by J. Gibson
“I must be. I am here, am I not?”
Eclih moved to Bhathric’s side. “Let us not interrogate Mys Athenne further. Either she’s loyal, or she isn’t. We’ll find out one way or another.” He gave a playful wink.
Bhathric drew from her coat a strand of beads. “Lunar tears. The Priory wards deny anyone not carrying a set access to the grounds. Evidently, they don’t want members of the common body wandering about.”
Athenne took the beads and rolled them between her fingers. This string had a silver charm on it.
These must have come from a deacon.
“We took a number from deacons some time ago,” Bhathric said, as a coincidence or reading her expression. “They were not easily acquired and we aren’t likely to come across many further strands, so don’t lose them.”
Athenne looked up. “These permit casting, do they not?”
“They allow members of the Clergy to cast, but we have not had the same success. Aitrix conjectured that access to the grounds is a generalized magic, while casting is tied to the assigned holder’s essence signature.”
Eclih walked to the door. “Shall we?”
“Give me a parting word with Uldyr,” Athenne said as Uldyr stirred to her left. “He cannot accompany us in this condition.” She turned her head to meet his gaze.
“Of course.” Eclih opened the door and stepped outside.
Bhathric trailed him and closed the door behind her.
Uldyr smiled, his lips joined.
A forced grin, but kind.
A kindness to her.
“Don’t die on me.” Her voice withered at the end.
Uldyr’s smile faded. “Go on. I’ll be here when you return.”
Chains of sorrow ensnared her countenance and dragged it downward. No matter what comes of this, no matter how my relationships with Bhathric, Eclih, and Aitrix progress, Uldyr is my true friend. My last friend.
Evening beckoned as she and her associates trotted up the winding road on horseback. The tops of the trees clipped the light of the sun, projecting a wall of shadow across the field at their backs, where small creatures skittered and flowers bloomed, died, and rotted. Athenne maintained a pace behind the others to keep herself from the brunt of their conversation. She longed to be as a mute for the night, for her monthly cycle had returned, and fatigue beset her. Twinges sparked in her abdomen, and a heavy ache radiated through her knees to her thighs. Perspiration glistened on her forehead from the pain, which vacillated between pressures and spasms.
Ash, oak, and pine encircled them as they came into the thicket of the Fausse Woods. This forest bore the name of a powerful mentalist, Rivana Fausse, who had once lived in a hovel at the eastern side of the range. The near-dwellers had dubbed her the White Lotus Witch for the flowers she pinned in her hair, and cast aspersions on her for her unusual psychic abilities. It had been a hundred ages since her last reported appearance, though tales cautioned that she may still reside in the woodlands.
Hateful nonsense.
The slurs of witch and warlock worked to shame women and men with odd abilities, primarily psychics; a means of decrying what conventional magi struggled to understand. What they could not control and contain with ease. What they feared. This is the great frailty of the Matrian Church, their efforts to subjugate the atypical.
Sounds from animals that feasted on ground-level vegetation produced the lone sign of life around them. The density of the tree crowns darkened the colors of the woods, depressed their disinterested hues.
This foreign land unnerved Athenne. The icy splendor of the northeastern Hinterlands of Reneris stretched as a mountain without end compared to this low place. Despite her less favorable memories, she longed to return there. It had been a simpler time, and happier.
Her lower aching flared anew. She pressed a hand to her stomach, massaging.
“Are you ailing?” Bhathric asked Athenne over her shoulder, probably in note of her face, suspended now in a grimace that she could not pacify.
Athenne exhaled. “My red mother rakes and stabs.” She had done her best to hide it during their journey, as she had in her time prior with Uldyr, going off on her own when the opportunity arose to change sanitary towels. Bhathric had not expressed similar signs of suffering. “How do you manage?”
“I thought as well.” Bhathric pointed to her abdomen. “Suppression ring. Put in ages ago.”
Of course. “I’ve heard the procedure is perilous.”
“The lower navel is a treacherous place to pierce and cast upon so, but I had a capable doctor and suffering beforehand alike yours. Though I might describe the ordeal more as my insides being wrung out.”
Athenne gripped her knee. “Who did you see? I’ll consider.” If we survive this mission.
If this doesn’t kill me.
“A Laortian doctor, at least when I visited.” Bhathric turned around. “Fausta Haltan.”
A Haltan heiress? Talk of the Haltan family’s wealth reached even to Reneris.
“You may need to find another, should you remain with us,” Bhathric continued. “Aitrix previously had a disagreeable association with her. It mattered little by the time I joined. My family had already disowned me.”
“Forgive my interruption, but we ought to establish camp.” Eclih looked back to Bhathric and Athenne. “Roaming by night shall not avail us, and I’m sure we all tire.”
“It is your prerogative, Athenne, but you need not conceal such things.” Bhathric halted her horse at Eclih’s suggestion. “I wish only that you feel relaxed and open to be as you are. Eclih is a man of understanding.”
Eclih stopped as well. “I endeavor to be.” He offered an unassuming smile.
Athenne shook her head, though she doubted she could relax. Even when agony did not tear through her, sleep had never come with ease. As a girl and as a young woman, she found herself twisting and turning in darkness most nights. That evening, she would be another restless spirit among the trees.
They had descended from their horses as night fell and the sun sank behind the hills. The air around them dampened and cooled. They unfurled sleeping mats of gathered and bound plant materials and forged a fire pit between them. Creaking trees, shivering bushes, and dense brush hugged in at their sides. In the distance, coyotes howled, and closer, crickets chirped and frogs croaked.
“From where do you hail, Athenne?” Eclih’s voice seemed loud atop the evening music.
“Reneris.” she answered, forgiving that he had already forgotten her introduction from when they first met. I suppose I should make some effort to converse. “You’re both Imperial-born?”
Bhathric rolled a lock of hair between two fingers. “I am from Kordyr, and Eclih comes from Laorta.”
“What did you do there?”
“Eclih was something of a vagabond at his peak,” said Bhathric with an impish grin.
“A thief of the street,” he corrected, his tone amused. “Bhathric was a bard. Her fingers pluck the strings of a lute as the feet of a dancer dignify the stage, and her voice is a gift of the Celestia.” He looked over to Bhathric, with a glitter in his eye, ever-present when fixed on her. “She even played at the Hall of Marquis.”
“From Ruhlter’s tongue.” Bhathric covered her face with her arms. “I am not that skilled.”
“The gods themselves shudder with jealousy, Athenne.”
“Eclih!” Bhathric slapped him playfully across the shoulder and he chuckled.
Athenne gave a faint smile. “I hope to hear you play sometime, Bhathric. I’m certain you’re a marvel.”
As their conversation lulled, Eclih fell asleep. Bhathric sat adjacent to him, across from Athenne on the other side of the pit. Athenne lay, gazing into the flames. The fire’s heat warmed her front, while the shadows chilled her back. In defiance of the calm night, peace eluded her.
“May I come to you, Athenne?” Over the divide, the flame crackled, flickering on the faces of the trees. Bhathric’s grey eyes shone in the l
ight, as if the fire itself lived inside them. A glow accentuated and washed her slender, sharp features, eerie against the darkness behind her.
Athenne nodded, and Bhathric rose and came forth. She sat down beside Athenne on the frosted ground, her legs crossed beneath her, only her profile visible in the orange glow.
A few moments passed.
“What troubles you?”
Athenne shifted on her mat. “How do you mean?”
“Your face betrays you.”
Another bout of silence cloaked them.
Athenne’s lips parted, but she relucted to speak, choosing her words with caution. She did not wish to share. “I don’t desire to burden you.” She closed her eyes and breathed deep. Her lungs burned with the chill.
“We may die, Athenne. Me, you, Uldyr, Eclih, even Aitrix. We may each perish. If we die at the hands of the Church, our burials will not be ceremonious. Fortune shines if they do not toss us together in a pit and burn us living. Shall I know so little of you, if we march to our ends?”
“I don’t want to kill anyone,” Athenne blurted out, almost with scorn. She regretted uttering the words.
After several seconds, Bhathric looked at her and gave a hushed chuckle through sealed lips. “Then you won’t.” A consolatory kindness thickened her tone. “Leave the killing to us. You won’t sully your hands with it. We are more than mere collaborators. We are your friends—”
“—I am your friend.”
Could she trust Bhathric, Eclih, Aitrix? Unless she were willing to defect that night, to flee without looking back, she would have to place her faith in them. It’s probably already too late.
“I hope, one day, you may confide in me, before we expire,” Bhathric said in jest.
Athenne heard a grin in Bhathric’s words and smiled, her first modicum of joy in some time.
Standing and moving behind her, Bhathric positioned such that their backs were together.
They lay stationary, the noises of the forest swirling around them, the stars shimmering overhead through the branches and leaves. Eclih murmured and wallowed in his sleep. Bhathric’s breathing grew rhythmic as rest came to her. Drowsiness would not greet Athenne for hours.
I should quench the flames before I drift.
Eventually, her eyelids drooped. The threat of the cold, and comfort, kept her from snuffing their fire out. A wind whipped the blaze to and fro. As temperatures fell, the cold bit at her toes and her exposed ear. She felt grateful that Bhathric had joined her, for the night would have chilled Athenne without her there.
Does she lie?
A sense of camaraderie with Bhathric swelled inside her.
Athenne wanted her words to be true.
CHAPTER VI: ANGUISH
Garron
It had been many ages since Garron had made himself a feature in Aros, the heart of the Empire. It had been even longer since he had fraternized with fellow members of the Clergy at such length. He found the Priory crawling with deacons like ants in their colony, nothing new. Young women, in prime share, but more young men than in his youth. This must have been the work of Archbishop Mallum. She had a softness for the menkind not possessed by ardent traditionalists in the upper echelons of the Church, who had surely opposed Breiman Umbra’s most curious ascent.
Garron seemed a figure of small fame at present. Nearly everyone he encountered knew him and his story. Some were amazed or intrigued, others pitied him or kept their quiet distance. He blamed none, no matter their reaction. Even when he had been there himself, he struggled to comprehend it.
A near constant smell of meats roasting and breads baking from the Priory kitchens saturated the air, throughout the far reaches of the living quarters to the assembly chambers. Machines, the creatures of spark and bolt, now handled most Priory meals. In a few weeks, strength and mobility had returned to him, and proportion too. He had needed new robes not long after his first fresh set.
He ate of stew, thick with butter and cream broths; boiled and salted lamb, beef, chicken, or shredded swine, swimming among roasted potatoes, carrots, and peas. Each dish tasted seasoned and cooked to perfection, the uniformity and consistency known of machines. Delicacies. Enough to fill anyone’s stomach.
Since the inquiry, he had seen none of the members of the Ennead, not even Delacroix. He grew restless in the Priory, confined to it for many days. Descending to the Priory’s hall of knowledge, he tried to distract himself with Rennera Bhojith’s Lady of Sorrow, a fictional account of a woman’s life during the Century’s War. Yet he could hardly concentrate on the text as the horrors of Erlan danced about his mind. He could neither evade them nor shoo them away. By evening, he had sat the book back on its shelf and returned to his chamber.
His beard had become as a weedy garden, speckled with black, white, and grey hairs, more of the last two with every week, thick and hanging in splintered ends to his collarbone. He thought often of trimming it, but a razor remained elusive, in chief because he kept forgetting to request one. By social dictate, Imperial women and men soaped themselves and shaved with warm water. They scraped away the hair beneath their arms, the hair of their legs, the hair around and between, except the face for men and the head for either, unless they willed it.
He sank for around an hour in his bed, staring at the vaulted ceiling above him and the shadows flickering across the room in various shapes. Weary of his chamber’s smooth stone walls, polished floor, mosaic window, of the fire in the hearth, of the shining marble tub, he fled to the hall and its dim light. Rain lashed in sheets outside. The walls of this passage must have been thinner, for the world exposed itself only beyond the interior of his room. Or they’ve warded my chamber and magic obscures the noise.
Machines passed him as he meandered the capitol, dusting surfaces with their angled feather tools, scrubbing floors with spinning brushes emitting slight hums and whirs. The machines did not acknowledge him except in simple gesticulated pleasantries. There were machines in the south, but rarely in the villages. They were more common to the cities and the wealthy in private service or the more substantial public markets. There had been far fewer of them in the capitol buildings in his youth.
The halls of the Grand Priory had always been clean, but never this impeccable. Now the floors and walls kept a regular luster, and the draperies and rugs went unblemished.
Each day when he left his bedchamber, he returned to new sheets, smelling sweet like flowers, and a sparkling bathing tub and washbasin and privy. His senses marveled.
As he walked a hall he had not seen in some time, admiring portraits he had not viewed in such a duration that he saw them with newborn eyes, the patter of feet approached him from the rear.
“Mysr Latimer.” A young woman spoke, in her early twenties, by his estimation. Of course, she would be. “Pardon,” she corrected herself. “Father Latimer.”
He chuckled and waved a hand at her. “Worry not, Sister.” He hoped to sound comforting. “So few are we priests in the capital, ‘tis expected.” The look of her plain grey garb signified her station as a deacon. Perhaps a greener entry, for she carried charmless beads at her wrist.
She pushed back a lock of bright red hair. “I wanted to say, if I happened upon you, that we pray for you every evening in the residence halls during the nightly ritual. We mourn for you and the fallen of Erlan.” Her eyes were a dark hazel, like patches of sunbaked grass in deep summer, and sorrowful. Sorrowful for him, but warm too.
Garron gave a faint smile through his unkempt beard. “The All-Mother extends Her grace to each of us.”
“Aye, Father.” The deacon tittered and departed.
He observed as she disappeared down the corridor, extending him one last glance before she rounded the corner. Shortly after, he redirected his attention to the portrait in front of him and read of the name.
“Adelheid Valiana,” he whispered. The First Matriarch, appointed by the Andesite in Age 3. In her grave by Age 54, after nearly fifty-one ages of diligent, faithful ser
vice. Long ago replaced, the Andesite and the Matriarch, along with the Autarch, had been the three powers of the first Imperial government, the Covenant.
Adelheid oversaw numerous religious rites and invented Idoss, the foremost celebration of the Empire, held during the final month of the cycle, Senterios; a lavish show of prosperity and grandeur associated with commemorating essential Imperial ideals; liberty, the lauding of Gohheia, individual autonomy.
During the fest, government officials signed annual political documents before the people of the city and gave declarations of intent. Contests of skill, singing, dancing, and cleverness commenced. There would be mass prayer, public and private intoxication, nudity, displays of art, impressive feasts, parades, music, elaborate theatrical performances. People from across the Empire, and other kingdoms, came each festival to participate. The dictates of the Church permitted priests such as Garron a return to the capital only at this time, conceivably to remind them of the object of their deference. So rare were priests in Aros, often posted to villages and far cities, that deacons commonly did not know how to address one. Thus, he did not fault the sister for mistaking his title.
What would the First Matriarch think of Aros in the Modern Era? Would she be proud of their work, find honor in their edicts? How would she address the massacre of Erlan? Adelheid had been renowned as an exceptional mage, particularly in the art of metaphysics, the rarest aspect, but hardly utilized her skills as Matriarch, a ceremonial position. Chronicles told that the Archmage Besogos had consulted her when devising spells still popular hundreds of ages later. Besogos, though, being half-elven, had lived hundreds of ages himself.
To carry on such a time before the Nothing, a gift or a curse?
Garron spent the next two hours walking the halls. He stopped at the end of a corridor high in the Priory, one of the few thus far within the whole of the structure that had a clear window, free of art or metallic salts. He admired the courtyard below, opened with many cloisters. The garden of the yard contained a number of themed beds: dyeing, fumigating, strewing, cosmetic, medicinal, culinary. He wasn’t certain to whom the garden belonged within the Church, or if it belonged to anyone.
