Knight Chosen

by Tammy Salyer

  Only the skin of His Holiness’s face and hands showed, its striking whiteness even paler than the Yorish. His eyes, blacker than the emptiness between the stars, gleamed in their sunken orbits, the bones of the skull they lay in so sharp and prominent they nearly broke through his crystal-hard flesh. Now that he was closer to the Verity, Ulfric could see that the body he inhabited was not like any of the people of Vinnr. He wondered how long ago this one-time man of Battgjald had lost his body to his maker’s vessel.

  The first cold tickle of fear, a feeling Ulfric had almost forgotten, whisked over his skin. “Inside,” he responded. “We will not begin this meeting until the Arch Keeper attends.”

  “It is not your kingdom’s lowly ruler whom I’ve come to see.”

  “And yet,” Ulfric said flatly. Perhaps his words were rash, but he was Stallari of the Knights Corporealis, and this being, celestial or not, would not cow him.

  The usurper measured him with a steady gaze, and the skin of his pale face tightened further. “It is your time to waste.”

  As if on command, the gates atop the rampart began their slow, grinding recess into the keep’s inner curtain wall, and the keep’s receiving horn boomed over the city to beckon them. Ulfric threw a look over his shoulder to Commander Brun, and she nodded that she and her Marines were ready for the procession to proceed. Beyond the wall toward the city’s far border, he caught sight of Vigil Tower. The time it would take to climb the forty-four steps to the keep’s courtyard would not be enough to begin to measure the depth of danger this Verity’s presence signified. Yet it was plenty of time for one fearful thought to ring inside his mind, over, and over. Will any haven be safe for my family?

  Chapter 4

  Three hundred and forty-two revolutions around Halla had passed since Mylla had last looked into the eyes of a celestial being. Still, her memory of Vaka Aster, brief though their encounter at her oath-taking ordination into the Order had been, did nothing to prepare her for the sight of this other Verity.

  Despite her training and her pride, her eyes widened as their groups converged. She knew him for what he was at once. Where Vaka Aster’s radiance had seemed bright and enveloping, if not exactly warm, the one calling himself His Holiness seemed to suck the light away from the space surrounding him, leaving a vacuum of chilly emptiness behind. Even through her armor and tunic, Mylla’s skin prickled in his presence.

  What in the name of a rotting gimgree carcass is another Verity doing in Vinnr? This can only mean . . . I’m not really sure. But I am sure we’ll soon find out.

  The receiving horn’s low clamor faded, and she followed Stallari Aldinhuus up the rampart steps, the deliberate footfalls of the full procession contrasting loudly, oppressively, in the now still afternoon air. No birds sang, no music wafted from the city’s public halls or travelers’ inns. The commoners of Ivoryss themselves seemed to hold their collective breath, their cautious silence commanded by the recent gossip and stories about Yor. She could see that more than a few in the crowd had shielded themselves against their fears by downing more lind sap liquor than was strictly necessary. Tension seemed ready to roil into chaos.

  Acolyte Irrick says Yor is now under this man’s, this being’s, control, that he’s turned Yor’s throne to his ends. The bruhawks saw a small army at the borders. What has Arch Keeper Beatte done to ensure the same kind of takeover can’t happen in Ivoryss? Does she even grasp the stakes of this situation?

  These thoughts rippled in her mind and faded reluctantly. It was only through her strict discipline as a Knight that Mylla kept herself from turning around to ensure the usurper and his cadre were not drawing furtive weapons or planning an attack at this moment as they trailed along behind. Absurd, naturally, for they’d been stripped of their arms before coming within sight of the keep. Just as she and Ulfric had.

  With the exception, naturally, of their klinkí stones, which to commoners would appear to be harmless baubles and bits.

  This unwelcome paranoia was new to her, but she supposed seeing a celestial being with the power to create and destroy worlds would have that effect on anyone. In the first and true language of the Verities, Elder Veros, his name was Balavad. Her Knight mentors had taught her about the existence of this Verity and his realm of Battgjald, and she’d read of it in the Scrylle herself. But only cursorily. It had seemed irrelevant, until now.

  Her nerves were making her hands want to rub together, so she gripped them into white-knuckled fists. The sun’s rays bounced off the Verring Sea to the southwest just beyond Vigil Tower as they climbed, so bright they washed away the water’s usual beryl glow. Asteryss itself lay north of the headland on which Vigil Tower stood. It rose from the prow of one hill, Asteryss from another, each overlooking the basin the city was nestled within.

  More Halla rays beamed against her breastplate, turning the metal oven-hot around her chest. Sweat leaked from her armpits, her forehead, her neck, made clammy by a lingering dread at this unexpected visit. Would the climb up this staircase ever end? How long could she endure those dark eyes of the foreign Verity flashing like cleavers behind her?

  She’d seen young Isemay in the crowd, barely even trying to stay out her father’s sight. He’d never have permitted Isemay to come. Which is probably the main reason she’s here. The girl has more of her father in her than he’d probably thank me for mentioning.

  At last they reached the upper courtyard before the keep’s inner curtain wall gates. In a show of military might, Commander Brun had ordered a squadron of Dragør Wing fighters to land their single-person aerial combat crafts in the yard. The pilots stood at the ready on either side of the gate, all bearing the same stoic expressions as their ground compatriots below the rampart.

  Mylla searched their faces. There he is. Dragør Wing Pilot Havelock Rekkr, first to the left of the entryway, the spot chosen specifically because he knew to expect her to be at the Stallari’s left side. And because he was a squadron leader, of course. Their eyes found each other.

  The procession came to a stop before the massive gates, and Mylla shifted her attention to the elegantly robed Chamberlain Cympher and always numerous courtiers awaiting them. Cympher greeted them with a windy speech that Mylla tuned out immediately. She found life at the keep predictable, if unnecessarily complex. Cympher and courtiers like him were pretentious and pointlessly bureaucratic. Scholars of the Resplendolent Conservatum, like Acolyte Irrick, and warriors, like the Knights, had no time and saw little purpose in pomp.

  At last, the chamberlain concluded, “In the name of Arch Keeper Beatte, I bid you follow me.” He waved them in and turned in a movement so polished it must have been rehearsed.

  As she passed Havelock, he curled the edges of his mouth into a faint smile that did not quite crack his military bearing. Can he see how nervous I am? she wondered, feeling as if her anxiety was nearly dripping from her skin. I hope it isn’t obvious. What would he think of a warrior who sweats like a nervous novice at the first sign of a threat? She nodded back, then saw how sharply his glance strayed to the Verity in her wake. Lock’s anxious grimace, like a virus, spread down the line of Marines as they went by.

  The Knights and Brun, the foreign visitors, and the chamberlain passed along the hushed inner court of Aster Keep beneath the shadows of spires surrounding the enclosing walls. Green summer grasses and hedges dotted the space with a gaiety none felt. The Stallari had likely warned Beatte of the possibility this visitor could be another Verity. Therefore, Mylla was certain they were being led to the secure throne room below the main court. After descending two stories, she knew she was right, and the cooler air below the courtyard brought some relief from the dank perspiration still clinging to her.

  “You seem nervous, Knight,” said someone behind her. When she glanced back, one of the foreign black-robed priests was gazing at her. His face and lips were pale, almost translucent, beneath his hood. The man wore the mark of the Battgjald Knights, named Flesh Casters, which the Stallari had once draw
n for her: three inverted chevrons rising between his brows to end at his hairline, in a dark indigo color that had faded to sickly green in his colorless flesh. The symbol stood out starkly, and his halting croak made her wonder how frequently he used his voice. “We are all part of the same Order. All unified for the same cause. You have nothing to fear from us,” he finished.

  Intrigued, she asked, “What cause?”

  “To serve the Verities.”

  “Pretty words coming from a sycophant,” Commander Brun broke in, and the foreign Knight’s long teeth flashed in a snarl through the gash of his mouth. “Whatever your Verity did in Yor will not happen in Ivoryss,” Brun continued. “I suggest you think carefully on the limits of your service, such as it is.”

  She senses the same threat I do, Mylla thought, surprised at the commander’s outburst. Something is amiss. Danger is coming. The Stallari was wise to order the removal of the vessel from Vigil Tower. An army at our gates and a Verity in our midst . . . the Scrylle has never recorded another Verity trespassing in this realm . . .

  Even more ill at ease, Mylla considered things. What Balavad’s Flesh Caster said was true enough. The Knights Corporealis had been servants of Verities since almost the beginning of recorded time. Yet, for the first time since she’d felt called to the Order as a child, she wondered what else this service, which had granted her both honor and immortality, might require.

  Brun’s hostility strangled any further conversation to death. Only their breathing and footfalls made any sound until the hall opened up into an antechamber, large for its subterranean location. The chamberlain finally stopped and thunked the iron knocker against a broad door. Someone slid the peeping port open from the inside, and the chamberlain asked, “Is the Arch Keeper ready?”

  A pause, then: “Aye.”

  One, two, three bolts grated clear, then a brace was unhooked and the door swung open toward them.

  The cloister’s main room flashed brilliantly from dozens of lens apparatuses adorning the walls, ceiling, and even floor in some places. Much of the kingdom’s light and other inventions came from wystic devices that focused and divided radiance into its many forms, a task that fell mostly to the court’s scholars, all former students of the Conservatum, and also mastered by Stallari Aldinhuus. Mylla rarely had a reason to visit this chamber, and the round and rectangular, thick and thin lenses meticulously ground and crafted by artisans—and a few by Aldinhuus himself—dazzled her. She was not an inventor, not the way the Stallari was, which made her appreciate his talents even more.

  Chamberlain Cympher ushered them to a halt, and Mylla and Brun automatically took several short paces to either side of Ulfric, affording them better views of the chamber and the visitors. Though she knew Brun to be a stalwart if sometimes intemperate leader, Mylla questioned how reliable she was. Then she questioned her own questioning. If, after all, this Verity proved to be a common enemy, even training every weapon in the room on the being would be like trying to hold back a tempest with a neck scarf. Glancing at the Marines ringing the Arch Keeper’s throne like a set of sharpened teeth, Mylla thought, She is right not to trust His Holiness, but does she think swords and soldiers can protect her from a Verity, even a sundered one not at his full power?

  On the other hand, Balavad’s Flesh Casters would be little trouble, as frail as they looked. The Stallari could easily dispatch half a dozen foes singlehandedly before pausing to take a breath, and Mylla’s close-quarters combat skills were honed, having been drilled into her by the ruthless Knight Eisa Nazaria and the others for many turns. The courtiers and acolytes wouldn’t be much use, their attributes being boot-licking and intellect rather than strength or force, but the ten Marines in a semicircle of protection around the Arch Keeper’s council table were at least something. Verity or not, Balavad’s powers outside his own realm were limited, Mylla reminded herself, an effect of being sundered and split across the Cosmos. And he had only six disarmed soldiers and three of his strange Flesh Casters. As far as she was concerned, aside from Balavad himself, the Knights were the only true threat in the chamber.

  Beatte wasted no time getting to the point, without even first inviting anyone to sit. “Your Holiness, I am Arch Keeper Beatte, ruler of Ivoryss. Your message said you claim no land as home, yet many here have heard you took an army into Yor and wreaked havoc. Whether this is true or not is not my concern. Now state your reasons for coming to Ivoryss.”

  Beatte’s diplomatic courtesies had apparently gone on holiday, though her bluntness failed to faze the usurper, who smirked. Disquietingly. “Arch Keeper Beatte, as I told your envoy and Stallari Aldinhuus himself, I am not here to discuss matters of state with you. I merely needed you to agree to this meeting in order to get by your city gates. It is with Aldinhuus I wish to speak. However, since you have insisted on the pomp and circumstance of your kind, I will make clear my intent.”

  The callow leader didn’t like at all what he said. She clutched a heavy gem hanging on a chain around her neck tightly and said, “You brought both a brigade of fighters to our capital of Asteryss and a reputation of dishonorable conduct. Now you insult me in tone, if not words, when I grant an audience—”

  “It is you who has been granted an audience with His Holiness,” one of the pale Flesh Casters cut in.

  The Arch Keeper rose from her seat, and her Marines withdrew their swords. Even standing, she barely reached the Verity’s height. Her dark cheeks bloomed rose as she commanded, “Keep your silence, underling, or face the consequences! Yours is not the only Verity in this world.”

  If the raised eyebrows and looks that passed between the Marines were any indication, Mylla wasn’t the only person in the room surprised by Beatte’s statement. So she knows what he is. And claims fealty to Vaka Aster still, even if she doesn’t publicly say so. How quickly commoners lose their faith—

  The ghastly smile that curled the lips of the one calling himself His Holiness cut short her thoughts. “Am I not?” he said.

  Beatte squinted, her cheeks now practically glowing, and her eyes shifted.

  No, don’t look at the Stallari, Mylla mentally tried to will her. The Verity will see it as weakness; he’ll know we cannot summon Vaka Aster.

  Too late.

  The interloper took advantage of her silence and reached toward the closest of his Flesh Casters, beckoning him forward with a long, thick-jointed finger. The attendant undid the clasp on a leather satchel hanging over one shoulder and reached inside as he stepped up, withdrawing a tied scroll.

  Balavad took the scroll and unrolled it. As close as Mylla was, she could see the script written upon it was Yorish.

  “A treaty already signed by the Arch Keeper of Yor, declaring a new devotion, kingdom-wide, to me. My Flesh Caster Order,” he waved the parchment at another of his Order, who took it and passed it to one of Beatte’s guards, who in turn held it before her to read, “will take over all rites and services for your kingdom and the Knights Corporealis of Vaka Aster. Worship of your absent Verity died, as is natural, in the centuries since your creator deserted your world. I have been watching. Vaka Aster has left you behind and left your lost and frail selves to fall into ruin.”

  The Verity opened his arms in front of him and held his hands out, palms up, in a gesture that seemed a mockery of benevolence. “I have come to fill the void left by your uncaring creator.” He stepped forward to tower over the none-too-diminutive Stallari and pointed that bony finger again, this time at him. “And you, Stallari Aldinhuus of the Vaka Aster’s Knights Corporealis, will help me.”

  Chapter 5

  The moment the words struck his ears, Ulfric knew them for what they were: the end of an age of relative peace—and possibly of his world. He might have laughed at the absurdity of the Verity of Battgjald’s words. Ulfric, leader of the Knights Corporealis of Vaka Aster, help a usurper in a takeover of Ivoryss and eventually all of Vinnr? The oath he’d taken was to serve his Verity, not become a militant pawn in Verity wars.
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  None of this mattered, however. Despite his alarm, only two things did: Protect Isemay and Symvalline. Protect Vaka Aster. Before his next breath, he calculated that both could only be achieved in one way.

  “What is it you want from me?” he asked.

  The Verity responded, “Your fealty and that of your Knights, your kingdom under my sway, and above all you are to relinquish both your Scrylle and three Fenestrii to me and take me to the vessel of Vaka Aster. The true vessel.”

  To his left, Knight Evernal twitched as if to attack. Ulfric thrust out his hand in a halting gesture and focused a command through his Mentalios. Don’t. She settled, grudgingly.

  The usurper smiled. “Well done, Stallari. A man with your authority would have a place among my own Order.”

  He lowered his hand and returned his attention to the towering figure. Bargain with him, Ulfric. Bargain with the skills of all the centuries you’ve lived. Bargain for lives more important to you than your own. You can’t take him to the vessel. With this thought came another: He doesn’t know where we’ve hidden it. Are the Verities blind to each other? He deposited this thought into his ageless arsenal of wisdom. If true, if the Verities couldn’t detect one another, it could be useful someday.

  Before he could speak, Arch Keeper Beatte broke in, her voice now cool, on the verge of defeat. “So you’ve taken Yor. We can only surmise using what guiles. Why Ivoryss too? Why do you want our kingdoms, when you have your own world and a realm of your own creation where you’re already the one ruler? Verity or not, this world owes you nothing.”

  “Keep wagging your tongue,” the Flesh Caster with the leather satchel warned her.