Redemption's Blade

by Adrian Tchaikovsky

  She felt the tug within her, though, like a fish feeling the hook. “We found you,” she remembered. “We came to you—it was the Wanderer and me. He asked you for help, right at the start. After all, you’d gone strong against the Kinslayer before. And you wouldn’t. You didn’t think we could win. You were scared, you with all your power. You laughed in the Wanderer’s face, Deffo. You laughed in mine. And you were in the shape of a rat at the time, so that was a feat.”

  “A badger,” the Guardian muttered. “Why does nobody remember it was a badger?”

  “Because I think back and I only remember a rat,” Celestaine told him.

  “Ancient history,” the Undefeated whispered, plucking at his fingers. “Water under the bridge. How was I to know you’d actually pull it off? You don’t understand what it was like when the Kinslayer killed the Custodian and ate his power. Before that, none of us had ever died.”

  “I’m a mortal,” Celestaine pointed out. “Don’t lecture me about having to die.” She sighed. “You want to be the noble Guardian? Save them, get them all out of here. Maybe I’ll put in a good word, after. There, that’s the deal.”

  The Undefeated’s eyes flicked left and right. “There’s no way I can get them out, woman. The Aethani? The Yoggs? No, it’s you I can save, just you, come on.”

  Celestaine looked him in the shifty eye. “I will howl of your cowardice when they light the fires, Deffo. Count on it.”

  After the Guardian had skulked off, the voice of Doctor Catt arose from the next cell. “Permit me to observe that compromise is the very soul of civilization, and it’s as a result of unyielding dogmatism that we’re in this predicament. Once you were out, you could have tried to free the rest of us.”

  Celestaine returned to her bunk. “I could have handled that better,” she conceded.

  THE TEMPLARS CAME for them all at dawn, and Celestaine reckoned that Low Ilkand must be running riot, because it looked as though pretty much all the Templars were at hand, and ready. Mostly it was in case Nedlam decided to kick off, but even Doctor Catt had four burly men competing to bundle him through the cell door. Celestaine herself apparently warranted seven.

  Heno they dragged still chained from his cell. He managed to catch Celestaine’s gaze with an eyebrow arched, as if to say, Whatever you’ve got, now would be a good time, but of course she didn’t have anything.

  Nedlam walked from her cell, ducking low under the lintel. The Templars fell back from her, suddenly afraid, and there was a knife at Heno’s throat in an instant.

  She looked them over and held up her hands, piled with sundered chains. With exquisite contempt she dumped the ruined metal at her feet.

  “I walk,” she told them, daring any of them to so much as take her by the hand. Celestaine watched duty war with prudence on the Templars’ faces, and then they were levelling their spears, but letting Nedlam stride between them. Probably the Yorughan’s head would have been held high, but there simply wasn’t room for it.

  Ralas certainly wasn’t offering any resistance, flinching from their grip as though he was made of glass. His injuries had healed overnight, of course, but he was so brittle that it seemed even harsh language might break a bone or two. And of course the Kinslayer let him dwindle to that condition before making it his eternity. And, like a lot of the enemy’s cruelties, it probably hadn’t even been intended, just a side-effect of his capricious whim.

  Amkulyah came out last—almost overlooked entirely in the fuss over the Yorughan. He looked small as a child surrounded by the armoured might of the Templars. His twisted wing-limbs shivered and shuddered.

  “He’s not part of this,” she told the guards. “He’s just trying to help his people.” But they weren’t taking orders from her, and Kul got shoved along with the rest of them.

  “I notice you didn’t say that about me,” Doctor Catt observed, somehow at her elbow. “I am actually even less a part of ‘this’ than your friend there.”

  “I can’t save everyone.” And that was the whole problem, of course. Catt must have seen it in her face, because he remained uncharacteristically silent. She had wanted to save everything, but her memories of the war were one long book of all the names she hadn’t saved. What if she had…? Couldn’t she have…? If she’d only…

  Then they were coming out under the sky into a courtyard enclosed on all sides by the walls of the Temple. One large gate was thrown open, and Celestaine saw a crowd gathering, not even that many people yet. The courtyard itself was lined with carvings: a map showing the free lands, implying an ecclesiastical jurisdiction over them that had never been the case; great carved icons of Wall, Fury, Vigilant and the Undefeated in martial glory—those who had routed the Kinslayer the first time, immortals further immortalised in stone, presiding over judicial proceedings and punishments.

  Well, I wanted to see the Inner Temple. And here she was, the special guest of the Templars. Any evil crowns immediately apparent? No? What a surprise,

  They had stakes set up along the wall carved with the four Guardians, she saw. Vigilant’s statue had been defaced. Had that been by agents of the Kinslayer when they took the city one time, to record their slaying of the original? No, it looked too recent for that. Odd what thoughts went through your head on the way to death.

  The Templars were bringing in firewood, and there was a farcical dance as the prisoner escort and the tinder detail clashed and neither would give ground. At last the logistical difficulties were sorted and Celestaine found herself secured to a stake, watching her fellows undergo similar restraint. She saw Nedlam try the chains thoughtfully, flexing her prodigious muscles until the metal twisted. Yes, probably she can, but that’ll just get her a cleaner death, won’t it?

  Once they were in place, everyone just stood around, and it was plain that nobody had thought to send for the Archimandrite ahead of time, and someone somewhere was arguing about whose job it was to get the oil.

  “You’ll have to excuse them,” came a voice from near Celestaine’s feet. “They haven’t actually done this before—it was getting their hands on a couple of Yoggs that gave the big man the idea. How better to stoke support for the gods than a good old-fashioned bonfire?”

  She looked down on a beggarly individual who had hopped up by the stacked firewood. He was depressingly familiar.

  “Hello, Deffo,” she said.

  “You see they only polish Wall?” He nodded at the carvings behind them. “Me, Vig and Fury, we’re all over dust and birdshit.”

  “Perhaps it’s because Wall was around for the war.”

  “Around, yes. Not here, not actually doing anything.” The Undefeated sighed. “And you curse my name. There’s no justice.”

  Celestaine looked down the line of them: Amkulyah, Heno, Doctor Catt, the imposing bulk of Nedlam. “They are actually going to set fire to us,” she said, quite calmly.

  “When they can get their arses into gear, yes,” the Undefeated confirmed. “Let’s face it, they’re a religious institution without gods and, whatever you think of me, where are the Guardians these days? Where’s your precious Wanderer? Wandered off, that’s where. And so they want to do what they think the gods want, and what they think the gods want is revenge for what was done to them, whatever that was. I mean, no wonder the Templars secretly hate you.”

  “What?” Celestaine demanded incredulously.

  “You outvengeanced them,” the Undefeated pointed out. “While they were swearing oaths to each other, you went off and did in the Kinslayer. I mean, what were the odds? So, like everyone else,” and he jabbed a self-conscious thumb at his own ragged vest, “they’re trying to show just how important they are in the grand scheme of things, because some band of nobodies stole a march on them and now everyone’s singing the praises of the Slayers.”

  Something bright caught Celestaine’s eye; not hope, but torches, in the hands of Templars. Apparently nobody could find sufficient oil so they were going to do things the hard way.

  “Wai
t!” The voice was Ralas’s and then, without any further prevarication, he lifted up his head in song.

  His true gifts were the one part of him the Kinslayer hadn’t touched. His voice was as pure and sweet as it ever was, as he launched into ‘Last Port of the Chemina,’ that every Ilkin knew: a song of coming back to this city and finding home, stepping off the ship and knowing the sights and smells, the taverns and the accents. It said nothing about the Temple, nothing about vengeance or war, only hearth and home and forgiveness, the child renewing bonds with the parent and the city. Celestaine held her breath as Ralas finished the chorus to utter silence and launched into the (somewhat raunchier) second verse. The crowd were utterly still, the Templars too. Only the flames danced, and even they seemed to take their metre from the song.

  Then the Archimandrite arrived, bringing with him his tin ear, demanding to know what was going on. Was this what the gods demanded of Their faithful? Why were the guilty not being punished? He stormed through the suddenly abashed Templars to stare up at Ralas, whose voice faltered to silence. Celestaine glanced at the crowd to see how they were taking this, given they’d been listening so raptly a moment before. True enough, there were frowns there if she looked for them—they weren’t all firm Temple aficionados, and perhaps some had come out of a purely secular wish to see a good burning. Before any help could come from that direction, though, there was the distinct metal sound of Nedlam’s chains shearing.

  She strode down from her stake like a statue suddenly animated and the Templars fell back from her, putting torches and spearheads in the way. The Archimandrite took out his hammer and faced her, showing considerably more courage than most of his followers. He barely came up to her solar plexus.

  Nedlam opened her mouth to say something unwise. Probably the Archimandrite was doing the same, though he had his back to Celestaine at that point. The voice that rang out was neither of theirs, though.

  Doctor Fisher had elbowed and kneed his way through the crowd, as testified to by the trail of angry, injured people behind him. Now he stood, a shabby long-faced Cheriveni in a soldier’s cap, holding aloft a worn skull as though it was made of gold and diamonds.

  When he had the Archimandrite’s attention he smiled, though not much, because he was still Doctor Fisher, after all.

  “Catch!” he said, and lobbed the skull underarm at the priest.

  Chapter Seventeen

  THE ARCHIMANDRITE LUNGED for the skull on its slow, tumbling arc. He almost fumbled it, juggling the relic frantically until he could clasp it to his chest. His face, turned to Doctor Fisher, was all set for an outrage of truly divine proportions: that this scruffy Cheriveni had interrupted his burning, that such a holy thing had been treated in so cavalier a manner. Even as he was fighting to form the words, though, he froze to an absolute stillness, eyes staring into nothing. In the resulting silence, his shocked gasp sounded in every ear.

  Doctor Fisher was already moving, slouching over to Catt’s stake with a folding knife to cut the bonds. Celestaine saw him roll his eyes as the priest began to speak.

  “I… hear!” gasped the Archimandrite, to the bafflement of the crowd.

  Some of the Templars tried to stop Fisher, but he nodded towards the priest. “Your boss’s got something to say.”

  “I…” The Archimandrite had the skull to his head, eyesocket to ear, straining, waving at everyone to be quiet so he could listen. His face had gone chalk white.

  “Fishy,” Catt asked in a whisper. “What did you do?”

  Fisher shrugged. “Not much.”

  “Parlour tricks?”

  “Bit more than that.” Fisher had him free now, and was looking moodily at the others. “Suppose you want me to spring the lot of them?”

  “If you’d be so kind.” Catt’s eyes were fixed on the priest, who just stood there, mouth hanging open. There was such a look on his face—Celestaine had never seen the like. It was equal parts elated and aghast.

  “The gods…” the man breathed.

  Celestaine goggled at him, even as Fisher sawed at her ropes. “The gods?” she asked him.

  “Cinnabran, you know.” Fisher managed to shrug while still cutting away. “Gods wouldn’t shut up, for her.”

  “But the Kinslayer, he…”

  “What, then? What did he do?” Fisher said savagely, severing the last strands. He went on to Amkulyah as Celestaine crossed past him to Heno.

  “I hear such sorrow,” the Archimandrite said. His face was running with tears. Glancing around, Celestaine caught sight of Governor Adondra, come to see the execution she hadn’t quite wanted, now witnessing the breakdown of the Temple’s fiercest fanatic.

  “Archimandrite, what is it?” she asked, her hand to her own shield symbol as if to protect her against divine sanction if the man suddenly veered back into blood and vengeance again.

  “I heard the gods.” He had the skull away from his ear now, dangling from his hand as though he would dearly like to be rid of it. “They are far from us; so far. And cold, cold and lonely are the gods.”

  Celestaine shivered, and when Heno was free she just stood and listened while Kul freed Ralas.

  “What… what do you mean?” Adondra asked, glancing around nervously. She had probably not much liked working with the Temple when everything was revenge and intolerance. Now she didn’t know what it was, and that was worse.

  “I heard Them.” Nothing in the Archimandrite’s manner suggested he was aware of his audience. “Just for a moment, I heard Them. They were so far away, and still drifting. They were lost without us. They rejoiced, when They touched me. They rejoiced because They hadn’t even known we were still there.” He dropped to his knees. “I heard the Just Watcher. I heard He Who Walks the Groves, I heard the Gracious One, the Bringer of Waves, Kind Companion, all of Them.”

  “Come on,” Fisher suggested, but none of the others moved. He raised his eyes towards the peak of the Silver Tower and spread his hands, as though to say, to some distant spectator, What am I supposed to do with this lot, eh?

  “What did They say?” Adondra breathed, speaking in that moment for all the people she governed.

  The priest turned his agonised expression on her. “Look after one another,” he said. “Be kind. Help each other. You’re all you have. We can’t help you any more.”

  Celestaine heard a ragged breath from her left, distinct from all the others. She saw the Undefeated there, and for once there was nothing sly or mean in his expression. He was a thing of the gods too, of course. In the ancient days They would have spoken to him often, one of Their chosen children sent to shape the world. Now he was hearing his parents’ farewell.

  Adondra helped the Archimandrite up, then backed off as he tried to give her the skull. The priest’s head swung about until his gaze fixed on Celestaine. “You!” he said hoarsely.

  Oh, damn. And Fisher sighed and said, “Told you we should’ve left.” But it was too late now, because the man was shambling over, almost unrecognisable now, a witness to things no mortal should experience.

  He lurched forwards as he approached and ended up yanking on her cloak, dragging her closer than she wanted to be. “You!” he said again, and all the Templars had tensed for his orders.

  “I wronged you,” the Archimandrite said. He looked about wildly at his followers, at the crowd beyond. “I have wronged all of you!” he told them. “What good does vengeance do the gods now? Why tear down, when we may never be able to build again? We must live. We must help each other to live. I’m sorry, I’m sorry for what I am.” She was terrified that any moment he would blow his nose in her cloak like a sad clown in a farce. Some instinctive pity had her patting his shoulder.

  “And us?” Heno asked, pushing his luck as usual. “What do your gods say about us Yoggs?” Because the gods had never got round to his people, or any of those the Kinslayer had taken as his minions. They had been mislaid or ignored, they had been taken beneath the earth and honed into something that cared nothing for
the divine. The Archimandrite’s revelations broke on Heno like waves against a cliff.

  The priest stared at him. “They said be kind,” he said, more collected now he was faced with a former servant of the enemy. “I cannot love you, monster. But They said be kind, and she”—he yanked at Celestaine’s cloak again—“vouched for you. You are free, you are all free. Do no harm, and you shall walk these streets like any man.”

  “An honour,” said Heno acidly. “I think we’ve outstayed our welcome, Celest. Don’t we have somewhere to be?”

  “We...” The realisation hit her. “Archimandrite, there’s something we came for, that was brought to the Temple. It would have looked like a crown. A thing of power. We need to do a good thing, a great good thing. Please…” But blankness ghosted across his face before the fire of his revelation banished it. He had no idea what she spoke of, and just staggered off to spread the word to his startled Templars.

  “Well then, we don’t,” she said dejectedly to Heno. “We came for the crown, but there’s nothing. Roherich is gone, and… maybe we can search the Temple or something. Perhaps they’ll let us do that now.”

  “No need.” Amkulyah’s voice was without inflection. He sat on the stack of firewood intended to burn him and she saw his face was locked down tight, the look he must have worn for his long imprisonment, where emotion was weakness. “Don’t you see it?”

  He was looking at the map, which showed the alleged reach of the Ilkand Temple across the lands to the south. Out of date, of course, carved some time after the Kinslayer was driven beneath the earth and before he emerged strong and savage with his armies. There were towns marked there that had been destroyed, blank spaces where fortresses had been raised. And there were places that had been innocent to the mapmaker that history would remember for very different reasons now.