Of course, Scion had many hurdles to overcome if it meant to convince the rest of the world to embrace the anchor. Every free-world government with sense would be wary of a rising, militarised empire. Some would have moral concerns about Scion’s methods, although they had always taken care to conceal the beheadings and hangings from the outside. Others might not believe clairvoyance existed, and even if they did, they might fear that innocent people would be mistakenly identified as unnaturals. Nadine and Zeke had mentioned that being one of many concerns about Scion in the free world.
Now, however, Scion had the perfect answer to it. They had Senshield, an accurate means of isolating criminals. Why shouldn’t they take control, they would ask, if they had a foolproof method for winnowing the unnaturals from the innocents – a way of removing dangerous individuals from society?
Senshield.
It always came back to that.
The ambassadors being here must be a final test of the water. The scanner-guns would be kept secret, but if they showed an ordinary Senshield scanner to the Spanish – if they proved to them how efficient Scion was about to become, and if they still refused to see the sense in being part of Scion’s empire . . . then, and only then, did they mean to invade.
The Vigiles herded me back to my cell and administered my drugs. In the precious seconds before clarity left me, I hid the roll of paper under the mattress of my cot.
If Nashira meant to see me today – and my meeting with Jaxon implied that she did – there was a good chance Alsafi could be with her. He had seldom been far from her side in the colony. And it might be my chance to tell him – somehow – what I knew.
When the drug wore off and my food arrived, I retrieved the paper and huddled close to the door, so I couldn’t be seen through the view-slot. When I was certain no Vigiles were about to come through, I turned my palm upward and tore the stitches from Styx’s cut with my teeth, then used the blood to scratch three words on to the paper.
COLCHICUM RHUBARB CHICKWEED
By the time the Vigile returned, the note was hidden. I was waterboarded for ignoring my meal.
Alsafi was fluent in the language of flowers.
Colchicum: my best days are gone.
Rhubarb: advice.
Chickweed: rendezvous.
It was evening by the time I was dragged out of the basement again.
Now it was dark, there was more activity in the Archon. We passed personalities I recognised from the news. Ministers in black suits, their crisp white shirts buttoned up high. Vigiles and their commandants. Soldiers. Scarlett Burnish’s little raconteurs in their red coats, tapping notes into their data pads, preparing to report their lies. Members of the Inquisitorial courts, gliding across the marble in steel-buckled shoes and hooded cloaks lined with white fur. Some stopped to stare and whisper.
Scarlett Burnish herself was at the end of one corridor, immaculately groomed as ever, holding a sheaf of documents. She wore a sculpted velvet dress with a complicated lace collar, and her hair rippled down to the small of her back, with the top layer braided like a net.
With her was a woman I vaguely remembered seeing on ScionEye. She was petite and sloe-eyed, possessed of a small, upturned nose and skin so pale it almost glowed. Deepest-brown hair was piled up on her head and threaded with rubies. Her gown, made of burgundy silk and ivory lace, fell in a series of tiers to the floor, leaving her collar bare for a necklace of rose gold and pear-shaped diamonds. The layers of the dress didn’t quite conceal the swell beneath.
‘You look very well, Luce. How many months is it now?’ Burnish was saying.
‘It will be four soon.’
The accent nudged my memory. Luce Ménard Frère, spouse and advisor to the Grand Inquisitor of France.
‘Oh, how lovely,’ Burnish said, all smiles. ‘Are your other children looking forward to it?’
‘The younger two are excited,’ Frère said, laughing, ‘but Onésime is very unhappy. He always thinks a new baby will take his maman away from him. Of course, when Mylène was born, he was the first person to be cooing over her like a little bird . . .’
They stopped talking as my guards marched me past. Frère placed a hand on her abdomen and spoke in French to her bodyguards, who formed a barrier in front of her. Burnish raked me up and down with her eyes, bid farewell to Frère, and strode from the corridor.
I was led into a final passageway. Above two double doors at the end was a plaque spelling out INQUISITORIAL GALLERY. Just before we went through it, I sneaked the roll of paper from my shift to my hand.
The sheer size of the place was what hit me first. The floor was red marble, as it was in most of the building. An ornate ceiling stretched high above my head, where three vast chandeliers were laden with white candles.
The walls at either end of the hall were hung with official portraits of Grand Inquisitors from decades past, while the side walls were covered by frescoes. To my left was a giant, Renaissance-style depiction of the establishment of Scion, with James Ramsay MacDonald holding up the flag on the banks of the river and shouting to a euphoric audience; to my right, the first day of the Molly Riots. I stared up at the images of the gape-mouthed Irish, with their blood-dusted flags, and Scion’s soldiers, painted in lighter tones, who held out their hands as friends. ERIN TURNS FROM THE ANCHOR read a plaque underneath.
A rosewood banqueting table was the centrepiece of this magnificent hall, and a grand piano stood in one corner. Nashira Sargas sat at one end of the table. Gomeisa, the other blood-sovereign, was on her right, in a high-collared black robe, staring at me with his sunken eyes. On her left was an empty chair, and beside that sat Alsafi Sualocin.
Jaxon sat opposite him, smiling, like we were having breakfast again. He couldn’t just leave me in peace.
Vigiles were stationed on both ends of the hall, armed with flux guns. I recognised a few of their faces from the penal colony. One of my guards lifted her staff and rapped it on the floor.
‘Blood-sovereign, I present to you the prisoner, XX-59-40,’ she said, ‘by order of the Commandant-at-Arms.’
‘Seat her,’ Nashira said.
I was taken past the other guests and deposited in a high-backed chair between her and Alsafi, with Gomeisa opposite. Another guard reached for his handcuffs. ‘Should we restrain the prisoner, Suzerain?’
‘No need. 40 is aware that poor behaviour here will result in additional time on the waterboard.’
‘Yes, Suzerain.’
The close call stole my breath. If I had been cuffed, they would have seen the note.
I placed my hands in my lap, out of sight of the rest of the table. As the guards bowed and retreated, Nashira took a good look at me, as if she had forgotten what my face was like. Her corrupted aura was a smoking fire, suffocating mine. Her five spirits were all here, including the poltergeist I recognised from the scrimmage – the poltergeist that had tortured Warden.
She had never had just five. The sixth – the most powerful – was elsewhere in this building.
I dropped my gaze to the gold-rimmed plate in front of me. Every muscle was rigid. I dared not even glance at Alsafi, who was close enough to touch.
Once I left this hall, I might never get near Nashira again. Perhaps I should just carry out my original plan, and try my best to push her spirit out – yet I already sensed that I had been mad to think I could. My gift was stronger than it had been the last time I faced her, but that dreamscape was wrapped in the chainmail of centuries. In my weakened state, barely out of my stupor, I would never do it.
‘Well,’ I said finally, when the silence had outlasted my nerves, ‘this is an unexpected reunion.’
‘You will not speak without the consent of the Suzerain, scum,’ Alsafi said.
His voice was so close that I almost flinched. ‘You have had quite a journey since we last met, 40,’ Nashira said. ‘The raid of a well-protected factory in Manchester, an Archon official murdered, and the infiltration of a depot kept secret and secure
for decades. You must have thought you had come very close to unlocking the secret of Senshield.’
I tried to keep my face blank. One wrong glance, one uneasy shiver, and she might guess that I was still trying.
From behind my hair, I risked a glance at Warden’s one-time betrothed, the creator of Scion. She wore all black, slashed with gold at the sleeves and stitched with chips of topaz that glistered in the gloom, as if she was wrapped in a bodice of starlight. Her long hair was bound at the side of her neck, each lock like a coil of fine brass wires.
‘I understand why it became your target. Of course . . . it was always a doomed endeavour. The core is indestructible.’ Liar, I thought, remembering Vance’s dreamscape and that flicker of fear.
Across the table, the second blood-sovereign – Liss’s murderer – didn’t say a word.
Gomeisa, Warden of the Sargas, was unquestionably the most disturbing of the Rephaim. None of them looked old – they were ageless creatures – but Gomeisa had a bone structure that lent gravitas to his features, haunting them with cruel insight. Deep hollows lay beneath his prominent cheekbones. His eyes were pressed deep into his head, where they glowed in their sockets.
He had watched the massacre in Dublin. It had been Vance’s strategy, but his desire.
‘You were wise to give yourself up,’ Nashira said. ‘Now, the war and bloodshed the Mime Order wanted to bring to these isles will be avoided.’
Under the table, I moved my hand until it brushed against Alsafi’s thigh. His own hands had been clasped on the table, but now he sat back just slightly.
‘22,’ Nashira said, ‘won’t you perform for us?’
I turned to look behind me. 22, one of the red-jackets from the colony, was in the corner, dressed impeccably in Scion colours. It took me a moment to focus on his face – and to see that his lips were sewn closed.
‘You may remember 22,’ Nashira said to me, expressionless. ‘His duty was to secure the Residence of the Suzerain after your rabble fled. Sadly, he allowed a Ranthen assassin to breach the walls.’
I did remember him. He had been at the feast she had held for the red-jackets. He bowed and sat dutifully at the grand piano.
Out of sight, a gloved hand touched my wrist. I pushed the note from between my fingers, into his grasp.
‘Perhaps,’ Jaxon said, lighting a cigar, ‘we should tell Paige about Sheol II, blood-sovereign.’
My heart quickened. Nashira gave Jaxon the smallest nod; he offered a gracious smile in return.
‘You should know, darling,’ Jaxon said, ‘that despite your rebellion, the Rephaim still mean to protect us, as they promised they would in 1859.’ His cigar glowed. ‘To that end, they are building a new Sheol in France, to deal with the threat of the Emim. So you see, the Suzerain has mended the mess you made in September. And now that you have been removed from the situation, the Mime Order will not interfere.’
Across the room, 22 had been playing a parlour song. Gradually, almost imperceptibly, the notes took a different form.
Just two verses, heavily embellished, disguised so you might miss it if you didn’t know it well.
It was ‘Molly Malone’, but not the original version of the song that most people around the table would be familiar with. It was the melody the rebels had used in mourning, which was slower and darker – I would know it anywhere. We had sung it in memory of Finn and Kayley. For a fleeting instant, I was reminded of home, the home Scion had destroyed. And it strengthened me.
‘Enough of this charade,’ Gomeisa said, cutting off the music. ‘It is time to inform 40 of her fate.’
Ice crept into my fingertips.
‘Yes.’ Nashira’s eyes were like uncut emerald in the gloom. ‘The time for . . . persuasion is over.’
My body became too aware of its blood.
‘XX-59-40, we have given you numerous opportunities to save yourself. It is clear to us that you are beyond reform; that you will not recant your support for the ideology of the Ranthen; that you remain wilfully ignorant of the threat posed by the Emim. Keeping you alive would be a mockery of Scion’s laws.’ She beckoned one of the Vigiles, who unravelled a handwritten document and set it down in front of me. ‘In ten days’ time, on the first of January, you will be executed. Here in the Archon.’
The document was a death warrant, signed by the Grand Judge. My gaze skimmed over it, picking out words like condemnation and abomination. Jaxon’s hand tightened on the top of his cane.
‘Your spirit will remain with me,’ Nashira said, ‘as my fallen angel. Perhaps you will learn, then, to obey.’
My ears were ringing now. Somehow, after months of defying Scion, I had never really expected to see this document. My father must have been presented with the same.
‘Shall I escort the prisoner to her cell, blood-sovereign?’ Alsafi said. I tensed.
‘Soon. I would speak to her alone.’
There was a pause before the other three stood and left, along with 22, who was marched out by Vigiles. His small defiance, unnoticed by everyone but me, was over. As he followed them, Jaxon gave me a pointed stare that urged me to reconsider.
When the doors closed, and it was just the two of us, there was silence for a long time.
‘Do you think human beings are good?’
The question rang, cool and clear, in the vastness of the gallery.
This had to be a trap. Nashira Sargas would never ask for a human’s opinion without an ulterior motive.
‘Answer me,’ she said.
‘Are Rephaim good, Nashira?’
Outside, the moon was waning. Her stance was almost placid, fingers interlocked.
‘You were reared, from the age of eight, in the empire I created,’ she said, as if I hadn’t spoken. ‘You see it as captivity – internment – but it has sheltered you from crueller truths.’
My flesh flinched from that cut-glass voice, the poisonous spill of her aura in the æther.
She went on: ‘I wonder if you have ever heard of a witch trial. In the past they were common; a matter of English law. Anyone could be accused of being a witch, and put on trial for sorcery. The guilty would be burned alive or drowned, and their accusers would consider themselves morally and spiritually cleansed. That justice had been done.
‘During those same times, executions were particularly . . . imaginative. For the crime of high treason, such as yours, a criminal would be hanged until almost dead, then taken down. His abdomen would be laid open, his entrails torn out, his privy parts cut off before his eyes. His body would then be quartered, and his head set upon a spike to rot. The spectators would cheer.’
I had thought myself inured to violence.
‘No Rephaite,’ she said, ‘has ever committed such a brutal act against another. And never would – not even now.’
I swallowed. ‘I seem to recall you threatening to skin another Rephaite.’
‘Words,’ she said dismissively. ‘I have hurt Arcturus for his own good, but I would never be so grotesque.’
‘Just grotesque enough to mutilate him.’
She didn’t seem to think this worthy of comment. His scars, his pain, meant nothing to her.
‘Before I was blood-sovereign, I dwelled in the great observatory in the swathe of the Sargas. As centuries passed in your world, I learned everything about the human race,’ she said. ‘I learned that humans have a mechanism inside them: a mechanism called hatred, which can be activated with the lightest pull of a string. I saw war and cruelty. I saw slaughter and slavery. I learned how humans control one another.
‘When we arrived in your realm, I used the stores of knowledge I had saved from the observatory – specifically, knowledge of how intensely humans can hate. It was easy to turn the tide of public odium towards “unnaturals”, and to promise control. That was how Scion was born.’ She looked through a window, into the citadel. ‘An empire founded on human hatred.’
There was so little feeling left in my body that I was almost unaware of it.
‘I have done nothing to you that you have not done to yourselves. I have only used humankind’s own methods to bring it to heel. And I mean to continue.’ Nashira rose elegantly and walked past the windows, towards the other end of the room. ‘You may think I am your enemy. The Ranthen may have told you so. They are blind.’
Her shadow moved across the floor. I couldn’t take my eyes from her silhouette.
‘When he endeavoured to help humans before, Arcturus was betrayed by your mentor. He should have learned then. I punished him, with the spirit of a certain human, to remind him of your true nature.’
Hearing his name gave me strength. ‘He doesn’t seem to have learned his lesson,’ I said.
‘He remains in thrall to Terebell Sheratan, unable to see the true nature of the humans he believes he can save.’
Something about her tone when she said that name – Terebell Sheratan – sent a trickle of unease through me.
‘Humans have conducted their own affairs for too long. You have failed to govern yourselves,’ she said. ‘If we did not rule, this opportunity to save you would be lost for ever.’
‘I’ve seen your disregard for life,’ I said. ‘You expect me to believe you want to save us?’
‘Killing you all would destabilise the ethereal threshold beyond repair. Some will live,’ she said, ‘to serve the empire. To maintain the natural order. The natural order does not place human beings at the top of the hierarchy; you only think it does. Now is the age of the Rephaim.’
I had been naïve. I had thought of Nashira Sargas as purely evil, purely sadistic – but she knew more about us than we did. We had given her the tools to bring us to our knees.
But if we also gave her our freedom, there would be no getting it back.
‘This building we stand in,’ I said, ‘was designed by human minds and created by human hands. Through nothing but our ambition, and the freedom to create, we can turn a thought into a masterwork. We can make the intangible real.’
The Song Rising Page 32
