by A. S. Etaski
Her son didn’t appreciate the rarity of being encouraged to bed another bua, odd as it must be for his own Mother to suggest it.
*Yes, to use him for war!* Shyntre sniped back, rigid under any reassurance she could offer. *As if he will be treated any better?*
D’Shea hid her sign behind her cloak. *Listen, Shyntre. He must have another function if he is to survive even another decade. But first, I also want to reach Sirana. He has dreamt of her once or twice, but the visions make little sense. Color canyons and iron bars.*
Her bua’s eyes widened; he gripped his saddle and reins. D’Shea noted it but as long as he didn’t faint, she chose to ignore it for now.
*I believe Sirana tries to reach him from the Surface with psionics,* she deflected, tidy and true. *But Auslan must heal first, then we need an anchor and a focus to strengthen his reach. Which is you, my powerful and stubborn wizard.*
He glared at her, and she felt the impulse to laugh.
Instead, she added, *It has worked with her before, son, I promise you. Or I would never have been freed from Wilsira’s compulsion.*
Shyntre’s mouth sagged. He didn’t want to believe her.
He doesn’t need to believe me now. I only need to get them in the same room together. Let it play out by their natures.
*If you get hungry on the way, Shyntre, let me know. I have some rations on me.*
This time, she didn’t need to wait.
*I am starving.*
She passed over her waterskin and entire food pouch without playing games. He took both, capable of testing them for poison or drugs himself. She knew they were clean.
*Thank you.* Her son paused. *Mother.*
He does know who he is. He can tell me about this ‘Mazdel’ later.
The Elder Sorceress smiled with confidence and continued the journey to the one middling House which she could say had earned the closest thing to her loyalty outside the Sisterhood.
Shyntre had arrived inside the private passage with a bag over his head and his stomach no longer growling. Once it was removed in a small, trap-like entry way, he found the Matron Thalluen there with her child servant, who seemed to loath standing on the same side as D’Shea but also didn’t beg to flee while Matron and Elder signed to each other.
The cait was in a strange sort of general distress but also perplexed as she looked up at him, asking in a whisper, “Are you a healer, too?”
For once, Shyntre tried to think what had been going on outside of his own misery in the Palace. He glanced at Sirana’s Mother, who looked from D’Shea’s hands to the small cait and to him.
He was honest as he could be. “I am here to help Auslan, if I can.”
Rohenvi swallowed and dipped her chin to him. “Welcome. Ah, Shyntre. I-I never knew the Elder had a son. You look so much like the Headmaster.”
Stung for a reason he couldn’t fathom, Shyntre bowed his head as well. Sirana’s Mother could recognize who his sire was without them standing in the same room? Why? Or was that common among Matrons who rarely came to Court, and he was ignoring “common sense,” again?
This Matron never knew about me, though.
“He grew up tending Consorts in the Sanctuary but is not one himself,” D’Shea explained. “He has knowledge and magic you will need to revive the healer. His arrival is known and blessed by the Valsharess. We are to keep him here and out of public view until the right time.”
“About how much longer?” Rohenvi asked. “Any estimate?”
D’Shea shook her head. “Not yet. Too many unknowns, but the Sisterhood is working on it. In the meantime, know that my son has a role in view of the Valsharess at Court, has been tutored at the Wizard’s Tower in crafting gems and medicines, and has been tested as a battle mage. He is talented with fire and shield spells.”
The two House females stared at him wide-eyed. His Mother continued, sounding almost boastful.
“Shyntre can defend himself if necessary and could aid you if this House is attacked, though he is unlikely to follow orders from someone he doesn’t respect.”
D’Shea tossed an arched eyebrow his way that made him want to smirk.
“Know also that many in high positions would recognize him as a protected male and know it is ill-advised to harm him or try to hold him for ransom. He is also a bold one, sometimes to his detriment, and frequently temperamental. He may act spoiled and young for his age.”
“Hey,” Shyntre protested, but the females ignored him.
“He’s a favorite of the Queen?” the cait asked succinctly.
“Yes,” replied the Elder with a pert smile.
“Well,” the Matron breathed. “He sounds like what we need, Elder. I thank you for your keen eye to our situation.”
“Always, Matron.”
Now it was Shyntre’s turn to arch an eyebrow at her.
“Should I bring him to Auslan now, Matron?”
The cait sounded eager.
“Indeed, I must leave this to you for now,” said Elder D’Shea, straightening her hood as if she was about to turn toward the hidden door. “I shall return with further guidance.”
Wait. She’s not staying to watch?
“Stay well, Elder,” said the Matron. “We will be here when you need them.”
“That would be best.”
Elder D’Shea left so fast after the introductions that Shyntre felt muzzy-headed when Sirana’s Mother tried to coax him to follow her. The cait grabbed his hand and tugged.
“Natia,” the Matron scolded. “Let him be. He can walk.”
“Sorry, Matron.”
What the fuck is happening?
The mage followed them through the in-wall passageway, each of them stepping in admirable silence. They had been practicing with Auslan here, or perhaps never stopped. Finally, they made it to a panel which held a switch that Matron Rohenvi flipped before pushing the wall to reveal the way in.
The warm scent of Auslan’s sweat clubbed him in the face.
“Come on,” Natia whispered, her small fingers itching to snatch his hand again.
Is she… worried about him?
He soon saw why, and it ripped his heart loose inside his chest.
Oh, Goddess. What have they done?
His brother hadn’t been eating enough. Although he was covered neck to feet in the darkest, most modest clothing he had ever been provided, Shyntre could see in Auslan’s face how much weight he’d lost since they’d seen each other last, on opposite sides of the bars in the Cloister. The Consort’s eyes were closed, and he didn’t stir as the three entered. The solid gold streak at his temple aged him another century, at least.
Natia was about to rush forward and wake him up, but Rohenvi snared her and wrapped both arms around her tightly, shushing her. The Matron looked at him.
“What do you need, mage?”
Uhhh…
“Water, both to drink and for bathing,” he said. “A heating stone if you have it. Some food, enough for two to last a cycle. Fresh sheets and blankets.”
Rohenvi nodded to all that without protest.
“Um, if I wrote down a list of components and wizard’s tools,” Shyntre continued, “would you try to get them for me, Matron?”
“You can write?” Natia blurted, being shushed again.
He arched a brow at her. “Most wizards can.”
“Oh.” She glanced at the healer. “He can’t, but he’s a mage, too.”
He’s not a wizard, he’s a sex slave to aging Matrons.
Shyntre pursed his lips and shrugged instead.
“I will get you something to write it down,” Rohenvi said, pulling the child along with her in a non-servant like way. “We will return with the other supplies. It may take a few trips, but I shall get it done with discretion.”
The Matron was doing it herself? This was Sirana’s Mother?
“Thank you—” he said too late for her to reply.
The mage sighed i
nside the quiet, sealed room. It was simply furnished, not large, and smelled like his brother had been here for quite some time. D’Shea had removed him from the Cloister only a span after Sirana had left because of the temptation and turmoil he caused, and by all signs had been here ever since.
It was more mercy than he might have ever expected from the ruthless Elder Sorceress by her reputation alone.
Knowing they wouldn’t be alone for long, Shyntre sat down beside his brother, trying not to think about the next time Auranka would drop by to taunt him. He touched the damp, fevered brow with his fingertips, settled his palm, and immediately felt the gruesome injuries.
The healer’s unseen aura was shot through with broken patterns and bonds that would be painstaking to repair. His Mother was correct that this condition was past the point where they might repair themselves. So many frayed, dead ends and burnt points, caused by all these females feeding on his kindness, as they’d always done, but also—
Also.
My own. Reflecting back at me.
Until recently, they’d been only slow stretch marks and strains while Shyntre had been pretending he was someone else for a hundred and fifty years. But now, while the Spider Queen and her servants tormented him in the Palace, seeking something about what Sirana was doing on the Surface, about when she might come back, while Shyntre had blacked it all out of his memory and remembered nothing from one Reverie to the next…
Oh, no…
Ta’suil had felt some of it; he still remembered at least part of those visions being ripped out of him.
Again.
“Ta’suil,” he whispered.
What have I done to you?
He squeezed his clothed shoulder, shook him. “Ta’suil!”
No response.
Shyntre touched skin again, tucking both hands against the Consort’s too-lean face, his fingers sliding into oily, damp hair behind his ears.
Bruised eyelids fluttered.
Is he dreaming now? Will I make it worse, trying to wrench him out?
“Ta’suil.”
Shyntre could not make his mouth form any other word. Nothing else seemed like it would help.
“Ta’suil.”
The changes were small, but there.
Take it. You can have anything. All of it.
“Ta’suil.”
Just open your eyes, damnit, come back! Don’t give up, please. Don’t let them do this again. Not again!
The healer was warm—too warm to be healthy—and breathing through his nose. Shyntre leaned down to press their lips together, knowing another kiss while he could. He held on to his brother, touching what naked skin there was to be seen.
It felt good. Better.
Take what you need.
“Ta’suil…”
Shyntre fell into it, whatever this was, gathering up the unconscious Consort to hold closer against him, pressing their cheeks together while he caught his breath, bare hand wrapped firmly around his nape.
What I need, too.
The Queen’s pet kissed the Consort again, softly, along the edge of his mouth, his jaw, his neck. Breathed him in and pressed full on his mouth again.
A moan. His brother’s.
Tired. Not in pain, I don’t think.
He hoped.
“Ta’suil?”
Shyntre held his breath, stroking his brother’s jaw with one thumb, until, at last those brilliant scarlet eyes opened. Looked at him.
Recognition.
Yes.
Ta’suil tried to smile, to lift his arms. He was heart-achingly weak. Shyntre couldn’t aid with the smile except to offer one in return, though he helped the healer place his arms around his shoulders where he could cling the best he could. Ta’suil caressed his short-cut hair lightly with his fingertips, smiled in welcome. The young wizard exhaled, freed from the fear that he’d never see this light again.
The healer still loved him, despite everything.
Soon, Shyntre realized that he’d been so focused that he’d not noticed the Matron Thalluen had silently brought in everything but the bath water. There was a scrap of parchment, a stylus, and ink bottle set on the small table by the wall. Rohenvi had chosen not to say a thing about the blatant display she must have seen at least twice. Maybe the young cait, too. Nor had she withheld anything they needed in retaliation.
Still, his own Mother’s hand sign returned to haunt him.
*This is real and will always happen among Davrin, no matter the punishments, or they would not risk being caught so often.*
Shit.
The healer touched his own flaming cheeks, as if testing him for fever. Shyntre blinked at him, refocusing on why he was here.
“You’re awake?” he whispered.
That’s the stupidest question ever.
The Consort wanted to laugh; his eyes crinkled at the corners instead. He claimed a trembling kiss of his own.
“As are you,” Ta’suil whispered, “now.”
CHAPTER 19
The High Inquisitor’s boot hovered for a moment before taking the first stone step leading to the undercroft of Mount Sonai. Vene Kegyek placed his palm upon the wall for balance as the voices of the damned greeted him even before passing through the gate. Little more than threatening whispers most times, occasionally they swelled to a wordless wail of regret such as he heard now.
You reap in death what you’ve sown in life.
The High Inquisitor was certain those voices which lingered in this labyrinthine combination of storage, dungeon, and crypt were of the time before the first Archbishop and the cleansing; when the holy mount had been overrun with greedy, Godless lords being ridden by sodomizing devils.
Before the Purification over three hundred years ago, when the last lord’s family began falling under misfortune upon misfortune, be it disease, accident, violence, or poisoning. Before the Consecration of Iarmod Tefornin and the Revival of the Pisc’sagrad.
God’s judgment resounded through the land through His Paladin.
Vene Kegyek was not from Manalar, nor could he pretend to be unless he gave up his Northern name. He had traveled here as a pilgrim decades before, hearing the call in this warm, Sun-blessed land. He had first heard the voices below within the Temple crypts then, once he’d proven worthy of entering. He’d ignored them for years; he certainly never mentioned their moans to a living soul.
Anyone who could hear the dead could be a Desecrator, or a Ma’ab spy, especially if they had been born in colder lands.
Noiri by birth, Vene had been blessed with rich red hair and fiery beard, unlike many of his Northern kin. Thus, he had been embraced by the warm-toned Paxian people of Manalar, though his skin did not brown beneath the sun like theirs.
I am one of them, now. With silver hair comes the accepted name.
The Archbishop Emil Keros had, indeed, approved of his highest interrogator, judge, and executioner being from outside the established family names.
“Easier politics,” Keros had said with a confident smile. “A stronger impression of impartiality.”
The Archbishop had ever questioned how his High Inquisitor so often extracted verifiable truths from those under questioning shortly before they died. Every time Kegyek had, what he’d learned had never been wrong, and thus, the people had another name for their Inquisitor.
The Catechist of Truth.
“We do wish you could spare just one of them after hearing their confessions, Vene. A public execution would set the right example.”
“Apologies, Archbishop. It is Musanlo’s Will.”
“For all time.”
“Yes, Holiness.”
Keros’s smirk had been difficult to read, though not worrisome, especially since the blond man who would become Capitan of the Wall had arrived from the West.
While the Archbishop and High Inquisitor had moved together for the past two decades, Musanlo’s Will seemed to pull and abrade them f
rom within as a younger man arrived. Willven Isboern had become an immovable favorite among the commoners and defenders of the city only in the last five years.
This rise had begun quietly; Willven Isboern’s popularity had raced up into the Bishops’ faces only in the last year as rumors of returning war with the Ma’ab had begun to spread. Now, the Capitan was like a shooting star, drawing all eyes and shining new light of hope upon them.
A divine omen, they whispered among themselves. A defender sent by Musanlo just in time.
“No, let it run its course,” said Emil in their private meeting this morning. “Isboern pulls them together when they had been splintering, as we need this unified front to face the next attack from the North. Once the threat has passed, we may reevaluate his devotion, unless he becomes a fondly remembered hero. We will commission a statue in mourning.”
Meanwhile, the rest of the clergy and nobles were becoming agitated by the overconfident youth, complaining incessantly as supply routes and accustomed comforts were no longer guaranteed. Spies were everywhere, accusations were made daily, which was bad enough as a time sink, but the Capitan sometimes riled the masses up with promises of victory and a “better life” afterward, promising their “community-raised” wealth would be passed down to the poor and feckless.
“The nobles claim Isboern is causing the supply disruptions on purpose to turn the devoted against them, Your Holiness.”
“Mm-hm. Yet you’ve seen the reports as I have, Inquisitor. War is coming. Will they be fighting on the front lines and defending the walls, my Catechist? No, they will not. The nobles may sit with chafing pride for a while. This shift in attention is only temporary. This pilgrim is a born tactician with a cheaply bought ethic and impossible to remove now, but the survivors will be weary and grateful for order when it returns. Trust me, Vene.”
The Inquisitor did trust his Temple’s highest bishop’s plan, except for a new, poorly- timed wrinkle which threatened to set off a scorching blast within their ranks before the Ma’ab ever arrived.
“What of the black-skinned demon in the dungeon, Keros?”
Too many knew about her; many eyes had witnessed she was real, and mouths could not be sealed even under threat of caning. Word was spreading, as were the conspiracies and speculations. Worse, too many saw Capitan Isboern as the holy warrior who had captured her and the one with the power to protect them from her trickery.
