by Phil Tucker
She didn't know how to touch him. Her hands fluttered ineffectually around his head, as if she might still harm him if she held him wrong. Then she brushed her fingers over his hair, and that sensation, so familiar, so ingrained in her soul, unlocked her grief and she keened. She lifted his head onto her lap, and when it flopped to one side, everything inside her convulsed.
His throat had been cut.
She bent over him and screamed, giving vent to her rage and horror.
Time lost all meaning as she bowed over her dead son. He was so frail, so delicate. How had this happened? She had thought herself wise to the ways of the world, experienced in pain and depravity, but this, this... How? How could this happen? How could this be allowed to happen?
She looked up. Searched the faces around her. "Tiron. Where is Tiron?"
"He is gone, my lady," a stranger in bloodied plate replied, his voice a shadowed whisper.
"Gone?" That made no sense. She turned, sure she would see Tiron, standing at the back, perhaps. She needed an explanation. Needed to hear his words.
Then she saw the one she truly needed to see. Hands bound behind his back, flanked by two soldiers. Ser Wyland, pale and haunted, his lips as bloodless as her son's.
"You." Iskra rose. A maelstrom of emotion began to spin inside her, shredding her sense of self, becoming far too large for her frail body to contain, consuming her, devouring her, lifting her out of herself. "You."
Ser Wyland flinched as if she had struck him.
Iskra pointed at him. "You did this?"
Wyland fought to meet her gaze. His eyes skittered from side to side, but at last he managed a nod.
Never taking her eyes from him, Iskra reached out and drew a dagger from a knight's belt. It weighed nothing in her hand.
"Do what you will," said Wyland, and there was loathing and fierceness in his voice, madness in his eyes, a sneer on his lips. "What I did, I did for the Ascendant –"
No sound could possibly channel her horror, so she made none as she flew at him. Men roared out, hands sought to catch her arms, but there was no denying her. She fell upon Ser Wyland in seething, virulent silence, and buried the dagger in the side of his neck, punching between the thick tendons and muscles and scraping bone.
His eyes flared wide with shock. He writhed from side to side as he sought to free a hand, to clamp something to the wound, but both hands were bound. Iskra watched him distractedly as he stumbled back, chest heaving; his spattered blood was thick and warm on her face.
He dropped to one knee, choked, and rose again.
Silence clamped down on every man within the room. Nobody moved. Iskra felt nothing – no sympathy, no satisfaction, no pleasure, no guilt. She bore unflinching witness to his death.
Wyland fought mightily to live. His cries were guttural, protests without words, smothered by his own blood as he collapsed to the floor.
It took him over a minute to die. Finally, he lay still, and a pool of blood began to extend out from beneath him.
Iskra took a step back. Her legs had turned to wood, were jointed strangely. Her sense of balance had left her. The room began to rise and fall as if she were at sea.
The torchlight began to dance over the familiar tapestries. The heat was suffocating. With a wounded gasp, she fell down beside Roddick once more and caressed his cheek with a shaking hand. She knew he was gone, that he felt nothing, that he didn't know she was here, that her touch could soothe him no more, but she couldn't stop.
She couldn't stop stroking his cheek.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Stillness. Silence.
Kethe felt as if she were floating, her limbs lost amidst deliciously cool sheets, her body cradled as if in the palm of a giant hand. No pain. No aches. She stirred, languorous, and opened her eyes. She was lying in the center of a large bed, impossibly soft sheets of ivory draped over her. The ceiling rose high overhead, and the white walls were divided into great vertical panels, some inlaid with complex, abstract geometric patterns woven in gold, others starkly blank. Windows ran along the left wall, the stained glass tinted with vibrant colors and depicting holy scenes from the rise of the first Ascendant. A rich plum carpet covered the floor, and elegant gilt furniture was placed in the corners, serving less to humanize the room than to emphasize the sheer scale of it.
A door at the far end opened, and Ainos the Praised entered, clad in an elegant white robe, a gray scarf wound around her shoulders, a belt of plaited gold around her waist. Kethe sat up and watched as the Virtue approached. The older woman's expression was hard to read; a subtle smile played at the corners of her lips, giving her a welcoming expression, but her eyes were liquid and wise and calculating.
Ainos was more handsome than beautiful, a stately woman in her mid-forties, her blonde hair cut short and framing her face elegantly. She had wide cheekbones, a firm mouth, a patrician nose. She had the air of one used to authority, certain of her place in the world, calm and confident and maternal.
"Good afternoon, Makaria," said Ainos as she reached the side of Kethe's bed. The older woman's eyes traveled across Kethe's face and body with open frankness. "You are looking much recovered."
"I am not Makaria," Kethe said, fighting not to sound petulant and childish. "My name is Kethe Kyferin. I'm proud of that name. I don't need a new one."
"I remember how strange it was when I became Ainos," said the Virtue, sitting gracefully on the edge of Kethe's bed. "Strange and surreal both. It took me years to start thinking of myself as such. It's normal to feel resistance at first."
"This isn't 'resistance'," said Kethe. "I'm not Makaria." Frustration and bewilderment bubbled up within her. "And I didn't even come close to defeating Mixis. He wiped the ground with me. So, why...?"
"You evoked the White Flame, for one." Ainos folded her hands in her lap. They were strong hands, Kethe noted. The hands of a fighter, veined and callused. "You stood twice after taking direct blows from a Virtue. Not unheard of, but exceedingly rare, to be sure." Kethe opened her mouth to protest, but Ainos spoke on, gentle, yet firm. "And, finally, you blocked Mixis' final attack. Believe me when I tell you that that is nearly unheard of. The personal feelings of the other Virtues aside, there can be no doubt that you are Makaria come again."
"But – but – Makaria was a man. I killed him. How could I kill myself? It makes no sense!"
Ainos' smile was infuriating. "It is a wonderful world, is it not, that can encompass such death and rebirth? Show me a man or woman who claims to know the mind of the Ascendant, and you show me a fool. I won't attempt to understand the why of what has happened, but neither shall I resist it."
Kethe scrunched up the sheet in both fists. "But you don't understand. I don't believe in Ascension!" She stared at Ainos, waiting for her outrage. "I don't accept it as true! How can I be Makaria if I'm an apostate?"
Ainos crossed one leg over the other and leaned on her left arm, utterly unalarmed. "And why do you eschew the faith of your forebears?"
"Why?" Kethe almost spluttered. "Because I've seen with my own eyes how it's false! I've met heroic Bythians and monstrous Ennoians. It's unfair, enslaving an entire people while another lives in luxury up here in Aletheia!"
Ainos nodded casually. "I see. What you are experiencing – or have experienced – is the difficulty inherent in reconciling what we can accept in abstract but cannot swallow when it is seen in the flesh. Did you have any difficulties with Ascension as a child?"
"No." Kethe hated how surly she sounded. "But I was a child. I didn't question it."
"And then you met someone who challenged your beliefs. You were wronged, you saw injustice, you met men and women who didn't behave as Ascension dictated they should."
Sensing a trap, Kethe nodded reluctantly. "Exactly."
"But, my dear, that is not a flaw in Ascension. Rather, it is a flaw in people. A violent and greedy Sigean will be punished by being born a Noussian in the next life. A heroic Bythian will be born an Agerastian and have to ove
rcome the challenges of heresy if he is to continue through the cycles of rebirth."
"That's just a way to justify everything!" Kethe sat up straighter. "A good person shouldn't be punished just for being born in the wrong city. Their virtues should be rewarded, not their station in life!"
"And they will be rewarded, by one greater and wiser than we." Ainos cocked her head to one side, smiling sadly. "But let us leave that for another time. You have been Consecrated. You touched the White Gate. How do you explain its power, and the effect it had on you?"
Kethe flushed and looked down. She could almost hear the distant call of voices raised in song and feel the thrum of its enervating power as it drew her into its sublime embrace. Worse; she had felt it close when she resisted Mixis. There was no doubting that it was the source of her power.
Ainos watched her with a bemused patience. "Precisely. Inevitably, all arguments against the theology of Ascension run aground on the reef that is the White Gate. Not to speak of the Black and its demons and horrors."
Kethe shook her head, feeling furious and frustrated and at a loss for words. "No. It can't be true. It can't be right that all Bythians are born slaves. That we privilege Aletheians over everyone simply because they were born on a stonecloud. That's not fair."
"Fairness." Ainos sat up and examined her nails cursorily. "You will think me cynical when I say that the concept of 'fairness' loses its appeal as you grow older. You will find yourself instead accepting that this is at heart an unfair world, and will concern yourself with making what little difference you can while you are alive and able to influence events."
Ainos sounded so wise, so world-weary, so experienced and horribly patient. Kethe stared down at her hands, feeling childish, feeling a fool. Could it be? Could her railings against Ascension be those of a naive youth? It had existed for four centuries, after all. Were her objections all that original?
"Dear Makaria. Nobody ever said being a Virtue was easy, or fair, or pleasant. You channel the power of the White Gate, which is the most terrible responsibility anybody could be asked to bear. Your life will be solitary but for the companionship of your fellow Virtues. It will be dedicated to violence, and will end in the Withering, no matter how well you take care of yourself." Ainos nodded soberly. "Yes, even we Virtues must fear the leaching effects of the White Gate in time. There are ways to safeguard our health – you have already benefited from one such potion – but nothing that will guarantee our longevity."
Oh, Asho, thought Kethe. Why was everything so clear when you were by my side? "I'm not Makaria," she said in a low voice, but even to her it sounded like an admission of defeat.
"We both know that isn't true." Ainos stood up smoothly. "No one expects you to adapt to your new life overnight. But the more stubborn you are, the harder it will be for you. Just as there is no escaping your power, there is no escaping who you are."
Kethe glared down at her sheets.
"Now, let me ask you a personal question. When was the last time you had your moon's blood?"
Kethe startled. "Excuse me?"
Ainos smiled. "I believe you heard me quite clearly."
"I – I don't know." Kethe frowned. It had been several months, in fact. A welcome abeyance, but now that she tried to calculate the actual amount of time, she found herself growing worried.
"I would guess that it's been months, perhaps even half a year. Am I right? I see that I am. Don't worry. Nothing is wrong with you. It is simply something that happens to all women who are called by the White Gate. I don't know what your hopes were for a family, dear Makaria, but you will have to set those hopes aside. We Virtues cannot bear children."
"I'm barren?"
Ainos nodded, and there was a sadness in her eyes, a tenderness that made Kethe want to turn away. "Yes. As are the men." She reached out and squeezed Kethe's hand. "It is a sacrifice that may grow heavier as you grow older, but for now I imagine you barely know what to make of it. So, put it aside and focus on the present."
Kethe nodded numbly.
"Now." Ainos pulled back her hand. "There are suitable robes in your wardrobe over there. When you are ready, a servant waiting outside your suite will bring you to where the others are awaiting you."
Kethe felt a jolt of panic. "But – Mixis. He hates me. Synesis as well."
Ainos smiled sadly. "No, my dear. They hated Kethe, the girl who killed the being they loved. Perhaps they even erred in hating you as a Consecrated. But now? Now that you have proven yourself to be Makaria, they cannot help but love you in turn."
Kethe shivered and rubbed her hands up and down her arms. Ainos' smile was perfunctory, and with a nod she turned and strode down the length of Kethe's bedchamber. Just as she reached the far door, Kethe called out, "Ainos?"
"Hmm?" The older woman turned, one eyebrow raised.
"Thank you. For coming to speak to me."
Ainos inclined her head. "Of course." Then she walked out and closed the door behind her.
Kethe scooted to the edge of her bed and stepped down to the floor. The intricate patterns of gold and silver thread sewn into the luxurious rug caught her eye and held it. How long, and how many people had it taken to make this rug? It ran the entire length of her room. A dozen expert seamstresses over the course of a whole summer, perhaps? Maybe a year?
She went over to a window and pushed the panes open. Brilliant shades of incarnadine, canary yellow and azure slid over her arms from the stained glass, and then she leaned out and gasped. The entirety of Aletheia was spread out below her, descending into the clouds; tiers and filigree bridges and plazas and towers without end. She had to be at the very top. The First Level? Surely not. That was the realm of the Ascendant and the White Gate itself. She turned and looked up, but the stonecloud receded out of view above her.
Sighing, she rested her chin on her palm and took in the view once more. It was stunning, and she felt her chest expand with emotion. Was she truly Makaria? Or was she Kethe? Was there a difference? Had Kethe grown into Makaria, or was the entire conceit false? She still felt like herself, but then again, what of this new confusion over the White Gate, her Consecration, and her doubts? Were those natural developments of Kethe's philosophy, or a reflection of Makaria's influence on her soul?
It was all too much. She was a Virtue, one of the seven legendary warriors who fought in defense of the Ascendant and his Empire. She still felt loyalty to her mother. But to her cause? If she could help Iskra destroy the White Gate and tear down Ascension, would she?
The question hovered in her mind like a musical note, and Kethe felt shame over her indecision. Of course she'd help her mother, and Asho. Without a doubt. And yet, there was no denying that her certainty was gone.
Kethe sighed and walked over to her wardrobe. It was both monstrously huge and a fascinating work of art; its doors were replete with incredibly complex geometric inlays, and the wood was rich, with fiery depths. Had she thought herself privileged in Kyferin Castle? How little she'd known back then.
She opened a door and saw a wide array of robes, dresses, and other assorted items of clothing hanging inside.
Kethe sighed. She hated having to select a dress.
Fifteen minutes later, the handsome guide who had awaited her outside her suite of rooms – and it really was a suite, six rooms in all, and all of them hers – stopped outside a grand set of double doors. No guards were standing outside them. The young man bowed deeply and stepped back.
Supremely self-conscious, Kethe smoothed down the smoky gray tunic she had chosen. It was wide at the shoulders, allowing ample room for her athletic frame, but tight around the waist and chest. Buttons ran down the left side from shoulder to hip; it had taken her an embarrassingly long time to realize that the right side was meant to be pulled around to the front and buttoned there. At the time she'd thought it flattering, but now she felt strangely vulnerable. But, no matter. There was something martial to its high neck and long sleeves.
She raised her chin, in
haled deeply, and shoved open the huge double doors. They opened easily, and were so perfectly balanced that her forceful push sent them swinging rapidly around to slam into the walls. They bounced back, shaking on their hinges, and the six Virtues inside all turned to stare at her with narrowed eyes.
"Oh," Kethe muttered. She knew that ducking out of sight would only make the situation worse, but the urge was almost overwhelming. "Excuse me." She smoothed down her tunic and tugged at the hem, then darted a glance around the room. "Hello."
The room within was circular, its walls lined with bookcases that extended up three stories, gleaming bands of bronze reinforcing the shelving. It had to be housed within some kind of tower or outcropping, for vertical windows were interspaced between the bookcases all around, looking out over the clouds. The floor was made of a deeply waxed wood, and Kethe's eyes widened as she realized that the rings that extended out from her feet circled the whole room – the entire floor was a single cross section from some ancient tree of mind-numbing proportions.
A rectangular table was dwarfed in the room's center, though nobody was sitting there. Instead, the other Virtues were standing at the windows or reclining on chaise longues, having apparently been relaxing until Kethe's dramatic entrance.
Theletos slipped a leather-bound book back onto its shelf. He was wearing his crimson coat with a dove gray tunic and leggings beneath, and his gaze was half-speculative, half-annoyed. "Welcome, Makaria. I assure you that after your performance at the Quickening, you have no need for further dramatic entrances."
"I – yes." Kethe caught herself tugging at the hem of her tunic again and snatched her hands away.
Synesis was perched, cat-like, on a small ledge perhaps ten yards up a bookcase, no ladder close by, a huge book opened over her crossed legs. She stared down at Kethe with cold, hard eyes. So much for loving me, thought Kethe.
