Children of the Wastes (The Aionach Saga Book 2)

by J. C. Staudt

  “We are not the same, my father,” Lethari said. “True loyalty is a product of virtue. One does not breed a lasting bond through pandering and flattery. Those are a woman’s instruments, as fickle and changeable as the wind. Prokin will remain a great household long after you are gone, but only because I have earned the loyalty I deserve—not stolen it with trickery.”

  Eirnan was somber. “If a man could honor everyone around him when they each want something different, there would be fewer dishonorable men in the world. We all must do things we are not proud of to hold onto what we love. If you have not learned that by now, my son, then you will surely learn it someday soon. I only pray the learning goes quickly for you.”

  Lethari lowered his eyes. “I leave the city in three days’ time. I pray you wish me good fortune, my father.”

  Eirnan’s face hardened. “I wish you to learn true wisdom, my son. If ill fortune is how the fates must teach it to you… then so be it. You have made a mockery of your mother’s memory. Go, and do not return to my household until you have resolved to give tribute to those who have gone before you.”

  Lethari bowed, then turned and left his father’s house. On the way home, he began to wonder why he had visited in the first place. Had he expected something different than what he always found there? What good was counsel from a man too bitter to make sense of the world around him? Lethari would sooner remember his father the way he had been in the days of his youth. But the more he subjected himself to the ramblings of the pathetic shell of a man who was left, the more distant those memories grew.

  When Lethari returned home, Frayla was gone. “Where is my wife?” he asked Oisen, his steward.

  “She has taken a basket and gone for a walk, my Lord Lethari,” Oisen said.

  “Who went with her?”

  “She went alone.”

  “You should not have let her go without a guard.”

  “She insisted, my master.”

  Lethari rubbed his jaw, where a rough carpet of day-old stubble was beginning to come through. “Send for Amhaziel Bilmadi. Find me in my chambers when he arrives.”

  “Yes, my Lord Lethari.”

  “And Oisen… when Frayla returns, notify me at once.”

  “Yes, my master.”

  Lethari retreated to his den, a personal lair set into the deepest hollows of his palace. The room was much like his father’s parlor, if smaller and less opulent. He paced the floor for over an hour, unable to sit still. By the time Oisen came to announce Amhaziel’s arrival, Lethari was convinced he would never come to a decision without the soothsayer’s help.

  “Amhaziel Bilmadi has answered your summons, my Lord Lethari.”

  “Send him in.”

  The old man was thin and leathery, the onyx-black hair of his youth gone white as a summer cloud. Oisen let him in and shut the door.

  Amhaziel was muttering to himself as he shuffled across the room. “Oba, oba, siamach. Oba, siamach. Oba, oba…” he said, clasping Lethari by the hand.

  When Lethari tried to pull away, the old man held on with an iron grip, patting his knuckles and repeating the words to comfort him. “Hush, hush, quiet. Hush, quiet. Hush, hush…”

  “I must know,” Lethari said impatiently.

  “You must find the silence in your spirit,” said Amhaziel. He sat on the floor and brought Lethari down with him. He crossed his bony legs and spread Lethari’s fingers so their hands were resting palm to palm. “Calm now. Calm now, and give heed to the skeins of the fates. Close.” Lethari closed his eyes. “My liege, my warleader, Lethari Prokin. Come, my eminent chief, son of lords and ancestor of kings. Come, blood of the sands, and know. Know them. See them. Yes, see them. You see beyond the limits of your ambition, and you will see beyond, farther still, where things obscured take form. My honored lord, heir to nations and figure of authority, see, and know.” The soothsayer gripped Lethari’s wrists with fingers like shackles.

  Lethari kept his eyes shut tight, straining to peer through the depths, exerting himself to see beyond the place where his vision failed. There was a flash of white lightning behind his eyelids, fleeting and gone in an instant. That instant had been enough for him to behold what the soothsayer had spoken of. “I must choose,” he said. “Show me the outcome of my choices.”

  “There is no outcome of moments. Only the moments themselves,” said Amhaziel, his grip tightening around Lethari’s wrists. “You must see the moments if you wish to know how they fall.”

  Lethari realized then that something was pinching him, squeezing at the tender skin beneath the heel of his palm. He didn’t open his eyes. He had begun to see beyond, and it would not do to break his concentration. Sweat beaded at his brow and dripped into his eyes, but he refused to give up. The darkness in his vision began to swirl and undulate, waves of ink pulsing into shapes and patterns, each one appearing and fading quicker than the last.

  “Do you see them?” Amhaziel asked. “Do you know them?”

  “I see them. I know them.”

  “We are seeing now with one mind,” said Amhaziel. “Be still, my liege, my warleader. Be still and listen, my eminent chief, son of lords and ancestor of kings. Listen to the things I tell you now, blood of the sands, and know them. I see a creature, both beast and man, walking alive with its innards spilled out. It has given of its meat and of its blood, that you may find glory. It will share more of itself yet; the man-beast will bring annihilation, and you will draw to yourself a great prize, when you come to the place where the orange light shines bolder still than the afternoon sky. And the man-beast will rise from the dust and return to it so that you may collect its offerings. And when lesser men learn of its sacrifice, they will envy it and resent you. But do not be discouraged, for the children are coming. The children of the beast and of the man. And they will become the children of the last generation, and the children will shake the land and the seas unto the very foundations of the world. And the pillars of the Aionach will shake with the burden of what has yet to come. Open.”

  Lethari opened his eyes. He had seen it all, just as Amhaziel had foretold it. Now he finally knew the things he must do. He had seen them, and he knew them. “You have given me clarity, my friend. You must grant my flesh a new flaw to commemorate this day.”

  “I will bestow upon you a powerful sigil,” said Amhaziel. “A new sigil, which no one before you has ever borne. The fates have written it in my mind’s sight. I have seen it, my liege, my eminent chief. I have seen it, as the light-star shines.” Amhaziel drew his skiand, a small ceremonial knife with an engraved wooden handle. A thin, curved blade, etched with sigils of its own, flickered in the light of the oil lamps.

  A candle was burning on Lethari’s sideboard. Amhaziel ran the blade’s edge along the flame and placed his other hand on Lethari’s chest, where there was an empty patch of skin just above the left nipple. When the old man opened his eyes, they gleamed from lid to lash like solid black gems. Amhaziel smiled at him through those eyes, but Lethari did not look away. Instead he set his jaw and waited for the pain.

  What a sweet, pleasing pain it will be, thought Lethari. When he felt the first hot touch of the soothsayer’s knife, it was all he could do to keep silent.

  CHAPTER 2

  Waking the Father

  “Father Soleil. Father Soleil… can you hear me? Do you understand?” Sister Bastille spoke softly as she attempted to summon the Order’s newest Cypriest from his medication-induced sleep.

  Soleil’s eyes were open, but his gaze did not follow her when she moved. He stared up at the ceiling with glassy indifference, blinking every now and then.

  “Let him rest a while longer,” said Brother Reynard. “He’s had a rough time. These procedures are taxing, even when they’re performed in non-emergency situations.”

  “Right enough, kind Brother,” Bastille said. She’d had a rough time herself. She had performed a string of surgeries on the Order’s wounded that had kept her awake for days at a time. She was movin
g around the room like a drone now, conscious thought giving way to muscle memory. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d eaten, but she was past the point of hunger now. She needed sleep.

  Sister Gallica whisked into the recovery room to corral Bastille as she was leaving Father Soleil’s bedside. The she-mutant was haggard, strands of her thin brown hair hanging over the boils surrounding her twisted mouth. “Kind Sister Bastille. The Most Highly Esteemed would like a word, if you have a moment.”

  I have more than that, Bastille wanted to say, though I’ll have nightmares if your face is the last thing I see before I sleep. “Anything for the Most Highly Esteemed,” she said instead.

  The basilica’s halls were cleaner than Sister Bastille had ever seen them. Not only had the Mothers removed all traces of the dozens who had bled and died there during the attack; Sister Gallica’s helpers had come after to scrub every inch of the stone from floor to ceiling until it shone like new. Bastille followed Gallica to the meeting chamber, where Brother Liero and Sister Dominique sat in their ornate high-backed chairs. With Soleil having been elevated to Cypriest, the fourth seat among the Most Highly Esteemed was empty.

  “Good afternoon, kind Sister,” said Liero.

  “Kind Brother.”

  “Let me begin by thanking you. You may think your activities over the past few days have gone unnoticed, but I assure you, we could not be more grateful for all you’ve done. This has been a trying time for all of us, but no one has worked harder or accomplished more for the Order than you have. You have filled Brother Soleil’s shoes admirably. He was taken to Father sooner than any of us expected, but it’s obvious how well his teachings prepared you for the many tasks and the great responsibilities that lay ahead of you. I see a worthy successor in you. We all do, Sister Bastille.”

  “Who will fill Brother Soleil’s place among the Most High?” she asked.

  When Gallica smiled, her face contorted into something that looked more like a snarl. “Why, Brother Froderic, of course.”

  Bastille nearly laughed. Only when she noticed the three high priests staring at her with straight faces did she realize it wasn’t a joke. Had she misheard? Brother Froderic was dead. She’d been there, in the labyrinth below the basilica, when the savage they called Lethari had drawn his great curved sword and severed Froderic’s head from his shoulders. The only other priest present at the time had been Brother Soleil. Since he was a Father now, that made Bastille the only remaining witness. “I’m sorry… Brother Froderic, did you say? But he’s—”

  “Due to return to us any day now,” said Gallica. “Brother Froderic has served the Order with great fervor for many years. He is the natural choice for elevation to the Most High.”

  I imagine it will be difficult for him to serve the Order without a head. “Yes, of course. He is the natural choice…”

  “The losses we sustained when the heathens invaded have stretched our resources thin,” said Brother Liero. “Much will be required from each of us in the days and weeks ahead. On that note, Sister Gallica tells us she’s spoken with you about your own future with the Order.”

  “She has,” Bastille said. When Gallica had caught her in the Catacombs beneath the conservatory, a place she wasn’t supposed to be, the last thing Bastille had expected was to be offered a position among the Esteemed. But that was exactly what the high priestess had proposed.

  Liero smiled his froggy smile. “Good. How long ago did you come to us, Sister Bastille?”

  “It’s been about two years now, kind Brother.”

  “Two years,” he said thoughtfully. “Splendid. You’re ready. You’ve been ready for some time now, truth be told. I want you to know that we’ve been considering you for the Esteemed since before the attack. The vacancies in the Order’s higher ranks have nothing to do with our decision. We believe in your abilities; you’ve earned this on your own merit, kind Sister. Consider this your official calling. Will you accept that calling, and choose to become an Esteemed Priestess of the Order?”

  Is refusal an option? she wanted to ask. “With every fiber of my being… yes.” Certainly, there were several fibers of Bastille’s being that wanted to run. Several more had serious doubts. But expressing doubt to the Most High was akin to facing down a stampeding herd of cattle. It was a good way to get oneself in trouble.

  “This makes my heart glad,” said Liero.

  “Mine as well,” Sister Dominique chimed in.

  Bastille noticed the witch-woman was looking paler than usual. Her aches and pains must be acting up again, she decided. “I anticipate my induction with a full heart and a humble spirit.”

  Liero’s smile disappeared. “In the meantime, there are other matters to discuss.”

  Bastille hoped they could discuss these matters quickly, or she was apt to fall asleep where she stood.

  “A new crop of initiates will come through our gates in a few days’ time. Brother Froderic has arranged it.”

  Exhausted as she was, Bastille was beginning to doubt whether her memory served her true. How is it that a dead man managed to arrange the arrival of our newest recruits? she wondered.

  “Now more than ever,” Liero continued, “the future of the Cypriests falls upon you, Sister Bastille. You alone can harness the knowledge Soleil gave you and pass it on to your students.”

  “Were you not aware that Sister Bastille’s entire class of acolytes has vanished?” Gallica asked him.

  “I am quite aware of that,” Liero snapped. “Which is precisely why I must emphasize the need for fast identification and acquisition of the most promising new recruits. Sister Bastille shall have first choice of the acolytes this time around. Kind Sister, after the initiation cycle is complete, you may choose the three acolytes you deem most talented. Waste no time in your lessons. Make no concessions. None of your students must fall behind.”

  “It will be done, kind Brother Liero,” she promised.

  Dominique straightened in her chair, folding her white-gloved hands on the table. “Where did those former pupils of yours get off to, Sister Bastille? They’ve not been seen since the attack, and their bodies were not found among the dead.”

  “I fear I can give you no answer for that,” said Bastille. She knew full well what had happened to Brother Mortial, Sister Adeleine, and Sister Jeanette. They had chosen to leave the Order. The Scarred Comrades had taken them through the labyrinth and escaped to the city north. Bastille could never tell a soul that she had allowed them to go.

  Lying to the Most High twisted her up inside, but she didn’t feel quite so bad knowing they were lying right back to her about Brother Froderic. Why had they chosen a dead man to take the fourth seat? She hoped answers would be easier to come by once she was Esteemed.

  “It seems we’ve managed to lose track of a frightening number of people lately,” Dominique said. “This will not stand. Every priest and acolyte who travels beyond our walls only heightens the risk of another attack. And if that weren’t bad enough, the Order’s stores are at their lowest in years. We’re running out of goods to trade with the heathens—goods which have historically appeased them in times of stress and revolt. It seems our reserves have been squandered. I have little doubt this is due to Brother Froderic’s absence. I wait for his return with the sincerest hope that it’s not too late for him to set things right again.”

  Froderic was the very person responsible for the Order’s low reserves, Bastille knew. As the priest in charge of supplies and inventories, Froderic had enjoyed exclusive access to the storerooms. As Bastille had discovered, Froderic had enjoyed it a little too much. He was trading away our stores in exchange for sex slaves. His clandestine affairs are the very thing that killed him and impoverished us. “I pray you have the right of it, kind Sister. We all await Froderic’s return anxiously.”

  Liero cleared his throat. “We thank you for your testimony this morning, Sister Bastille, and we rejoice with you for having chosen the path of the Esteemed. Sister Gallica will see
to the arrangement of your induction ceremony. Now, you’ve been standing there looking positively exhausted. I suggest you get some rest before the welcoming this afternoon. Your presence will of course be required when the new initiates come in. Brother Reynard’s team is more than capable of handling things in the infirmary while you’re away.”

  “Thank you, kind Brother.” Bastille exited the meeting chamber and trudged off toward her room, hoping to reach it without any other postponements. The basilica’s normal schedule had suffered in the wake of the attack—in her case especially. With no students to teach anymore, she had spent every waking moment performing either surgery or sacrifice. There had been far too many waking moments and far too few sleeping ones, in her opinion.

  She’d made it to the dormitory hall with her bedchamber door in sight when someone slipped into view from around the corner. Daylight shone through the windows ahead, wreathing the figure in a bright halo. Bastille kept her eyes on her destination, praying that a curt greeting would be enough to get her by.

  “Kind Sister Bastille,” called Brother Ephamar. The basilica’s head librarian was a stunted, plain-looking man with an altogether unremarkable affect. “It’s so good to see you well. All this confusion has put me at my wit’s end. I’ve not seen you at the athenaeum in too long. You’ve been by to see us on Sister Helliot’s watch, no doubt.”

  She hadn’t. Bastille had once been a dedicated student of the scriptures, but recent events had turned her attentions to other things. “Yes, I’m sure that’s it,” she said.

  “How have you been faring in the midst of all this dreadful business?” he asked.

  “I’ve been making new Cypriests since it happened, kind Brother,” she said.

  “You—is it you who’s been aiding Soleil and Reynard? Oh, yes of course it is. Silly me.”

  “Just Reynard, I’m afraid. Soleil is now a Father himself.”