Hymn

by Ken Scholes

  Because it is all connected.

  Yes, the Grandmother Tree whispered.

  And Jin Li Tam wept at the power of that revelation and at the violence her father’s wrath had unleashed upon the world.

  Vlad Li Tam

  Everything was heat and light and wind and the sound of his broken voice rising above it all, the staff blazing hot within his fist. And then everything was silence and nothing, and Vlad Li Tam moved in and out of awareness.

  He opened his eyes and saw only vague shimmering light before them. But when he drew in a great lungful of breath, he tasted ozone and desolation upon it, and all around him he heard the dull roar as the fire that remained devoured what it could.

  He’d seen no plague spiders or death golems or any of the remaining Cacophonic Deaths, though he’d forced himself to watch from beginning to end.

  The library. He thought he’d remembered the change of temperature and Petronus’s voice. Or had he hallucinated it? He coughed, and the pain of it racked his body. Had he said everything that needed saying? He thought he had. And he’d authorized Petronus access to the tower and its library. Petronus would be able to pass that access along. Now Vlad would honor his word and give over the staff. He had but one more fish to hook, and the bait dangled even now—he would not need the staff to land this one into his boat.

  The temperature shifted again, and he squeezed the staff to draw some kind of assurance from it. The staff was dead and cold now in his hands. “I will have that from you, you old liar,” the old woman said.

  He could see her, and though he was still disoriented from the spell, Vlad recognized where they were. He lay in a field of dead grass upon the top of a massive tower, Lasthome filling the sky above them ringed by the stars strong enough to be seen despite the light of that world. “How did you get loose?”

  Vlad squeezed the staff again, and once more it was dead in his hands.

  The old woman laughed. “I’ve been loose for a while and biding my time.”

  He closed his eyes against a stab of pain in his left temple. “Then where is the girl?”

  She chuckled. “She is out in the front; I have been whispering in the shadows.”

  Vlad tried to cast his mind back along the trail to see where along the way he’d left an opening for this aspect of Amylé D’Anjite to get free. It took longer to access his memory with the aching in his bones and the icepick of light behind his temples.

  The day we took the ring. When he’d awakened she’d been holding both the staff and the spellbook. He sighed. “What now, then?”

  She lunged for him, her hands gripping the staff. “Now I take the staff and shut down the Continuity Engine once and for all.” Amylé snarled as she tugged at it. “Your work is done now, Vlad.” But when she said it, the voice was suddenly wrong. It was the voice of a man, and the tower was gone. As his brain went to sorting whose voice he heard, the pain in his skull intensified. His eyes burned and his vision blurred now that he was no longer in the aether.

  He saw the hazy shape he assumed was Amylé and pulled the staff hard toward himself as she tried to wrench it from his hands. The heat was back, along with the fire in his throat and the taste of ozone in his mouth. He saw the hazy shape of her as she fell, and Vlad tried to stand, using the staff as a prop. “Only one more fish to hook,” he said to her, and the voice that roared “No” was followed immediately by an even louder roar as something large caught his shoulder and flipped him around and over to fall in the hot ash and stone and bones of Ahm’s Glory.

  He lay there a moment and willed the staff to give him strength. But he couldn’t feel the staff in his fist or make his arm move. He turned his head to look at his arm, and he saw the staff nearby, still clenched in his fist, the dark ring glistening. But something about the distance or angle was entirely wrong.

  How have I broken my arm? More than broken; he could not feel it at all.

  He tried to replay the last few seconds to somehow understand what was happening. A form loomed over him, and he blinked. It wasn’t Amylé. It was the boy, Nebios, only now he was a man wrapped in silver light, his face and hands and long white hair gray with ash. And he recognized the Androfrancine weapon in his hand.

  “Your work is done, Vlad,” Neb said as he scooped up the staff.

  Vlad watched in rapt wonder as his severed arm went with it, fingers firmly wrapped about the Firstfall steel. He saw the tattered bits of flesh and jagged bone and smelled blast powder on the air.

  Neb opened his mouth, and a blur of movement knocked him out of Vlad’s field of vision. Vlad watched the staff fall away along with the boy even as that field of vision grayed.

  One more fish to hook, he thought as he tried to roll over. Vlad could hear the sounds of combat somewhere to his left, and farther behind that, the kin-dragons fought. He saw his arm where Neb had dropped it, and he stretched his hand toward it. Something surreal in that moment of reaching for his own hand brought a dry cackle to his throat. He pushed himself forward with his feet, feeling the hot ash and stone burn his stomach as he did. He touched his finger, then touched the dark ring.

  The library slipped around him as he did, and he closed his eyes against the feeling akin to vertigo that came from having a foot in both places. “Petronus?”

  His friend was gone now, and Vlad closed his eyes, pushing again with his feet as his strength faded. He had his wrist now, and he pulled the arm toward himself until he could work the ring from his finger.

  He rolled over and could see the staff, but Vlad knew he wouldn’t last long enough to reach it. And the two Younger Gods who fought nearby would likely trample him even if he had the strength to make it.

  But I still have the ring. Grimacing, he put it into his mouth and waited for enough saliva to coat it before swallowing it. Vlad felt it bruising the inside of his throat as it went down, and when he finished, he lay there gasping.

  He jumped when he felt hands suddenly upon him. He looked but saw nothing as fingers pressed words into his forearm. Lie still and let me treat you.

  He did as he was told as invisible hands tied off a tourniquet and poured powders into his wound. He craned his neck and saw Amylé and Neb thrashing about at the edge of a crater. He tried to stretch and see the staff but couldn’t, and then he was being tucked into some kind of fabric and lifted from the ground to move silently and quickly away.

  At some point the powders took him, and Vlad slept heavy and dreamless. And when he awoke it was to laughter and the swaying of a ship.

  “Welcome aboard the Kinshark,” Regent Eliz Xhum said as he pulled the sack from Vlad’s head.

  The mechanical contraption loomed over him, ancient and mottled steel and glass. The orb was clouded with thick green vapor, and something moved within it. A large pink wet eye pressed up to the inside of the glass. “Good to see you, not to be you,” a rasping, singsong voice muttered through a mechanical voice box. “Naughty, naughty Vlad Li Tam.”

  Vlad Li Tam smiled at Ahm Y’Zir, grateful that his bait had been taken and that his work could now be finished.

  Lysias

  Rudolfo rode into the Gray Guard camp with his back straight, his green turban of office once more upon his head where it belonged, and Lysias was pleased with the strength and resolve he saw in his king.

  They’d arisen predawn as the army’s camp was struck and not long after had felt the first shakings in the ground. Earthquakes were rare in the Named Lands, and Lysias couldn’t remember a time where so many had happened back to back. Strong enough to feel, but slight nonetheless. They’d ridden out on magicked horses, their scouts also magicked and running in formation around them. The ground had continued its shaking, but they’d barely felt it as they raced north.

  And now, Orius waited for them with a handful of his officers and a look of smoldering anger on his face. They stood in the same muddy yard amid a scattering of wooden buildings between the edge of the forest and the Desolation of Windwir, where Lysias and his me
n had captured Ria.

  “Hail, Lord Rudolfo,” the man said without inclining his head. He turned to Lysias next. “General Lysias.”

  Rudolfo answered first. “Hail, General Orius, and well-met.”

  “Well-met.” Lysias merely offered the slightest inclination of his head. Then he whistled their magicked scouts to the perimeter of camp in accordance with the Articles of Kin-Clave.

  The old Androfrancine grunted. “I’ll have your horses seen to. Let’s sit down to whatever matter was so urgent that it couldn’t wait until Pylos was secure.” His single eye glared, and Rudolfo met the stare with aloof disinterest. “I’m sure you’d like to catch up to your army quickly.”

  Rudolfo seemed to ignore the tone, a feat that Sethbert could never have done, and Lysias smiled. The Gypsy King waved a gloved hand in the air. “My Wandering Army is in capable hands, General. You needn’t concern yourself with Pylos.”

  Lysias waited until Rudolfo dismounted and then followed. He handed his reins over to the young Gray Guard that stepped forward. Then he fell in beside Rudolfo and followed Orius and his aide to a small cabin belching smoke into the dull gray sky from the tin chimney.

  The interior was sparsely furnished. Lysias saw that Ria’s old command table sat preserved in the corner with open crates nearby and papers partially filed. Near it was a narrow cot piled with army blankets. Orius himself had a small table, largely clear of papers, with three chairs ready. He sat and nodded to his aide, who stepped out and closed the door behind him. Then the Gray Guard general dropped all pretense and what little formality he’d pretended. “What in hells are you doing here, Rudolfo? We’ve a war to win.”

  Rudolfo sat. Lysias watched light spark in his dark eyes and saw the quick pull of his mouth. “The war is won, General Orius. What remains is a matter of simple cleanup.”

  The anger was clear in Orius’s voice. “What remains, Rudolfo, is assuring that this is the last Y’Zirite Resurgence to rear its backwards, bloody head in this world.”

  Using the king’s name a second time, now emphasized to clearly indicate disregard, brought Lysias’s brow together. But Rudolfo didn’t let it faze him. His tone remained level and calm, even aloof. “The head is off this snake, General Orius.” Rudolfo’s emphasis conveyed its own message. “I have no concerns about the safety of the Named Lands as far as Y’Zir is concerned.” He leaned forward and stroked his beard, eyes narrowing. “However, I do have concerns about our present alliance and our mutuality of purpose,” he said. “It has come to my attention that you are holding two Androfrancines—companions of Charles and Queen Winteria bat Mardic the Younger—and intend to try them under Androfrancine law?”

  “I do. And my forward scouts have also located Winteria.”

  Now Lysias heard an edge creep into Rudolfo’s voice. “And you intend to try her as well?”

  Orius said nothing at first. He heard the sharp blade in Rudolfo’s question. When he answered, his own eyes narrowed. “I have not yet determined how the Order’s best interests are served regarding the deposed dreamer. But she was complicit in Isaak’s escape.” He paused as if thinking better of it, then did not surprise Lysias in the least by continuing forward. “I would be trying Charles as well had he survived.”

  “Then I will be brief, Orius,” the Gypsy King said. Now he drops the title. And there was menace buried in the lightness of his tone as Rudolfo leaned back in the chair. “I have three points of disagreement. First, papacy and its succession is the bedrock of Androfrancine law. Petronus dismantled the papacy and turned over all of the Order’s holdings to me. I am the ward of this orphaned order, and I require the release of those men into my custody and that you cease your pursuit of Winteria.” Now there was ice in the voice. “Because her Shadow, Hanric, died before my eyes, the young queen in exile has also been one of my collected orphans. I have never had a truer ward than Winteria bat Mardic, and I will take her continued harassment as a personal affront.” He waited, and Lysias saw the whiteness of Orius’s knuckles as they clutched the edge of the table. “Second, as the truest line of authority based on the actions of the Order’s last Pope, Petronus, I abjure you under unction to not release the pathogen beyond our borders. It goes too far, Orius, in a war that is already won.” Now Rudolfo smiled. “And third, I support your execution of Winteria the Elder, Usurper of the Marsh Throne. I’ve come to bear witness to it but ask that I be allowed to speak with her beforehand.” He paused. “She is indirectly responsible for the death of my son, and I would have words with her about that.”

  Orius waited a moment. “May I respond, General?”

  Now, Lysias noted, he called him by his military title but not by the title afforded by his turban.

  Rudolfo inclined his head. “Please.”

  “First,” Orius said, “my orders came from Introspect the morning that Windwir fell. No countermanding orders have been given, and my mission continues. Succession law allows for the Gray Guard general to function as Pope de facto during times of war when a proper succession plan cannot be followed. It allows for times such as these, when the light is threatened.” Now he leaned forward. “I do not recognize Petronus as Pope. His papacy ended long before my orders were issued. I recognize you not as an authority over the Order but as an ally by kin-clave against a common foe.” Now there was edge to his voice. “And I have continued that position despite the disturbing discovery of your father’s complicity in the invasion of the Named Lands and the problematic way in which all House Li Tam and Androfrancine holdings found their way into your coffers as a result of Windwir’s fall.”

  Rudolfo said nothing.

  “Second,” Orius continued, “I will not release my people into your care, but I will grant clemency to your young ward on the condition that you escort her from the Named Lands immediately. Pylos has ships. I suggest you find her one.”

  Rudolfo nodded briefly at this.

  “And third. I believe we can arrange the execution for this evening and have you on your way back to your army by morning. Does that sound agreeable to you?”

  Rudolfo waved his hand again. “I do not find it agreeable, General. But I have heard your position and will ponder an adequate response. Until then, may I call upon your hospitality for myself and my men while we await the arrival of Winters and the departure of her sister?”

  Orius nodded. “Certainly.” He pursed his lips. “I will have my aide arrange for your men to eat in whatever shifts you require. We are at war; they may certainly avail themselves of our mess tent while magicked. Our kin-clave allows it.”

  Rudolfo inclined his head. “Thank you.”

  “And,” Orius said, “I will have you shown to the prisoner.” He stood, and Lysias heard the man’s joints popping and crackling. “Please tell her I will be around to conclude our ongoing conversation later this afternoon.”

  The aide was waiting outside the door when Orius showed them out and issued a rush of clipped orders. Lysias found himself struggling to keep up with Rudolfo as they made their way across camp to the low, squat building that served as stockade.

  The door opened on a small yard and a wall lined with four sturdy doors. Three were open. One was barred and locked from the outside. “Lord Rudolfo and General Lysias are here to see the prisoner,” the aide said. “General Orius has approved it.”

  The guard nodded and went to the closed door, working the key and bar. “She is sedated,” he said.

  The smell hit Lysias first as soon as the door opened. Feces and vomit and sweat all vying for preeminence on the air. Lysias saw Rudolfo blanch. “She is also soiled,” Rudolfo said. “And ill, apparently.” He took a step back. “Perhaps you’d like to have her tended to before she meets with more polite company, Sergeant?”

  The man’s face went red, and he started to salute before inclining his head in a gesture befitting a visiting dignitary. “Yes, Lord Rudolfo.”

  They stepped outside, and Rudolfo put a hand upon Lysias’s shoulder. He translate
d the words easily. Have the scouts survey the camp and locate Hebda and Tertius. And get the men fed.

  Lysias made eye contact and nodded his head slightly to show he’d received the message. Then he slipped away. He went to the edge of the camp and whistled low and short. There was the slightest reply, and then a hand found his forearm. Aye, General.

  He pressed his own words into the offered flesh. Orius has arranged mess time in shifts. Use it to map the camp. We want to know where they’re keeping the other prisoners.

  The scout acknowledged the message, then slipped away to pass the word. Lysias waited, his back to the camp, as he took in the massive grave of Windwir. There were still tall derricks in place and mounds of dirt where the Y’Zirites had desecrated the Androfrancine bones, but otherwise it looked the same as it had when he’d attended Petronus’s trial. The night he’d killed Erlund’s spymaster, Ignatio, and joined Rudolfo’s Ninefold Forest as yet another refugee.

  So much had passed since then, and he finally sensed an end coming. He closed his eyes and took in a deep breath, trying to conjure up the image of his daughter’s face.

  We could leave for the moon together, he thought.

  But even as he thought it, Lysias suspected strongly he would find the home he deserved and not the home he longed for when that ending came. And so he turned his back upon the desolation and went in search of his king.

  Rudolfo

  The room still stank when the guard finally called for Rudolfo. As he entered, he saw Ria had a cot now and she sat at the edge of it wearing the baggy shirt and trousers of an Y’Zirite infantryman.

  Her head hung down, her long hair dripping wet from the impromptu bathing. Sitting there, she looked even more like her younger sister. The resemblance is uncanny. And Rudolfo saw in the slope of her shoulders the same defeat he’d seen in Winters on the night she’d learned of Hanric’s death and the seed of violent rebellion within her people.

  He forced the similarities out of mind knowing it did not serve his purpose to associate this dangerous woman with her sister. But as he stood in the doorway of her rough wooden cell, he saw little threat. He looked over to her guard. “When was she fed last?”