Siege and Sacrifice (Numina)

by Charlie N. Holmberg

  The Angelic rubbed a hand down his face, a gesture very reminiscent of Rone—enough so to make Sandis’s chest ache for him.

  “Fetch him some water,” High Priest Dall said, and both Priestess Marisa and Cleric Liddell hurried from the room.

  “I must go,” the Angelic croaked.

  “Are you ill?” asked Triumvir Holwig.

  “I must go. Now.”

  High Priest Dall helped him to his feet, and he leaned heavily on the taller man’s shoulder.

  Sandis exchanged a concerned look with Bastien. What? she mouthed, but Bastien shook his head before turning his pale gaze back to Rone’s father.

  The Angelic and the high priest left, and the room suddenly felt very empty.

  It was like watching thunder.

  The two numina collided, their mass and power cracking together, emitting bursts of light that left Rone blinking spots. He felt the smooth ground beneath his fingers as his vision cleared. When had he fallen?

  Rone. Ireth’s voice. Rone, we must go.

  The ground bucked as though helping him up. Rone staggered to his feet, feeling light-headed. Ireth stood before him, but Rone shifted to the side, peering toward the battle.

  Another crack, loud enough to make his ears ring. If Ireth had spoken aloud, Rone would not have heard him. But the numen’s firm voice sounded in his mind, clear and urgent. We must go.

  “But . . . the Celestial . . .”

  Ireth hesitated at the name. He has come to defend us. If he loses, we cannot remain within Kolosos’s reach.

  Rone blinked and finally met the numen’s eyes. The ground trembled beneath him. Lights flashed against the ethereal sky. “If he loses?”

  We will be the only ones left to stand against Kaj. Ireth looked over his withers as the Celestial—Hepingya—leapt into the air, bright and furious, and crashed down onto Kolosos, knocking him onto his back. The blow resounded through the ground, causing Rone to teeter backward. He tried to grab Ireth for balance, but his hand passed right through the numen. All his fingers touched was heat. A vision of blue-toned hands sharpening a spear sliced through his mind.

  Ireth turned back. He will not lose. Then he let out a very horselike whinny and urged Rone forward. The sting of his flames licked Rone’s skin, and Rone forced himself to turn, to follow the line of retreating numina he hadn’t noticed before.

  He glanced back at the felled pillar. “Should I—”

  We must go. There are too many uncertainties. I will not risk the others.

  Taking a deep breath, Rone hurried away as best he could. He moved at an uneven, pathetic jog, only now discovering pain in his right hip from his earlier fall. He swallowed, throat dry. He needed food, water, rest. Ireth’s fire flared behind him, urging him on. Rone managed to pick up his pace by a hair. Drang and Unaresa were already far ahead of him.

  Light flared behind him, throwing a long shadow of his body across the plane’s glass floor. It faded, and Rone looked back. He couldn’t help it. Kolosos glowed vividly, not so much bright as rich. The red cracks in his body expanded and beamed ghoulish light. If fire could bleed . . .

  Go. Ireth’s mane burned a bright white, blinding Rone to the spectacle. He focused on putting one foot in front of the other. Focused on filling his lungs with new air and expelling the old. Dark glimmers ahead revealed another symmetrical block formation. He could make it that far, couldn’t he?

  A quake split the ground. Rone fell forward onto knees and hands, cursing at the pain that shot up his wrists. He forced himself up and ran harder, favoring his right leg. He became so absorbed in the speed of his own pulse, the throbbing of his body, and the uneven rhythm of his steps that the battle behind him faded to the background. The farther he got, the less the ground shook. He only lost his balance once more. The burns on his back stung from Ireth’s relentless, driving heat.

  He reached the geometric mountain and collapsed against one of its blocks, gasping for air. He should be sweating more. That was a bad sign. He needed water.

  Keep going.

  Rone shook his head. It took him a moment to find his speech. “I need . . . a second.”

  We must keep going.

  “You wouldn’t say that if you were mortal.” Rone pushed himself up and rolled his shoulders. His limbs felt twice as heavy as they should. He couldn’t see the other numina ahead of him anymore, even Pesos. Tilting his head back, he studied the incline of the hill. Was there another close by? Could he hop these things like he did the roofs back in Dresberg?

  Did he have the strength to try?

  A keening cry jerked his and Ireth’s attention back to the huge numina. Rone had traveled farther than he’d thought, but the monsters that marked the poles of the astral sphere were so large they were easy to see against the landscape of dark glass. Rone wasn’t sure which had made the sound, but he’d never heard anything similar come from Kolosos.

  The numina continued to grapple with each other, limbs of rock and limbs of light tangled together, pushing and pulling. Hepingya’s legs crumpled beneath him, giving Kaj the upper hand.

  A war between gods.

  Something Ireth had said wormed through his thoughts. “You said you wouldn’t risk the others,” he managed between heavy breaths. “But you’re immortal. Did you mean for the pillar?”

  The fire comprising Ireth’s mane and engulfing his tail snuffed down until it radiated little more heat than a struck match. Even his vibrant halo dimmed. I do not know, with Kaj. On the mortal plane, we cannot die. But Kaj’s power is that of destruction. You have held the corpse of an immortal in your hand, Rone Comf.

  Rone could almost feel the weight of the amarinth against his palm. Ireth’s unease shuddered through the air like winter wind.

  “Let’s go,” he whispered, forgetting for a moment his fatigue, bruises, and burns. He pushed himself along an unnaturally smooth mountain, leaning against it where he could. The sky flashed white, red, red as they hurried down the other side. Another hill loomed ahead of him. This one Rone would have to climb.

  Gritting his teeth, Rone dragged himself up each block, pushing himself with whatever body part had the most strength. Ireth did not use his heat to urge him onward. If anything, the fire horse had become eerily cold.

  He had nearly reached the top when Ireth galloped across the blocks to achieve a better vantage point. The sky flashed red, white, red, red. Red. A clap of thunder ripped through the ethereal plane, causing a gust of wind to spiral through the glass hills and tousle Rone’s hair and clothes. It carried the scent of sulfur.

  Ireth back-stepped, nearly falling off his block. He shook his large head as though accosted by bees, and a low croon ripped from his throat.

  Rone pulled himself upright. “Ireth?”

  It took a full minute for the numen to meet his gaze. The Mighty has fallen.

  The voice squeezed to nothing.

  Gooseflesh erupted over Rone’s body. “Fallen? Ireth—” He moved closer. “Ireth, is he . . . dead?”

  Ireth dropped his head toward the glass underfoot. He said nothing for a long moment. When his accented voice resurfaced, it was strained and afraid.

  Move, mortal. Or we meet the same fate.

  Chapter 27

  There was no time. No time. And yet, as Triumvir Var brusquely adjourned the meeting and everyone ran to carry out the triumvirs’ orders, Sandis remained rooted in her chair, staring beyond the woodgrain of the table before her. Would Chief Esgar reach Sherig in time? Would she be willing to help? Triumvir Peterus had agreed to start an evacuation, but the government couldn’t empty the city by midnight. How many more would perish? Would this be the end, or merely the beginning of a new nightmare?

  If she woke from Oz’s summoning tomorrow, would her world still be here?

  Did you foresee this, Kazen? she wondered. Would you still have summoned Kolosos, if you knew?

  Her old master had known about the Celestial, but had he known about the connection between the numina an
d the Noscons? And how did an entire race of people become . . . this?

  Warmth bloomed at the base of her skull and trickled down to her chest. She clasped her hands over her heart. Ireth. Guide me. Help me understand.

  There was nothing for her to do until night fell. Until Oz led her, Rist, Bastien, Teppa, and Inda toward the Innerchord and readied them to fight. Oz was already selecting a new numen for Bastien, one with more bite than Hapshi.

  Would she see Rone again, when Ireth took her? If she died, would Anon be waiting for her on the other side? God or no God, surely there was another side.

  But what if there isn’t?

  The questions so consumed her that she didn’t hear footsteps approaching. When a light touch fell on her shoulder, Sandis jumped, hitting her knees against the bottom of the table.

  Priestess Marisa stood over her, wearing a white dress identical to the one draping Sandis. Deep worry lines formed valleys between her eyebrows.

  “Sandis.” Her voice was little more than a whisper. “You must come with me.”

  Aching knees forgotten, Sandis pushed back her chair and stood. “What’s wrong?”

  “The Angelic has requested an audience with you.”

  Her entire body tingled. “Which room is he in?”

  She shook her head. “He’s at the local church.”

  Sandis searched the other woman’s eyes, trying to see her thoughts. “I can’t leave. Triumvir Var forbade it, after the last time.”

  Priestess Marisa shook her head. “I’ll guide you out. Please. It’s . . . urgent.” She extended a hand.

  Sandis chewed the inside of her lip, then accepted the hand. Priestess Marisa pulled her from the room and down the stairs to the back door. The blue-clad guard there nodded to her with his hand over his heart. A faithful Celesian.

  The sky had already dimmed, the deep blue of twilight leaking into the heavens like drops of dye. Did they have so little time? Priestess Marisa must have felt the need to hurry as well, for she quickened her step once they left Triumvir Var’s property. Sandis looked over her shoulder once, wondering after Rist and Bastien.

  “It’s not far.” Priestess Marisa squeezed her hand. “Just a small church over this way, where we’ve gone to worship and pray. There’s been little damage to these neighborhoods, praise the Celestial.” The moment she stopped speaking, she looked toward the center of the city. Sandis thought she could feel a tremor beneath Priestess Marisa’s skin, but perhaps that was her own.

  They walked in silence for several minutes. Many of the homes they passed were dark, but candles filled the windows of the church at the end of the winding road. The highest window was fitted with green glass, giving it the appearance of a leaf in summer light. Sandis’s eyes went straight to it, watching the flames flicker against that glass until she reached the door.

  Her brands ached like they were freshly printed.

  “What does he want?” She kept her voice low.

  But Priestess Marisa shook her head. “I admit I don’t know. But I worry.”

  Swallowing, Sandis allowed Priestess Marisa to guide her into the small building. They stepped into a rectangular room with little decoration outside the candles in the windows. A handful of people lingered inside, sitting here and there along a single row of benches. Sandis recognized Cleric Liddell in the far corner. Half the seats faced one way, and half faced the other. She couldn’t see if anything demarked the turning point, for Priestess Marisa led her up a narrow set of stairs immediately to the right. The wood creaked under their weight.

  A single room occupied the top floor. High Priest Dall stood outside it with a worn set of scripture in his hands. He glanced to Sandis, nodded, and knocked softly on the door.

  Sandis didn’t hear an answer, but the priest grasped the knob and pushed the door open, beckoning Sandis inside.

  Other than High Priest Dall, she and the Angelic were alone in the small room, its only window the green glass she had been so mesmerized by earlier. Portions of the concrete walls jutted out on two sides to form long, hard benches. A single table with two chairs rested just inside the door. One of these chairs had been turned out, and in it slumped the Angelic, looking twenty years older, with a gray cast to his skin.

  She hurried to him as High Priest Dall shut the door—remaining inside—though she found herself unsure upon reaching him.

  Adellion Comf opened his eyes—even the whites had darkened—and studied her. His gaze lingered on her white dress with its silver embroidery, and to her surprise, a ghost of a smile quirked his lips.

  “It suits you,” he murmured.

  Sandis took a step back, the compliment striking her like an open hand. She looked to High Priest Dall in shock. “What’s happened to him?”

  But the high priest looked at the floor, forlorn.

  “You know many truths, my child, but not all.” The Angelic’s weak voice pulled her attention back to him. “You have touched the ethereal plane, as have I. There are few who understand our bonds. Even dear Azul does not fully comprehend.”

  “Azul?” She glanced to High Priest Dall, but her head immediately snapped back to the Angelic. “Our bonds?”

  The skin of her back itched.

  A single, dry chuckle escaped Rone’s father. “The Celestial is a powerful being, as you know. But even he cannot reach the mortal world without a connection.”

  Sandis only half heard what he said. The words our bonds, our bonds, our bonds kept echoing through her head.

  Her voice as insubstantial as air, she asked, “Y-You’re a vessel?”

  He nodded.

  She retreated another step, shaking her head. “You’re a vessel. You’re a vessel. And you . . . you condemn me.”

  “I did not know the truth until my predecessor passed on.” He spoke as if he hadn’t just turned Sandis’s entire world upside down, as if he hadn’t just unleashed a flood of utter hypocrisy on her. “But who is to say what denotes a god? What is deserving of faith?”

  “I had faith!” Sandis shouted, and the high priest rose with his hands lifted in supplication, urging her discretion. Hot tears ran down her cheeks. Hands clenched at her sides, she said, “I had faith, but you told me it was wrong. Kazen burned blasphemy into my skin, and you would have killed me for it. But you . . . you—”

  The Angelic raised a hand. “Would any apology make a difference now, Sandis?”

  She pressed her lips together. A few tears dripped from her chin to the floor. No, his apologies would mean nothing to her.

  Yet despite the power of his revelation, something else nagged at her. She wiped her tears away with a slap of her hand. Her voice cracked as she spoke, but she didn’t care. “But you’re not. There are rules for vessels.” Her eyes widened. “You’re not . . . You’re not Rone’s real father, are you?”

  The Angelic looked at her, one brow askew. In that moment, he looked so much like Rone. But—

  “He is my son by blood,” he said. The statement shocked her more in principle than anything else. The Angelic had always rejected his connection with Rone, and yet here, in this stuffy room, in the middle of the night, while a monster tore up the city, he confessed it so easily.

  Sandis had to swallow twice to clear her throat. “Only a virgin can be a vessel.”

  Again, the man shook his head. “That is not so. A woman who has borne a child cannot host a numen, but either sex can otherwise be appropriated, virtue notwithstanding.”

  Sandis’s lips parted as she strained to understand. She’d uncovered another of Kazen’s lies. Part of her struggled to believe it, but it made sense. He’d wanted them isolated, dependent on him. It had all been part of his plan.

  Several long seconds passed.

  “The early Celesians destroyed the Noscon temple so no one would discover the truth,” Sandis murmured, recalling Jachim’s history lesson to her.

  The Angelic shook his head. “No. The Yokhosho Temple was the birthplace of Celesia.”

  Sandis,
blood cold, opened her mouth to speak, but the Angelic held up a hand to stall her. He continued, “It never should have been done, the resurrection of Noscon magic. It is a terrible thing. I stand by that.”

  Sandis recalled Jachim’s mention of human experimentation, but couldn’t bring herself to so much as nod.

  “There was a man who ended it. Who betrayed his comrades and brought condemnation down upon that horrible place. But he saw the goodness in it. Namely, in Hepingya. That is how our faith started, child. For good, not for evil.” He paused. “It was meant for good.”

  Hepingya? She swallowed, forcing her throat to open. “And that man was the first Angelic?”

  He nodded. “And he died to pass his mantle to the next. Since that time, only a few have been entrusted with the truth. Only those who could bear it.”

  She studied his face, as though its lines hid more secrets. “What do you mean, about the mantle?” An image of Heath, of his failed hosting of Kolosos, passed her mind’s eye. She shoved it away, stomach clenched. She thought instead of the tattoo at the base of her neck, of Ireth’s blood mixed with the ink.

  “If you can’t summon the Celestial, you can’t bond to him,” she tried, fearing what the Angelic would confirm.

  In tones too quiet for High Priest Dall to overhear, he said, “No human can host a god. But in an attempt to summon him, we obtain the blood we need for the bond.”

  Chills ran down Sandis’s arms. That meant . . . each Angelic died the same way Heath had, just so the bonding tattoo could be passed to the next priest. They harvested it from . . .

  The smell rose in her nose, though the room she stood in was only scented with kerosene. She tried not to imagine a priest stooping over the ruined body of his former leader, scooping the gore into a vial of ink . . .

  Gritting her teeth, Sandis rubbed a drying tear from her eye. “Anything else I don’t know?”

  To her relief, the Angelic shook his head. “I believe you understand the rest.”

  Sandis hugged herself, trying to get warm. “You’re bound to the Celestial.”

  “To Hepingya, yes.” He tried to pull down the back of his collar, perhaps to show Sandis the numen’s name tattooed at the base of his neck, but the Angelic’s gown was too tight around the neck. Guaranteeing his secret would never accidentally meet the eyes of a worshipper.