by Chris Moss
“Not long enough.”
Eriwasteg wrapped the blanket tightly around her wrist and motioned for Kestel to stay close.
“What are you doing?” Kestel watched as the young woman covered her entire arm and hand.
“Get ready,” said Eriwasteg through gritted teeth. “I’m going to reach in there. When one of these bastards bites the blanket, I’ll pull it out and you cut the head off.”
Kestel shook his head. “Eri, this is madness, there’s no way—”
“We’re out of time! Just be ready.”
The weak light from Kestel’s torch didn’t illuminate the Baavghirla much, but even in the dark, Kestel could see the young woman shaking.
“Alright.” Kestel drew his sword with one hand and stood close.
Trembling, Eriwasteg grunted and stepped forward, plunging her wrapped hand into the muddy reeds. Kestel held the flickering torch high, expecting an immediate attack. However, the night remained still—only the sound of nearby frogs and Eriwasteg’s hard breathing could be heard.
“Calm down,” said Kestel, looking over at Eriwasteg.
The young woman’s tangled, wet curls stuck to her muddy face, her focus on the reeds in front of her. “Then talk to me. What are you going to do if we actually find something to defeat Maal?”
“I didn’t really expect to survive this long,” Kestel whispered. “To be honest, I came along looking for the first chance to escape. I had some idea I was going to run off and plan some type of revenge on Maal all on my own.”
“And now?”
Kestel shrugged, making the small torch flicker and almost extinguish. “Now, I don’t know. But I don’t want to be any kind of Herald, regardless of what Arbalis thinks.”
“He’s not going to let it go.”
“Well, what about you?” Kestel stared at the jumble of shapes and shadows half-hidden in the reeds. “Assuming we live through this?”
“I can’t go back home, unless it’s to marry into another pritju, so I don’t really know either. I think I’d like to travel—perhaps go explore the southern continent.”
The pair crouched together in silence, their bodies frozen with tension, too scared to look away from the dark mass in front of them. Eriwasteg cleared her throat.
“You know, you could always come along—”
She screamed and jerked back her hand. Attached to the blanket, a thick, black shape thrashed, trying to coil itself around Eriwasteg’s arm.
“Kill it!” she yelled. “Kestel, kill it now!”
Kestel brought the torch to bear, but he could only make out flashes of Eriwasteg’s terrified muddy face and a fleeting pattern of scales reflecting in the torchlight. Desperate, he lurched forward and grabbed the creature, succeeding in grasping it halfway down its ropy length. He brought his sword down, and the coil of the dark body flopped into the mud with a splash. Eriwasteg tore the blanket from her arm and threw it into the mud, where the rest of the dying Musmakan writhed.
“I’m alright!” She gasped. “The fangs didn’t break through. Quick, grab the body!”
Kestel reached down for the still-struggling snake but saw a dozen thick, black shapes bleed out of the tangled reeds and slither toward them.
“Get back!” Kestel swept the flickering torch back and forth in front of the snakes.
The tiny light reflected back in a dozen pair of black eyes, and revealed a flash of stubby white fangs from several snakes already rearing back with open mouths. Kestel’s heart raced, but he darted forward and snatched up the wriggling carcass. Dropping the torch, he reached for Eriwasteg’s hand. The pair scrambled back through the mire, but Kestel risked one last look back. He caught a glimpse of Gvarl’s body wrapped in black snakes before the fog closed in around them.
Trembling and exhausted, Kestel found his way back to the iridescent stone. Tollit had built a fire to keep Calla warm. Eriwasteg took her knife and sliced the snake’s body open, squeezing the blood and other fluids into Calla’s mouth. Kestel slumped against the stone, too tired to even dry his clothes.
He awoke hours later shivering in the clammy fog. Blinking, he saw Tollit and Eriwasteg fast asleep by the fire. Arbalis still cradled Calla, watching her labored breathing.
Looking at the old soldier’s hard expression, Kestel pulled himself up. “Arbalis, we need to talk.”
Arbalis’s expression softened and he nodded for him to sit next to him. “Aye, I thought you would.”
“Arbalis, I know how much faith you’ve placed in your Prioress, but I’m not your Herald. They were all holy men and women.”
Arbalis opened his mouth to speak, but Kestel plowed on, afraid to stop. “Look at me, Arbalis. Really look at me. I’m nothing. I used to work for the woman you’re trying to stop! I’m not wise, or holy, or even very good. You don’t even know half of the things I did for Lychra Maal.”
Arbalis hung his head and stayed silent for a long time, but when he raised his head and spoke, Kestel saw moisture in the corners of the veteran’s eyes. “I’m sorry, boy. I should never have foisted this onto you.”
Astounded, Kestel’s arguments died on his lips.
“You’ve come such a long way from when we snatched you from the hydra—remember? All I saw in you then was a wiry, little thug who spat bile at the entire world. Maal had done so much damage to you.”
“Maal?” said Kestel.
“Aye, lad—but I’ve watched you grow. You’ve turned into a fine man. One any commander would be proud to have. You’ve never run from a fight. You look out for your comrades. And you’ve followed me all the way to this point, even though I’ve forced my burdens on you.”
Kestel licked his dry lips. “Do you really think we’ll find the secret to Maal’s power in the Sepulchre?”
Arbalis stared into Calla’s scarred face for a moment before speaking.
“Do you know how long I’ve been fighting Maal?” The old man’s calloused hands shook. “My entire life. My entire life. I joined the Praetorian when I was only thirteen. I’ve been fighting ever since. I gave up my youth for it. I gave up my family, my plans—even the woman who was the love of my life.”
The bronzed veteran’s eyes turned moist. He blinked and looked away. Kestel didn’t know how to react to the awkward situation.
“Ten years ago, I lost my command when I couldn’t protect the Prioress. But I still served, taking missions that soldiers aren’t meant to survive. And now I’m tired and worn out, with nothing to my name save a crossbow and the one soldier under my command that I haven’t killed. If we fail, all my decisions count for naught.”
“Commander, you have more than that.” Kestel placed his hand on Arbalis’s arm. “You have my loyalty, and Eri’s. We won’t leave you, not until we’ve found what we’re looking for.”
Arbalis nodded but dropped his gaze toward the ground. “Leave me, lad. I’m an old man and I’m overwrought. Get some sleep—I’ll watch over Calla.”
Kestel nodded and went to curl up in his blankets. Lying in the darkness, he stared at the mist while Arbalis’s words echoed in the silence.
The next morning Eriwasteg shook him awake. “It didn’t work!”
“What’s going on?” Bleary-eyed, Kestel rubbed his dirty face and tried to wave Eri away.
“Calla’s gotten worse,” said the young woman, her tone urgent. “She doesn’t have much longer.”
Kestel scrambled to his feet and staggered over to the smoking remains of the fire. Tollit stood, wringing his hands, looking desperately for something to burn, but Arbalis was as motionless as the stone towering over them. He cradled Calla’s limp form, staring at her face.
Calla’s skin had turned blotchy and gray, and even the scars covering her face and arms looked pale. Her breathing now slow and shallow, the tiny jerks of her chest seemed to take all the strength she had left.
“No!” yelled Kestel. “But we found the cure! Why didn’t it work?”
“It was always a long shot, boy.” Arbal
is reached down and swept a wisp of dirty blonde hair away from Calla’s cheek. “There’s nothing more we can do.”
There is, said Creven.
“Shut up!” Kestel glared at the reliquary hanging off his hip. “Not this again!”
Tollit and Eriwasteg looked at Kestel in shock, but Arbalis silenced them with a wave.
You can cure her. Creven’s voice lacked its usual mocking edge. Take up the mantle of responsibility, and you will have the Authority to save her.
“I am not your puppet!”
No, you’re not. You never have been. You have always made your own choices, Kestel. And now you will choose whether she lives or dies.
“Curse you!”
I already have been.
Kestel screwed up his face in frustration, blinking away the tears threatening to come. Looking down at Calla lying like a rag doll across Arbalis’s lap, he put his hands over his eyes and shook his head.
“What do I have to do?” he whispered. “Is there a spell, a prayer?”
Nothing like that. You just have to accept the Authority of being the Herald, and the responsibility that goes with it. Your Authority will come with limits, but as long as you act within them, that which you proclaim will come to be.
Kestel rubbed his eyes and glared at the motionless, scarred woman. “I want you to live!” He waved a hand at her.
The others turned hopeful expressions toward the soldier, but Calla lay silent, her breath only the tiniest whisper. Arbalis’s face collapsed and he looked away into the morning fog.
It’s not about what you wish for, said Creven. It’s about recognizing what change is needed and accepting the consequences of the choice you make.
Kestel growled and shook his head but stepped forward and knelt by Calla. Gazing at the scars on her face, he thought of their first meeting and everything they’d done together since. His vision shifted, as it had done in the Citadel, expanding to recognize all the choices, the successes and pains that led Calla to this point. Calla’s last few breaths escaped into the cold air. Understanding dawned on him. She had shaped his life, and a decision settled into place.
“Calla, you will not die yet. I need you to live.”
Kestel looked around, hoping for some flash of light, or a trumpet to sound, or even some kind of tingle in his hands. Calla simply coughed and her breathing deepened. Her skin returned to blushing pink, the gray-and-blue-blotches fading away. In less than a minute, Calla looked healthy, as if the entire affair had been nothing more than a passing inconvenience.
The scarred woman’s remaining eye fluttered. “What’s going on, boy? Why are you all staring at me?”
Tollit whooped in triumph and Arbalis nodded, his face wet with tears, but wearing a relieved smile.
“Thank you,” he said. “I never thought I’d live to see this. Thank you.”
About time, Herald, said Creven. Took you long enough.
Kestel raised an eyebrow, ready to reply, but Eriwasteg stepped forward and leaned toward him. Her kiss was the briefest touch on the lips, but the sensation coursed through Kestel’s body as if he had been struck by lightning.
“Well done,” Eriwasteg whispered, and stepped away to help Calla to her feet.
Touching his lips, Kestel looked at the young woman in surprise, but Arbalis had already struggled to standing and was issuing orders.
29
Rowan’s men have lodged themselves in an inn near the Old Docks with an innkeeper who is known to be sympathetic to the League of Nobles. A total of 46 soldiers and 12 archers have been confirmed. Sir Hammon is leading the group, but has lodged himself at a separate inn closer to the Regal Estate.
~from a report to Spymaster Harpalus, dated 100th year of the Exile~
“The next Prelate has arrived, sir.”
“Very good.” Harpalus wrote a short note and handed it to one of the agents standing around him. The secretary scurried out of the room. The Spymaster’s gaze flicked up to the open window just in time to see a dark carriage pull up in front of the Chapel of Saint Anne. A Caelbor man climbed out, clad in a black cleric’s robe, the darkness punctuated with a bright-red stole.
“Prelate Gato,” Harpalus whispered, watching the man put a book back into the coach. “Only one more to go.”
“A runner has reported that Prelate Millner has left his mansion, sir,” said another agent, nodding, dark hair falling over her eyes. “He should be here shortly.”
“Is Julia in position?”
“Yes, sir. The signal was just sent.”
Good. She can stay there. Harpalus scanned the jumble of tiled roofs running up against the thick wall that marked the boundary between the Regal Estate and the larger city. The white limestone reminded the Spymaster of thick ocean spray that threatened to wash over the entire island, the short towers of the chapel the only bulwark against the tide.
Of course, now it’s more like a rat-hole the vermin use to sneak in. Harpalus watched the Prelate nod to the attendants rushing out to escort him into the gray building. The Spymaster was about to turn away, when a second carriage pulled in behind the first.
“The final Prelate has arrived,” said Harpalus. “Send out the ready message.”
The young woman nodded and darted out the door, leaving Harpalus alone to examine the final suspect. Prelate Millner’s appearance seemed ill-fitted to his lofty position in the Citadel. The Caelbor man had a bland, almost non-descript countenance, with sandy blonde hair and a few wrinkles that placed his age somewhere in his mid-forties. Harpalus knew, from long observation, that the figure walking into the Chapel was one of the most powerful living wielders of the Aeris. His grip on the otherworldly force rivalled that of the Silver Prioress.
The Spymaster’s eyes narrowed, remembering Sister Amelia’s body hanging from the Seine Bridge. Well, if I find him with a servant of Rowan’s, we’ll see how his magic fares against a knife through the back of the skull. He turned from the window and headed for the door.
The interior of the Chapel of Saint Anne remained solemn—as always—the ritual meditation at the shrine a tradition. Old, long before the New Citadel established itself on the island. The assembled clerics went about their business in practiced silence. The higher-ranking clerics sat in private, wooden booths, while the rank and file knelt in long rows, bowing their heads in concentration. The faint, silver glow signified a combined manipulation of the Aeris suffusing the room. The appointed cleric began to light the candles along the dusty frescoes illuminating the life of Saint Anne, motioning for the men and women of the group to rise in response to the ancient prayer.
“Stay where you are, and no one gets hurt!” said Harpalus.
“What is…”
The clamor of thirty armed men piling into the packed hall drowned out the rest of the robed-figure’s words. Overturning statues and tables, they rushed forward. Some of the clerics, already ensconced in their meditations, sat oblivious, while their less pious brethren jumped up and crowded toward the private booths at the far end. Harpalus pushed his way to the front of the intruders, shadowed by Gyges’s muscular frame, blank eyes scanning the room.
“I repeat—stay where you are.” Harpalus drew a long knife from his sleeve and held it ready. “If you don’t give us any trouble, no blood will be spilt today. Where are the Prelates?”
A cleric blustered at the command. “You cannot—”
“Be quiet. I am here on Citadel business. Now, where are they?”
In the chaos, some clerics pointed and accused, while others shouted, desperate for a way out. The slow and deliberate creaking of a door opening, silenced the din.
Harpalus’s pulse hummed, waiting for the booth’s occupant to emerge. Who is it going to be? The soldier, the scholar, the bureaucrat or…
“Time to go to work, boys! For House Wulwyn!”
The Spymaster’s head whipped around just in time to spot an incoming axe thrown from a side door. Snapping back, he caught a glimpse of another set of s
oldiers pouring in through the smaller entrance. Led by two Caelbor—a stocky blonde who beat his way through the clerics with hammer-like fists, and a tall, bearded man who pulled out a cudgel and threw himself into Harpalus’s agents.
Lady Mantis’s men, out for revenge. I knew Julia should have killed them. He pushed the bitter thought aside as the two forces collided. The Spymaster ducked and spun, trying to keep his injured body out of the thick of the fight. He needed to get to the rows of wooden booths along the far end of the hall, but a knot of men fell on him. A tangle of bloodied faces and thrashing limbs, too angry or afraid to back away, obscured Harpalus’s vision. Gyges’s thick hands appeared, thrusting their way into the scrum to pull him to safety.
Harpalus kicked his legs free of the tumult and scanned the room for the Prelates. Niena’s and Gato’s black robes could just be seen amongst the fearful Clergy trying to press themselves into the far wall. Prelate Darius picked up a sword and launched himself into the fray.
That’s three. Harpalus lunged forward and grabbed a mercenary by the jerkin. He kneed the luckless man in the groin and searched for Gyges.
“Gyges, get up here! We need to get the Prelates to safety. Follow me.”
The old killer nodded and brushed off the two men facing him with one mighty sweep, clearing a path toward the far end of the hall.
“Angel’s arseholes,” Harpalus said, spotting Lady Mantis’s two servants plowing their way toward the Prelates, scattering the clerics before them. Before the two men could lay a hand on the Citadel leaders, the furthest booth exploded, sending the servants flying and toppling every cleric, agent, and mercenary nearby.
From the shattered booth, a short, average-looking man strode into the small space and waved toward the nearest armed figure. Thrown to the roof by an unseen force, the armed figure was shredded into red pulp before the screaming onlookers. Stunned, Harpalus pulled Gyges back toward the center of the hall, watching red rain drizzle over the dusty frescoes.
