by David Hair
Then he had no more time, for Sacrista went on the offensive, tearing at his shielding with jabs of mage-fire, while her longsword forced him to give ground. She never overcommitted; she was every bit as dangerous as he’d imagined.
But if I’m to go, she’s coming with me . . .
*
Watcher’s Peak, White Stag Land, Mollachia
Valdyr woke and thrashed to his feet, shaking snow off his hair and blanket. He had no idea what time of day it was, but the stiffness of his muscles suggested he’d slept a long time. The light was dim, and shifting rapidly. The fire had gone out and the four icy mounds kept silent vigil.
I spoke with Zlateyr. I kissed Luhti. It felt like a dream.
The sound that had woken him was a snuffling noise: a white stag stood on the far side of the fire-pit between the bodies of Eyrik and Sidorzi. There was a gaping hole in its chest, rimmed by frozen blood, and a pulsing heart – skewered, but raw – lay on a stone beside the cold fire. He understood.
Eat . . . or don’t eat. Remain who I am . . . or become someone else. It wasn’t even a choice. Luhti’s words whispered in his skull, reminding him of the risks. If I’m false to the Elétfa, it will destroy me.
But Mollach needed him. He bit into the deer’s heart, tearing off an icy chunk, chewed and swallowed, then wolfed the rest down—
—and a wind rushed through him and filled him and bore him onwards, on the back of a white stag.
37
Storming Castles
Castles
When the Blessed Three Hundred rose against the Rimoni Empire, the forts of the Rimoni legions proved more trap than protection. The magi had so many means of breaking them down that they were no safer for the legionaries than open ground. But military thinking never stands still, and soon the Rondian magi found ways to integrate such places into their new ways of waging war. Strongholds regained importance, buttressed by spells as much as by stone.
SIR WROLF MAGHREY, MILITARY HISTORIAN, PALLAS, 812
Beneath the Aerflus, Pallas
Junesse 935
Ril Endarion, Dirklan Setallius, Basia de Sirou and Mort Singolo pounded along the tunnel, which carried a strong whiff of smoke from the fire they were fleeing. They’d not seen anyone ahead of them yet, but smokeless gnostic-lamps embedded in the tunnel walls lit damp footprints in the gravel: the riverreek victims were definitely somewhere ahead.
Within the first few hundred yards, more stairways dropped down to join the tunnel, from other places in Emtori like Saint Chalfon, they guessed. Ril suggested climbing one, but Setallius was certain they would all have been blocked, as the church had been, so best not to waste the time checking.
Even had they wished to contact someone, they no longer had that option: clairvoyant-gnosis, scrying and gnostic calls were all prevented by large bodies of earth and water, and right now they guessed they were deep under the Aerflus. Setallius had worked out the tunnel ran towards the Greyspire district in Southside, though for how long, they had no idea.
Singolo ran efficiently, breathing easily, looking as if he could keep it up for days. Setallius was showing his age: his breath was laboured, his gait uneven. But it was Ril who was really struggling: for all her slight frame, Basia weighed enough that carrying her was swiftly draining him.
Then Singolo stopped him and took Basia himself; she looked like a twig in his meaty hands. ‘Can’t have the “Prince of the Spear” arrive blown,’ the giant axeman chuckled, and Ril, panting like a bellows, slapped his shoulder gratefully. He shared a look with Basia, but their mutual claustrophobia had receded, drowned by the other horrors they’d seen, at least for now. He didn’t doubt it would return.
The smooth passage turned occasionally, maybe following the contours of the bedrock through which it had been punched by Earth-gnosis. The stench of the Reekers lingered, a mix of blood and vomit and weeks-old sweat.
They had to stop when they reached a point where the tunnel snaked right – and forked. Singolo put Basia down and they all drew weapons and approached the junction cautiously. But there was still no one to be seen, not in the pool of light from the gnostic-lamp above the fork, nor in the dimly lit passages.
‘They went this way,’ Singolo announced, coming back from the right-hand passage, still sniffing the air.
Ril tried the left, and confirmed, ‘This way too.’ He looked at Setallius, who was breathing hard. ‘If we’ve been going east, then the Celestium is straight on . . . and the left passage must go to Pallas-Nord—’
‘—and the Bastion,’ Basia breathed. ‘The riverreek victims are going to both the Celestium and the Bastion!’
‘I fear they are the foot-soldiers in a palace coup aimed at both Lyra and Wurther.’ The spymaster cursed softly. ‘And here we are, trapped beneath the Aerflus and unable to warn anyone.’ He glanced in each direction, then said, ‘The sooner we get to the surface, the sooner we can give warning.’
‘So we go right?’ Mort asked. ‘We can’t be more than a mile from the Celestium, but the Bastion’s probably three miles away.’
‘I don’t give a shit about Wurther,’ said Ril. ‘It’s Lyra we must protect!’
Basia nodded in support, but Setallius was shaking his head. ‘The sooner we reach the surface, the quicker we can warn her – not to mention the other people whose lives might be saved.’
‘I’m going left,’ Ril snapped. Then he paused. ‘I’ll not make it a command.’
Because I couldn’t enforce it anyway . . . but I’ll remember . . .
The four of them stared at each other, then Basia said, ‘I’d just slow you down. Let me go right and try to send out the warnings.’ There was a sick look of fear on her face and Ril sympathised, but Lyra was in danger.
‘We can’t let you go alone,’ he replied. ‘Dirk, you take Basia down the right-hand path and try to warn Lyra. I’ll go straight for her.’
‘Then with your permission,’ the axeman said, looking at Setallius, ‘I’ll go with Ril. The two of us can travel fast – and we’re the best in a scrap.’
The spymaster nodded. They all clasped hands, then without another word, they split up and ran.
*
The Celestium, Pallas
Time. You can have so much of it, Dominius Wurther reflected, shifting uncomfortably on his throne in the Scriptorium Chamber, then suddenly you’re counting out the last few moments. His brain had been trotting out such morbid thoughts all day. He surveyed the semicircle of prelates arrayed before him for the evening session of the first day of Synod. For the last half-hour they’d been hectored by Giovanni Prelatus, a Sacrecour man, in an increasingly tedious rant about sin.
Never my favourite topic.
‘We have sinned,’ Giovanni thundered, ‘we have sinned by not opposing this usurper regime!’
Giovanni had a dozen backing him, which was puzzling Wurther. Synod had the power to displace a grand prelate, but the vote had to be unanimous, and that was surely impossible to engineer when even one abstention killed the motion. And Wurther knew he had votes in the bag already; he had letters of support from three absentee prelates in his scroll-case. This was all a waste of time.
‘Do you have a point, Giovanni?’ he put in. ‘Our ears grow weary and supper awaits.’
‘You had the royal children in your grasp,’ Giovanni replied, ‘and you lost them—’
That again? ‘I think we all know the circumstances,’ Wurther replied. ‘The conclave agreed to shift allegiance to the Corani heiress: an indisputably legitimate claimant. Beyond that, our mandate is of the spiritual, not the temporal world.’
‘Preventing evil reigning unchallenged is also our mandate,’ Giovanni shouted.
Good grief, Wurther thought, are we reduced to bogeyman stories? ‘Lyra Vereinen is not widely regarded as evil, to the best of my knowledge,’ he observed, scanning the circle of faces. Yet again, he thought there was something very strange here: the prelates all looked . . . ill. They were pale and snuffling
, bloodshot eyes, as if the riverreek was sweeping through them – and not just those with Giovanni either . . .
He felt a sense of real threat tonight: not to prestige or status: but to life and limb. Was I right? Is the real purpose of this Synod simply to get us all into the same room?
He glanced up at the gallery. During open debates like this, younger priests were welcome to listen. Tonight only one man was there: a big dark silhouette reclining against a pillar, his steel-cased shoulders glinting in the candlelight.
The tall figure nodded faintly, then retreated deeper into the shadows. I have to trust someone, Wurther mused, hoping Wilfort really was reliable. It’s a Hel of a thing to get wrong . . .
‘We stand: the last bastion against the Lord of Hel,’ Giovanni declaimed. ‘You gave your oath to hinder his works with all your heart, mind and body, Grand Prelate.’
‘And so I do,’ Wurther sighed. ‘Do you have a rational point, Giovanni? We’re all getting rather hungry—’
‘Hungry . . .?’ Giovanni’s head tilted as if he was listening to unheard music. Eerily, all of the prelates on his side of the chamber mirrored his movement. He made a strange gesture, putting his hand inside his robes as if clutching at his stomach, and again the prelates behind him did the same.
Wurther peered at them uncertainly. What is this? He took up his rod of office and hammered it thrice, holding his breath. That was the signal for his honour guard, a dozen Kirkegarde mage-knights, to rise from their positions below and flank him left and right: an honour guard – but also a reminder that only one man commanded the swords here.
As they took up their positions, he said, ‘Brethren, tonight’s debate – such as it was – is over. We will reconvene tomorrow.’
Giovanni glared at him, then he produced a Lantric mask wrought of papier-mâché and placed it over his face. Behind him, every other prelate did the same. Each was identical: Jest.
I’ll say it’s a bloody jest, but it’s not a funny one! ‘What is the meaning of this?’ Wurther demanded, his words resounding about the chamber.
No one said a word, but the doors behind them flew open and another entered, also wearing a ‘Jest’ mask, but this one glinted: metal and lacquer. He also bore the crozier of a prelate, which he tapped on the tiles as he walked toward Wurther’s throne. The masked faces followed his entry as one, then turned to Wurther again. The effect of those ranks of masks was chilling.
Any time you like, Wilfort . . . Wurther glanced at the guardsmen flanking him, hoping they were up for whatever was coming next, because most of these prelates, while hardly warriors, were pure-blood magi.
The newcomer walked to the front of the benches housing the prelates, his movements filled with languid grace. ‘Meaning? Does anything really have meaning, Dominius? We preach that it does, but we’re magi: we know the Truth, and the Truth is that there is no meaning. We have lifted the mask of Kore, the mask of God, and found nothing behind. There’s no universal struggle of Divine Goodness against Eternal Evil – Kore and the Lord of Hel are phantoms, whimsies, no more real than Aradea and the Fey. We here know this, the fictions and half-truths, the sacred words we dress our lives in. The only thing that matters is this—’
Jest hammered his crozier into the tiles, the sound reverberating about the chamber. ‘Wealth, might, and the power to control thoughts: that’s what the Church is! We know the masses are stupid, so we simplify things for them: we dress up our desires as “Kore’s Will” – how else could Johan Corin, a man so drunk on his own cleverness that he didn’t see his best friend was poisoning his followers, become a Messiah? How else could an old harvest-god be recreated as the Supreme Being? Religion is control: we insiders know this, and we wield it. But you are unfit to do so.’
‘Unfit?’ Dominius snorted. ‘How so?’
Jest pointed at Wurther, and the men of Wurther’s honour guard flinched and raised gnostic shields. ‘Because you failed to do what your role demands: as the Voice of Kore, you had the chance to become the ultimate power in Yuros and you failed. Had you done as advised that day, you would have been both Pontifex and emperor!’
Wurther’s suspicions were confirmed. Only one man knows about that conversation. It’s you behind that mask, isn’t it Ostevan? Jilted by the Corani, still clinging to the dream of ultimate power and betraying the empress out of spite. He gripped his periapt and sent to Wilfort:
For a moment there was no response, then Wilfort sent a shocked,
Rukka! In an unfolding nightmare, the masked prelates raised their hands, darkness kindling about their fists. His guardsmen strengthened their shields and brandished weapons as doors burst open above and crossbowmen spilled in, but his eyes were on the Jest: Ostevan, he was sure. The bright lacquer flowed, moving like flesh as he shouted in the Runic Tongue. A maelstrom of light formed around him.
Wurther slammed his hand down on the Sacred Heart pattern on the table before him, triggering an old gnostic circle of protection set there for this very purpose. Walls of blue light encased him as outside it, jagged bolts of light flew and prelates and mage-knights flowed together, steel crashing on croziers. Shrieks and cries of injury and death filled the enclosed space.
*
The final stretch of the main tunnel took Basia and Dirklan up a short slope. A single lamp illuminated the point where the tunnel became a stair.
Basia looked wearily at Dirklan. He was clearly working damned hard just to keep moving, but she was in agony, both physically and mentally. The constant weight of her claustrophobia was beating down on her, and her stumps were grinding into the tops of her artefact-legs, making every step a torment. Without her healing-affinity to soothe them, she’d have been unable to move. But now, finally, respite beckoned.
Thank Kore . . . I don’t know how much more of this I can take.
Despite the exhaustion and the fear, she was conscious that this was the first time she’d been able to function while underground. The ghosts of 909 were not entirely exorcised, but she felt as if she’d made peace with them at last.
I’ve beaten the fear. I’ve really done it . . . Well, Ril and I beat it together.
That she’d kissed him still haunted her; that was one mask she’d never meant to let slip. But how could I not fall in love with the one who got me through that? And why did he never notice?
A wiser part of herself replied, Because you hid it, and he was only a boy. You were too frightened that he’d reject you if you told him how you felt. He was about to become a knight and you were a cripple, so much easier to not put him to that test, to instead play the devoted friend who was just too ironic to ever stoop to something so gauche as falling in love.
She couldn’t say what Ril had felt – but his mouth on hers had felt so right. But the thought of the next step was terrifying.
You’ve beaten the claustrophobia. So what are you going to do about that fear?
‘How are you managing?’ Dirklan’s panting voice pulled her back to the present.
She threw him a wan smile. ‘I’m just about all in.’
‘Not long to go,’ he told her. ‘Do you need help?’
‘No – let’s just get it done. We’ll get to the top and warn the city, then I’ll crawl into a corner and sleep for a week.’
The climb was a hard one, the stairs gritty with the passage of many feet, and the stench of the Reekers lingering in the unmoving air. Dirklan went ahead, walking silently, to ensure they weren’t about to run in to anyone; she clumped along behind him, using kinesis to haul herself, step by step – walking on the flat was hard enough, but slopes and steps were devilish.
Finally they reached a storage room, filthy with the passage of feet and the reek of the diseased. Dirklan found the way out and they emerged onto a crenellated rooftop overlooking the inner city of the Celestium.
The citadel of the Church of Kore was in uproar: bells were clanging
and trumpets braying, while soldiers and priests and servants were charging in all directions. But their eyes were drawn to the massive dome of the Celestium Basilica itself – and the smoke pouring from the upper windows that rimmed the dome.
Basia gripped the battlements and dragged her eyes to the north, to the black silhouette of the Bastion, where flames licked the lower slopes. Back towards Emtori, the docks of Surrid were ablaze. ‘We’re too late,’ she gasped.
The spymaster was silent, all his concentration on the periapt he clutched in his hand. As he sent warnings to his people in Pallas-Nord, a tremendous feeling of helplessness enveloped her. After all the effort, all she’d endured and overcome in the tunnels below – and they were in the wrong place.
‘We should have gone with Ril and Mort,’ she muttered, as he finished his call.
‘We’d have only slowed them down.’ He looked as tired as she felt.
‘We might have made a difference—’
‘We’ll never know. I’ve been juggling with limited resources all my life.’ He put a hand on her shoulder. ‘When you take my place, you’ll understand.’
‘Take your place?’
‘I won’t live forever, Basia.’
She swallowed, staring at his face, well-beloved, despite the age and the scars, and trying to imagine life without him. And without Ril.
She looked away, biting her lip. ‘Dear Kore, let us all come through this.’
*
The Bastion, Pallas-Nord
Lyra was standing at the window of her room, half-listening to Hilta Pollanou chatter about how awful this riverreek season was. ‘Those poor people,’ Hilta was saying, ‘imagine being made to leave your home and forced to live among other sick people – how can you possibly get well in conditions like that?’
