ears. Pouring into it all his rage, frustration and regret: the death of his first friend by his own hand, his resentment of the crowds and most of all his hatred of the Marionette.

The Marionette was deafened and psychically scarred, but remained conscious: they used the last of their strength to telekenitically propel themself away from Banshee. As they rocketed into the air, Banshee drew his swords just in time to cut off their legs but not stop them. The Marionette arced a trail of blood into the air as they flew into the stands, scattering terrified onlookers. Some gathered to beat them, hoping for some scrap of favor from Banshee, but these too scattered quickly when Sigvald mounted up Mario and came bounding down from the box.

Sigvald dismounted and approached the Marionette, thinking his victory complete as he whispered into their mind: "You have betrayed my heir, but he does not rule yet. You live today by my mercy." The Marionette, after twenty two years of service, however, chose another, freer path — they struck at Sigvald psychically. But, physically and psychically battered as they were, this human striving against the cruelty of a consummate despot could end at best in death. Sigvald offered worse.

Pinning the Marionette's mind with his, he called his Surgeon from the stands. The crowds watched as the Surgeon opened the Marionette's skull and performed an open-air operation. Their brain became disconnected from all external senses, as Sigvald stormed through the halls of their psyche, rewiring it. The Mistress of Sound had found great pleasure in the past by playing music to irritate and induce anxiety in others, so Sigvald left them able to hear only one sound: the very worst of the bard Ravel: Bolero.

Thus satisfied by his vengeance, Sigvald withdrew to his box, leaving Banshee to give his victory speech to the crowd. Banshee obliged not with a message of hope or triumph, but with grim threats. He addressed the crowd: "When I first fought here, you jeered and spat on me. You did this because you are weak and spiteful. I am not here to stay, but one day I will return, and I will rule you. And I will not rule with kindness: I will treat you as you deserve, like the debased animals you are. Remember this, and wait for me." In that moment, McFearson changed the light upon Banshee to a blue that matched Sigvald's color perfectly.

The fight was concluded, and Banshee was brought to his father's palace
there, he found his father waiting for him beneath the great dome that marked his cabinet chamber. In the room were two others, with whom Banshee had not yet traded words. The first was Sigvald's Reaper, who sowed terror on his behalf among outlying towns: many a conspirator against the Prince found their efforts ended by a magnetic bolt from the shadows, and many an innocent was felled in the same manner to make any number of points. Like all of Sigvald's psychic servants, the Reaper had a weakness: though faster than seemed humanly possible and able to guide bolts with a thought, the Reaper had the strength of a feeble child and depended on a mechanical harness for physical activity.

The other figure in the room was Sigurd, son of Sigvald. Born to a favored concubine, he had served the Prince from birth, groomed to govern. But he was never a candidate to succeed the Prince. For as Sigvald was fond of saying, "Sigurd has the brain for government, but not the mind." — this cabinet member had no handicap, for he was not psychic, and thus, in Sigvald's eyes, was no threat and also no heir. The Reaper was dismissed with a wave, and Sigurd and Banshee met.

Though Sigvald wanted to speak to Banshee privately, Banshee assured his half-brother that they would speak further. Now alone with his father in the vast cabinet chamber, Banshee asked him many questions. First, he asked why Sigvald had not read his mind: the Prince answered that he understood Banshee well enough to rely on intuition, and that while indispensable to a ruler among the Perfect Princes, psionic ability could not be a crutch. Sigvald elaborated on why Sigurd could never succeed him: left with intuition alone, Sigurd would at best fall to a conspiracy, and at worst, become a puppet. Confronted with psychic attack, Sigvald could dominate any in his cabinet, but Sigurd would fold. To handicap Sigurd further would be pointless. Sigvald recognized Sigurd's intellect (easily the greatest in his domain if not among all the humans and near-humans of Naga space) but viewed him as a tool, and took no pride in him as he so clearly did in Banshee.

Banshee then asked why Sigvald sought power. Heanswered that while long-lived, he was still mortal, and that he refused to let any moment of his life be constrained by another. "I could order a hundred men to leap from a cliff, and they would do it for fear of what awaited them if they stayed." Sigvald intimated that he despised his cabinet for seeing comfort as an end: they were satisfied with constraining themselves. He saw in Banshee however as a kindred spirit and an heir who, knowing he would one day take Sigvald's throne, could rule on his behalf and do more than slake his thirsts. If Sigvald built his principality into a true kingdom, he would need governors, and Banshee was the perfect candidate. Banshee at last saw Sigvald for what he was: a despot for whom tyranny was the only guarantee of his own personal freedom, and, implicitly, a man who surely must rail against the subtle slavery the Naga imposed on the Perfect Princes.

Sigvald and Banshee parted, with Banshee going at last to speak to his brother. Sigurd, for his part, had restrained himself in his excitement from seeking out Banshee directly: better to keep his hand closely held. Sigurd had spent the intervening time helping the Reaper prepare the tools with which to execute Sigvald's bidding: weapons, tracking devices, measures and details of subjects to "harvest" for various callous and grotesque purposes. Banshee found Sigurd in his chambers, at the farthest end of the cabinet wing. The chambers were guarded by a set of imposing brass doors, locked in place: beside them was a doorway with a sliding screen door, perhaps someone's idea of an architectural joke.

Banshee, alone at last with his half-brother, made proper introductions. While Sigurd listened with ill-concealed excitement, Banshee told his brother of his journeys in the wider cosmos. Banshee confided in Sigurd his complex relationship with Sigvald, his mixed feelings about assuming the mantle of Prince, but above all the elder of the two bastards imparted to Sigurd that he bore him no ill will, nor sought to replace him. Sigurd answered that Banshee need not worry about replacing him, for Sigvald seemed to have far greater designs for the prodigal son than he would ever deign even to falsely promise a non-psychic.

Banshee saw an all-too familiar resentment and self-loathing rising in Sigurd: remembering his father's cautions against relying on psychic power, however, he chose to play on Sigurd's emotions more mundanely. Banshee offered to have his younger brother accompany him on the expedition to the Station and to learn from the scholars and explorers that made up the leadership of the *Taigun*. Sigurd, pausing only a moment so as not to seem altogether desperate, agreed readily, his great hope realized. But the younger brother's elation was tempered a moment later: would Sigvald agree to let him go? Banshee promised his brother that he would not tell the Prince: as Sigurd smiled with relief and set about collecting his most cherished books, Banshee reached out to his father's mind and told him of Sigurd's intentions. The first covenant between the brothers was broken an instant after it was forged.

Sigvald answered: "Do not stop him. Return to the cabinet chambers. I have a gift for you." So Banshee went, waiting only long enough to learn that Sigurd planned to raid the Marionette's room and abscond with whatever artifacts they may have concealed
this too, he told Sigvald. The Prince, for his part, awaited Banshee in almost the same position as before, but now the floor at the center of the cabinet chamber had been retracted. Spiraling down below it was a stone-carved staircase, leading into the depths of the Prince's personal armory. As the Prince and his heir descended, they strode past shelves of strange objects carved into the rock face: glass cases filled with ancient documents, peculiar specimens, antique baubles and every other description of priceless oddity. But for the briefest stop to unchain a small lead box from its place and palm it up his sleeve, Sigvald took no interest in these items nor made any effort to describe them. Many were the inherited from the collection of Sigvald's predecessor, condemned to obscurity as the only memorial of a Prince who failed to hold his throne
Sigvald's grew far more animate, however, as the air grew warmer: at the base of the staircase were the prince's private forgeworks.

Blind, deaf and mute servants in brass helms scuttled about in perfect rhythm, moving to the unseen strains of Sigvald's psychic command. Some, it seemed had been at it for so long that their nigh-mechanical shuffling from one station to another had worn paths into the stone floor. Sigvald and Banshee walked indifferently through the forge-drones to the edge of the forge chamber, where Sigvald produced a key to the armory. Once inside, the Prince tapped his fingers along a wall of moldering sword-cases: some seemed fit to crumble at any touch heavier than the Prince's, and when he at last selected his prize, it came away with a protest of rotting leather. But as the case creaked open, it revealed a gleaming, impeccable blade
this, Sigvald explained, was an elvish ivory sword, carried by one of the elvish Cult of the Mirror, who had struck deep into Naga space on a divine mission (Sigvald chuckled at this) to slay the Naga.

The Prince added: "Perhaps you'll give this blade a second chance to fulfill its purpose. Would you like to see its former wielder?" Without waiting for an answer, Sigvald led Banshee to the deepest cells of his dungeons: these were not the waiting-places of execution fodder, but the Prince's personal stock chambers. And a place of honor was reserved for the wretched, bloodied elf that Sigvald presented to Banshee. Gleefully, he asked his son: "Do you know how long elves live?"

Banshee answered that he did not, perhaps thinking the question rhetorical. The apparently ill-informed Sigvald seemed crestfallen: "I'd thought you would. I wanted to know how long I could keep this one." Moving on from the dungeons, the Prince at last handed Banshee the item up his sleeve. He explained that it was the petrified third eye of a Naga, one that had become "Anathema" — tainted by some unknown curse and rejected by all its kin, driven mad and then driven out, these creatures were inexplicable to the Prince and his allies. But perhaps the expedition of the KM could reveal more.

Sigvald cautioned that he had not learned much by studying it psychically, "Whenever I look into it, I see myself staring back." Banshee accepted the eye and gratefully took the lead box to keep it from looking around any more than necessary. Banshee took his new sword and petrified eye to his chambers. For the first time in his life, he would sleep in the palace, a stone's throw and a world away from the pens of the fighting pits where he had slept a lifetime ago.

Sigurd, however, was in search of his own treasures: having organized his books, he set out for the Marionette's room. He searched the antechamber, to no avail: Sigurd pressed deeper, into the bedchamber, to find Sigvald waiting at the foot of the Marionette's bed. The Prince invited Sigurd to sit, but the room had no chairs and Sigurd declined. Sigvald rose from the bed. He loomed over his son, eyes gleaming with false pity. "So you're leaving. Why did you not ask for my permission?"

"You would have forbidden me," Sigurd responded.

"Far from it, Sigurd. I would have let you go. You had only to ask." The Prince put a hand on his son's shoulder: Sigurd did not need psionics to know that Sigvald's mind was coiled like a snake, ready to strike at the slightest provocation.

"Did Banshee tell you?"

"No, Sigurd. I knew I would find you here because I know you. That's why I would have let you go. Any other member of my cabinet would be suspect, but you... There is nothing you could do against me, no matter where you went. You, mundane that you are, survive at this court because I will it, and you will survive away from here because Banshee wills it. That you have deluded yourself into thinking I would need to keep you here is just another reason that Banshee, not you, will succeed me. Go be of some use to him."

Sigurd did not answer, and returned to his chambers.

Banshee, probing the palace with his mind, felt Sigurd's anguish, and went to him. Sigurd explained that Sigvald had found him, as he knew he would, and asked Banshee if he had betrayed him: Sigurd believed Banshee's lie that he had not. Banshee, hoping to comfort his brother, put a hand on his shoulder, looking in that moment for all the world like a blind Sigvald. Sigurd shrugged him off and bade him a good night.

The next day found the Master of Lights preparing a ship to carry Banshee and his brother back to the Knights Mercantile. At the loading dock, just before leaving on a new assignment of terror and blood, the Reaper approached Sigurd. The strange impression of a smile danced on the Reaper's blank mask, and Sigurd's most constant, most silent interlocutor (to inflict Sigvaldian abuse on that term) handed him a mag-pistol from among the dozen that clinked over armor and under cloak. Sigurd left with the comfort of a weapon in his hand and the quiet well-wishes of a friend.

Sigvald and Banshee exchanged a few final words. Banshee promised to consider his father's offer to rule in his name as principality turned to kingdom. Sigvald asked Banshee to use the gifts he had made to him, glancing at the sword, the box and at last to Sigurd. So Banshee the Blind and Sigurd the Mundane struck out into the ether. To Banshee, it was the first time a journey had meant leaving anything approaching a home, and to Sigurd, the first thrilling step out of the shadow of Sigvald's domain into a cosmos that eclipsed even the Prince's wildest delusions of grandeur.