Children of the Wastes (The Aionach Saga Book 2)

by J. C. Staudt

  “Oh, dear. Is he, now? I take that to mean his enhancements were a success?”

  “Too early to tell. He’s resting at the moment. He’ll need more time to recover.”

  “As you say, kind Sister.” Ephamar gave her a polite smile.

  Bastille was in no mood to carry on meaningless pleasantries. Let Ephamar get his gossip somewhere else. There were scant few hours left before the afternoon’s events—hours during which she intended to be dead to the world. “If you’ll excuse me.”

  Ephamar nodded, looking somewhat hurt, and continued down the hall.

  Bastille locked her bedchamber door and slipped out of her robes, letting them puddle on the floor. The sounds of shovels in hard dirt drifted through her window as the Mothers tended to their duties in the graveyard. She was too tired to let it bother her. She was half-asleep before her head hit the pillow.

  Bastille had been having the same dream every night since she encountered the dark presence beneath the conservatory grotto. She was down in the Catacombs again, standing beside those great metal machines as stacks of paper fluttered behind her in some unseen wind, black and wet with mold. The face was looking out at her through the porthole window, its gaze so compelling it held her in place. Its eyes pierced her like knives, seeing through to her most vulnerable parts. She was terrified, yet she did not want to leave. She couldn’t break away, yet the feeling of being so exposed—so known—aroused her like a drug. She looked into those eyes and couldn’t turn away. Or maybe she didn’t want to.

  She had been locked in that dream for what felt like hours when a knock on her bedchamber door jolted her awake. When she sat up, a steel ball rolled through her skull and crashed into her forehead. She was still so tired it felt like she’d only managed a few moments of sleep. The headache tore into her as she stood and shuffled to the door.

  Brother Eustis’s bulbous nose and dimpled cheeks flushed when he saw Sister Bastille in her underclothes. Her headaches made her absent-minded sometimes, but she’d forgotten all about putting her robes on. She shied away behind the door, grunting with embarrassment. It was as though she’d woken from one bad dream only to find herself in another.

  “Apologies, kind Sister,” said Brother Eustis, averting his eyes. “The Fathers are preparing to escort the initiates in through the gates. Sister Gallica asked me to come fetch you out to the west yard for the welcoming ceremony.”

  “Tell her I’ll be there shortly.” She shut the door in his face, sat on the bed, and clutched her head in her hands. Her temples were pounding. Sleep usually alleviated her headaches, but today her short nap had only succeeding in bringing one on. There was no time to worry about how she felt.

  Donning her ceremonial robes, Bastille ran a brush through her hair, tied it back, and lifted her hood. Her feet were unsteady beneath her as she walked the empty halls, the steel ball still rolling around inside her skull. The absence of others told her she must be very late indeed.

  By the time she exited the basilica through its stained-glass front doors, the gates were open. Priests and acolytes lined the west yard, clustered beneath the building’s shadow in robes of purple velvet. Sister Larue was leading the new initiates through the gates. They passed between two opposite-facing rows of Cypriests standing at attention and halted before the Most High.

  The initiates were as lean and unwashed as any group Bastille had ever seen. While most of the Order’s recruits were from South Belmond, the basilica saw the occasional arrival from some remote corner of the Aionach. That seemed to be the case today; one of the young men had the look of the eastern port cities, and Bastille immediately picked him out as a Farstrander. He strutted in like a spring rooster, wearing netted cloth and rope jewelry infused with beads and seashells. His eyes were wild and fierce, and his hair hung about his shoulders in thick tangled knots. Bastille guessed him from Yellow Harbor or Cowl’s Pier, a former ship’s hand or beachcomber searching for something more.

  They’re all searching for something more, aren’t they? she thought bitterly, her head throbbing like a bruise. How many will be fortunate enough to discover that there is nothing more?

  The gates were banded with new metalwork where Brother Jaquar and his artificers had reforged them. The hinges creaked as the Cypriests guided them to a close. Bastille remembered the day when she’d stood where these newcomers were standing now, watching the gates shut out the world behind them. Brother Froderic had given them a short speech as they waited in the old bus station down the street.

  “The Most High Order of the Infernal Mouth takes no hostages,” Brother Froderic had said. “There are no prisoners within our walls—only those who have chosen to be there. Choose now the way you will go. Leave here and walk in freedom… or follow the Mouth and walk in service for the rest of your days. The Mouth is the perfect enemy of all living things, and there is no mystery of life it cannot unravel. The Mouth blesses those who serve it and devours all else. If you enter our gates today, you will leave again only by the Order’s authority.”

  Bastille could still remember the long walk from the bus station to the basilica’s gates with piercing clarity. As they drew near, those high walls had risen like an omen, heightening her fear with every step. Bastille—then Lakalie Hestenblach—had reconsidered her decision several times during that walk. I could fall toward the back of the group and slip away into an alley or a side street, she remembered thinking. But she had come too far and endured too much to give up the dream she’d been holding onto for so long. On top of that, she’d had nowhere else to go.

  After her father’s death, Bastille’s stepmother Carudith had redoubled her efforts to drive her away. Carudith had conceived three times during her marriage to Bastille’s father. Those pregnancies had ended in two stillbirths and an early miscarriage. As a result, there seemed to be no end to the resentment she bore toward her late husband’s daughter. Carudith would never let her return to Wynesring now. Never again would she behold the dusty rancher’s town beneath the shadow of those dark northern foothills. The basilica was her home now, for better or worse.

  Even as she reminisced about her own uncertainty, Sister Bastille felt no pity for the initiates who stood before her now. Those who wished to pledge service to the Order must face the same trials as everyone before them.

  The initiates formed a loose crowd in the center of the yard, rows of priests before them and Cypriests behind. Sister Larue whispered something to Brother Liero, who stepped forward to address them. His lavish purple robes were lined with gold embroidery and black velvet panels that swished when he moved. A deep pointed hood veiled his face in shadow.

  “Welcome all,” said the high priest. “You are here because you have chosen to dedicate your lives to the Most High Infernal Mouth. Doing so will require a great deal more than words, however. You will now confirm your belief in the Mouth and your devotion to our Order through the performance of the sacred rites. The initiation to follow will be a test of your obedience. Know that those who stand before you once stood in your place. They have earned their colors. Your path toward that prestige begins now. Brother Lambret, if you please.”

  Oh no. Bastille realized then what Brother Liero had meant when he said her presence was required for the welcoming. She’d been so tired she’d forgotten about the devouring ritual. Brother Soleil had always handled the necessary arrangements before. Bastille hadn’t accounted for all the responsibility Soleil had carried around here.

  As Brother Lambret brought forth the items for the death ritual, Bastille slipped away and tiptoed along the basilica’s outer wall. Brother Liero raised his voice to pierce the yard’s quiet. Bastille froze, thinking he’d caught her out. When he began the ritual instead, she sighed and slipped around the corner. She could still hear him chanting as she snatched up her robes and darted through the south courtyards.

  The steel ball crashed from side to side as she sped through the conservatory, bounded down the hallway, and rounded the cloister. Sin
ce there was no one around to question her propriety, she took the basement stairs three at a time. When she arrived in the silence of her preparation rooms, she realized there were no prosaic robes to change into. No matter, she told herself. I’ll be careful.

  There wasn’t time to disrobe anyway, so she pushed up her pointed sleeves and began to work. The flesh was raw and recent, the blood profuse with every cut. How many initiates were there? she tried to remember. Eight? Nine? Her headache had been so severe she hadn’t noticed. She carved out ten strips of flesh, just to be safe. Her sleeves insisted on sliding down every time she moved, forcing her to push them up with her forearms. In the end, she wasn’t careful enough.

  When she had laid the last strip of flesh onto its tray, she looked down at herself and was horrified at what she saw. Spatters of blood covered the front of her robes. The point of her left sleeve had somehow come to rest in the drainage trough and was drenched in crimson. What was more, her hands were sticky with blood and there was no water in the washbasin.

  “The Mouth,” she breathed. “What have I done?”

  Sweat was soaking through her robes by the time she rounded the basilica’s southwestern corner. She caught a few disapproving glances from her fellow priests as she slipped back into line. The initiates were scattered around the yard now, hard at work on the death ritual. A few had completed the task and were holding the broken bodies of the mice Brother Lambret had given them. Others were still working up the nerve, hands trembling. One girl had been clumsy enough to drop her prey and was chasing the tiny gray rodent across the yard.

  Bastille was having trouble with her balance. She held the steel tray at waist level and tried to blink away the pounding behind her eyes. The mixture of blood and sweat on her palms was making the handles slippery. Blood trickled from the fresh cutlets and pooled at the tray’s edges, threatening to drip over the side.

  It wasn’t until the last few initiates finished the ritual and resumed their places that Bastille realized she’d made a terrible mistake. There weren’t eight new initiates. There weren’t even nine or ten. There were eleven. She counted again. Eleven. How could I have miscounted? There were ten portions on the tray. Only ten.

  “In death, all life is hallowed,” said Brother Liero.

  “In death, all life is hallowed,” the members of the Order repeated.

  “Now, as the Mouth devours, so must you also. Sister Bastille… if you would.”

  Bastille shut her eyes. She could feel their scrutiny, imagine their stares settling on her bloodstained robes. I’ll be a laughing stock, she told herself. My first impression to the initiates will be as an incompetent.

  “Kind Sister,” Liero repeated. “If you would.”

  She came forward, praying her ten pieces of flesh might miraculously multiply. She received no such aid from the almighty Mouth. Each initiate took a chunk of meat between thumb and forefinger and peeled it from the tray as Bastille worked her way down the line.

  When she came to the end, the haggard blonde woman waiting there lifted a hand. She gave Bastille a curious look when she saw there was nothing there for her to take. Thin rivulets of reddish fluid glistened on the bare metal. Bastille’s heart was pounding as hard as her head now. What a stupid fool you are, she scolded herself. Of all the days to slip up…

  There was nothing to be done. Bastille gave the initiate a hard look, as though it was her fault for being the eleventh person in line. Blood dripped from the tray when she lowered it in one hand and retreated to stand with the other priests. When she turned around, the initiate had picked up her mouse and was waiting for Brother Liero to begin the devouring ritual. Liero gave the woman a strange glance before he continued.

  “Most High Infernal Mouth, by whom all is devoured,” Liero began. “We now consume these morsels as a token of homage. Leave us undevoured, we pray.” He looked at the initiates. At his nod, they began to eat.

  The mouse’s tiny bones made an audible crunch when the blonde woman bit into it. Bastille swore she saw a few of the priests shudder at the sound. The blonde woman was staring at her from across the yard as she chewed, a look that chilled Bastille to the core. I may never hear another word of this incident as long as I live, Bastille thought, but I’ll see it in their faces every time they look at me. My esteem will be forever marred by it. That is, if the Most High don’t rescind their offer and decide I’m not worthy to be esteemed after all.

  Bastille didn’t think they would go that far. As long as she was the only living person who could perform the Enhancements, the Most High had it in their best interests to value her highly. What will they do after I’ve passed my knowledge on to someone else? she wondered. Gallica knows I was there when Froderic died. She knows how many of the Order’s secrets I’ve learned. If she can make Froderic disappear, she can do the same to me.

  CHAPTER 3

  Trace

  The shepherd lay supine on the desert’s soft bed, the ground beside him stained scarlet, his breaths coming in shallow gasps. Grains of sand crawled along his body, marching like tiny yellow ants into the pair of bloody bullet holes in his clothes. The cipher was keeping him alive, but the cipher wouldn’t last much longer.

  Jallika Weaver stared at him through the dusk as the light-star shrank to a shimmering red bead on the horizon. The shepherd would be dead before nightfall, she knew with certainty. She had slowed the deaths of many with her ciphers, but she had never garnered the power to stop them altogether. That was work for those who possessed different talents; the Bonemen in the far northern reaches, or the warlocks of the Clay Nomads in the western coastlands.

  Willis Lokes stood on a nearby outcropping, his wide-brimmed hat in his hands, keeping watch over the desert—as if Weaver needed the help. Lokes turned when he felt her looking at him, gave her half a smirk, and resumed his vigil.

  There was no one around for at least a horizon in every direction; Weaver could feel it in the sands. Thus, there was no need for Lokes to keep watch. But she let him do it all the same. He had better vision than anyone she’d ever met, so he might as well put it to good use. Besides, it made him feel useful, and feeling useful always seemed to keep him in a level mood.

  “He gonna make it?” Lokes asked without looking over.

  “‘Course he ain’t,” she said. “You poked him too good for that. Better just hope he lives long enough to tell us where this Toler fella went.”

  “You said that. Don’t gotta be reminded twelve different ways about one mistake.”

  “Is that what you call a mistake? Them revolvers just… pull themselves out and do the killing for you?”

  Lokes’s face reddened. “Yep. And they might just do it again, you don’t shut your mouth about it.”

  Weaver ignored the affront. “The cipher’s taking. He’s breathing better. Might be he can talk now. Come here and help me with him, will you?”

  Together they propped the shepherd into a seated position against a slanted rock. He groaned when they moved him, but Weaver wasn’t too worried about aggravating his wounds. The cipher would hold. She stood up and looked him over.

  The shepherd was thin and crooked. His hair fell past his ears in thick waves the color of damp oatmeal. His eyes were a dull green, his skin pale from blood loss. He sure don’t look like no shepherd, Weaver observed. Ain’t never seen one so scrawny.

  “Alright, Shep,” said Lokes, still on his haunches beside the man. “Time for words. You know where this Toler dway might ‘a gone off to, you said?”

  The shepherd opened his mouth to speak, but his face tightened into a grimace.

  Lokes tried to coax him along. “Whoops—there, there, now, Shep. Don’t choke on your tongue. That’s good. Fight through it. Say, you know what you remind me of? A duck. You ever seen a duck? Talk to me, ducky. Don’t let me think I done shot you for nothin’.”

  The shepherd squinted as though struggling to form a thought. He gave Lokes a hollow stare and spoke in a dry whisper. “Unterberg.”


  “Hah. One word’s all it took. He’s all yours, darlin’.”

  “Ain’t you forgetting something?” Weaver touched her chest and nodded toward the strange iron star hanging from Lokes’s neck.

  Lokes looked down and smiled. “Out of sight, out of mind, you know?” He pulled it off and dangled it in front of the shepherd’s face. “This looks like something important. What’s it all about, ducky? Hey… pay attention.” Lokes slapped him, waking him from the alluring charms of sleep and death.

  The shepherd blinked in shock, eyes rolling in his head. It was a moment before he focused on the three-pointed iron star, and another before recognition set in. “It’s a key,” he said.

  “Key to what?”

  “Catacombs.”

  “Ain’t never heard of no catty-cooms. What’s that?”

  “Hidden places. Across the Inner East. Riches beyond count. Evils… beyond measure.”

  “Evil riches?” Lokes gave Weaver a mirthful glance. “Hmm. Sounds like that ought to be worth a look-see. Where they at?”

  “I only know… of one. In Belmond.”

  Lokes drew a revolver, lightning-quick. He pressed the barrel to the man’s forehead, where the luster of sweat announced the arrival of a fever. “Specifics, if you’d be so kind.”

  “Nothing in that one,” choked the shepherd. “Checked it myself. All… worthless.”

  “I’ll be the judge of that.” Lokes pointed the revolver at the man’s knee. “We can make this as long-winded as we got to, ducky. Tell us your secrets.”

  “A church. City south. Across from Union Park. The old fountain.”

  “Ah. I know it,” said Lokes. “Crazy ol’ kooks in purple robes. High walls, old-fashioned weapons. Yeah, I know the place.”

  The shepherd nodded.

  Weaver knew the place, too. Nobody who knew that place ever went near it. They said the men who guarded those soaring stone parapets were super-human somehow. They carried only crossbows, but they never missed. The cultists did emerge from time to time, but only to trade or gather new recruits. Weaver had heard other stories about them, too. Disturbing stories about human sacrifice. Cannibalism. Torture. Whatever went on inside those walls, she wanted no part of it, whether or not there were riches involved. She and Lokes’s money problems were their own fault, and they could solve them without taking risks that big.