by Jean Johnson
At least Foren saw his brother’s back rising and falling, subtle but definite proof his little brother still breathed, still lived. Either genuinely asleep . . . or fallen unconscious from his punishments. From his torments.
“Is something wrong, Penitent Foren?” he heard Domo Galen asking through the blood pounding in his ears.
That cold tone splashed icy fear through Foren’s nerves. It told him without needing any words that he would be harshly punished, too, if he protested. If he disobeyed the will of his . . . of their . . . Disciplinarian. Somehow, he managed to find his voice enough to reply. “No, Domo. I . . . I just slipped. I will lie down, now.”
“Goodnight.” The word came in a tone that brooked no further delays, let alone arguments.
Sickened by the sadistic treatment, he pushed his bag to the side with trembling fingers, removed his kilt and his sandals, and lay down. All the while watching his little brother. Several long heartbeats after he lay still, Domo Galen turned away and padded for the staircase leading to the upper bedroom.
Technically, it was not a room so much as a broad balcony, a place for the Disciplinarian to sleep. A place to watch from above while his or her penitents did whatever they were supposed to do. Suffered whatever they were supposed to suffer. A place to listen to whatever the penitents might try to say to each other, if there were two or more of them undergoing penance at any given time.
He could not, dared not, whisper anything to Gayn. He could not even risk touching his brother, for fear of waking him with a cry of pain. All Foren could do was carefully, quietly stretch out his arm so that his fingers touched the other pallet’s edge.
Foren lay there fretting as the night progressed, hating how the system believed this level of punishment was somehow acceptably “within the bounds of the judgment.” It should not have been! Not when compared to the gentleness he and his brother had known mere hours before!
Chapter Seventeen
They overslept.
Awakening to the bright glare of sunlight peering in through the bedchamber window, shining on their heads, Pelai gasped and jolted Krais awake by bolting out of the bed. Spells snapped her body clean and her hair freshly plaited, and another saw her dressed in non-black clothes for the first time Krais could remember. Well, non-all-black clothes. Blinking sleepily at the knee-length white taga edged with scrollwork pei-slii embroidered in gold, she looked . . . very different. Almost entirely unlike herself
Needing a clear head, he reached for the mug of water he had left by his side of her bed. A huff of noise from her caught his ears—and then magic swirled around him, yanking off his sleeping garment and replacing it with kilt, vest, laced-to-the-knee sandals . . . and a fresh fundo that made him flinch and grunt in abrupt discomfort. Unfortunately, the drinking cup slipped from his fingers and dropped, cracking into three big pieces, several smaller shards, and splashing its water all over the floor.
“Ink splat you!” he cursed, and dug at his backside through his kilt. Picking up the shards could wait. “You gave me a fundo-wedge with that spell, woman!”
“Well, if you hadn’t been so slow to cast it yourself . . . !” she retorted, grabbing her ceremonial black flail and tucking it into the belt of her sleeveless, fold-draped gown, stark contrast to the bleached silk. “Hurry up, I’m going to be late, and you aren’t keyed to be able to lock the house runes!”
Krais dropped his jaw, gaping at her. “So slow . . . ? Doma Pelai,” he stressed, glaring at her, “you are suppressing all of my magic! It’s back to being fully suppressed. I think you did it subconsciously in the night.”
That stopped her hurried movements. “I . . . Oh, Goddess, Krais—I am so sorry,” Pelai apologized. She swept her hand toward the mess on the floor, evaporating the water and banishing the broken crockery to the wastebasket. “Dessicut! Dormundic! . . . I really am sorry, Krais. I forgot. I . . . I can’t remove it completely or even halfway, because any Disciplinarian touching you will know I no longer suppress you . . . but I can lighten the suppression again. Here, sit on the edge of the bed.”
Finished picking at the loincloth her spell had wedged uncomfortably between his buttocks, Krais shifted over to the side of the bed, lowering his feet and resting his hands in his blue-kilted lap. Her own hands came down on his shoulders. Out of the corners of his eyes, he saw golden light glowing beneath the muffling black leather of her Disciplinarian cuffs . . . and felt abruptly buoyant, as if shackles had dropped from his body.
Blinking, he looked up at her. “How much . . . ?”
“You won’t be able to win a mage duel against anyone more than three-quarters your full strength,” Pelai said. “But you’ll have ample magic unthrottled for cleaning spells, common cantrips, and even moderate magics up to the point of . . . I guess . . . shaping stone?” She shrugged. “We’ve talked a little about about what you can do, but I really don’t know your abilities to the last spark.”
“It’s only been a few days, but I feel like I could do almost anything,” he muttered, gauging his inner energies. “It’ll be more than enough, thank you. Wait, where are you going in such a hurry? And in white silk? With thread of gold? You’ve been wearing nothing but black leather these last few days. And why do I have to get dressed? Aside from locking the doors.”
She winced. “Sorry, I forgot. Today’s my official Inscription Ceremony. Aleppo’thio and I already worked out what I had to wear to be installed as the Elder of the Mage’s Hierarchy, which is an all-white taga marked with gold-outlined white pei-slii,” Pelai explained, looking down at her mix of white and black. “But I can keep the knee-boots, black belt, and black bracers—and the flogger—of a Disciplinarian. A knee-length taga, so the upper parts of the boots can be seen, since they’re the biggest piece with the pei-slii tooled and foiled in gold on them, to help differentiate them from plain black boots . . . and if we don’t hurry and grab something to eat while we’re walking up the paths, we’ll be late to the Temple! Let’s get moving.”
Nodding, he rose, turned, and—for the first time since entering her home—used a simple bed-tying spell on the pillows, light blanket, and sheet, squaring them up and smoothing them out across the mattress. Satisfied, he nodded and followed her downstairs to find a quick meal and take care of her cat. Settling on slices of dried sausage, cheese, and a little sauce tucked into pocket bread, they made sure Purrsus had his own food and fresh water, and left for the day.
Halfway down the path, Krais caught her arm. “Wait—do you have everything you need? Father had to use a special quill pen to sign his name on the Registry of the Hierarchy when he was elevated to Elder Disciplinarian. I remember that part.”
“Aleppo’thio has the pen, which hopefully he’s still in the middle of blessing at the holy lectern,” she reassured him, her words slightly muffled by a partial mouthful of food. Chewing and swallowing as they hurried up the path, she added, “Nalai’thia is bringing the special ink as the Elder Craftsman, and of course Anya’thia has the Registry book.”
“Good. Is there anything I should do?” he asked. He looked down at his clothes, frowned, and said, “I really should be in formalwear, shouldn’t I? Taga, or war-kilt, as a Painted Warrior?”
She eyed him askance, chewing on another mouthful. As soon as her mouth was clear, she asked, “If you don’t mind, not in the all-black armor I’ve seen you and your brothers wearing? I know it’s not marked with the pei-slii, but you’ll be standing near Disciplinarians . . .”
“And it would be tacky to look like I belonged among them. I do have a formal taga or two,” he told her. “And my formal war-kilt is very fancy, all firebird colors.”
“Just so long as one color alone doesn’t predominate, do it,” she ordered. “And so long as it isn’t a rainbow, either.”
“Of course not. That’s the librarian colors.” Clearing his throat, he stopped to give himself a chance to concentrate. Mostly to
reduce the chance of giving himself a second fundo-wedge today.
Picturing each piece of his current clothes, he replaced them firmly in his mind with each piece of his scale-mail-style ceremonial leathers, with the breastplate that looked like the feathers of a bird cut and overlaped in boiled leather pieces, the shoulder guards and bracers to match, boots done up like the scaled golden and red legs of an eagle, and a leather kilt overlaid with a strip-skirt cut to look like curling, overlapping, elongated tail feathers. Oh, and the cotton undervest and underkilt, plus the knee-socks, necessary items that would keep his skin from chafing.
“Sartorlagen.” Air gusted around his body, and cotton and leather rasped into place, cupping his skin. Opening his eyes, he looked down at his body, and nodded. Flame colors, golden yellows and oranges predominating, darker reds at the edges of things. “No weapons, and I didn’t remember the helmet. Should I . . . ?”
“No weapons,” Pelai told him. “You’re still Penitent Puhon. But . . . yes to the helmet. That is, presuming it’s as magnificent as the rest? That is really nice armor. I’m actually a little envious now.”
He nodded, concentrated, and summoned it to his hands. Coiling his braid up around his head, he tucked the thong-tied end through his locks to secure the long plait, and pulled the cheek-cupping helm into place. It gave him the appearance of a feather-ringed bird’s head, with a yellow-dyed, beak-like projection of leather above his brows, shading his eyes partially from the morning sun. “Well? Do I have your approval?”
She smiled at him. Beamed, even, as she flapped the hand not holding the last bits of her breakfast to get both of them moving again. “Perfect. I appoint you my official escort. Stand around looking dignified, tough, and cute. But we need to hurry.”
Krais winced and hurried to catch up with her. “Pelai’thia! I am not cute! I am a Painted Warrior, a skilled fighter-mage capable of hunting down and subduing or slaying the worst of Mendhi’s enemies!”
“Do Painted Warriors whine?” she countered tartly. “Because that sounded like a whine, to me.”
“Yes, if it’s justifiable!” he retorted. “And I will behave, now, yes I know this is a serious, formal occasion. But I am not cute. Cute is such a . . . a . . . ! A single syllable word. One used for children, not for grown men.”
Pelai chuckled, amused by his indignation. “Fine, you are handsome, not cute.”
“Much better,” Krais agreed. They walked a little ways further, then he asked, “ . . . Any other adjectives?”
“Greedy, fishing for all these compliments! Besides, you haven’t complimented me yet,” she pointed out.
“That is because I have been too stunned by your beauty to come up with any words for it, so far,” Krais stated promptly.
“Ooh, smooth. Do you court all the ladies with that quick wit of yours?” Pelai teased.
“Just the worthiest. You,” he clarified, and enjoyed the sight of her tanned cheeks blushing. Tempted though he was to catch her hand and lace their fingers together, maybe even swing their arms a little as they walked, Krais knew he was supposed to be seen as her penitent in public, not her beloved. Especially not her noble lover, with all the sexual connotations that implied. The last thing she needed on her official Inscription Day was a scandalous, scathing outburst from his father, or any of his father’s cronies. He certainly did not need to be taken away and assigned to another.
* * *
* * *
The full ceremony took two hours, filled with readings from the holy scriptures, the ceremonial signing of her full name and so forth on one of the huge pages in the great Registry of the Hierarchy with the blessed pen dipped in the special, magic-imbued ink . . . and the speeches from each of her fellow Hierarchy Elders all stating their acceptance of her right to lead the Hierarchy of Mages, and the speeches from the seniormost mages of that sect accepting her right to represent their interests as a member of the Supreme Hierarchy of Mendhi.
Presentations of gifts, too. They came from admirers and would-be sycophants attempting to curry favor with her. The changeover had been so sudden, most who lived outside the city would no doubt trickle into her office here on the Temple Grounds over the next few weeks. And of course, there were a couple hours of shared food and drink in the Temple gardens afterward, enough to offset the fact that her breakfast had been snatched on the run and thus meager. All throughout, Krais remained either at her side and back a little in a respectful bodyguard postion, or he stood off to one side, still on display but out of the way of the actual ceremonial parts.
She rather liked the sight of him in his formal war gear, a bright, cheerful, fiery contrast to her much more restrained, if elegant, white, black, and gold. The stark-by-comparison colors did not go nearly as well with her sun-kissed skin as his firebird hues, but white was the color of mages. It represented the ability to blend different ideas together into a homogenous, powerful, illuminating whole.
What she did not see were his two brothers. With Puhon Krais drifting along behind her left elbow like a bright, leather-clad shadow, she managed to get over by his father, who stood chatting with the newly elevated Second Disciplinarian. Who did have her own current pair of penitents in attendance, clad in clean gray-and-black plaid tagae. A pair of sisters, mages who had used their powers to harm and curse their business rivals. Pelai knew because she had assigned them to Belaria just a few days before the Puhon brothers had returned.
“Dagan’thio, Doma Belaria,” she greeted the pair, ignoring the silent, downcast, demure-looking women flanking the Second.
“Pelai’thia,” Belaria replied politely. She eyed Pelai’s penitent. “Huh. When did you get that armor?”
Dagan’thio said nothing, but he did frown at his son, clearly waiting for a reply.
“Four months ago, the ship we were on got damaged in a storm. We had to sit in a port on the southern coast of the Aian continent for several days while repairs were made . . . and while strolling through the city I found an armor crafter who had this suit on display,” Krais admitted. “The original purchaser defaulted on his payments. It looked my size, and fit rather well when I tried it on. I had the weight of the gold he wanted for it, and it took only two days for him to tailor it perfectly to fit.”
“It’s magnificent,” Belaria murmured, eyeing him up and down with a speculative gleam. One that made Pelai bristle a little.
“It’s gaudy,” Dagan’thio dismissed, and looked away.
He didn’t see Krais stiffen at the hurtful words, but Pelai did. “Not everyone is meant to wear stark black with just a little gold, Dagan’thio. Or all white. Or blue, or purple, or any other solitary shade. I have been hearing a lot of compliments from everyone we passed on the magnificence of Puhon Krais’ war-kilt. He brings honor to his family by those compliments, for developing the good taste instilled in him throughout his upbringing.”
“Mm, yes, a lot of us like how it looks,” Belaria agreed, eyeing Krais with a speculative, almost seductive look.
Pelai chose to ignore that visual moment of poaching. “It is creative, yet functional, and it is only suitable that he comes to my Inscription Ceremony looking magnificent today. If I’d had the time and energy to discipline all three Puhon brothers, I’d have seen about attiring them in similar eye-catching yet functional artistry.”
“Speaking of which, where are your other sons, Dagan’thio?” Doma Belaria asked, peering around. “I would’ve thought they would have been on hand for such a momentous occasion. Have you seen Domo Galen at all this morning?”
Pelai frowned in confusion. “Domo Galen? Puhon Gayn was assigned to Doma Dulette, and Puhon Foren to Domo Anso.”
Belaria blinked and glanced back and forth between Pelai, Dagan’thio, and his son Krais. “You . . . you mean you hadn’t heard?”
“No, what?” Pelai asked, feeling a bit alarmed. “What happened?”
“Dulette was knoc
ked down and trampled by a runaway horse,” Dagan’thio told her. Told his son, too. “She will be living with the Healers for weeks, since both legs were broken, leaving her unable to walk. Doma Belaria assigned Gayn to Domo Galen . . . and decided to also assign Foren to him as well.”
The Elder Disciplinarian relayed all of that rather lightly. Too lightly. Pelai struggled against the urge to rail at him. Anyone with any sense for intrigue would know the man had planned the shift in Disciplinarians. Not in any way that could be easily traced back to him, but the aging Elder was so fixated on the thought of punishing his sons, it had become something of an obsession. He might not have caused Dulette’s injuries, but he had been ready to pounce on the opportuity they created.
Worse . . . from the tightening of Krais’ jaw, it was clear he realized his father had intended to keep him in the dark about the transfer of his brothers into the care of Domo Galen . . . one of Dagan’thio’s Partisan friends. But worse than that—worst of all, unfortunately—she had no authority to change everything back.
Which means this could very well be what turns the other two against humanity. Even into betraying humanity . . . because Galen has always been firmly on the side of physically harsh punishments for the first one third to one half of any penitent’s assigned span in his care. And the brothers were assigned two months of penance for their “crimes.”
Great. Just . . . ink-spattering great. Dagan’thio is the reason why his sons turn out wrong . . . him, and Galen’s far too heavy hand. Poor Krais, she thought. Poor Gayn and poor Foren, swept downstream by the flooding of their fates . . . but poor Krais, having to keep his mouth shut and not say anything in protest. Submit to his punishment, indeed . . .
Clearing her throat, she spoke out loud. “Well, thank you for letting me know. I’ll visit her later today, to make sure she is well.”
“Why?” Dagan’thio challenged bluntly. “You’re not her superior anymore.”
