Eve of Destruction

by C. E. Stalbaum

  Chaval nodded. “They’re a desperate society trying to rebuild from years of civil war and uncontrolled magi. They need all kinds of supplies.”

  Hovien grunted. “I wonder why you wouldn’t rather just take the country and be done with it. Peasant armies with crossbows are no match for our weapons.”

  “And that line of thinking, my friend, is exactly why I have a hard time taking you people seriously,” Turell replied with a snort and wry smile. “War is obsolete, general. Haven’t you heard?”

  Hovien rolled his eyes. “Yes, I forgot. Why conquer a people when you can sell them your drek instead?”

  “A military solution is an option, but I don’t think it will be necessary,” Chaval soothed. “There’s a massive power vacuum in Talam—several factions are still vying for power even all these years after the revolution. They all need goods we can easily provide. The President has tip-toed around the opportunities for far too long, and Marose and the magi are too timid to exploit them. Within five years we can quadruple our exports there—perhaps faster if we encourage a few brushfire conflicts between the lingering factions.”

  Amaya glared at him. “You can’t be serious.”

  The other two men stopped mid-chuckle and stared at her as if they hadn’t realized she could talk. Chaval’s smile didn’t break, but his eyes went cold enough to prickle her skin. She couldn’t just sit here and listen to him talk about plundering her home…

  “Well, this is why I don’t pay her for advice,” he commented glibly, taking a sip from his wine. The other two men laughed and turned away from her.

  “I just meant there’s a bigger opportunity with the Qosi-clan farmers,” she added. “With all the ruined fields they can’t possibly produce enough food, and right now they’re importing almost everything from Kenshara and Sunoa. Guns aren’t the only thing they’d be willing to buy.”

  Turell raised an eyebrow and glanced between her and Chaval. “Now that, my dear, is an intriguing prospect.”

  Chaval’s eyes glimmered approvingly. “She does surprise me at times, I admit. And she doesn’t even charge me extra.” He rubbed across her arm. “At least, not for that.”

  The men laughed, and Amaya felt sick. There was a budding clan war in Talam, far worse than here. But with foreign support they could recover and rebuild their economy; they could even start growing their own food again. It would take decades, but eventually Arkadia would end up with a strong ally for their investment, and her people wouldn’t be starving…

  But of course these men saw none of that. A rebuilt Talam would be an independent Talam, and that meant Arkadia would have to live with the choices of a foreign people. Why bother leaving to chance what you could simply control? She almost wished she’d just kept her mouth shut and endured the inevitable lecture later.

  “Well, while you two worry about stuffing your coffers, I’m still worried about a response from Selerius,” Hovien said after a few more moments of banter. “The Enclave has been subtly testing loyalty in the brass for several months. A few of the generals will end up supporting them if it comes to war.”

  “A few, but not many,” Chaval assured him. “And even less of their men will follow when they realize we control the supply of weapons and equipment. They have no means to fight a war and they know it.”

  “Maybe not, but if I were you I’d be afraid to take the morning carriage anywhere,” Turell said. “They’ll be coming after you—surely you realize that.”

  “And your security is…lax to say the least,” Hovien added. “You walk into crowds without fear, and I don’t even see any guards.”

  Chaval smiled. “Appearances, my friends. But don’t worry about the Enclave—soon they won’t be a threat to us or anyone else.”

  Amaya tuned out the rest of the conversation, focusing on her wine and the knots in her stomach. Her thoughts drifted to home and the family she had left behind. More of her money was on the way, and she hoped they would at least be able to send a letter in response this time. Telegraphs were rare and expensive in Talam, so all she had to rely on was conventional mail. Perhaps more than anything else, that thought made her realize how ancient her civilization was, and how much farther behind it would get in the coming years. Steamworks might give them the technology they needed, but in the end it would be like selling their soul for scraps off the table.

  She twirled the wine glass as the men around her laughed. She already knew what it felt like to make that kind of sacrifice…and to be forced to live with it.

  ***

  In the past few centuries, the Edehan religion had gone from a single sect in a vast, polytheistic dogma to the dominant religion in the world. Their Esharian ancestors had worshipped six separate gods more or less equally, but after the Kirshal and the Restoration, all of that had changed. Abalor and his cult had been defeated, and slowly but surely the worship of the other deities had melted away. There were a few holdouts, like the Sunoans and their fascination with Shakissa, but in general the global dominance of the Edehan faith was unquestionable.

  But that didn’t mean it was unified. There were, the last time Glenn Maltus had counted, at least a hundred different sects in Arkadia alone. While all shared the core belief in the Goddess and the sanctity of her Fane, they varied in small interpretations of the scripture or in subtle nuances of temple tradition. Most had emerged after Arkadian independence from Esharia. It had split the faith into many divergent groups.

  Overall, the results had largely been progressive, cracking through many old and stale traditions that had mired the faith for centuries. Unfortunately, it had also crippled the church politically and allowed the Enclave to claim even more power. The Kirshal herself had created the Enclave as a subsidiary of the church, a militant arm meant to protect the most dangerous secrets of the Fane and destroy those who sought to Defile it. Now it was essentially an autonomous organism with access to far more resources than anyone, even the average mage, would probably be comfortable with. The church, by contrast, was a pale shadow of its former glory.

  That didn’t mean it was weak, however. Compared to any other group of magi, the Exarch and the Edehan Sisterhood had the most profound impact on the daily lives of Arkadian citizens. They were healers, teachers, and guides, as well as caretakers of Edeh’s ancient secrets and lore. Ostensibly, many of the Dusties still supported the clergy, too, but they hadn’t exactly protested when Chaval all but drove the priestesses out of Cadotheia and many of the other western cities.

  Maltus sighed softly and started the long trek up the two-hundred year old marble steps of the Othan temple. Othanism was the oldest denomination in the world, and it had dominated the faith for thousands of years in Esharia before the Restoration. Its traditions were often eccentric and sometimes wildly outdated—such as barring men from the ranks of the clergy—but it did possess an impressive collection of ancient religious lore and magic. This particular temple here in the city of New Haven was still considered one of the most hallowed religious structures in the whole country.

  An odd tingling sensation shuddered through him as he crossed inside the temple doors, and he wondered dimly if it was the equivalent of the Goddess wagging her finger at him. Thirty years ago, an aging mentor had told him that no true member of the Enclave should ever feel comfortable walking into a house of the Goddess. It was a peculiar sentiment given their creed as the “rightful protectors of the Fane,” but over time he had grown to appreciate its wisdom. The temples expected purity, and no one who mingled in politics ever kept his hands clean for long.

  “Greetings, Parishioner,” an elderly woman said from his right. “Can I help you with something?”

  Maltus blinked and belatedly realized that he’d been standing in the doorway for probably a full minute. “I...I haven’t been here in a while,” he murmured. “I’m looking for Sister Lashowe.”

  “I believe she is working in the archives today,” the woman told him. “It’s on the third floor to your right.”
<
br />   “Thank you.”

  Maltus made his way towards the stairs, taking a moment to drink in all the splendor of the ancient but recently refurbished temple. Like all such structures of its era, it was built to evoke a sense of primal majesty and augment the natural forces of the world. Sunlight funneled in through diagonal gaps in the roof, and its rays were reflected several times by mirrors before concentrating upon the statue of Edeh at the end of the main floor. During midday the statue glowed as if the Goddess herself was standing there, warming her parishioners with her divine radiance. At night, the priestesses would often weave a spell to simulate the effect with a softer blue light. The entire room was spacious and open, and every wall was wrapped in healthy-looking vines. The temple was almost as organic as it was stone.

  The Sisters themselves all wore the same long, flowing crimson robes with white fur trim. Age was the respected metric here, and rank was almost entirely dependent on it—and he noted that there were very few young people here at all, either as workers or worshippers.

  A few minutes later he made his way into the archives and the rows upon rows of bookshelves. The focusing mirrors were perched up here, and he noticed the tell-tale shimmer of magic dappling the entire area with a soft green light. Even without tapping into the Fane for confirmation, he recognized the nature of the protective spell—the temple was meant to be open, but rain wasn’t exactly healthy for books. This lingering magic would keep them dry through anything short of a tsunami.

  A few moments later he caught a glimpse of his target: a raven-haired woman his age sitting cross-legged in a wooden chair. Three separate tomes lay open on the desk, and she scribbled leisurely on a piece of parchment. She didn’t seem to notice him, and he took a few seconds to gather himself and straighten his hair. He could only hope this went better than his meeting with Karyn…

  “Hello, Sister.”

  Jean Lashowe glanced up and immediately froze. Her mouth dropped open and her pencil slipped out of her fingers. “Blessed Kirshal…”

  “It’s been a long time.”

  “You’d best not be a ghost come to torment me.”

  He smiled. “I’m not a ghost, anyway.”

  She shook her head and brushed a strand of hair from her face. “What…what are you doing here, Glenn?”

  “I’m here to see you, of course.”

  Her lips curled into a wry smile as she looked him up and down. “Still spouting honey, I see. And you look good, too.”

  “So do you.”

  “You never were a good liar,” she muttered. “I have trouble getting up the stairs these days.”

  He glanced to the shelves and took a few steps forward. “You could just move the archives to the bottom floor, you know.”

  “We’re not much for heavy lifting around here, in case you hadn’t noticed,” she said dryly. “Though I suppose we could hire an army of virile stable boys.”

  “I’m sure there are plenty of young men who’d be willing to help a Sister move her books.”

  “Forget the moving—I could find other things to do with them.”

  Maltus grinned at the mischievous twinkle in her olive eyes, and suddenly all his trepidations about coming here faded away. “It’s good to see you, Jean. I’ve missed your throaty purr.”

  “Hardly my fault,” she replied tartly, sliding off her glasses and putting an elbow on the table. “When I heard you moved into this part of the country I thought maybe you’d stop by more often—or, you know, ever—but I guess that was too much to expect.”

  “I’ve been…” he trailed off. Every defense sounded equally lame and he knew it.

  “Busy? That’s original.” She rolled her eyes playfully and gestured to the chair across from her. “Take a seat. You want some tea?”

  “No, thank you.”

  He sat down, but his eyes never left hers. For a moment, the woman in front of him was twenty again, and the two of them were sitting next to each other in Professor Siller’s lecture on the basics of Agalian Theory. He was a solid mass of youthful muscle and she was a fiery tart with legs that never seemed to end. They would go to the Falen Park in the break between classes, and he would lay her down in the soft grass and make love to her all afternoon…

  They were different in every way that seemed to matter, but by the Goddess when they’d been together nothing had ever felt so right.

  Jean had been just as committed to saving the world as the rest of the Seven, but she’d never shared their fascination with technology. Ultimately she’d stormed away in disgust when he announced his decision to join the Enclave and “sabotage their plans for change.” She wound up in a temple not far from Vaschberg and did her best to help the local torbos, but eventually their fears and bigotry had driven her away. Two decades ago he’d found it vindicating and even a little amusing. Now he did not.

  It was good to see that she’d kept her spirit. As a priestess, she had probably helped far more people than any of the rest of the Seven combined. She’d stayed true to who she was. And while her hair might have been streaked with bits of white and her waist a tad wider than he remembered, her eyes still sparkled brightly and the legs beneath her robe were just as long as ever.

  “So what’s the real reason you’re here, Glenn?” she asked after few moments.

  He sighed. “I need help answering a question, and I think you’re the best person to talk to.”

  Jean cocked an eyebrow. “You have a question, or the Enclave has one? Because you damn well better believe my answer will be different.”

  “They don’t even know I’m here,” he assured her. “And this has nothing to do with them. This is for me…and for Tara.”

  Her face sagged, and the fire in her eyes dimmed just a little. “I heard about the murder, but we never got any details.”

  “The police…well, you know,” he whispered.

  She nodded in silent understanding and closed her eyes. On impulse, he reached across the table to hold her hand. Thirty years ago, she and Tara had been nearly inseparable, and they had kept in contact for a long time. Eventually, though, the exchange of letters had slowed and they had grown apart. It was one of the seemingly inevitable regrets life shoved in everyone’s lap. Even as magi with access to sending stones or the Dreamscape, a simple thing like a few hundred kilometers came between people far too often.

  “Just tell me it wasn’t some Dusty,” Jean pleaded.

  He squeezed harder. “I think it was Simon.”

  She pulled away and her hand slipped from his grip. She balled it into a fist, and her knuckles turned white.

  “Why?” she asked distantly.

  “I’m not entirely certain,” Maltus admitted. “Not yet. What I do know is that his thugs shot her and then stole one of her journals.”

  Her eyes opened, already swollen. “You mean…?”

  “Her visions,” he confirmed. “I’m not sure which or how recent they were, but he knew exactly what he was looking for.”

  “Bastard,” she hissed. “All this drek you read in papers and hear people talking about…it’s like he’s not even the same person.”

  “He isn’t, but the man he’s become is very dangerous. And now he’s made his move.”

  She shook her head and her eyes hardened. “You people claim to protect us but you haven’t done a damn thing. Did you know that one of our acolytes was raped to death last year by a Dusty? She was in Selerius, Glenn. What in the void are you people doing if you can’t even protect us in the capital?”

  Maltus turned away. She wasn’t angry at him, of course, but she had every right to be. The Enclave had been far too passive in the last several years, and now they were all paying the price for it. Six years ago, when it became clear that Janel was a serious contender for the presidency despite being a torbo, the Council had assumed he would perform so poorly that the Arkadian people would never make that same mistake twice. It might have even been true if not for Kalavan.

  Now President Janel was
the least of their problems. They had backed themselves into a corner, and they were running out of options.

  “I’m sorry,” Jean murmured after a moment, wiping at her eyes. “You didn’t come here to get yelled at.”

  “It’s all right,” he replied softly. “I’m the one who moved away. If they would have killed Eve too, I…”

  “He’s after Tara’s daughter?” she asked incredulously.

  He nodded and sighed. “Eve is in trouble, and I don’t just mean from Chaval. I’m trying to protect her, and right now I need information.”

  “I’d love to help, Glenn, but I’ve never even met the girl. I’m not sure what you think I might know…”

  Maltus pursed his lips. There wasn’t an easy way to tell her this, so he figured it was best to just lay it out. “Tara had a vision while she was still carrying Eve. She saw her daughter fighting in a civil war against the Dusties.”

  Jean swallowed heavily. “There’s been a lot of talk about what might happen if Simon wins. People here are scared, but…I never imagined it actually coming to war.”

  “That’s only the beginning,” he said gravely. “Tara believed that Eve would eventually lead the effort against the Dusties, and that somewhere along the line, she would become a Defiler.”

  “You mean like Vacal,” she asked, the color draining from her face.

  Maltus shook his head. “Worse—much worse. We’re talking about entire cities here, and eventually…”

  She cupped her hands over her mouth but said nothing. The words were harrowing enough on their own, but for someone who understood Tara’s power, for someone who had never doubted that their friend was the Prophetess…

  “I told the Enclave about it,” he went on. “They’ve naturally been paranoid about it ever since—even the non-believers.”

  “That’s why you moved to Lushden with her, isn’t it?” Jean reasoned. “They wanted you to watch her.”

  He nodded, trying to ignore the shame flushing in his cheeks. “Tara spent her whole life trying to figure out a way to keep it from happening. She believed something could be done to change it. The magisters weren’t convinced.”