by Myke Cole
Samson shouted, pushed down with his leg, slid back another few paces.
Heloise looked at Xilyka. The Hapti girl was still, and the thought that she might be dead was a hammerblow worse than the panic at leaving the machine. It made Heloise want to sink to her knees, to wail. No. You must give them time to sing.
She hurled herself at the butt-spike, draping her body across it. Her knife-hand was useless now, but she wrapped her elbow around the shaft, held fast with her other hand. Samson glanced back at her, saying something she couldn’t hear, before turning back to the monster. They slid back another pace, and Heloise screamed. Her weight was not enough, it would make no difference. All these leagues behind them, all these dead, here at the end, for nothing.
She screamed, willed her body down toward the flagstones, to hold the pike fast. She flailed, kicking, trying to brace her feet against the smooth stone. The devil took another step and the butt-spike skipped along the floor, ripping up her toes to the top of her foot where it found the purchase it had so hungrily sought.
Heloise was no stranger to pain. She had been burned, stabbed, beaten. She had lost her eye, her hand, her teeth. But the pain as the pike’s end punched through the small bones at the top of her foot was a new frontier of agony, and she screamed, her voice joining the Congregation’s thrumming song. The butt-spike didn’t care for screaming, it merely sank into her foot, punched out the bottom, dragging her body along, turning her into a fleshy weight, her mangled flesh giving it the soft purchase it needed.
With a sudden lurch that hurt her so badly she nearly fainted, the pike stopped sliding.
The devil came to a stop, arms flailing. The pike shaft bent nearly double. Heloise could hear the splintering of wood.
Over the monster’s shoulder, through the red haze of pain, Heloise could see other devils pouring into the room, pausing only long enough to find the Nightingale, then shrieking, racing toward her, their path taking them right to where Heloise and Samson stood.
The Congregation’s song became deafening. The stone walls seemed to throb with the noise, so powerful that Heloise forgot her pain.
Then suddenly, the devil they’d stopped with the pike was moving again, the weapon punching out the back of its head. The shaft straightened, and the creature slid down it until the monster nearly collided with her father.
And then, with a final sigh, the Congregation’s song was done.
Their voices unfurled, a sudden burst of sound that Heloise could feel pass over her like a gale, making the stone walls shake. It was so loud that all other sound was drowned out, but she could see the devil’s mouth opening in a silent scream, its field of black tongues vibrating so quickly, straining so far apart that she could see the purple skin between them.
The creature flailed backward, ripping free of the pike and swinging its head left and right, so quickly that Heloise thought it would snap its own neck. Black blood flowed from its scaled ears, its misshapen nostrils, its stalked patches of eyes starting to go gray. Behind it, Heloise could make out its brethren doing the same.
At last it threw its head back and screamed at the circle of windows above, shattering now, the sharp fragments falling down around it as it finally slumped to its knees and then over on its side, black blood trickling from the corner of its mouth.
All around the room, Heloise could hear similar screams and the crashing of heavy bodies against stone, as the Congregation’s song did its work.
The sudden silence was jarring. The song, the screaming, the sound of clicking claws on stone, all gone, and Heloise forgot her fear, forgot the pain in her foot even, all lost in the perfect stillness that followed the release of the Congregation’s wizardry. Did we do it? Heloise thought. Did we win?
“Yes, my dove,” Samson said, and Heloise realized she had spoken aloud.
Her father was looking at her, his face sad, his skin the color of fresh ash. “We have beaten them, praise the Throne.”
Heloise reached for him, and the pain in her foot reminded her that she would have to pull herself free of the pike first. “Papa,” she said, “set the pike down, I’m stuck.”
But Samson only kept staring at her, as if he could drink her in with his eyes. “I love you, dove. I love you like I love the air and the turning leaves in fall. I have never known so great a love could be, but it can, and it is mine for you.”
“I love you too, Papa, what are you…” Heloise began, dread overpowering the pain in her foot.
But Samson’s eyes were already closed, and he was slumping to his knees, turning as he fell, so that Heloise could see where the devil’s claw had unseamed him, cutting him open from throat to hip, letting his life run out onto the polished stone floor.
13
THE END
Therefore be bold and do not fear death. In taking the field today, each of you is like unto the glorious Emperor, who gave His life that the people shall know safety and peace. If it is His will that you fall, fall cursing the heretic enemy, and with a smile on your face, for like Him, you shall know life everlasting.
—Pre-battle harangue at the Siege of Haraven
It was Xilyka who stirred first, shaking off the blow that had thrown her into the wall and gently untangling Heloise from her father’s corpse.
She held Heloise’s hand as they bound her wounded foot, and then led her down the stairs as they laid Samson outside the golden doors. Beyond them stood the moldering chair the Imperials had called a sacred throne. Heloise covered him with an old banner that Barnard scavenged, sable cloth embroidered with the image of a Palantine. Heloise knew it meant nothing, that they were symbols of a lie that had kept them prisoner their whole lives. But it was a lie her father had believed, and this was surely what he would have wanted.
Sir Steven and his last remaining men had gone to look for Giorgi, but the Sindi had gone, fled back down the road to the cage, judging by the trail of devil corpses leading that way, dropped in the midst of their pursuit as the Congregation’s song did its terrible work. “We found two dead knife-dancers,” Sir Steven reported, “but not your Kipti wizard. The devils are … That wizardry does not appear to have spared any of them.”
Barnard held Heloise as she wept. He was the last shred of her old life left to her, and mad as he was, she needed him.
When at last the tears were spent and she sagged in his arms he straightened, raised her to her feet. “It’s all right, your eminence. Your father’s body may be here, but his soul dwells in there”—he jerked a thumb at the throne room—“and his strength is added to the Emperor’s forever. He gave his life to save us all. He would be glad of that, and you should be too.”
But Heloise knew better now. She knew that there was no meaning, no pattern in life or death, merely the hungry world, devouring everything not strong or fleet enough to escape it. Telling him that will do no good. Worse, it might hurt him, anger him, make him leave her, and then she would truly have lost every shred of Lutet left to her.
Heloise looked at the devil corpses lying in the nave. They lay strewn across one another where the Congregation’s song had killed them, fetid black blood leaking from their noses and ears. They’d dragged the one door off, and the other hung askew on its hinges, affording her a view of the wide steps and the place beyond. Devils lay there, too, scaled limbs outstretched, oblong mouths contorted in death screams. She could see the Imperial troops picking their way past them, a knot of garrison soldiers led by the winged guards who had quit their posts when Tone had demanded entrance. At their head was a reed-thin man, his skin so pale and soft that Heloise wondered if this was his first day of his life out under the sun. His scarlet cloak was immaculate, bordered with gold thread, and with a stiff collar rising high about his neck, much as the Nightingale’s dress. His hood was thrown back, pooling inside the collar, revealing soft lips and irritated eyes that reminded her so much of the Song that she felt her skin break out in gooseflesh. His flail was cut from fine gray wood, the grain oiled until i
t shone. The iron of the head and chain were chased with silver, sparkling in the weak light. Against the filth and carnage, he looked as strange as a devil himself.
He looked up, saw that there were people in the palace, and called out to his soldiers. They picked up the pace now, came clattering up the steps, weaving around the broken bodies of the devils. Here and there, a guard stopped to thrust a spear or halberd into a cluster of eyes, ostensibly to make sure the creature was dead. But Heloise could see the fury on their faces, and knew they were really just venting their frustration. They had been unable to come to grips with the devils when they were alive, so now they would strike them while they were dead.
The first of the winged guards reached the top of the steps and leveled his halberd at Barnard. “Who are you? How dare you profane the palace of the Sacred Throne?”
Sir Steven put his hand on the pommel of his sword, turned a weary head to regard the man. “You give me your name, and I will consider giving mine.”
“I am Alaric, captain of the palace guard”—the man’s eyes flashed—“and I will not see it profaned by Kipti and servants of the Emperor’s enemies.”
“The Emperor’s enemies,” Xilyka said, drawing her knives, “have done your job for you, Alaric. We have secured the palace while you were … What were you doing exactly?”
“I’ll not bandy words with a heretic girl…” Alaric turned, motioned to the throng of soldiers behind him. Heloise didn’t have time to count, but there must have been at least thirty, more than enough to overwhelm the handful of her companions, all wounded and exhausted.
“You may not bandy words with a girl,” Tone’s voice rang out, “but you will kneel before a savior.” The soldiers turned as the Pilgrim limped into view, leaning heavily on his staff. A long gash ran across his face, closing one of his eyes, puckering around the edges where it would scar.
“Who are you?” The Sojourner waved his flail at him. Heloise recognized the same irritated insouciance that she’d heard from the Emperor’s Song.
“I am Brother Tone, Holy Father.” Tone limped closer. “The Emperor’s Own, and I bear witness to a miracle.”
“A Pilgrim? Unarmored and unarmed? Nonsense. You stole that cloak.”
“The Order is destroyed, Holy Father,” Tone said, “but I remain a servant of the Emperor’s will. I have seen that will worked through the hand of this child, scourged, wounded, stripped of all she has held dear. She has sacrificed all in the Emperor’s name, to save us. To deliver us. The devils lie at your feet by her hand.”
“I am still alive,” the Sojourner said, “I am Pentarch Cleon, and the Order’s authority reposes in me. It falls to me to restore order to this city. If you truly serve the Emperor, you will assist me in ensuring this rabble quit the palace immediately.” He pointed a slender finger with a thick gold ring at Heloise. “And the heretic girl is to be set in irons.”
Heloise froze, eyes moving to Tone, her stomach clenching. After all they had been through, it would be beyond cruel to fall prisoner to him at the end. She steeled herself to fight, but the exhaustion and the agony in her foot were too much. She could barely walk, had no weapons. The machine was a pile of dented metal on the stairway behind her.
But Tone only met the Sojourner’s eyes. “No, Holy Father. I will do no such thing.”
“You address the last living Pentarch of our—”
“And you,” Tone spoke over him, pointing at Heloise, “are in the presence of the Emperor’s anointed champion! The savior of us all!”
“You are no Pilgrim…” Cleon sputtered.
“Do you know who I am?” The Nightingale limped to Heloise’s side. Her skin was so pale that Heloise thought she looked sculpted from the snow that was beginning to fall again, dusting the shoulders of the men outside. For all her frailty, her voice was as strong and as clear as it had been when she had led the Congregation in their powerful song.
The soldiers looked confused, but the Cleon’s eyes widened. “You are the sacred charge. The Key.”
“I am both of those things,” said the Nightingale, “but I am also a witness. Brother Tone speaks the truth. Without flail, without armor, he is Pilgrim of the Order, perhaps the last one alive.”
Alaric stiffened, blushing. He raised his halberd, bowed stiffly from the waist. “My apologies, Holy Brother, things are … turned on their heads at present.”
The Sojourner tapped him on the shoulder with his flail haft. “What is the matter with you? This man is a mere Pilgrim. I have given my orders!”
The Nightingale spoke to Alaric, pointing at Heloise. “That is Heloise Factor, of Lutet. She fetched me from the cage when no one else would, she brought me here through hell itself to assign me to my sacred charge. It is by her hand, and by her hand alone, that we are delivered.”
A few of the soldiers were kneeling now, doffing their helmets and tugging on their forelocks. “Savior,” Heloise could hear them muttering. “Palantine.” She had heard the honorifics so many times since her journey had started that they no longer meant anything to her. They wouldn’t bring her father back to life, but if it would keep them from harming the few friends she had left in the world, then it would be worth it.
Cleon spun on them. “What are you doing? She is no Palantine! Get up! I speak for the Throne now!”
But the soldiers did not move, and Heloise took a dragging step toward him. “I have seen the throne,” she seethed. “It is empty. It is just a story.”
Cleon folded his arms across his chest. “I don’t know what you thought you saw, heretic girl. The Emperor does not deign to reveal Himself to the likes of you.”
“You lie!” Heloise took another step, and Cleon backed up to match her. “It is a story! Admit it! Say it’s a story!”
Cleon took another step backward, nearly fell over another of his soldiers, still kneeling, despite his orders. “If it is a story,” he whispered, “then it is one the people need.”
Heloise ignored him. Instead, she spoke to the soldiers. “No more killing. There is to be no more killing, do you hear me?”
She heard wood clattering on stone as some of the soldiers dropped their weapons, louder as more and more followed their example.
Alaric looked at his men, at Cleon, then back to Tone. He kept his grip on his weapon, but he was outnumbered now, his own troops on bended knee, empty-handed before this strange and scarred little girl. Heloise could tell he was a man used to obeying commands, not giving them. “What … what should we do?”
“You should guard the palace,” Tone said, “and look to the defense of your savior.”
“That’s enough!” Cleon shouted, his voice shrill. “You do not serve this false Pilgrim and his pet heretic!”
Heloise closed the remaining distance, grasped the fine flail by the haft, wrenching it away from him. It came easily, his thin hands unable to keep a grip on it. She held his eyes and threw the weapon away, watching it spin end over end, silvered chain jingling, to lodge in the dirty snow some paces away. “I said there is to be no more killing,” she said, “and regrettably, that means you, too. Go get your bauble, Pentarch.”
The man’s thin lips worked silently, and Heloise could see that his lips were rouged, his pallor a thing of powder as much as soft living. He cast pleading eyes toward Alaric, and when he did not see hope there, at last he hurried away, snatching up the scepter as he went.
Alaric watched him go, looking even more confused than before. “What to do?”
“We will do as our savior commands,” Tone said, “and she, I suspect, will mourn her dead and see to her wounds, and then she will rule.”
“Rule?” Heloise turned to him.
Tone gestured at the golden doors, hanging open. “The door to the throne room is open to you, Heloise.”
Heloise felt the room pitch, sick terror swamping her stomach. Barnard touched her elbow, held her straight. “He’s right, your eminence. I cannot believe I am agreeing with him, but he is right.”
Barnard gasped. “You don’t mean that, your eminence. You are mad with grief.”
“She does believe it,” Tone said, “but she is wrong.”
The anger surged in Heloise and she shook off Barnard’s grip. “I am not wrong. You heard him say it was a story. You saw that empty chair the same as I did!”
“I did, your eminence,” Tone said, slowly dropping to one knee, “and you saw that it cut me to my core. On the road to the cage, I found my belief again by force of faith alone. I believed through sheer strength. But it wasn’t until we returned that the Emperor reached out and spared me from doubt. He showed me the way, through you. I watched you sweep hell aside. I watched the greatest evil I have ever seen reach out for your throat and be rendered powerless to touch you.”
“It did touch me.” Heloise gestured at the sheet that masked her father. “It took everything from me.”
“Perhaps, but it has given you the power to build it anew. Because what I saw on the road, I know now is true. The truest thing I have ever known. There is an Emperor, your eminence. He was never gone from us. He is real, and He is divine, and most important”—Tone reached forward to touch the top of his staff against her chest—“He is here.”
EPILOGUE
RULE
From His seat atop the Throne, the Emperor sees all things, does all things, is all things. His hand is in the sunrise and the dew on the grass. He flows in the rivers and blows in the breeze. He blooms with the flower and churns with the earth, taking the spent shells of the dead back into its bosom. He is within us all, the seed that makes us people.
