by Tim Akers
"What happened?" Owen asked, sternly. "What are you driving us into, Eva? What am I going to lose my boys to this time?"
I opened my eyes and looked down the length of the wagon. Owen's patrol was strapped in, trying hard to keep their eyes forward, the fear off their faces. Trying, and failing. Some new faces, to replace the boys we lost in the cistern. Owen sat next to me, his hands crossed over the biggest, widest shotgun I had ever seen. Boy had upgraded. Not so much of the Healer in him now, perhaps. That was good.
"Who attacked the Elder, Eva? Must have been a hell of a thing, to take down one of your old men."
"I don't know. Seems to be more and more common all the time. As to who they were ... I'm not sure. I don't know, and I'm praying like hell that you don't know them either."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"One of them was dressed as a High Elector of your Cult. Guy's name was Nathaniel. He was in charge of security at the Strength, around the time that Elias got killed." I gave Owen a sharp look.
"You're saying a scion of Alexander attacked you? That's ... it's not true. It can't be."
"No, not saying that. I'm saying it looked like that. But him and his dogs, they were Betrayer kin. They bore the icons, and they had the invokations. Amon's folk, and no doubt about that."
The wagon got tense. Owen leaned close to me, his voice a harsh whisper.
"Eva, if what you're saying is true-"
"Forget it. Forget I said anything. If it's true we're going to have to root the whole damn Cult out again, I know it. We thought we had them nice and safe in their black robes with their chain-bound souls. Lazy. That's our mistake, Healer. We got lazy."
Everyone settled back into their seats and listened to the sirens for a while. I didn't have to tell them what we might be going into. We all knew the stories of the Betrayer. We knew this was the kind of fight that ended with one side all dead and the other with plenty to mourn.
The Chanters sect of the Cult of Alexander has its own island. It's the kind of thing you really hope for, when you're setting up a mysterious religious order. Your own island. This particular island was really just a floating tower, much more of it below the water than above, bobbing peacefully in the wide bay that was formed by the two horns of the city of Ash. It looked like an iceberg of stone, held in place by a flat ring of landing platforms and docks that met the face of the water.
We took a ferry over, cranking up the wagon and bursting along the dock with our sirens blaring as soon as we touched the artificial shore. The Wardens of the Chanter's Isle didn't know what to make of that, other than to give us funny looks and stay out of our way. Good enough for me.
The main gate of the Chanters' detention facility was a facade of unbroken marble, smooth as the first snow. The wagon chattered to a stop where the gate was supposed to be and the patrol piled out, Owen in the lead. Beside the gate there was a marble figure, the barest features of a face on a square column. I walked up to it and tapped it on the forehead. Disrespectful, but I never was much of a fan of the Chanters and their pretty little tower.
"Hello, inside. We'd like to come in now. Okay?"
The column shivered and the face moved. You could taste the understated irritation.
"Entrance to this facility is limited to the highest initiates of the Cult of Alexander, godking of all Ash. All others must request special privileges. These requests may be filed-"
"Eva Forge here. Last Paladin of the dead god Morgan." I bounced my sword lightly against the figure's face. "Open up."
"Entrance to this facility-"
"For the love of the Brothers," I swore, then bent at the knee and incanted something from my childhood. A trick we only used when the brothers weren't looking. Mostly strength, but a lot of brute violence, too. I put my shoulder against the pillar, grunted, and pushed. The whole thing creaked and then splintered at the base. I was still smiling to myself when the pillar tore free and went spinning against the smooth marble wall.
"What the hell was that?" Owen asked.
"Morgan used to knock trees over with his shoulder, when he was a kid," I answered. "He wasn't always a god. But he was one hell of a strong kid."
"And you have an invokation for that?"
"Not something they teach you in the sanctuary, but we figure it out." I stretched my back and smiled. "You can only use it for frivolous things. For giggles. You probably don't have anything like that in the Healers."
"Nothing about knocking trees over, no." He squinted up at the quiet wall of the Chanters' tower. "And I'm not sure your trick got us anywhere with our potential hosts."
"Well, yeah. Probably not. But it needed doing. It's not like that conversation was getting us anywhere either."
"New plan. You're not the one doing the talking from here on out."
And, of course, that's when the marble gate cracked open and the Chanters came out to see who had knocked over their pet statue. I turned to Owen and smiled.
"Newer plan. We skip the talking part next time."
"Gods and Brothers above," he said, sighing. "Why do you encourage her?"
"Who did this thing?" the lead Chanter asked. She was wearing a dress of iron plates, sewn onto cloth of steel and rattling like loose shingles as she moved. There was a mask over the lower half of her face, a series of baffles that stole the power from her voice and diffused it into the air like wind chimes. The soft glory of her words did not match the fury in her eyes.
"If you'd been listening," I said, raising my sword to repeat the ritual of forehead knocking, "I am Eva Forge, last Paladin of-"
"Right, right." Owen stepped in. "I am Justicar Owen LaFey, sworn scion of our lord Alexander. I am escorting this Morganite to an appointment with the Amonite, Cassandra. You are holding her here at our will."
"Cassandra," the woman answered. "Yes. She is in ritual right now. You may speak to her when it is complete."
"We'll speak to her now," I said. "I have reason to believe that there are Betrayers among you, working to kill the girl."
"Betrayers? In the House of the Chanter? No, such a thing is impossible."
"Look, I'm pretty much going to insist on seeing the girl, and standing guard over her." I rested the tip of my sword on their nice lawn, threw my arm over the hilt, and smiled. "So you can get over that and just let me in now. Please."
The Chanter glared at me, then at Owen, then at the rest of the world.
"You will see the girl," she said, sharply. "But that is all. The ritual is not to be interrupted."
"It's a good start, but I need to do more than see her. I need to know that she's safe."
The Chanter held a hand up to me, as much a warning as a benediction. "Silence, woman. Walk with me."
We walked. The marble gate closed behind us. Owen's patrol kept close to him, right up until one of the Chanters made a sign and escorted the boys away. Owen gave me a look, then went with them. I was alone with the creepy Chanter girl and her mask of chimes.
"You have been to the Chanter's garden before," the woman said in her breathy, muffled voice.
I shook my head. "No. Never had reason to come around." We entered the inner court of the castle, and even I'll admit it was a beautiful place. Topiaries and pebble-lane mazes that wound around marble fountains and statues that looked like dancing chandeliers ... it was eerie. Nightmare in a tactical fight, too. I'd hate to try to hold a line among all the hedgerows and tiled canals. "Nice place, though."
She gave me a strange look, muffled surprise wiped away with a blink.
"Never had reason. I suppose not." She kept her hands in the sleeves of her robe, but I could see her fists bunching under the fabric. "No need for Morgan in a place like this."
Our path led us away from the gardens, then opened onto a shallow lake with a bed of copper. There were rafts on the water. I squinted at them, and could barely make out short, thin men with large heads working the lines.
"Are those Feyr?" I asked.
"They are
visitors. Let us call them guests."
I looked beyond the lake and saw marble walls and guards, if Chanters with ornate poles could be called guards.
The woman noticed my attention. "They can leave when they want, whenever they are able. We guard against them, that is all."
"They're that dangerous? Those guys are all around the city."
"What they are is not dangerous. What they are doing ... Never mind. It is no matter to the House of Morgan. You are here to see the Amonite, yes?"
"Yeah. You cracked her yet?"
"Cracked, no. But we have begun a conversation that may lead to the story we need." She led me away from the lake and into a building, finally. All these open spaces inside walls felt so unnatural to me. "Is that why you are here? For a progress report?"
I hadn't really thought about that. I was there to pry Cassandra out of the Chanters' creepy little hands and get her back to the Strength. I don't know when my thinking on this had changed. When I had started feeling more in union with the Amonite than the Healer. It wasn't like I didn't trust Owen. Completely.
"I'm here to see her, to make sure she hasn't been mistreated." I adjusted the holster on my belt. We were in a long, arched stone tunnel. The air was cool and wet, and I thought maybe I could smell the lake. "There have been threats."
"We don't threaten, Paladin. That is not our way."
We walked in silence, our boots crunching on the gravel path. She and I meant different things by threat, I think. There was more to the process than physical violence. It was the kind of thing that could be ugliest when it was pretty.
"Eva. My name's Eva Forge."
She glanced over at me, a little surprised, then nodded. "As you say. "
"And I suppose you don't have a name?"
"Names are part of the Song, and should not be given away."
I grimaced and stuffed my fists into my robe. "Now you tell me," I muttered.
She shrugged and gave a light, lilting laugh. "We will each have our advantages in this, Eva. That is the way of these things."
There was no more talking. This tunnel led to another, which led to another. We crossed brackish ponds and moist fern gardens, passed under open skies and stone ceilings until we came to a final dark moat, and a castle at the center. I looked down and saw that this was lakewater, deep and black.
"All these walls and paths and buildings, and your final barrier is open to the lake?" I asked.
"There are other barriers. There is more to this place than walls and gardens, Eva."
"And I still don't know your name, and you're throwing mine around like a shuttle. Harsh."
"Lesea," she said. "This way."
The bridge was narrow and slick, as though it was carved from a single rib of the world's biggest fish. Lesea went first, her hands held slightly out as if for balance. The building that I had mistaken for a castle was really just a dome, spiked with towers like the head of a mace. The door was a disk of iron that rolled aside on geared teeth at the Chanter's signal. Soon as it was open I could feel their damn Song, itching into my blood. The water of the moat rippled away from us. We hurried inside and the door settled shut with a gasp of air pressure. The Song was louder in here, but not in a way that you could hear. The air vibrated with the Chanters' words, pure as honey and sharp, like a broken chime, beaten into a knife. This is why they got their own island, kids. The city folk wouldn't put up with this on their streets.
The domed building was really just a series of airlocks and pressure chambers, and each opened door layered on the discomfort in the air. I could actually hear it, now, could feel it in my bones and in my teeth. The articulated sheath seemed to cringe on my back, like a crushed spider. It was the hardest thing not to just draw steel and start shooting. Anything to drown out that mad Song.
The Chanters come from a narrow arc of Alexander's life story. An unhinged time. Becoming divine had been tough on the three brothers, and they each dealt with it in their own way. Alexander's place in the divinity meant he was particularly sensitive to the pain and sickness of men, and his initial reaction was to try to heal all of it. Noble, but foolish. Morgan did not try to win all the battles, only the one before him. But Alexander locked himself up and tried to sing a song of healing that would spread around the whole world. To say that he failed would be ... well, polite. He went mad. The song he tried to form ended up forming him, as he tapped into deeper and older powers than he could ever understand. When he broke free from it, the song continued, and became the subject of worship for certain of his followers. They etched it, and it cut them, and together they became the Chanters.
I always felt like the Song was getting the better part of that conversation, between scion and invokation. It seemed as if the Chanters had to form their whole lives around this thing that they barely understood, much less controlled. They got farther and farther away from their service to Alexander, and became more and more their own thing. A separate thing. But the power that this service gave them, my Brother. I didn't think Amon's captive Cult was going to invent something to replace them anytime soon.
We stayed far enough away from the central chorus, where the Elders of the Sect kept the Song, trading off watches to rest their voices and their minds. The visitors' chambers were in the perimeter of the dome, though still too deep for my comfort. They weren't really built for comfort though, I guess. Lesea led me down a long hallway of circular doors, each vibrating like the stops in a pipe organ. I just kept my eyes forward, my hands at my sides. The woman next to me seemed completely at her ease, of course, and I saw that an unnoticed tension had left her face. She looked a bit drunk, actually.
Cassandra's door had its own little hallway, and the drone grinding out from it was something I could feel in my lungs. Lesea paused before she opened it and looked at me over her shoulder.
"Your shields will not help you in here, Paladin. But I would brace yourself, nonetheless."
I gritted my teeth and clenched my fists into knots. She nodded, then opened the door.
Cassandra was in chains, draped from heavy iron manacles and a collar. She was on her knees, her head bowed, her eyes closed. I would have thought her asleep if she hadn't turned her head at our entrance. There were four Chanters with her, one at each of the cardinal points, three men and a woman. They were singing through her, the drone of their voices whipping her robe and hammering her bones. And yet she looked calm. In the whining harmony I could hear a voice, nearly subsonic. Asking questions, about the Fratriarch, the Betrayer, the kidnapping. The murders. Not direct questions, just bringing up images and then abandoning them, like a dream that you forget with your first breath in the morning. Yet these dreams were carried on hammer blows. They spoke at the level of thoughts and spirit. I caught myself mouthing what I knew of the Fratriarch, intoning the story of our first meeting, our first fight, our first lesson together. The last time I had seen him. That I was worried he was dead, that it was my fault.
Cassandra was silent, cocking her head to listen.
"She is unique in this," Lesea whispered to me, though I wasn't sure she was even talking anymore. "We have never sung a song like her."
"Do you question many Amonites?" I asked, each word a gasp.
"We rarely have the opportunity, not since the Betrayal. They are always difficult. Such clear thinkers. Not like ..." She paused.
"Morgan. I know. All fire and emotion. Will she talk?"
"She talks all the time. Just not about things that we want to hear."
As if to demonstrate, Cassandra raised her head and spoke to us, her eyes still closed.
"It is a series of mathematical thirds, iterated and then reiterated across a platform of subsonic patterns. I would call it beautiful, I think, in other circumstances." Finally, she opened her eyes and looked at me. A little surprise. "Eva?"
I didn't answer her, and in time she shut her eyes again. The singers did not stop. Lesea plucked at my sleeve, and I happily turned away and followed her into the
hall.
"So you see she is well," the Chanter said. Her voice was strangely the same breathy whisper here, amidst the din of the Song, as it had been in the quiet garden above.
"I need to speak to her, still. Alone."
"No," she said, and her voice raised a little, gaining an echo and a vibration that unsettled me. "You do not. You are here for other purposes, Eva Forge. I feel the dissonance in your blood."
"Oh, that's just distaste, lady. Now get her out of those chains and give us a little privacy."
We stood, staring at each other in the cacophonous hallway, unmoving. Finally, she nodded and motioned me away from the door.
"She is in ritual now. I will not interrupt that. But we may sit, and talk this through." She turned and walked down the hall. When I followed her, she glanced over her shoulder. "Can I get you something to drink?"
"Whatever you've got," I said. "And plenty of it."
What they had was black wine, served in crystal that hummed between my fingers. We drank it in the quietest room I had been in since I had entered this damned building. The walls were three feet thick and the door was like a tombstone, rolled aside by pistons as thick as my waist and then sealed from the inside. Still I could hear that music, running through my bones.
"How do you people stand it?" I asked, my face buried in the wide mouth of the wineglass. "It's like living on the monotrain."
"Hm. Yes, I suppose it would be. But this is something you grow to love." She paused to drink. When she raised the glass to her mouth, the fluted chimes of her mask shuffled aside. Her lips were painted black, and she had the most delicate bones. She was careful not even to breathe when the mask was retracted. "You would have loved it, I think. Had you been born to the right path."
"We don't choose our paths, Lady Chanter. Not any more than they choose us."
"How very fatalistic. Appropriate for a warrior, I suppose."
I drank my wine and listened to the music in my bones. She tried to start a couple conversations, but I wasn't liking it. This place wasn't for me. It wasn't for Cassandra, either. Lesea was halfway through describing something about octaves and the high calling of the Chanters when a noise played its way through the horrible chorus, a noise that gave even the good Lady Lesea pause.
