The Traitor's Reliquary

by Chris Moss

  dated 86th year of the Exile~

  “What are Maal’s plans for the coming spring?” Harpalus watched Kestel for a full minute before moving.

  “I don’t know.” Kestel shivered but refused to give the sinister figure the pleasure of seeing his discomfort. He flicked his gaze around the room instead.

  Several nights a week, the gaunt figure of Harpalus appeared to usher him away, slipping through the barracks like a wraith and leading Kestel into the forgotten passages beneath the Citadel. Kestel never found himself in the same place twice, but it was hard to tell one dark chamber from another. Harpalus seemed to rule the tunnels beneath the Citadel as completely as the Prioress ruled above. Tonight, Kestel found himself in a cave-like cavity near the docks, the sound of the waves a distant thunder and a salty tang in the air. A desk had been set up at one end. There Harpalus sat, nested amongst reports, scrolls, and strange devices, quizzing him.

  Kestel focused on breathing and tried not to let the spidery figure see his growing pain. It had been weeks since he had tasted Bloodwyne. He knew by now that he suffered from a full withdrawal—feeling emotional, pained, and shaky whenever he pushed himself. Even others had noticed, but Kestel refused to be taken to see a healing cleric.

  “I’ll deal with this on my own,” he said to Arbalis, gasping and pushing him away after training. Worry lines deepened in the old man’s forehead, but he nodded. Kestel hoped Arbalis hadn’t seen him dry retching the night before.

  “What does Caducum mean?” said Kestel pushing down the pain in his gut. “You said it to Arbalis before, and I heard General Dio use it on Mollis and Calla.”

  Harpalus placed the map down on the desk, strewing a handful of white sand over it to blot the ink. “The term was originally a joke by the good General. It means one devoted to death, taken here as both a comment on their work and a description of the type of men who do it.”

  “Then why does Arbalis do it?”

  “A decade ago, Lychra Maal sent an assassin to kill the Prioress. Arbalis was the Commander of the Praetorian Guard, but failed to protect his mistress when the critical moment came. Now he performs certain delicate tasks for me as his penance.”

  Kestel opened his mouth to ask more, but a flick of Harpalus’s slender fingers silenced him.

  “How are you getting along with your fellow Praetoria?”

  Kestel’s head snapped up, eyes narrowing in suspicion. “Everything’s fine,” he said, letting just a sliver of anger creep into his voice.

  “Really?” Harpalus looked amused at Kestel’s defiance. “Settling in nicely, are we? How very domestic. Surely you must have some...objections.”

  Calla’s name rose to Kestel’s lips, but withered away at the sight of the Spymaster’s smile. Kestel’s lip curled into a snarl. “I’ll not betray them to you.”

  “You betrayed your fellows once already, Proditorum.”

  The Spymaster waited for Kestel to respond, but he only glared back.

  Damn you. Kestel couldn’t stop himself from rubbing his forehead.

  “The symbolism of the tattoo is, of course, a marking of ownership. Some marks for indentured servants, some for criminals and some for slaves. But the Proditorum...” Harpalus leaned forward with a slight smile. “...is below even that. It is the traitor’s mark, and those who wear it are not even property. They are not even human.”

  Kestel’s hackles rose, the anger triggering the hollow pain in his stomach. “Never call me a traitor again,” he whispered, “or I will kill you.”

  Far from daunted, the dark-robed figure chuckled, as one might when coddling a child. “I am not your enemy, Kestel. I am here to help you.” Harpalus offered a small, brown earthenware jar.

  Kestel regarded it as he would a poisonous snake. “What is it?”

  “Concentrated chamomile oil, with a few other ingredients,” whispered Harpalus. “A treatment that could, in time, remove that mark—”

  “If I become your informant.”

  Harpalus’s amused expression widened. “You place your faith in soldiers, Kestel—men who order you about and call you their boy. Yes, I know about that, too, but trust me, Kestel, such men are frail, despite their bluster. And I would see you be strong.”

  Kestel nodded, staring at the small jar, but refusing to move.

  “It isn’t a hard decision, Kestel. We share a similar past, you see, growing up on the streets, taking what we could hold, and living by wit and guile. What would they know—who’ve never spent a night cold, hungry and alone?”

  Kestel blinked, trying to shake off his building confusion. “You...”

  “Oh, yes.” Harpalus nodded. “I know what it’s like to scrape food off a rubbish heap, to collect fresh rainwater and hide it somewhere safe. Heed me, Kestel. Give me your trust, and together there is no foe we cannot overcome.”

  Kestel tried to back away, but could not. His eyes darkened, shadows swimming just outside of his vision. Staring at the small jar in Harpalus’s hand, he saw every wrinkle—every chip and scar the container had accrued. And he wanted it. Despite Arbalis’s dutiful trust, despite Mollis’s unthinking acceptance, deep down, he could only rely on himself. No matter how hollow that truth left him, he was alone, beholden to no one—especially this grinning snake.

  “No,” said Kestel, biting off the word as if sour in his mouth.

  Harpalus’s expression froze, but only for a moment. “I shall take that as a not yet, Kestel. In the end, you will see that I am the only one you can rely on. By the way, how is your diet these days? Is there anything missing that you need?”

  A black-robed cleric appeared out of a crevice, interrupting Kestel’s reply. Harpalus recovered from his surprised expression, and took a small note proffered by the man. He waved the agent to the side of the room without a word. The Spymaster read the message in silence, broken only by the slow drip of water and dull rumble of surf. As soon as he finished, Harpalus destroyed the note, holding it over the small candle on his desk. He slumped back in his chair, silence prevailing, before he sprang up and headed for the same opening in the wall.

  “This conversation will have to be finished at another time. Fetch your friends and meet me beneath the Seine Bridge, immediately. My servant will show you the way. Tell them a cleric has been murdered.”

  6

  Day 30: prisoner exhibited cramps, vomiting, emotional stress, and made a number of quite graphic threats against the Citadel.

  Day 36: prisoner has collapsed and is unable to stand, appears to be in extreme pain. Restraints on the wrists and ankles required for full examination. No longer able to eat or drink.

  Day 39: prisoner has died. Unclear if dehydration played a role, but a broken spine suggests extreme convulsions as the cause of death.

  ~from ‘Report on the effects of Bloodwyne withdrawal on Sacred Realm prisoners,’ by Scriptor Galen, dated 23rd year of the Exile~

  Thick, gray pre-dawn mist rolled off the sea near the main docks. Picking his way across the pebbled beach, Harpalus stopped for a moment to consider the ironstone cliffs stretching away before him. Here the docks gave way to bare rock—featureless, save the rotting bridges that once connected the bay to the edge of town.

  Before the Exsilium arrived, the docks had serviced the Caelbor living on the cliff’s edge. However, after the New Citadel was founded, the population drifted away toward the gentler slopes of the new city, leaving the area largely abandoned.

  No one has used these paths for a very long time—until now.

  “Why is this place called the Seine Bridge?” said Kestel, walking behind him.

  “An old Caelbor word for fishermen,” said Mollis. “Before the New Citadel was built, the wives of the fishermen would sell their wares here. They would set up stalls under the bridge and use the pylons to hang and mend their nets.”

  Ignoring the boy and soldiers, Harpalus made his way into the gloom beneath the structure, ducking past slimy wood and rusted bolts. In the half-light, he brushe
d past chains that clinked as he moved them—a testament to the bridge’s popularity at one time. Looking up, he examined the limp figure dangling among the metal links.

  “Sweet Angel,” said a man behind him in a breathy curse.

  Harpalus hitched up one of the wooden supports and turned the corpse until he could see its face.

  So, it is her. He had hoped it wasn’t, but his agents were too well trained to make such a mistake. Poor Amelia. He resisted the urge to brush an errant hair from her cold cheek. You got careless, and someone finally caught up with you.

  Beaten, the late Sister Amelia’s unstaring eyes glistened in a purple face. Her hands were bound behind her back, but one elbow jutted out in an awkward position from her gray robes.

  Harpalus’s mind spun into action, cataloguing the cuts, scars, and bruises, the blood on the young woman’s hands, the way the head hung at an odd angle in death.

  She was attacked from behind, but the first blow didn’t finish her. She defended herself but was probably bludgeoned unconscious by the time her assailant strung her up. A small mercy, perhaps.

  Agile as a cat, the Spymaster dropped onto the dirty pebbles and turned to the three waiting soldiers. Mollis, looking grave, his muscular olive arms folded across his barrel chest, watched the late Amelia swing among the chains. Harpalus considered the big man far too empathic for a soldier, but this quality helped bind his disgraced comrades together.

  The Spymaster’s gaze flicked to Mollis’s companions. Calla regarded the scene with loathing, which Harpalus considered unsurprising given her history, but Kestel looked far too unconcerned. Harpalus was still surprised Kestel had rejected his offer, although he suspected it was not out of his newfound sense of loyalty to his comrades in arms. Acting on instinct, Harpalus called out.

  “Kestel, how long has this woman been dead?”

  Kestel regarded the scene. “She’s still stiff, so less than a night. She’ll probably loosen up a bit by noon.”

  Harpalus knew better than to question the boy in front of the other men, but Kestel’s attitude fascinated him. “What would you have done if this were the Sacred Realm?”

  “Are the clothes worth anything?” The young man’s blank stare gave him no added insight.

  Not for the first time, Harpalus wondered what those cold, brown eyes had seen, but whenever he probed for details of the newcomer’s early life in the Sacred Realm, Kestel remained silent as the grave. Nonetheless, the Spymaster noted how the young man barely masked the pain of a full Bloodwyne withdrawal. Harpalus ferreted away the observation for later use, before turning to the other two soldiers.

  “Cut her down and take her to the Citadel morgue—quietly. Use the second passage behind the weapons storage room, then collect your Commander and meet me in the Prioress’s offices in an hour.”

  Harpalus took a final look at the remains of his former agent, a grim conclusion arising from his subconscious. This is not a murder—it’s a challenge to the Citadel. This reeks of the League of Nobles. What game are the Caelbor playing?

  7

  Sweet Angel pray for us, for the arrogance and pride that cost us our homeland.

  Saint Caspar, pray for us.

  Saint Rene, pray for us.

  That thou wouldst deliver us, we beseech thee.

  ~Litany of the Saints, updated wording approved by Prioress Amalthea,

  34th year of the Exile~

  Kestel and his companions wandered through the Praetorian barracks, looking for Arbalis amongst the waking men. Mollis walked out onto the practice courts.

  “Ho, Gallius, have you seen the Commander this morning?”

  Gallius, clad only in breeches and limbering up with a stave, gestured toward the Citadel complex rising above the barracks roof. “He’s attending the dawn service. Usual spot.”

  Mollis, nodding in thanks, led Calla and Kestel through the yards and into the Citadel complex, the high black walls curving away on either side.

  Blinking in the gray light, Kestel looked up and examined the buildings before him. The Citadel sat in the middle of a constellation of smaller buildings—a cylindrical structure with two large wings sweeping outward on opposite sides. Constructed in the style of the Old Capital, the front of the edifice had enormous pillars supporting a wide triangle, behind which sat a low dome blocking out the morning sun.

  Kestel had become familiar enough with the building to pick out the differences between it and the ruin in the Old Capital. Less than half the size of its predecessor, the New Citadel’s sleek, smooth walls weren’t adorned with the carvings and sculptures that once graced the Old Citadel. The Exsilium had also chosen a different color, opting for glassy black stone rather than the creamy marble of the Old Citadel. The dome itself still featured a black and white pattern. On closer examination, Kestel found white marble shot through with veins of black and blue. Nodding to the two Praetorian stationed at the side entrance to the western wing, Mollis and Calla ducked through the small wooden door and up a flight of stairs to a wide balcony running the entire length of the roof. Above them, the ceiling arched the wide space in black and white stone, rimmed at the edges with orange marble and gold. Below them yawned the entire west wing of the Citadel, a massive chapel dedicated to Aedron, which was, in turn, dwarfed by the central hall.

  Kestel spotted Arbalis on the far side of the balcony and followed the other men. The sounds of worshippers rose up from below. Kestel leaned over to watch the scene. Several stories down, a gray-and-blue-robed cleric led dozens of her brethren in a complex ritual chant. The clerics shifted off the wide wooden seats and bowed their heads in concentration. The rising intensity of the song changed the air around the choir, taking on a warm silvery glow. The sight made Kestel’s hackles rise, hitting him with a wave of nausea. He stumbled back, his stomach burning. Defiant in the face of the pain, he shook his head and staggered over to where the other three soldiers talked.

  “When did this happen?” whispered Arbalis, rubbing his meaty chin with a gauntleted fist.

  “The boy says less than a day,” said Calla, her angry tone rising. “She was harmless—probably one of the Spymaster’s damn agents—but still just a girl.”

  Kestel tried to speak, but the entire Citadel seemed to spin around him. Clutching one hand to the acid pain in his abdomen, he tried to grab the balcony rail but missed. He fell to his knees. He grew aware of Arbalis and Mollis running to him, even Calla looked down with concern, but Kestel couldn’t make his tongue work.

  Once again, a shadowy sensation of falling came, but the presence of the Citadel and chanting clerics amplified the feeling. An unseen void crowded around him, filling his insides with pain.

  Arbalis bent close. “Lad. Speak to me. What’s the matter?”

  Kestel shook his head, watching with mounting horror at a gray shadow detaching itself from the miasma. It bent down in perfect concert with the old soldier. He tried to wriggle away, but the shadow reached out, dark and oppressive as Maal’s prison. He tried to scream, giving in to the rising terror, but Kestel’s dry and swollen tongue lay like a lump in his throat. He curled up in pain, choking in gulps.

  Lost in his own private hell, Kestel dreamed. Buffeted in a cruel wind, his body twisted this way and that, his hands flailing for something solid to cling to. He looked down at the searing pain in his guts. Dark-golden blood seeped from wounds on his belly.

  Kestel found himself back in Maal’s dungeon, chained once more to a wall. Above him, a torturer yelled incoherently, his muscles beginning to stretch in grotesque ways to fit inside the room. The now monstrous figure, wrapped in blood-stained leathers, reached down with a meaty, gnarled hand.

  “Please, help me.” Kestel wept, his last reserve of self-respect crumbling with the words. “Please. Please, don’t leave me here.”

  The torturer brought a hammer-like fist down into Kestel’s face. His pain flared into frustrated rage, exploding from his chest with tendrils of crimson smoke that shredded not only the m
onster, but the chains binding him and the very walls of the cell itself.

  The scene shifted to the Praetorian baths. Feeling his way through the thick steam, Kestel watched Calla drift past, her burnt back still bubbling and hissing. With one eye, black as pitch, the soldier sneered, dark poison dripping from her lips.

  “What are you staring at, boy?”

  Kestel stumbled back, bumping into a steel giant with Mollis’s face, who glared down from a now much taller height.

  “I’m disappointed in you, boy. I’m disappointed in you, boy.”

  Kestel pushed past the dream-Mollis, who dissolved back into gray mist. He barreled through the bathhouse doors, but the scene shifted. He looked down at the cavernous space of Aedron’s Chapel, with Arbalis by his side.

  “What’s going on?” said Kestel, but the old man wasn’t responsive.

  A robed figure stood next to Arbalis—pale-skinned, middle aged, with a wide, bushy beard. The figure turned and looked into Kestel’s eyes, pinning him with a powerful gaze. On the robed figure’s chest hung a silver chain from which dangled a sealed vial cut from crystal, containing a tiny, gray shard.

  “Who are you? Why are you wearing that chain?” Hearing no response, Kestel turned to the unmoving Arbalis. The old soldier wore the same silver chain around his neck.

  Kestel reached out to pull the necklace free. The entire Citadel shook, the walls creaking and buckling in the murky light. Stumbling away from the balcony edge, Kestel saw the black and white dome of the central space crumble, cracks extending into the orange and gold arches above him. In the black sky above, a silvery bulk shouldered its way into the wide space of the chapel, seven long necks curling down toward the balcony.

  Kestel wanted to run, but found himself rooted to the spot.

  The hydra.

  In his dreams, the beast appeared every bit as terrifying as in the Amphitheater, but this time, the entire length of the creature’s body wept orange blood. The metallic-silver hackles around Musmahu’s shoulders rose and shook.