by Scott Hale
Isla Taggart, chief Winnower, slid down the bed, went stiff, told her shakily, “Okay,” and did as she was told.
Days passed. Despite her best efforts, Isla couldn’t manage to find herself in a room alone with Audra, because Audra seldom left her room. King Edgar’s sister was guarded at all times. Isla herself wasn’t much different, though it was clearly for different reasons. Isla had committed treason against the Holy Order of Penance and, with a group of zealots, had sacked Rime and formed an alliance with one of the cruelest women to walk the Earth. She wasn’t trustworthy in the slightest—to absolutely no one’s surprise, herself included.
Barred from meetings and from leaving Ghostgrave, with a tail four soldiers strong and everyone on her in the keep, Isla was getting antsy. The only place where she could go without surveillance was the dungeon and torture chamber, presumably because Edgar didn’t want word getting out about what Joy was doing down there, but she’d had her fill of foulness for the week. She couldn’t shake the smell of the flesh fiends. It was in her skin and clothes, and the hairs in her nostrils. A combination of metal and plaque, and old poultry that’d been overcooked. It was driving her insane
Most of the time, after doing her rounds, keeping track of what dignitary, mayor, or ass kisser was visiting the keep, Isla always ended up outside Archivist Amon’s tower. It was locked, and even if it wasn’t, she was sure Edgar’s soldiers weren’t going to let her go in. Amon had been dead for several months. According to Valac, they’d destroyed most of the artifacts inside, but Isla wasn’t stupid. She knew there were more secrets inside the tower. There had to be.
Because it looked like a secret. The tower was alluring and, honestly, kind of an archeological marvel. It was beaten up and broken down, seemingly held together only by the vermillion veins that ran up and down the stained cobblestone walls. But it wasn’t just the vermillion veins reinforcing it that kept it from collapsing. No, the tower meant something. It was an institution. Archivist Amon had been an integral part Eldrus’ council for decades, maybe even longer. When, not if, Ghostgrave finally fell, Isla was pretty sure Amon’s tower would still be standing. Like Lux’s writing, some things just stood the test of time.
Isla wanted to stand the test of time. That was why she came here and sat in the tower’s shadow, day in and day out. Its influence was inspiring. And one day, the doors to it would be open, and she’d stand atop its highest point, and see with her own eyes the things she’d done that’d brought her here.
Also, there was the fact that this courtyard was usually empty, which meant she couldn’t find reasons to fight with people about the rights of minorities, the patriarchy, war profiteering, or the nerve some Disciple woman had for wearing some trashy ass cloak with her tits practically exposed. If she fought, others would fight back. She’d been fighting all her life, with fists and fangs and impregnable hyperbole. It’d gotten her this far, but had it really? Was she really sitting here because of everything she’d done in the name of social justice? It didn’t feel like it. It felt like she was here because she’d tricked the Winnowers, sold out to Eldrus, and let herself get bullied by Joy. Joseph liked to be controlled, and shit, she liked to control him, anyone. But she wasn’t controlling anything, anymore. And goddamn if it wasn’t sobering.
This is your last chance. She stared up at the tower. Get it together. Just because you look down on everyone, doesn’t mean any of them are looking up at you. You are a terrible person, just like Uncle said. And you’re always going to be. You’re not Lux. You’re never going to be. What the fuck are you? What the fuck is an ‘Isla Taggart?’
She closed her eyes. Filling her lungs with the cool exhalations of spring, she thought, You don’t have to cut a hole in the world to make yourself fit.
Isla heard the rattle of armor approaching, but kept her eyes shut. She figured it was her “escorts” coming to collect her; probably to interrogate her; to suss out any insidious intentions. A free-thinking woman should never be free, she thought, shaking her head. And then: Stop it.
“Isla Taggart.”
A voice she barely recognized. She opened her eyes. King Edgar had come to her, flanked on both sides by a set of six armed guards in armor as black as obsidian.
Isla considered staying where she was—she bowed to no one—but eventually, she came to her feet and gave him the respect he supposedly deserved.
“How well do you know Felix?” he asked.
Isla tried to read his face, but there was nothing there. His skin was thin; there wasn’t enough of it to express any emotion that wouldn’t read as anything but pain. His eyes were puffy, though she couldn’t imagine he’d been crying. And his lips and teeth, they were bright red. Pieces of vermillion veins were still stuck to his gums.
“I lived in Pyra with him all my life, my Lord,” she said.
“Is he like Valac?”
Isla stammered, “M-My Lord?”
“Aloof, idiotic; cruel, single-minded; fiercely psychotic?”
What’s happened? She shook her head. “No, my Lord.”
“Would he call you his friend?”
“No, my Lord.”
“Would anyone?”
Isla swallowed hard. “No, I don’t think so.”
Edgar studied her and said, “We all have our ghosts.”
“Yes,” she said, though she didn’t know what he meant by that.
“Would Felix murder his own to kill our people?”
Isla gasped. “No, no, my Lord. I don’t think so. Why do you—”
“I would like you go with Lotus and Ikto into Nyxis. Take Joseph. I think you have a way with people, getting them to talk. I need you four to find people and bring them here.”
Isla couldn’t believe what she was hearing, so she repeated like she hadn’t. “You need us four to find people?”
“Key members of the Marrow Cabal are believed to be in Nyxis, in anticipation of Felix’s arrival. There are rumors the Marrow Cabal have attempted to enter the Dead City.”
“The Dead City? H-How? Why?”
“For weapons. Old World weapons.” Edgar ground his teeth. “I need to know if they were successful, and if they were, what they brought back or were planning on bringing back. If they weren’t, are the Marrow Cabal still there?”
Isla nodded. “I can do that, my Lord.”
“Good. When you return, I would hear your plans to save our society.”
CHAPTER XXXIX
A few days ago, Felix had decided he didn’t care about the Holy Order or the Disciples of the Deep anymore. He was going to do what he had to do in Eldrus to slow down Edgar enough so he could find a way to exorcise Lillian from Justine’s body, and that would be that. He and Justine would go find some quiet, forgotten place and live out the rest of their lives there. Sure, the world may fall apart, but it was going to do that anyway, and as far as he’d been able to tell, all he and his religion were doing was helping it fall apart faster.
But that was a few days ago. That was before six more suicide bombers detonated their vermillion payloads on Narcissus, taking out over a hundred soldiers and who knows how many innocent civilians along the way. That was before he saw the human shrapnel across the road and in the trees, and the way his army, their supplies, and horses were constantly covered in blood from having to pass beneath them. That was before the paranoia set in, before he found himself getting out of his carriage less and less. That was before he received the two letters from missionaries in Islaos and Bedlam, that stated in a nervous scrawl that the Compellers had taken control.
Felix forced the army to stop on the outskirts of Nyxis, where the farmers worked tirelessly in the fields, preparing for the spring harvest. After having divided Narcissus up like he’d said he would for every village and town they’d passed, the army was down to two hundred, most of which were soldiers, not Compellers. It wasn’t nearly enough to protect him, Justine, Gemma, Clementine, and Will, or anybody else, and it wasn’t until now that this fact really s
ettled in. Because to his north: the black sprawl of the city-state Eldrus; and to his south: God, and Its infinite grasp. They were surrounded, in this world and the next. And yet, that didn’t scare him as much as the threat he couldn’t see. The one he saw in the eyes of all his weary soldiers. The one that was written in the entrails of all the gibbering suicide bombers. The one he’d felt that day on the road, right after the first attack, when James asked him if the Holy Order’s missionaries were really still his missionaries, and told him the first attack had been by their own.
Felix ordered Commander Millicent to pay the farmers whose fields had been ruined by Narcissus stopping to make camp. One farmer refused payment because he was loyal to King Edgar, the other two accepted the bags of coin before Millicent had a chance to tell them what it was for.
“Are you sure you wish to stop here, your Holiness?” Millicent asked, having returned from bribing the locals.
Felix nodded from inside his carriage.
The stone Holy Child across from him turned its head back and forth, as if it were shaking it.
“Where’s Sloane?”
Commander Millicent said, “She’s taken her share of soldiers with her Compellers into Nyxis to set up the next mission.”
“Are Warren and Gemma with her?”
“Warren is, but I have not seen Gemma, your Holiness.”
Clouds, like sand dunes, stretched across the sky—the orange of dusk in their peaks, the dark of night in their valleys.
“Have you received word from the previous missions?”
“No, your Holiness, only the two letters I brought to you. I believe our messages are being intercepted. We have found dead scouts and birds.”
“Who brought you the two letters, then?”
“A cabalist. He said they retrieved them from ravens last night.”
Felix chewed on the inside of his mouth. “What was his name?”
“Allister.”
“Find him.”
“He’s stationed in Nyxis. I will have him tracked down.”
Felix stared hard at Commander Millicent. He’d asked this question of her six times before, but it bore repeating: “What is going on?”
Commander Millicent’s demeanor did not break. “There have been six attacks. We have passed through six towns on our way here. The Disciples have been targeting the soldiers and the Compellers, not you or the Mother Abbess, or even our resident cabalists.”
“Not all Disciples. Some have been our own soldiers.”
“It’s possible they were kidnapped, forced into becoming bombers. It’s possible King Edgar has realized we are having the Cabal force his people to detonate on their own. Indoctrinating our soldiers to do the same could be payback.”
That sounded like an excuse. “Shouldn’t we be their targets?” he pressed.
“Not if the Disciples mean for us to live, your Holiness.”
Felix raised his voice. “Yeah, but we’re going to Eldrus, anyway. We’re going straight to Ghostgrave. We’re doing the hard work for them.” He took a deep breath. His cheeks were burning.
“Do you want my opinion, your Holiness?”
“Yes, I do.”
“The Holy Order has been spread too thin. Armies are strong when they are armies. Narcissus has been broken up so much across the Heartland that it is not effective. The Conscription is no different. Cathedra stands in the shadow of the Impostor. The only place fortified is Penance, and that’s purely by distance and the population density.”
Felix made fists and dug them into the cushions. “You’re saying I screwed up? You agreed to this plan!”
“You are the Holy Child, a vessel for god’s voice—”
She was throwing this in his face.
“—and so I do as I am told. The towns we are passing through are farms for seeds of heaven. It’s no surprise there is increased bombing activities…”
Felix glanced at the stone Holy Child sharing the carriage with him. Its empty, undetailed, lifeless eyes met his, and for a moment, he saw no difference between it and Millicent.
“Are you… still loyal to me?” Felix whispered.
“To a fault,” she said through her teeth. “You should wear that robe the Mother Abbess made you. It would cheer her up… and you.” She bowed—“Your Holiness.”—closed the carriage door, and left him.
Felix stared at the door, the sounds from outside—voices, footsteps; tent spikes being driven into the ground—coming in.
Stop caring, stop caring, stop caring.
He hiked up his robes and ran his fingers along the scars on his thighs. They were tender to the touch.
Stop it. Stop it, just stop it.
Nail digging into skin, again, he stared at the stone Holy Child. For so long, he’d ignored it and the others like it.
There’s no way I can make a difference. Not on my own.
The stone Holy Children… they scared him. He liked to forget why they existed. Justine had made them. When the previous Holy Children had outlived their usefulness, she turned them into stone, so they could be more useful again, as spies. Felix had always tried to be useful, and she promised never to do that to him. God, he hated being older. It made him think about things he hadn’t before. He used to care about what Justine would do with him, but he loved her, and she loved him, and the kind of love they had, they loved each other for what they were. His congregation didn’t love him for what he was. They didn’t know what he was. Right now, going to Eldrus like this, he was probably a coward or a traitor to them. He didn’t have to be turned to stone, because that’s what he already was to them. Some idol they couldn’t or wouldn’t understand. He had to be flawless. He didn’t get that back in Pyra. But now he was out in the real world, where there was another God, another Holy Child, or rather, Anointed One. He wasn’t unique anymore. He wasn’t special anymore. He wasn’t useful anymore. He wanted to stop caring, because that’s what they’d all do, eventually, when they figured it all out. Even if everything went according to Justine’s plan and the Holy Order first infiltrated then later absorbed the Disciples, taking God under their control, it’d only be a matter of time until there were more Winnowers or Compellers or Marrow Cabals or Night Terrors trying to ruin everything they’d built, his life and Justine’s and everyone else’s whom he cared about would be in danger. If he kept on caring, he’d never get out; but if he stopped, in the end, he’d still be unremarkable. In the end… it could happen again. There could be another forest, and another Samuel Turov, but this time, no one would save him, because those that could’ve, in his selfishness, he’d damned them all.
“I’m so scared,” he said to the stone Holy Child.
The stone Holy Child didn’t bother to comfort him.
“I wish she had never put me in charge.”
It’s star-shaped head scratched against the carriage’s interior.
“Here I am bitching to you…”
Something rumbled inside the stone Holy Child. Was it laughing? Could it laugh? Felix had always assumed there was nothing to them—it was easier that way (I’m such a hypocrite)—but beneath the surface, were they hiding? Like Lillian was hiding inside Justine? He couldn’t set Justine free and leave the Holy Children like this. And he couldn’t sit here and try and convince himself he didn’t care. He did. He just cared too much, and god how it terrified him.
“I need your and the other Children’s help,” he told the statue, “and I swear I’ll make her turn you back.”
The Child shook its head.
“You want to stay this way?”
The Child shook its head.
“You… want to die?”
The Child nodded its head.
“Okay,” Felix said. “Okay. Find the others. It has to be tonight.”
Night was different in a place like Nyxis. The witch cults had seen to that. Though they were long gone, decades’ worth of performing rituals and discharging energies into the air and ground had altered the atmosphere. The fallo
ut left the sky a dark gray wash, like the eerie moments before an eclipse, and everything else—be it the grass, trees; the farmers’ fields; or even some of the oldest buildings—covered in faint, glowing splotches and dots, as if the city had a case of acne that put even Felix’s to shame. It was interesting, and different, yet it made for poor cover when it came to subterfuge.
“Oh, no, I don’t think that’s such a great idea,” Clementine said, as Felix finished telling her, Will, and James his plans in their tent.
And what were his plans? To sneak into Nyxis where the Compellers had established their next mission and discover what exactly Sloane was up to. If he asked her, she’d lie, and if he announced their visit, they’d hide what they were doing. He still wasn’t sure if she and her Compellers had turned on the Holy Order, like the Winnowers’ Chapter had, or if they were simply carrying out what they believed to be the best course of action for Penance. But something was going on.
“You don’t want to be out in these parts at night, Holy Child or not,” Clementine said.
“I’m taking the statues with me,” Felix said.
No one seemed convinced.
“Trust me, they won’t let anything happen to me.”
“It’s not that,” Will said from his bed, nightclothes loose around his skinny frame. “They kind of… stand out.”
“I’ll take care of that,” James said, already bee-lining for the tent flap. “There’s enough stuff lying around to cover them up.”
“Wait—” Felix got in front of him, “—I need you to come with me, too. You’ve been to Nyxis, right?”
“I’ve gotten around,” he said, sighing.
“And the statues will help but…”
“Take the Commander,” James said.
“I don’t know if I can trust her. She tells me one thing, but… I don’t know what she’s doing.”
James rubbed the nubs on his hand where his fingers used to be. “Listen, Felix, I’ll show you to the place, but… I’m sorry. I’m not a fighter anymore. I’ve never really been. After everything I did with the Skeleton and the Cabal… Makes my stomach twist up just thinking about it.”
