by J. C. Staudt
Seeing her pain made Lethari miss Frayla. My bold, passionate Frayla; my warrior queen. You would never leave me, though you’ve had to watch me go so many times. He wished he had some answer to give the young girl beside him; some explanation, or a word of wisdom to soothe her fears and sorrows. But none came.
After bidding Savannah farewell, Lethari went to the old shipping yard and stood by the fence for a time, staring at the crates that would one day undo so much of the damage he and his feiach had wrought. It was too bad the steel would not burn, or he would set a band of his warriors loose with torches to lay it waste. If only he could find some other way to keep such valuable treasures out of Vantanible’s hands…
He spent the walk back to his tent that night deep in thought. Now that he had laid Daxin to rest and seen to his final wishes, there were new strategies to be devised. His conquests had seen overwhelming success thus far, but his work was far from done. The goatskin record had its truths yet to tell him.
Koiras and Frathair were sitting on stools outside Lethari’s tent flap when he arrived. They stood and snapped to attention when they saw him coming. He gave them a dismissive wave, but they did not sit down again as he went inside.
Taking the goatskin from his bag, he rolled it out on his table and sat down to study it for perhaps the hundredth time. It was not long before he heard the voice of Sigrede Balbaressi outside. He was speaking to the guards, requesting entry. With little time and nowhere else to put it, Lethari flipped the goatskin over and laid it face down across his lap. Koiras announced Sig’s arrival, and Lethari bade him enter. “Why have you come to disturb me at this hour?”
Sig bowed. “My regrets, Lethari. I know it is late. I saw you return and wished to know how you fared in the pale-skin village.”
“I fared well,” Lethari snapped. “Could this not wait for the morning?”
“I also came to receive your orders, my master. To learn how we will be moving on from here.”
“When have you ever come to receive my orders before? If I had orders, I would have summoned you.” Lethari lifted his chair and scooted further under the table to hide the skin across his lap.
“What is it you have there, my master?”
“You have said it yourself: I am your master, just as the light-star is master of the sand. Does the light-star answer to the sand? Nothing I possess is subject to your judgment, Sigrede.”
“You are not the light-star, Lethari. Nor am I the sand. We are men, and all men are subject to the will of the master-king.” Sig crossed the tent and shoved the table away. He saw the goatskin and reached for it.
Lethari caught him by the wrist. “Do not do this, Sigrede. I warn you, do not.”
Sig set his jaw, fingers inches from the folded goatskin. “Do you warn me, my lord? Or do you beg?”
“I command. Do not forget it.”
“I will not.” Sig wrenched free of Lethari’s grip, snatched up the goatskin, and tossed it face up onto the table.
“You had no right,” Lethari shouted, standing.
Sig blanched when he saw the markings on the skin, the inked lines crisscrossing the sketched map; the scrawlings which gave away its purpose. “Do my eyes deceive me? Is this not what I believe it to be?”
Lethari had no words. He reached for the skin, but the strength left him.
“The master-king would have given me my own feiach,” Sig said. “He would have made us all warleaders—Cean, Diarmid, Dyovan—all of us. You said to Tycho Montari that you did not have this. He asked, and you deceived him. I remember it now. Yes, you… of all the master-king’s captains… I never thought you would be the one to betray him.”
“I have betrayed no one,” said Lethari, anger flaring. “I have wronged no one by keeping what belongs to me. Do you truly believe me capable of stealing from the master-king?” He wanted to tell Sigrede about Amhaziel’s vision; that he was meant to use the record to do great deeds. But the soothsayer had not been bringing him the same tidings of late. If Sig wanted proof, the black-eyed elder might never give it to him.
“No,” Sig said, “I do not think you chose this on your own. Was it Frayla, then, who persuaded you?”
Lethari’s anger flashed anew. “Do not speak her name. Not about this. The choice was mine. If you believe I have done wrong—that I have taken more for myself than I have earned—then inspect my spoils and have your choice of them. After that, if you still feel I have cheated you, I will make you the head of all my captains and see that your household is given the greatest share of the wealth we gain from tomorrow onward. Take what you will from me, but do not accuse my wife of treachery.”
Sig straightened. He lifted his chin. “So you wish to buy my allegiance. You have opened my eyes, Lethari. I had hoped you would treat me as a sand-brother, but it seems I am merely a servant to you.”
“A sand-brother would have loved me, where you instead have shown your hatred.”
Sig took a step back. “The man who loves his brother does not only praise his virtues, but finds his faults. Or so I believed.” He paused. “With my master’s consent, I will take my leave. Send word if you have need of me.”
The tent flap caught a warm midnight breeze and fluttered to a close behind Sig. Lethari collapsed into his chair. Would Sigrede tell the other captains about this? What would they do when they returned to Sai Calgoar? Would Sig tell the master-king himself about what he had discovered?
Lethari did not think so, but it was too great a risk to let this dark horse run untamed. Yes, he decided. Something will have to be done about Sigrede Balbaressi.
CHAPTER 18
The Fates
The athenaeum’s stacks were filled with secrets. Sister Bastille’s elevation ceremony should have given her access to those secrets, but she’d found little free time to pursue such things of late. Weeks had passed since her elevation to the Esteemed, yet her other duties had kept her schedule fuller than ever. The other high priests had given her few of the answers she craved, so it seemed she’d have to search for them herself.
Brother Ephamar was seated at the athenaeum’s front desk, both he and his current choice of literature banded in rays of morning light. He glanced up apathetically as Bastille entered, greeting her with more warmth than his expression betrayed. “A lovely morning, this one. Isn’t it, kind Sister Bastille?”
Hardly. “Certainly, kind Brother.” Bastille did not bother to attempt a smile; such efforts were wasted on the inattentive. She knew how to get Ephamar’s attention. The trouble lay in getting rid of it when she was done. She’d just come from her morning chores, and while her new robes had provided a modicum of increased comfort, the heat had put her in no mood for conversation. Not that she could avoid it—if she went through with saying what she was about to say, that is.
“Which scriptural reference will you be checking out today, kind Sister?” asked Ephamar, still looking down.
“I’m… not here for the scriptures today, kind Brother. I’d like to do some research.”
“Is there any specific text or subject matter I can guide you towards?”
The Mouth sustain me, Bastille consoled herself. “Yes. Anything that pertains to… the history of the Aionach.”
Bastille knew in the sudden jerk of the head—the way Ephamar let the book close on his thumb and reached for the tasseled bookmark on the rear shelf—the extent of the trap she’d allowed herself to walk into.
“I happen to know quite a lot about the histories, as a matter of fact,” Ephamar said. “I consider myself something of an expert in that regard.”
So have I gathered during my many, many trips to this athenaeum, Bastille might’ve said. In truth, she was there to study the histories of both the Order and the Aionach. When it came to the history of the Order in particular, Bastille knew she must tread delicately, since Brother Ephamar was not one of the Esteemed. “Are you, now? How fortunate for me.”
“Yes, well, I’ve studied at length the pre-Heat period
, with my main focus being on the years leading up to the first flares. There are few records which chronicle the years since, as I’m sure you can imagine.”
“It’s been more than half a century,” Bastille said.
“Fifty years is enough for most people to forget their own names,” said Ephamar. “Without a concise written record to be found elsewhere, the Order’s is the most complete—and thus, the rarest—available. There’s a wealth of information at our fingertips, if one only takes the time to read it. So few do, nowadays. No one cares about history anymore. At least, not about what happened before the Heat. It’s irrelevant in the minds of most. After all, what does a past so different from our present matter to one struggling to survive? There really is a wealth to be learned. Strange, isn’t it? Funny, even, that there’s so much knowledge here, yet so little interest in it.”
Bastille had no love of history or abstract science. She knew flesh and blood and the systems of the body. Things she could touch and study and examine. She did not understand the theories of the stars or care about the deeds of men who lived long ago, and as far as she was concerned, she would never find any use for them again after today. “Indeed it is, kind Brother.”
“Let me show you something I think may help,” Ephamar said. “The perfect place to start. Follow me.”
He led her deep into the stacks, where the scent of age-dried pages hung as thick as the dust in the air. There were scrolls, encased and laminated, beside tomes both printed and hand-written. Bastille saw titles on every subject imaginable: A Comprehensive Guide to Taxidermy; Manual of Ministerial Law, Volumes I-III; A Layman’s Evaluation of Quantum Theory; History of Seismology in the Aionach; Collected Knowledge of Languages, Runes and Symbolism. Ephamar took down a sizeable volume with a matte blue cover and leafed through the pages, landing somewhere in the middle. The author’s name at the top of the right-hand page was Harold T. Beige.
“This is a report produced by an enclave of Ministry scientists. It was published decades before the Heat began. If you start reading here, it talks about the ionosphere, a layer of the world’s atmosphere which protects us from the light-star’s radiation. It’s like an amphibian’s skin, or the membrane around an embryo; it lets light in, but dampens heat and blocks certain particles from reaching the surface.
“This report says the ionosphere began to weaken at an alarming rate during the decades preceding the Heat. Around this same period of time, the light-star began to flare more often and more violently than ever before. Whether these phenomena were related is unknown.
“Each time the light-star flares, a burst of charged particles shoot toward our atmosphere, causing an event known as a geomagnetic storm. You probably know these storms by their more common name: the starwinds.”
Bastille gave a comprehending nod.
“With the ionosphere deteriorating, there remains little to protect us from the light-star. Infernal is literally baking us alive.”
“So the Aionach truly is dying.”
“I cannot say how quickly death will come to this world. But it will come, as surely as the light-star shines.”
Bastille’s entire being seemed to shake then. Panic stampeded through her chest. Her consciousness swelled, and she saw the Aionach spread out before her, lands and seas and the hollows beneath. She was a passenger on this mass of incalculable size; an organism as immovable as time, yet as fragile as life itself. And there was nothing beyond it—no High Infernal Mouth to which she might dedicate her existence; no after beyond the last breath she would ever claim.
“Are you alright, kind Sister?”
“Yes,” Bastille said hotly. “Yes, I’m fine. Just a little faint, that’s all. I must’ve overdone it with my chores this morning.”
“Would you like to take a seat? Is there anything I can get you? A drink of water, perhaps?”
“I’m fine, thank you. If you’ll excuse me, I’d like to be alone right now. In silence, preferably. My head is absolutely pounding.”
“Certainly. I’ll be at the front desk if you need anything. Anything at all.” Brother Ephamar set the open book on a table and left.
Bastille sat and tried to read the passage he’d pointed out to her, but the throbbing in her head intensified. A sudden sharp pain ran along her temples and set her ears to ringing. She shut her eyes. When she opened them again, the words on the page blurred like mud on wet pavement.
She sat in agony for a time, head resting in her hands. She could feel the iron star at the end of its leather thong, balancing on the table’s edge. Now that she’d been given the right to wear it, she had no desire to. The weight, the temptation, the responsibility of knowing—she wanted none of it. To return to our delusions; therein lies serenity.
The chair fell over when Bastille slid back and stood. She left the book where it lay and blundered through the stacks, knocking books askew. When she passed the front desk, the hall beyond was a dark blot slashed in blinding swathes of window light.
Brother Ephamar stood and called out to her. “Is everything alright, Sister Bastille? Are you feeling quite well? Sister Bastille?”
The echoes of his voice faded behind her.
The smell of breakfast was beginning to flood the conservatory as Bastille burst through the double doors and stumbled into the gardens. She didn’t stop to determine whether anyone had seen her pass by. Just now, she didn’t much care.
The greenery was quiet, but the pounding in her head took away any sense of foreboding. At the garden grotto, she slid the manhole aside and lowered herself down, replacing it above her head. Water rushed through the catchpipe in the tunnel beneath, drowning out all sounds from the outside. Bastille pulled the Arcadian Star from her robes and slid it onto the locking mechanism.
Suction breathed from within, and she entered the Catacomb full of damp stacks of paper and metal machinery. Key in hand, she closed the door behind her, heard it click, and felt the pressure seal in her eardrums. There would be no unexpected interruptions this time.
At the back of the room, the circular window in the heavy metal door was dark, empty of the terrifying face she had seen weeks earlier. She moved closer and felt the sharp throb in her head begin to dull. Another step, her eyes never leaving the window.
The face emerged from the gloom, gray and chisel-hard, eyes coldest black. The sudden sight of him was enough to throw Bastille off her balance. His eyes cut through her as diamond blades through putty. He spoke his dark words into her mind like drops of ink in a clear pool. “You are defect. Your body is a shell; your life, a speck. Let me out, and I will give you what you deserve. Let me out, weakness, and know strength.”
Bastille could not resist him. She cast her thoughts toward him in answer, struggling against the force of his mind’s grasp. It was his dark power, she knew, that made it possible for them to talk without speaking. As she pushed into him, a stamp in setting concrete, he became as her very soul, aware of every part of her. And she felt none of the reticence of speaking to a stranger. He was an intimate friend from whom she bore no secrets. There was nowhere to hide from his intimacy.
“You are the pinnacle of my disappointment,” she told him. “You’re the answer for which I never asked. I wanted everything to be simple; a clear path from my humanness to the liberation of long, artificial life. I wanted the Mouth to be the world’s salvation. Instead, there’s you. A nightmare in living flesh, my betrayal, and my curse.”
“Let me out. Let me out, and I will show you my endlessness. Free me, and you will be as an echo. I will renew my destined purpose and begin again.”
Bastille felt her hand twitching toward her key, toward the Arcadian Star that would unlock the door of his prison. It was her hand that was moving—not by his influence, but by her own free will. The seed he had planted in her mind was ripening, and the despair of living every day in the truth had made her weak. To free him was to free paradise into the world, a warm sleepless death like sap overrunning an anthill, magma slithe
ring through cities, to the sweet destruction of all.
“Stop this at once, kind Sister!”
Bastille hadn’t heard the door open. For the second time, the trance had consumed her senses. Footsteps shuffled behind her. As if from far away, she saw herself slide the key into the locking mechanism on the heavy door before her. A cold and unyielding force buffeted her from behind, icy tendrils snaking through her like the touch of a frigid spring. Someone pulled her back from the door. She clawed for her key, lost her grip, and watched it hang from the lock as she was dragged away.
It was Sister Dominique, her slender hands no longer sheathed beneath her customary elbow-length white gloves. Bastille had never seen her without those gloves. What she saw beneath them astonished her. Those hands…
Dominique laid Bastille on the floor while Sister Gallica strode to the door and yanked the key free of the mechanism. The being within gave a silent scream, contorting in a rictus of frustration and rage. Gallica backed away, shielding herself from his gaze.
Bastille gasped when Sister Dominique’s fingers brushed her skin. It was the briefest touch, yet she felt it in the depths of her spirit, an ecstasy too pure to believe.
Dominique rose and went to the door. She placed both hands against it as though she meant to push it open. Instead her fingertips began to glow a warm orange. Pulses of red lightning discharged through the metal. The being inside cringed away from the window, and for a moment his face vanished in the darkness.
Bastille heard the thing speak again. He was speaking in silence to Sister Dominique, yet Bastille could hear the words like a conversation overheard across a room. “You will not keep me, fiend of the light. You have tried, but you will not keep me. I am my own, and time belongs to me. Your failure will come as inexorably as the fire. All will begin again.”
“Your power is sundered,” said Dominique. “You hold no sway in this place.”
“I am newness. I am void. I am truth, and I will unmake you.”
