Siege and Sacrifice (Numina)

by Charlie N. Holmberg

  His father, a vessel all this time. Once he would have barked at the hypocrisy of it, but he couldn’t dredge up the contempt. Not now.

  Rone curled his hand around the amarinth and tucked his fist under his chin. He struggled to comprehend the . . . what should he call it? The end of it all? But it wasn’t truly the end, was it? Not for them. Still, the enemy was gone, and the city was in ruins. Well, a lot of it was. It would take years to clean it up. Years to rebuild.

  Would he be here for it?

  Ireth had said they could leave, travel in ways normal men could not. Travel in ways not monitored by other humans. Sandis certainly could, with those markings on her back. So could Anon. Bastien. Rist. The fire-horse-turned-man had sounded confident that Rone would be able to tag along. Rone dared to hope. He had hated this place for such a long time. Admittedly, he felt a small twinge of something—regret, nostalgia; he was bad at naming things today—at the thought of leaving for good. But the possibility gave him hope. A new beginning, with Sandis. With his mother. With his future brother-in-law.

  He blinked. That was a new thought. But he found he didn’t mind it.

  Shifting in his chair, he pocketed the talisman. His tailbone was starting to hurt. Standing, Rone stretched before peeking into the bedroom. Anon’s cot had been set up in an oversized closet in Triumvir Var’s home, where makeshift beds and pallets had been crammed into free space on all three floors, except for the triumvir’s bedroom. Var had only issued an invitation to those he deemed important: Esgar slept on the bed in the adjoining room. Sherig occupied the cot beside him, reading a romance novel. Her wounds were superficial, but she had a lot of them. The woman met his eye and winked before returning to her diversion. Oz, who appeared unscathed, lingered somewhere in the house, caring for the surviving vessels. Rist, Bastien, and Inda were recovering. Teppa would never wake, thanks to Kolosos. Oz had seemed so beside himself that Rone had attempted neither conversation nor condolences.

  Already a memorial was in the works for General Istrude, who had also passed away in the fray. The triumvirate had survived without a scratch, of course. Peterus and Holwig were probably already scheming to get the evacuated citizens back into the city. With Kolosos gone, the factories could start up again. Rone recognized the need to get back to normal, but he hated it all the same.

  Normal had never done him any good in Dresberg.

  Jachim had survived, of course. He’d never gotten close to Kolosos, save for that night Rone and Sandis had rescued him. Shaking his head, Rone let out a long breath. He couldn’t bring himself to be annoyed at the man. Though he’d proved a troublemaker in the past, Rone bore an odd affection, or at least toleration, for him. But maybe that was Sandis’s influence.

  As far as he knew, Cleric Liddell and the other white-clad Celesians had survived. But their god had not. Neither had his father. What they would do next, Rone wasn’t sure. Help the people. Pursue their faith without an Angelic. Maybe find a new faith altogether.

  Clutching the amarinth in his pocket, Rone offered a weak and rare prayer. Thank you, Dad.

  Regardless of where Rone went, he had a feeling Dresberg would be transformed by siege and sacrifice.

  Bastien’s head was somewhere else; he didn’t notice Rone standing in the doorway. Hadn’t heard the creak of the hinges as Rone peeked into their shared bedroom. He was folding the one change of clothes he’d managed to hold on to, though his pale eyes were focused on some spot between the floor and the window. He winced on occasion—his burns were bandaged, and Rone wondered if the tender skin had been ripped during the final battle with Kolosos. For a kid who often seemed scared of his own skin, the bastard could be sickeningly brave.

  “I’ll never host a numen again,” Bastien said, raising his eyes to the window.

  So he had noticed Rone. He stepped into the room. “Not a bad thing.”

  “No.” His fingers absently brushed his injured arm. “Not a bad thing at all. Just unsettling. When you spend so long with an identity forced upon you, it’s strange to discover your own.”

  Rone tilted his head at the elegant words. “And you’ve found yours?”

  The Godobian shook his head before meeting Rone’s stare. “Not yet. But soon.”

  Rone wondered if he should point out that Bastien hadn’t stuttered once since Rone’s return to the mortal realm, but he didn’t want to make him self-conscious. Instead, Rone gestured to the clothes, and to the bag he now noticed at the foot of the bed. “Leaving?”

  “Staying.”

  Rone nodded. “Sandis won’t go until Anon is up. Hopefully that will be soon.”

  Bastien rubbed his hands together. “Staying indefinitely, I mean. Here, in Dresberg.”

  Rone hadn’t expected that. It must have shown in his features, given Bastien’s reply.

  “I’m learning how to read now.” He shrugged. “And . . . I don’t really know Godobia. I don’t remember it.”

  “I don’t know it, either,” Rone offered.

  “True.” He pulled his braid over his shoulder and ran his unscarred hand down its length. “But, well, Jachim says I have promise. And I think I can help here. I-I’m not sure how. But I would like to do what I can. And he’s offered to teach me.”

  Rone snorted. “You’re going to be a scholar’s understudy?”

  A smile tugged Bastien’s lips upward. “Something like that. It’s an opportunity. I . . . haven’t had a lot of those. I don’t want to waste it.”

  Rone hesitated a few seconds, then nodded. “I understand. Does Sandis know you plan on staying?”

  “I’ll tell her.” A sad expression crossed his features, but his jaw set in resolution. “Maybe I can visit, once you’re settled. Jachim is excited to study the ethereal plane.”

  “You told him?” That didn’t sit well with Rone. He’d hoped Sandis would keep it to herself, but he wasn’t surprised she’d shared the information with Bastien. Or that Bastien had loose lips.

  Bastien’s brows drew together. “Should I not have?”

  Rone wasn’t sure. “Wait until morning to tell her.” He shoved his hands into his pockets. “Take care of yourself. It’s been . . . an adventure, Red. Maybe I’ll miss you.”

  Bastien beamed and shifted the bag on his shoulder. “I’ll miss you, too. And good luck. Sorry to see you Go . . . dobia.”

  Rolling his eyes, Rone pushed off the door frame and walked away.

  But he couldn’t help chuckling as he went.

  Anon felt like a horse had fallen on him. And hadn’t gotten up.

  He struggled to open his eyes. The lids felt glued together. His insides were sand. His joints hurt. Everything hurt, but his joints especially. And his bones.

  There was a weird taste in his mouth. Like . . . mint. And chicken. But he hadn’t eaten in . . . how long had it been? Not since before that man died. What was his name? Kaze? Gaze?

  He lifted his hand. The attempt was just a twitch at first, but he managed to get the heavy limb up to his face. Rub the glue from his eyes.

  “Anon?”

  That voice.

  He opened his eyes. Everything was a blur. Shades of brown. Light in the corner from . . . a lamp, he thought. He blinked, urging his surroundings to sharpen. He could make out angular shadows. Walls, corners. A face loomed over him. Warm fingers touched his cheeks.

  “Anon?” she said again.

  Tears sprang to his eyes. How did he have tears, when his body felt so dry? But there was that taste in his mouth. Had he eaten? Drunk? Why could he not remember?

  “Sandis?” he croaked. He’d dreamed she’d come to him, before. That had been a dream, hadn’t it?

  An oomph escaped him when she hugged him. She released him just as quickly.

  “Sorry.” She sniffed. He could see the outline of her face, her hair—it was short now—and her eyes. A blur wiped across it. Her hand? A droplet, a tear, struck his neck. “You’re safe, Anon. You’re safe. Kolosos is gone.”

  Her voice grew
heavy with tears. Two more struck his neck. Anon blinked, nearly bringing his sister into focus. His heart beat hard and heavy. Safe?

  Reaching up a hand, he touched her cheek. “Sandis?”

  She grabbed his hand and squeezed it. “You’ve been asleep for three days. You’re in Triumvir Var’s home. The war is over.”

  War? He tried to remember . . . but everything was dark beyond glimmers of light and pain. Such pain. He shuddered at the memory of it.

  The floor—bed?—shifted. “Here, drink this.”

  Cool glass pressed to his lip. Tangy liquid touched his tongue. He drank deeply until he coughed. Some of the stuff burned back up his throat, but he swallowed it down.

  “That will help you feel better.” She brushed hair from his face.

  He tried to rub his eyes again, but his body was so heavy. His mind spun. “It . . . hurts, Sandis.” His voice was raspy, but he thought the words were coherent. “There’s so much that . . . hurts.”

  And then he slept.

  Rone stalked back toward the bedroom—no, closet—where he’d left Sandis and Anon. His mind lingered on his conversation with the Godobian. No. Bastien. It would be odd not having him around. Sandis might be upset. Then again, she had her brother back, if he woke up. Rone hated to think what would happen if he didn’t.

  No, we’re hoping now, he reminded himself. We’ve paid our dues. We deserve hope.

  He reached the stairs and heard voices. Not loud enough to pick apart, let alone understand, but it was the middle of the night. Had they all become nocturnal now?

  Curious, he started down the stairs instead of up them. One of the steps creaked, so he hoisted himself onto the banister and slid to the main floor. Around the stairs, down the hall, a dim light glowed under the door to the study.

  A shadow lurked outside it.

  Rone’s muscles tensed like springs. He crept forward, but as he neared the form, the shadow took on a familiar shape.

  Rist, he thought. In the dim light, the vessel’s eyes met his. Rist’s ear was pressed to the door.

  Rone said nothing. Merely leaned close to the door and listened.

  “—not much of a point.”

  “But if his transportation theory proves correct, this could be massive.” That was . . . Peterus, Rone thought.

  “Indeed.” Var.

  Transportation? Rone’s mind spun. They didn’t mean the ethereal plane, did they? She should have waited to tell Bastien. The Godobian had probably told the excitable scholar about the potential of the now-empty ethereal plane and the man had gotten his breeches in knots over it.

  But no one could enter it without a vessel.

  A curse popped somewhere near his larynx.

  Rone missed the next speaker, but later caught, “And keep them close, until things are in order. If it works, they’ll have employment.”

  “Do you intend to pay them?” asked another.

  Rone couldn’t make out the response, but he wasn’t surprised by the tension rolling off Rist like summer heat.

  Once a slave, always a slave.

  It was time to go.

  The door to the closet opened so quickly Sandis startled from the chair beside her brother’s cot.

  Pulse thudding in her throat, she said, “Rone.”

  Rone closed the door carefully behind him, twisting the handle so it didn’t click. “We need to be on guard.”

  Gooseflesh coursed down Sandis’s back. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean our government is talking downstairs, and I think they want to experiment with what Ireth told us.”

  Sandis narrowed her eyes, trying to understand. Rone was . . . tense. “You mean the ethereal plane?”

  He nodded. “If vessels can get nonvessels up there . . . well, you’re a key to a potentially valuable lock. A key certain people won’t want to lose.”

  Understanding washed over her like boiling water.

  After all that had happened . . . would the triumvirate refuse to retract their claws?

  She picked at the bandage wrapped just above her right elbow, where a burn was still healing. “Anon woke, briefly. But he’s not recovered yet.”

  Rone tugged a hand through his hair. “We might have to carry him.”

  “What if it hurts him?”

  Dropping his hand, Rone sighed. “For now, let’s act like we don’t know what the triumvirs intend. Buy Anon some time. Be all smiles and helpfulness.”

  Sandis nodded. “We have to tell Bastien and Rist—”

  “Rist was with me. He knows. Bastien plans on staying.”

  A pang like a hammer struck her chest. “He’s not coming?”

  Rone shook his head, his shoulders relaxing. “He says he has an opportunity here with Jachim. Something about learning to read and helping and other crap.”

  Sandis managed a smile. “He’ll be good at that. But we should tell him. At least so he doesn’t give us away.”

  Rone nodded. “But turn off this light so we’re not suspicious.”

  Sandis moved to the lantern. Paused. Then shifted toward Rone and circled her arms around his waist.

  He embraced her tightly and pressed a kiss to the top of her head. “It’s almost over,” he whispered.

  Sandis believed him.

  Chapter 32

  Sandis fell asleep on the chair, leaning against the wall. The clanking of a glass hitting the floor startled her awake, igniting a sharp kink in her neck.

  “Sorry.” The apology was weak and raspy. But it came from him.

  “Anon!” She stumbled off her chair and to his side. He sat up in bed, leaning heavily to one side, propping himself up on his arm. His blanket had fallen to his hips, revealing the sharpness of his ribs against his papery skin.

  Sandis moved for the pitcher in the corner, then found the now-chipped glass Anon must have knocked over. She filled it half-full and held it to his lips. He managed to take it in one hand. His grip was stronger than before.

  He drank every drop.

  Sandis sat on the edge of the cot. “How are you feeling?”

  “Terrible.” He coughed. “But . . . better.” He tilted his face up, his eyes meeting hers. They were clearer this time, more focused.

  Her own vision blurring with tears, she hugged him, careful not to hurt him. It was still unbelievable, him being here. Alive, all these years. And already taller than she was. She had missed his leap toward manhood completely, and—

  “Sandis, where were you?”

  She pulled back. “What?”

  Anon winced and touched his skull. “Where were you? I got back from the tower, and the flat was empty. No one . . . No one had seen you. You just vanished.”

  A chill rolled down Sandis’s arms. “The tower? Anon, where were you? You disappeared. I searched”—she paused, a lump forming in her throat—“everywhere for you. Kazen told me you’d drowned.”

  He stiffened. “Kazen.” He said it like he was trying to remember.

  Sandis nodded. “He’s the man who took you. Who took me. Anon, I was his vessel for four years. Until I met Rone.”

  He met her eyes. “Rone?”

  Sandis chewed on her lip. Her story was so long, so complicated, and Anon was so weak. “Tell me where you went.”

  He swallowed. Tried to sit up straighter and groaned, so Sandis helped him lie back down. He closed his eyes, and for a moment Sandis thought she’d lost him to sleep again.

  “I went to the Lily Tower,” he said, opening his eyes, though his dark gaze was unfocused. “I’d heard they treat acolytes well. I wanted a better—” His voice choked off, dry. Sandis hurried to give him water, which he drank slowly this time. “I wanted a better life for us. But the testing . . . it takes days. I didn’t know.” He winced again. “They said I couldn’t go home . . . that it would show a lack of faith. So I didn’t. And I passed. I ran home to tell you, but you were gone.”

  A single tear slid down Sandis’s cheek. “You were at the Lily Tower.”

&nb
sp; His irises shifted back toward her.

  Sandis clasped her hands together and bit her knuckle. “All this time.”

  “I went back. For a year,” Anon said, closing his eyes again. “And then I left. I couldn’t be there anymore. The tower, Dresberg. It reminded me so much of you. Of Mom and Dad. So I went north. Got a job as a farmhand. And you . . . you were here, all along.”

  “You never would have found me,” she murmured.

  Anon shook his head, then winced.

  Sandis stood. “Let me find you more medicine—”

  His hand snagged hers. “No. Sit.”

  Sandis sank back onto the cot.

  Anon met her eyes again. “Tell me what happened. All of it.”

  Sandis pinched her lips together, taking in his gaunt features. The tightness in his forehead that belied pain. “Maybe after you rest—”

  “Sandis. Please.”

  He tightened his birdlike grip on her hand.

  Sandis rested her other hand atop his. “I was searching for you, not very far from Helderschmidt’s. The sun was going down, but I wanted to check a little farther. I ran into two men. Slavers, but I didn’t know it at the time . . .”

  Sandis hugged Bastien tightly to her and laughed. “You smell like roses.”

  Pulling back, Bastien blushed and tugged on his braid. “That . . . was the only soap I could find.”

  Tendrils of morning light leaked through the gauzy curtains of the bedroom they had once shared in Triumvir Var’s home. The sun hadn’t crested the great wall yet, so the morning was still young and balmy. In a few months winter would settle in, bitter and cold. Sandis had heard it was warmer in Godobia.

  Thoughts of the southern country quickened her pulse, but she smiled, hiding her nerves. Pulling a tightly folded paper from the pocket of her dress, she pressed it into Bastien’s palm.

  “This is where you can send letters,” she whispered. “Don’t show anyone, even Jachim. Just to be safe.”

  Bastien’s blue eyes searched hers. He nodded. “I promise. You’ll write back?”

  Sandis took the end of his red braid and gave it a gentle pull. “Of course.”