Siege and Sacrifice (Numina)

by Charlie N. Holmberg

  “Uh,” Jachim said, pushing up glasses that weren’t there. “R-Rone. He came running in—”

  Sandis turned around, but all she saw was an unadorned basement wall. Spinning back, she said, “Where?”

  “He ran for you,” the general said, his eyes more white than brown, his brows nearly reaching his hairline. “He ran for you and disappeared.”

  “Portal,” Jachim whispered. “I need my notes!”

  He hurried for the stairs, but Triumvir Var grabbed his shoulder and halted him. “Tell us what you know now, Franz!”

  Jachim shook with . . . excitement?

  “Where’s Rone?” Sandis repeated. Why was it so hard to breathe?

  “There was something in the tablets I didn’t understand.” He waved a hand and shook his head before rushing on. “Something about a portal. Light. That’s . . . surely that’s what happened! The portal appeared in the flash of light before the summoning. And to think it just nullified it! I wonder if it would work again right away, or if the traditional resting period is still needed—”

  “Franz!” Triumvir Var shook him.

  The scholar focused. “Oh, yes, sorry. It’s a portal. Has to be. How else could the chap have vanished like that?”

  “Vanished?” Sandis whispered. She turned around again, hoping against reason they were wrong. That Rone was hiding somewhere. But there was nowhere to hide. “He was here?” she asked, even as Jachim spoke over her. “He was here?”

  Her heart hardened and sank all at once.

  “He was,” General Istrude finally answered, his brow lowered and his voice soft. “Right as you finished . . . I saw him as he shoved me away. He went . . . he went right into that light and . . . he’s gone.”

  Tears sprang to Sandis’s eyes. Rushing past the general, she ran to Jachim, slipping under Triumvir Var’s arm to get to him. She grabbed the front of his robes. “Where? Where would the portal go?”

  “I—” The scholar glanced from her to Triumvir Var and back. “I can’t decipher that part of the tablet. The writing is so old, and there are so many symbols we don’t have context for—”

  “Jachim!” she shouted, hurting her own ears. “Where did he go?”

  Jachim pressed his lips together, thought, and said, “M-My best theory is . . . well, the only place I could think of . . .”

  Sandis gripped his robes tighter, her breath reduced to a thin trickle of air.

  Jachim sighed. “The ethereal plane, I suppose.”

  Sandis’s grip went slack at the same time Triumvir Var spurted, “What?”

  They talked, argued, but Sandis couldn’t hear them anymore. She stumbled away from Jachim, away from the others, and stared into nothing. Grappled for Ireth, but he, too, had vanished. Her fingers and toes chilled. A thin lock of hair stuck to the corner of her mouth, but she didn’t brush it away.

  Rone had tried to stop her, and he’d been taken . . . there?

  “Celestial help him.” Sandis fell to her knees. Almost instantly, warm arms surrounded her. She didn’t need to look up to see who it was; his red braid fell over her shoulder.

  “I’m sorry, Sandis,” he said, voice hitching. “I had to tell him. I-I didn’t want you to d-die.”

  Her hand found his wrist and she squeezed. This was all a dream, wasn’t it? She blinked her eyes as dry as she could get them.

  “How do we get him back?” The words were too faint to be overheard by the arguing men. She tried again, a little louder. “How do we get him back?”

  “She’s hale enough,” Triumvir Peterus said. “Let’s try again.”

  “No!” Sandis jolted to her feet, knocking Bastien onto his hip. “We will not try again, not while he’s trapped there! Jachim!” She moved for him again, hands pressed together in pleading. “How do we get him back?”

  The excitement drained from the scholar’s face, making his mouth go slack. “I . . . I don’t know, Sandis. I can’t even theorize . . .” He bowed his head in apology. “I simply don’t know.”

  Sandis shook her head, running back to the corner where she had meant to die, putting distance between herself and the others. “I’m summoning again. I’m getting him out.”

  “S-Sandis,” Bastien said.

  “Not for the amarinth.” She shot a hard look at each of the men. “I’m summoning Ireth and getting him out.”

  “Sandis,” Jachim hurried to her, clutching a ledger. “We don’t know how the plane works—”

  But Sandis’s hand was already in her hair. “Don’t let them kill me,” she told Bastien. Then, before anyone could react, she rushed through the summoning and cried Ireth’s name.

  Flames engulfed her, pain radiated hot and vicious through her body, tearing her in two, burning her to ash, searing blood and flesh. She looked for him, but saw only flames and her own blistering agony.

  Then everything went dark.

  Rone ran.

  Where he ran, he didn’t know. It was dark, and vastly empty. No sewers to wade through, no buildings to vault, no garbage bins or fences to climb. Just smooth nothingness. And stars. So many stars.

  And something huffing behind him, its claws chiming like bells against the whatever-surface beneath his feet. Rone swore he could feel hot moisture from its mouth at the back of his neck. He only dared look over his shoulders once, but it was so dark he couldn’t make out what it was. But it was large and hunched and ran on all fours.

  And it was getting closer.

  His lungs and legs burned, but he pushed himself faster, faster, nearly losing his footing on the smooth ground. Even curses left his mind. He just had to run. Run. Run.

  Duck left.

  That voice again, strangely accented, pluming up from somewhere in the middle of his skull.

  He didn’t question it.

  Rone dodged left, his shoulder hitting something—a block of some sort. He tried to stand, but a ceiling appeared over him. About four feet up. So he crawled, his knees burning through his trousers. Crawled until there were no stars, only black.

  He was going to die.

  The thing behind him howled and began scraping against the block—blocks?—behind him.

  Fall.

  “What?” Rone’s voice was hoarse. He kept crawling. He could hide in here, he could—

  The ground suddenly gave out beneath his left hand. He nearly toppled forward into the abyss.

  Blinking sweat from his eyes, Rone peered down. He couldn’t gauge the distance well. Everything was black and deep blue, but there were stars down below. So many stars. He’d never seen so many stars in his life.

  Something thudded against the roof over him. He cursed.

  Fall, Rone. Trust.

  Rone’s racing heart trembled. “How do you know my name?” he whispered. “Who are you?”

  Fall.

  Swallowing, Rone reached forward, feeling the hard lip of the surface beneath him and the nothingness beyond it. It wasn’t so much a hole in his path as a ledge. His gut told him he was very high up. Higher even than the roof of the Lily Tower.

  Maybe it was only a few feet. Maybe he was crazy.

  The ceiling shook.

  Damn it, damn it, damn it, damn it. Gritting his teeth, Rone leapt.

  And fell.

  His stomach surged up into his rib cage. Cool air flooded his mouth and ballooned his cheeks. He spun, geometric shapes above him, stars below him, above, below, until he was disoriented and sick and falling—

  A rush of wind slowed him, so hot it made his every pore sweat. But he slowed, facing the stars head-on.

  The wind faded, and he hit the glassy ground with a thud.

  He spat Sandis’s least-favorite curse and rolled onto his back, cradling his nose. He poked it gingerly. He was screwed if he broke it again. He had no amarinth.

  Amarinth. Sandis.

  He sat up, gasping like he’d swum from the bottom of a pool. His body was whole, but his mind was fragmented, spinning.

  A burst of light glimmered to
his left, brilliant against the dark. Something hissed as the light expanded, and Rone thought he heard the flapping of wings. A hawk? A monster?

  Monsters . . .

  Carefully, Rone stood, his legs shaky, muscles exhausted. He squinted at the bright light and moved toward it. Not just light, but a mass of flame. Orange, red, and white. Shaped oddly. He moved closer. It remained stationary. There was something weirdly familiar about it. As he neared, the shape of the white became clearer. It was a giant ring. A wreath, or a halo.

  Rone’s lips parted. His feet picked up speed. It can’t be.

  But it was. He came closer, closer, until the body around the flames took shape. Fire danced around hooves of dark bronze and tarnished silver. The flames highlighted four separate horns and reflected off black darker even than the expanse above him.

  Rone stopped four paces away, rolling heat warming him. “Ireth?”

  The fire horse lifted its head. Hello, Rone. You are unexpected.

  The voice. It was the same.

  And Rone knew exactly where he was.

  Chapter 12

  Sandis awoke with a start, the lamplight around her brilliant and sharp. Her mouth, throat, and eyes were dry as ash, and her bones sang with the memory of utter agony.

  She sat up anyway, brain sloshing inside her skull. Bastien, beside her, shouted, “She’s awake!” His voice drummed in her ears. He moved to the door of the room—the bedroom—and bellowed, “Jachim! She’s awake!”

  He returned and poured her water in a crystal glass, an extravagance that struck her as ridiculous. Clutching it in her hands, Sandis croaked, “Rone?”

  Bastien shook his head. Sandis would have wept had her body not been so parched.

  She sipped at the water, forcing it over dry and rising sobs. She was halfway through the glass when Jachim and Triumvir Peterus pushed their way into the room.

  “You fool woman,” the latter said. “We are in times of peril! You cannot just—”

  “Please,” Bastien interrupted. “She’s sick.”

  Sandis couldn’t bring herself to utter an apology. She hugged herself with one arm, only then noticing she didn’t wear her dress, but a shirt—Rone’s shirt. It still smelled like him. Her chest ached like it was collapsing in on itself.

  “Where is he?” she asked.

  Jachim pushed in front of Triumvir Peterus, causing him to throw up his hands in silent protest. “I . . . I think my theory is right. At least, I don’t have another hypothesis to go on. You see”—he opened the book in his arms and pulled out a copy of one of the tablets—“there are a large number of numina, which leads me to believe the ethereal plane must also be quite large. Even if Rone remained rooted to the spot after porting over there . . . I don’t know how he’d know when the portal would reappear, if it even does. He wouldn’t know where it would be, or when to jump—”

  “What do you mean, ‘if it even does’?” Sandis rasped. She forced her grip on the glass to lighten, lest she crush it in her hands.

  Jachim pressed his lips together until they turned white. Turning the etching toward her, he said, “This one was the hardest to interpret. I didn’t understand before.” He pointed to a rounded, fat symbol. “This is portal. Doorway. I want to say this means the ethereal plane”—he pointed to another symbol—“but I have no context for it. And this. This isn’t a Noscon symbol, just a picture.”

  His index finger tapped on an arrow with an X drawn on its flat side.

  Sandis tried to swallow, and sipped water to relieve the struggle. “What does it mean?”

  Jachim sighed. “My best guess is that the portal only works one way. Sandis . . . Rone might be trapped. Indefinitely.”

  Sandis dropped the glass onto the blankets, the water seeping through.

  Sandis sat on the balcony outside the room she, Rone, and Bastien shared—had shared—as the dawn bloomed. She pressed her face against the painted iron bars and looked out over the city. Smoke puffed up from two different factories in the smoke ring. The triumvirs really were forcing people to continue working. She’d overheard Triumvir Peterus talking about a rebellion in District Three. He’d ordered Chief Esgar to double the police presence there.

  Sandis didn’t know which was better: letting the people give in to their fear and run to safety or keeping the city and its resources operating for as long as possible.

  At least everyone would be safe during the day, while Kolosos, and her brother, slumbered.

  She knew the bars were leaving dents across her forehead, but she couldn’t bring herself to straighten. Fatigue clawed at her, but she couldn’t sleep. Her stomach rumbled, yet she couldn’t eat. Rone was gone. It was her fault. And she had no idea if a mortal could even survive in the ethereal plane, let alone how to get him back.

  Ireth had not attempted to communicate with her.

  She blinked to keep her sore eyes dry. If I hadn’t gone behind his back, this wouldn’t have happened.

  And now they would have no amarinth, because Sandis would not chance abandoning Rone. Come back, Rone. Please. Come back.

  Nothing answered her. Yet she could not accept that he was truly gone. If only Ireth could speak to her. If only she could figure out how to decipher his language—

  She sighed. Sighed, because she couldn’t cry anymore.

  He’s not dead. I’d feel it if he were dead.

  Wouldn’t she?

  Time ticked away, though the bell towers refused to ring. Kolosos would come again. Then what would they do?

  “Sandis?” Bastien’s timid voice sounded behind her. She hadn’t heard the window open.

  “Hm?”

  He stepped beside her, folding his legs under him as if they were starting another session of meditation. Perhaps that’s what Sandis needed. A moment to clear her head, to reconnect to the ethereal plane. Maybe, even, she would be able to communicate with Rone. Doubtful, but she should try.

  Bastien gingerly touched her shoulder.

  Sandis finally sat up, wincing when her skin pulled free of the iron. She rubbed the prints it left in her forehead.

  “You need to sleep.”

  Sandis shook her head. “I slept after the summoning.”

  “Not true sleep,” Bastien insisted. “Your body needs rest.”

  She sighed. She would be of no use if she withered away, like her mother had after her father died. “I will. I’ll find something to eat and—”

  Bastien handed her a roll.

  A small smile touched her lips as she accepted it. “Thank you.”

  “I thought it’d be breader than nothing.”

  The smile stuck, and Sandis shook her head. “That was terrible.”

  “It’s the best I could come up with on short notice.” He looked out over the city, his mirth fading as quickly as it had come.

  Sandis sighed. She took a nibble of her bread, chewed it until it was too soft, and swallowed. Took another, staring out at the city. Trying to guess which factories were in operation, and how many more smokestacks would be sputtering by noon.

  “They’re all . . . talking.” Bastien tugged at a loose thread on his shirt. “The triumvirate. Oz, the priests, the chief, the general.”

  She nodded and took another bite.

  “Sandis, while we wait . . . can you do me a favor?”

  She studied his self-conscious expression. “Whatever you need, Bastien.”

  The crinkles in his forehead relaxed. “C-Could you teach me how to read? I know it’ll take a long time, but I have to start somewhere . . .”

  The simple request was unexpected. “Of course.”

  Bastien drew in a deep breath. “I know a lot of the letters. I mean, I see them everywhere. But . . . I don’t know how to put them together. I feel useless.”

  “You’re not useless, Bastien.”

  “Not in some ways,” he agreed, staring at his feet. “I know a little bit about Noscon symbols. Jachim liked that. But I couldn’t read any of his notes. I couldn’t help.
And sometimes . . .” He paused, biting the inside of his lip.

  “Sometimes?”

  “Sometimes . . . I-I want to say something to them, you know? The triumvirs. But I want to be right first. I mean, I want to know the histories better, and I can’t even read them.”

  Know them better, Sandis thought. Would that help her, too?

  Taking his hand in hers, Sandis stood—her hips protesting—and pulled Bastien up beside her. This was a blessing, really. Something useful she could do that would help her keep her mind off Rone and Kazen.

  “There’s paper in the library down the hallway.” Sandis led him back inside. “Find that, and something to write with. I’ll meet you in the library in just a bit. I need . . . I need to talk to someone first.”

  Bastien smiled. “Thank you, Sandis. You’re a good friend, to the letter.”

  Sandis let out a single, stale chuckle, but it made her feel a little lighter. She followed Bastien out into the hallway, but when he turned for the library, she descended the stairs to the study.

  If anyone slept less than she did, it was Jachim Franz.

  He was in the exact same chair she’d found him in before the first failed summoning, though a plate smeared with the remnants of food rested beside him. His left hand was stained with ink, and so was part of his chin—he must have left the smudge without realizing it. His eyes were alert, but his lids were heavy.

  “Jachim?”

  He startled, then examined his writing, perhaps to ensure he hadn’t scribbled out anything important in his jolt. “Sandis! Yes.” He rubbed his eyes under his glasses. “How can I help you?”

  Stepping into the room, she closed the door behind her, then chose a seat to Jachim’s right. “You’re well versed in everything Noscon. Does that include the history of summoning among the Kolins?”

  The scholar set down his pen. “Well, yes. That’s how it all started, really. One day you’re sitting in history class, and the next you’re fascinated by a bizarre, impossible magic in the country up north . . . that is, that’s the reason I came here. Your history is much more fascinating than Ysben’s. Ours is literally centuries of people sitting around a table, talking about politics, and never doing anything exciting. There was a naval battle once. But everyone studies that, and I’ll admit I’m scared of the ocean.” He shrugged. “Sharks and the like.”