by Anna Steffl
As he righted, he flinched. He looked weary.
“Your shoulder,” she said.
“I don’t understand what happened,” he replied.
“General, you are owed an explanation, but I ask you to wait. Your wound should be tended sooner rather than later,” the superior said. “A monk from the other side of the valley has been summoned. He should be here now. After it is mended, you will take a room here to get rest. It would be cruel to send you to the other side of the valley now. Hera Musette,” the superior called. The door opened and Musette hesitantly peered in. “Take the general to the infirmary.”
“Nan,” Arvana said. She wanted to thank him for bringing her here, but all he could do was give her a long backward glance as Musette led him away.
Her head dropped into her pillow. With Nan gone, the reality of where she was and what had happened closed in around her like the walls of the tiny cell that had once been her room. Chane was dead. Though Nan had killed him in self-defense, it was another death on his hands. It had all gone so wrong because she hadn’t been staunchly true to her vows. “Madre, I have failed you...failed everyone. I—”
The superior raised her hand. “The world returned you to Solace wrapped in a soldier’s black cloak. You have died to this life and the Maker has had mercy and granted you a new one. How are you to make it pleasing to the Maker?” She opened her palm. On it laid Arvana’s silver novitiate ring. “From the first, I questioned your suitability to our life. Undoubtedly, you loved the Maker and wanted the Maker’s love most fiercely. But, what happened to your father... Running away from things doesn’t resolve them, but I thought I could help you, bring you peace. You were such an admirable novice that I almost forgot my reservation, even though you never confessed the things that lay heaviest on your soul.
“I meant to have a candid talk with you before awarding your veil, but then I saw you use the relic. You were the first, the only, in all my years as superior to see the blue glow when the stone was black.” She opened the hand containing the Blue Eye and the other holding Arvana’s ring. It seemed as if she were weighing the two. “I couldn’t let you go. The Maker has corrected my mistake. In this new life, you are no longer a Solacian.”
“Whatever you would have said to me, I wouldn’t have left Solace as a novice.”
Madra Cassandra kept speaking. “I never should have sent you to find a savior. As superior, the task was mine and now it returns to me. I must think on what you asked me in Hell. It is my decision. Does the general know what you carry?”
“No.”
“You wrote me of his feat against the draeden and your certainty of his honor. He’s the one who tested the constancy of your heart, isn’t he?”
Arvana nodded.
“Is there any danger your feelings for the man influence your opinion of him? Hera Musette said he killed Prince Lerouge.”
“It was self-defense.”
One of the novices acting as porter brought in Arvana’s bag and kithara from the cart and was about to set them down, but the superior shook her head. “Those things are of Solace. Take them to the storeroom.”
“My kithara. It was my father’s. It’s my only remembrance.” Her heart felt to break at the thought of losing it.
“How much are you willing to forsake to take the Blue Eye?”
She turned her face to the wall opposite the door. As painful as it was to lose the last link to her father, it was worse to think of Nan facing The Scyon alone. She wouldn’t leave him as her brother had left her on the day their father went mad. “Everything. I will forsake everything.”
“It may come to that,” the superior said.
FIRST FLIGHT
The Forbidden Fortress, Gheria
“We have been waiting for you. Just out of your bed? There are still pillow creases on your face.” Sibelian smirked as he swung a burlap bag in his sole hand.
Rorke shuddered despite the warmth of his heavy velvet robe. Both Sibelian and the sovereign were standing at the edge of the draeden’s pit. Had Sibelian played the waiting trick? And there was something gleefully ominous about that smirk and the way he swung the bag. Most troubling of all was the question of why they were gathered in the draeden’s garden. Rorke glanced to the sovereign. There was no appearance of irritation in his eyes. To the contrary, they seemed to gleam with playfulness.”I came immediately.” He felt his cheek and with an oblique nod to Sibelian said, “If there are creases upon my face, it is because I need more rest than those who stand around all day. My Sovereign Alenius, I am always at your beckon at any moment’s notice. How may I be of service?”
“Megreth will take to the sky today,” the sovereign said. “We wished you to witness it.”
Rorke relaxed. It was always dangerous playing with a madman. But, yet again he’d played his cards perfectly. It was the draeden’s test flight, and Sibelian said no more. It was a good thing for the boy to hold his acid tongue. One too many provocations could prove to be his undoing once Rorke figured out how to use the Blue Eye. Despite a moon’s time of trying, he’d not been able to unlock its secrets, though it did glow most amazingly in the dark. One day he’d figure it out completely, or the sovereign would explain it.
“Open the grate,” the sovereign said.
Two soldiers on each side of the pit took up chains and began to drag the grate. The shrieking grind of metal on metal sent a delightful tingle down Rorke’s spine. What a pleasure and honor it was to be among the very few to witness the draeden’s first flight. Rorke clasped his hands beneath his stomach and felt the pleasantness of its weight and the thought that soon he would be the one ordering the grate open.
Pulled to the edge of the stone reflecting pool walls, the grate dropped with a thunderous clang to the ground.
The sovereign stepped to the edge of the pit. Though Rorke longed to join him, he stood his ground. It would look presumptuous to, without invitation, accompany the sovereign. The mask of humility was always a becoming one.
“Fare well, Megreth, my heart of flame.” The sovereign raised his gloved hands and the head of the draeden, jet-black except for the ashy, white rims of it eyes, rose from the pit. Steam leaked from its nostrils. The sovereign turned his back on the creature and began to walk toward the stand of pines.
Seeing how Sibelian joined his father, Rorke abandoned his humility and trotted after them. Being left behind never brought one reward.
“Leave us,” the sovereign commanded the soldiers who had manned the chains.
When he reached the trees, the sovereign turned around, closed his eyes, and clutched his chest as if he were in pain.
“My master,” Rorke cried, but the sovereign took his hand from his chest and waved dismissively.
The sovereign opened his eyes and loosely rolled his shoulders, as if sloughing off the pain.
The draeden’s head disappeared.
Was it frightened? How could such a magnificent beast be frightened? Well, perhaps of the sovereign.
In a burst, the beast exploded into the air. Its wings beat the air into a pulsing fury of dust and dead leaves.
Rorke laughed, then sucked in dusty air until he started to choke and cough. His eyes watered from tears of joy and from dirt. How the southerners would quake at seeing Megreth.
Finally, the air cleared. Far above, the draeden, its wings like black gauze lofting in the breeze, disappeared into the clouds.
Using his sleeve, Rorke wiped the grime and tears from his face. Who cared if it was his best robe? He’d have another made. And another. “How far will it go, my Sovereign?”
“To Acadia.”
“Acadia?” Rorke asked. “I thought this was a test flight. The war isn’t to begin until the Winter Solemnity.”
“This is not war. It is a preemptive strike. He is going to Solace. He will have to stop and rest, but there are plenty of hants between here and there.”
“A preemptive strike?”
Sibelian began to swing the burla
p bag again.
In a pleased voice, as if he muttered to himself, the sovereign said, “I was right about him.” In a less-pleased voice, he went on, “But it was the spy’s fault. Aleniusson, return to our most loyal servant what is his.”
Suspicion gripped Rorke, so deep his gaze froze on how Sibelian clasped the bag under his stump so he could angle the opening to the ground. It seemed to take an eternity.
To the ground fell the decayed head of the woman Rorke’s spy had sent with the Blue Eye from Acadia. With a gut turning thud, Sibelian kicked it toward him. It came to rest at his feet. Rorke held his breath against the stench of decay.
The sovereign extended a gloved hand to him. “Let us see that locket you wear.”
Before Rorke could unfasten the hook, the glove was at the side of his neck, grabbing the chain.
The chain dug into his neck, deeper and deeper into his flesh. He was about to buckle from the pain when the chain snapped. He touched his neck and felt the warmth of blood. Why? he wanted to ask. How had he displeased the sovereign? He’d been nothing but loyal.
Alenius opened the Blue Eye.
Was he going to take their souls? Rorke began to rear away and cower, raising his forearms to cover his face.
But the sovereign let go of the relic.
The Blue Eye landed in the baked-dry dirt.
Rorke peered from between his arms. The sovereign was grinding the relic with his heel. The sound of crushing glass and metal broke Rorke’s hope into a thousand pieces. He dove to the ground and grubbed the dirt for the mangled pieces. “No! I am your most faithful servant.”
“Don’t worry, Rorke,” the sovereign said all too happily. “It wasn’t real. It was a good fake, though. The filigree and eye on the cover was correct. The inside even glowed in the dark. It fooled even us, for we cannot use it. A spyglass cannot be turned upon the spy’s own eye. Whoever had it made had seen the real thing, had seen the real woman who carried it. The head you presented me from Acadia looked enough like the woman in our dreams. Your spy did half of his job. He found her.”
“No.”
“The real Blue Eye is in Solace. As the sun came up, as you were sleeping, we, too, were dreaming. In our dream we saw two women and a soldier. They could be anywhere, two women and a soldier. But then a third woman came into our dream. She wore the gray veil of the Maker’s women. She said Madra Cassandra. So, you see, your spies failed you, tricked you. They sent you the head of another woman.”
Alenius meant to destroy Solace and the Blue Eye, destroy Rorke’s hopes. Rorke dropped to his knees beside the severed head. “Don’t send the draeden to Solace. Let me go myself.”
“Do you hold your wants over ours, faithful servant? We loathed to send our draeden to Shacra Paulus, for it would be a shame to destroy the monument that will bear our icons. But Solace? We shall burn it until they and their icons are nothing but ash. They would never have worshipped us, so let them be martyrs, burned past the point where even wax masks could be fitted to their faces.”
Rorke wished he could eat his words, send them to his stomach to be digested and then shitted into a pot to be carried away by the lowliest of clerics. As he bent to the ground to kiss the dirt at Alenius’s feet, his ear grazed the severed head. “Forgive me.”
“You will kill your spy,” the sovereign said, and then his boots left the small circle of Rorke’s sight.
Rorke struggled onto his hands and knees.
Sibelian stood with a hardened smile. “You look like a dog. Take your bone.” He kicked the severed head beneath Rorke.
“Help me up.” To ask for Sibelian’s assistance made Rorke’s mouth taste like a mixture of dirt and rising bile.
“Maybe you should stay there, get more sleep.” Sibelian walked away, Paulus’s sword swaying at his side.
Rorke grasped the rotting head by its brown hair and flung it after Sibelian, but it landed far short and only earned him a mocking laugh. He got up on one knee, and grinding his teeth, pushed up from it with his hands. How had he been reduced to this indignity after the others he had suffered? The loss of his manhood. Dressing the corpse in the glass-topped casket. He’d lost the Blue Eye. No, he’d never had the Blue Eye. It was useless to mourn that, though he would kill Lord Sebastian for his treachery. No wonder the man had slipped off to Orlandia. He couldn’t stay there, stay safe, forever. Nor could General Aleniusson stay safe. Rorke pooled the grit in his mouth and spit it after the general as if it were venom. The boy might have a priceless sword, but he didn’t have the support of half of Gheria. He wasn’t full-blood high Gherian. Many of the generals had secretly voiced their displeasure when Alenius had adopted him. What might not a few promises here and there do to persuade a regiment not to protect its commander? The boy already had lost an arm; he wasn’t invincible.
Rorke dusted the dirt from his robe. He had, momentarily, like so many other times, lost his dignity—but never his cleverness.
DUSK
Solace, later that day
It seemed to Degarius he’d slept only a moment when a voice was ordering him to wake. He cracked his eyes open. Light the color of dirty dishwater barely lit the room. Was it dawn or dusk?
“You must get up.” He heard the woman’s voice more clearly. Urgency filled it. It was Hera Musette.
Sitting up and reaching for his glasses sent a ripping pain across his back. Whatever the Solacian monk had given him to dull the pain of the stitches had worn off. An explicative was on his tongue, but he checked it. “What’s going on?”
Hera Musette handed him a gray hooded tunic. He wasn’t wearing a shirt.
“Where’s my coat?” He looked to the side of the cot. No boots or sword. “What have you done with my sword?”
“It’s safe and will be returned. Put on the tunic and come now,” she barked like a sergeant, “if you want to keep your head.”
“What?”
“Acadians.”
Degarius, in the monk’s tunic and sock feet, followed her through the maze of corridors. Behind them, an echoing clatter began. Boots rushing down a stairwell. Hera Musette clasped his hand and pulled him into a trot. They turned a corner. His sock feet slid over the worn-smooth stone, as if he’d hit a patch of ice. His hand tore free of hers and grasped at the air for balance. His knee crashed into the floor. Planting his palms on the floor, he sprang up.
Ahead, girls carrying baskets of apples were walking single file. Their eyes popped wide and they stopped. They thought he was chasing Hera Musette. Damn, if they screamed it was over. Hera Musette reached back to grab his hand again. She clasped her other hand over her mouth. Damn, the woman could think on her feet.
As they passed the girls, Hera Musette wheezed, “You saw nothing.”
They raced down the corridor. How did a short, stout woman move so fast? Or had the draught made him slow? She darted into a narrow passage that led to a door. As she opened the door, a man’s voice questioning the women resonated through the hallway.
Hera Musette closed the door behind them. It was a small chapel, filled with pillows for kneeling. Three ceiling-to-floor tapestries hung on one wall: Lukis, Paulus, and in the center, one of a grave-looking, gray-dressed woman. Hera Musette went to the one closest to the darkening windows, the tapestry of Paulus, and pushed it aside. Underneath was a half-sized door.
“Hurry, open it,” she whispered.
Degarius pulled the handle. It was carved into the wood so the tapestry would lay flat against it. Hera Musette ducked inside, and he crouched to follow. Passing through, his shoulder scraped the doorframe. Grinding his teeth against the pain, he turned to ensure the tapestry was in place and closed the door.
They were at the top of a tight stairway ingeniously lit by windows high above. This time of day, it was nearly dark. He followed Hera Musette downstairs to a small, dirt-floored chamber in the footings of the building. In the dim light, he made out a long, low box shape in the center of the room. A crypt? Hera Musette kneeled beside it
and clenched her hands together. Degarius thought he heard a door open in the room above but couldn’t be sure. Not trusting his hearing, he watched Hera Musette who was so focused she seemed to have stopped breathing. What was he to do if they found the door? They’d take him like a sheep for slaughter. They would take her for harboring a fugitive. Damn these Solacians. At least they could have left him his sword to go down fighting. He could pretend to have a knife and make a show of keeping her captive so they’d think her a hostage instead of an accessory.
Hera Musette’s clasped hands drooped onto the crypt. “Blessed Founder, they’re gone. Soldier, we must stay until the superior sends for us.”
Degarius pressed his temples. “How could they know? No one saw it.”
“What a gross violation to search Solace. Not that the superior would let them find anything. When the watch spotted the regiment coming up the road, she ordered your clothes burned in the kitchen fire and your sword put someplace safe.”
Degarius’s head swam. As he sat on the steps, his knee that hit the floor ached. So the redcoats hadn’t found him today. They would sooner or later. He’d never make it to Sarapost with every redcoat looking for him—and every commoner, too. There would be a reward for his head. No, they wouldn’t take his head. They’d parade him through Acadia, publicly humiliate him, and then torture him to death. He’d kill himself before giving that bastard King Lerouge the satisfaction of watching him die. But what if he did evade them and make it to Sarapost? Maybe—and it was a big maybe—for his father’s sake, King Fassal would spare him if he understood he killed Lerouge in self-defense. With Acadia as Sarapost’s key ally, however, even King Fassal wouldn’t let him keep his generalship. That was gone. Even his captaincy was gone. The kitchen oven had burned his general’s coat and his medals. They would be buried in the ash pile. What was left to him? Not staying here, even if it was the only safe place in the world. He hadn’t prayed in over twenty years. There was no way in hell he’d start after this.
