by Myke Cole
She pushed the terror down again. You have been terrified every day since the night you fled Basina. What’s one more thing? “I’ll never get the chance to say it to Basina,” Heloise went on, “but I have the chance now.”
Xilyka froze, drying rag suspended inside the metal frame over Heloise’s shoulder.
Heloise swallowed again, stepping fully off the cliff. The fear finally lapped itself, and Heloise found herself suddenly serene. It freed her to speak, and the words came rushing out. “I love you. I love you and I would do the same thing Onas did. I would go mad, and I would fight and scream and do what’s wrong, and I would do it all gladly, because even if Clodio was wrong about what love was, he wasn’t wrong that without love, life is just a shadow. And I don’t want to beat the devils and save the world if shadows are all that are left to me.”
Her words trailed off, and she froze as still as Xilyka, waiting for the girl to look up, to scream at her, to strike her. It would be worth it. With the words said, she already felt so light she wondered if she would float out of the machine and into the sky.
But Xilyka only returned to her cleaning. “How did she die, this great love of yours?”
Heloise swallowed grief at the memory. “She died fighting to protect me.”
Xilyka scrubbed at a stubborn smudge of dried blood. “Against your famous devil?”
Heloise let the audible hitching of her throat stand as a reply.
Xilyka nodded. “Then it is no wonder that you loved her. A shame she was born a villager. It is the place of women to fight. Sindi Mothers leave it to their men, and they are wrong to do so.”
“I know that now,” Heloise said, “and it’s why I love you.”
Xilyka looked up, and her smile took Heloise’s breath away. “And is your love so fickle? Are you so eager to forget your Basina?”
“I will never forget her, and I would never want to.”
Xilyka returned her hands to Heloise’s hip, though she had already cleaned it once. “Because she is what you have lost. Because the pain of it lifts you up to lead.”
“Because the pain of it is all that’s left of her. Even now, my memories of her are … I’m losing them. I can’t hold it all in my head. There’s only room for so much, and … I need other memories more, like how to fight, and how the machine works, and…”
Xilyka reached inside to touch Heloise’s hand, and Heloise realized that she was crying. Stupid, Heloise thought. You’ve ruined the moment.
But Xilyka twined her fingers with Heloise’s. “It’s all right, Heloise. I understand.”
“I don’t want to lose the memories,” Heloise went on. “I have nothing of her, not a lock of hair, not a drawing of her face, not a ribbon from her dress. But memories … they’re like water. No matter how tight you try to hold them, they just run through your fingers … But the pain, Xilyka…”
Xilyka’s eyes were knowing, “The pain is eternal. And after a time, it no longer hurts. After a time, it is the sweetest thing left of those we wish were still with us.”
“How do you know?”
“I have not lost as you have, but I am the daughter of the sole Mother in the Hapti band, and I have learned at her feet. I would restore your Basina to you, if I could. But since you must endure her loss, remember this: loss can curdle, it can break a woman. Not all can … use it as you have.”
“Use it for what?” Heloise asked.
Xilyka gestured, the sweep of her arm taking in the army camp beyond the canvas walls, fires beginning to dot the landscape as villagers, Traveling People, and Red Lords troops settled in for the night. “Do you not see the change you have wrought in the world?
“No, Heloise,” she husked, “you are lucky in your loss.”
And now a tear tracked its way down Xilyka’s cheek. “And how lucky am I to be loved by one such as you?”
Xilyka leaned in and planted a long kiss on the war-machine’s visor, as close to Heloise as the metal would allow.
When she finally spoke, Xilyka’s voice was thick. “When we have beaten them, and we will beat them, then you will be ready to come out from there, and I will show you how people love when they are free.”
9
COME TOO LATE
All acolytes doubt. It is the flick of Mahesh’s wrist, his flailing for the soul as it passes out of his grip for all time, before we finally close up the mind, fortify it against hell’s grip. And do you know they always doubt in the same way? If the Emperor is so great, if in Him alone can we be redeemed, why does He not just make us happy here and now? While we still draw breath? Why not just draw the dead from their graves, and make the ones we love live again? They do not understand that this would be the greatest cruelty, far worse than any fate the devils could imagine. To take a redeemed soul, to allow it to bask in the light of the Throne, to know the Emperor’s holy presence, and then to snatch it away, and force it to walk the world again? Only a devil could ever wish for such a thing.
—From the lecture notes of Father Winaclos
They left the next morning. Heloise’s column could scarcely have mustered more than a hundred villagers, tiny beside the Red Lords host. They had both lost many people, the Red Lords to the devils, and Heloise to desertion, but Sir Steven’s column could far better sustain the losses than hers.
The devils had left a wide avenue up the old road to the capital, a lane of slick black, wet and stinking. Fresh snow had fallen during the night, but it could find no purchase in the mire of the devils’ passage. Most of the Red Lords’ troops pulled their surcoats up over their mouths and noses, and Heloise saw her own people follow suit.
The Imperial troops marched in an uneasy knot between the two columns, weapons at the ready. “Can’t believe we’re letting them keep those,” Wolfun said.
“We’ll be glad we did if the devils come,” Heloise said. “There are too few of them to fight us anyway.”
“With respect, your eminence, are they the hard-bitten fighters we need with us? Or are they too few to count?”
Heloise turned the machine to regard the old Lysian. The suit groaned with the movement, and Wolfun shrank into the blanket he’d draped over his shoulders as its shadow fell across him. His horse shied away a step.
“Both,” Heloise said, and flashed him a smile that she knew her scars made terrifying.
Looking over at Tone and his people, she saw the truth of the statement. They were few, indeed, prisoners behind the bars of two armies. But they also looked ready to fight, alert, gaze darting from the villagers to the Red Lords to the woods beyond, where the devils might emerge at any moment.
But she knew that would be no comfort to Barnard. The huge tinker’s eyes were fixed sullenly forward, as Onas’s had been when he had left Heloise’s side and returned to his band. Seeing Tone out of the corner of his eye is hurting him.
“Barnard.” She turned to the huge tinker. “You will lead our column. Father, come with me.” She made no mention of Xilyka, knowing that the Hapti girl would never leave her side.
Barnard said nothing, only stared straight ahead.
“Where are we going?” Samson asked.
“We are taking Brother Tone, and only Brother Tone, to the head of the army. He can’t cause trouble if he is separated from his people.”
She set off toward the knot of Imperial troops, who stiffened at her approach. “Brother Tone,” Heloise said, “we are three armies now, and so the three leaders should march out front.”
The other Pilgrims immediately began whispering to him, and the looks on their faces and the few words she did catch made plain what they were advising. Tone raised a weary hand. “If they want to kill me, there isn’t much I can do about it now,” he said to them. “Lead the way, Heloise Factor.”
Sir Steven didn’t appear at all surprised when Heloise and her entourage arrived, and he sent his groom to bring a horse for the Pilgrim. Mounted, Tone fell in between the First Sword and Heloise, riding in silence. His flail remained a
t his shoulder, the links draped across it and the head hanging down his back. Heloise could feel his presence as when she stood beside a raging fire, the heat of it making itself known even when she looked away.
After a while, Tone closed his eyes and began muttering quietly under his breath. It drew uncomfortable stares from Sir Steven and his bodyguard, but Heloise recognized the words of the Writ. All Pilgrims memorized them, and Sojourners took pride in their ability to recite the entire work from beginning to end, word for word.
At last Sir Steven could take Tone’s quiet chanting no longer. “Pilgrim, you spoke before of the Congregation of the Faithful. If dealing with these creatures depends on it, I would know how it works. Will you tell me more about it?”
“I will not.” Tone did not open his eyes. “I am not in the habit of discussing the mysteries of the faith with heretics.”
“We are riding to the liberation of your capital,” Sir Steven said. “You might show a little more gratitude.”
And now Tone did open his eyes. “I am no fool. Devils or no, you are riding to the conquest of my capital.”
Sir Steven gave no reply.
“The Order,” Heloise said, “always talks about knowing the Writ. Here we are, trying to learn…”
“The Writ,” Tone snapped, “not the mysteries. That is the nature of heresy. Always needing to understand how things work. Have you ever stopped to consider that asking questions does you no good? You don’t need to know. The mind is like a gate. The more tightly it is closed, the less the chance that the enemy will gain entrance. That is what faith is. It is believing in a thing, even though you don’t understand it. Understanding is the gateway to heresy.”
“Understanding is the gateway to knowledge,” Heloise said.
“And where has your knowledge gotten you?” Tone asked. “Did it save your village? If you had cried out to the Order when your wizard friend had first confessed to you, none of this would have come to pass.”
She pictured Clodio, his body cast off like a rag as the devil stepped through. Her friend, killed, and here this man who had taken her eye blamed her for it. The rage came hot and fast and she opened her mouth to respond.
But Samson spoke first. “You’re right.” Her father sounded exhausted. “It didn’t save Leuba. It didn’t save Hammersdown. But your precious worship didn’t save your army outside the walls of Lyse, or from the devils.
“Knowledge. Faith. None of it ever saves anyone.”
They rode in silence after that for a long time. Heloise was surprised that Tone was the one to break it. “I am … sorry for your wife. I never wanted that.”
Samson shrugged. “Doesn’t matter. It won’t bring Leuba back.”
When Tone finally spoke, his voice broke. Heloise was shocked by the raw edge of it. “Do you think I like this? Do you think I do this because it gives me pleasure to kill and to burn?”
If the pain in Tone’s voice moved her father, he gave no sign. Samson merely shrugged again. “Doesn’t matter.”
“I do what I do”—Tone sounded angry now—“because I know what is at stake, and now you do too.” He gestured at the woods, and presumably at the devils that might be lurking there.
Samson’s exhaustion gave way to anger. He pounded a fist on the pommel of his saddle. “We always knew. We always knew and it didn’t frighten us so badly that we tried to burn the world.”
Those last words killed all talk between them, and they rode on in silence. Heloise stole a glance at Tone, could see the lines on his forehead, the trembling of his jaw. This was the man who had laughed as he took her eye, who had sworn he would take her father’s life. Heloise had thought him a devil himself, maybe worse. And yet now, looking at him, he looked only another man. Wan, hungry, miserable.
And then he spoke. “There is another book.”
The silence that hung across the group was total, as if they feared that by speaking, they would frighten Tone back into silence. “Apart from the Writ. One that only the Order reads.”
“What is it?” Heloise asked.
“The Book of Mysteries,” Tone said. “It relates the deeds of the Emperor after he drew the veil shut. It speaks of where the devils dwell, how they come forth, and how they are sent back.”
“They come forth from wizardry,” Heloise said.
“They do.” Tone nodded. “But only singly, not so many as attacked us.”
“How then…”
“For the veil to be rent so … A wizard alone may admit a single devil. Perhaps two. But two or three wizards together may rend the veil wide enough.”
The rage came so suddenly that Heloise nearly choked. “It was you. At Lyse. You sent three of them against us.”
“Those were not wizards,” Tone said, but his voice was uncharacteristically soft.
“What were they, then?” Heloise growled.
“The Mysteries also tell us that the Emperor chooses his instruments, passes his power into them.”
“Do they tell you that?” The lie was so plain that Heloise was staggered by the ease with which Tone told it. “And is this power from the Emperor the same as the power wizards wield? Sacred Throne!”
“How convenient.” Sir Steven laughed. “When Imperials use wizardry, it’s suddenly a gift from the Emperor.”
“It is written!” Tone’s cheeks colored. “I will not excuse the Emperor’s own deeds to heretics!”
“I was at Lyse,” Heloise snarled. “I heard the Song from outside the walls, as loud as if he were standing next to me. I saw the wall come apart. The Traveling People can feel wizardry when it is used; they say they felt it then.”
“What they felt was the hand of the Emperor on his chosen people, if they felt anything at all. Heretics say what they will.”
“And so do you,” Heloise said. “You had us Knit Hammersdown for doing something you do every day.”
Tone swallowed hard, stared at his horse’s mane. “Tell me … did you see … a light?”
Heloise’s stomach turned over. “We did. It was … wrong. Sick.”
“A killing light. The Book of Mysteries speaks of it. Those touched by the Emperor should not have rent the veil so.”
“But it is rent,” Heloise said, “so how do we Knit it? With an army of devils out in the world?”
Tone looked at his horse’s mane. “I will appeal directly to the Emperor. I will call upon him to save us.”
“Can a mere Pilgrim appeal to the Emperor?” Samson asked.
“Perhaps. The veil has never been rent like this before. I have … I have seen devils before, but never more than one.”
“And you killed them?”
“No one but a Palantine may kill a devil.” He met Heloise’s eyes, but could not hold them. “Most times, a single devil would not walk the sunlit world for long. They spend their rage and return of their own free will. Only once did one remain, and then we appealed to the Congregation to send it back.”
“Are they wizards, too?” Heloise tried to keep the anger out of her voice—vexing Tone might make him reconsider his choice to speak with them—but she couldn’t help but choke on the enormity of the lie the Order had told for so long.
“They are singers.” Tone’s answer was defiant. “They are chosen by the Emperor himself, through his Song, who leads them. He raises the glorious shout that sends devils back into hell, and smooths the veil behind them.”
“The Song…” Heloise could picture the cruel, beautiful face going slack as she pressed the machine’s unyielding metal into his throat.
“The same,” Tone said, “the one you killed.”
Heloise looked down. “I didn’t … I didn’t know…”
“You lie,” Samson muttered. “You lie because you have no way to help us, and so you want to blame my daughter for—”
“I do not lie!” Tone said through clenched teeth.
Samson opened his mouth to reply and Heloise gestured him to silence. “Is there no one else?”
“The Song had yet to choose his successor, but his predecessor still lives, I think. The Emperor’s Nightingale. But she is an old woman by now. If she lives, she can help us.”
“Have you seen this Nightingale?” Heloise asked.
“Only once, when a devil remained in the sunlit world. Ten winters ago, when you were still a little girl.”
“What are these monsters?” Sir Steven asked. “What do they want?”
Tone shrugged. “Why ask these questions? Devils are not creatures to be understood, only destroyed. The only thing you must know of them is where they are.”
“And you are certain this … choir of yours will work?” Sir Steven asked.
Tone’s expression was theatrically certain. “Congregation. If the Nightingale still lives? Absolutely. The Emperor’s will is always done.”
“Like it was just done against your army?” Sir Steven asked.
“The Emperor’s will is a mystery. He may be testing us, or perhaps luring the hellspawn out for a final reckoning. I am not so proud as to flatter myself that I can perceive his grand design.”
“This is very pretty talk,” Sir Steven’s tone was sharp, “but I need you to answer my question, Pilgrim. Does this singing of yours work? Have you seen it work?”
“It will work,” Tone snapped. “I know it…”
Heloise’s stomach had cinched into a tight knot at Tone’s words. She realized that for all these years, even as much as she had despised the Order, she had still believed them. And now …
“You lie,” she said suddenly. “You lied that you don’t use wizardry. You lied that wizardry is always bad. You lied that you were good and that what you want is to protect people. And when you’re not lying, you’re just wrong, and you always have some fine story for why up is down and black is white and you’re not really wrong at all. Why should we believe you now?”
Tone was silent for so long that Heloise wondered if he would refuse to reply, but at last he straightened in his saddle. “If I am lying”—he turned to face her, his face shadowed by the peak of his hood—“then you will have no choice but to face the devils in the field.”
