by Addison Cain
It took her some time to realize Sovereign cradled her against his chest, that they were speaking to her, praising such a giving performance.
“Beloved,” nipping her nape between words, Sovereign enticed, “every day will be better. You will never be lonely. You will never be frightened. This faith you have shown me, I will pay it back tenfold.”
It was Karhl who saw her expression constrict, her lips losing their softness when too much thinking wrecked her calm. He took her chin in a rough pinch, assuring she listened to every word. “You are not on Condor. Handlers cannot tell you how to feel. Neither can Sovereign. Neither can I. And neither can corroding programming. From this day forward, you must think for yourself.”
“You are free, beloved.” Sovereign rolled his hips to remind her, to press his liquid offering deeper. “That is what I offer you.”
And then rose to leave her spent and tangled in the sheets to consider. Sovereign eased from her womb, brushing lips over her knotted brow as he excused himself to prepare for court. Karhl offered his own farewell, kissing her moody pout away before departing to attend to his own duties.
With the emperor and Lord Commander gone, Arden waited at the door, an audience she’d failed to notice in the pleasure of the pairing. Smiling, the Herald took in her disheveled nudity, drew her from the bed, and pulled her deeper into the mountain. Sun disappeared, fire lit catacombs offering a sense of depth until the beauty of a natural spring bubbled up under lamplight.
While Sigil scanned the vast cave, Arden shoved her into the steaming water, laughing even as he stripped his tunic to join her.
Splashing, chasing the sputtering woman through the pool, Arden incited games Sigil didn’t quite understand, coaxing out a predator’s love for hunt and evasion.
She would give chase; he would disappear, splashing her from behind.
In no time at all, the brilliant Herald coaxed out the first laugh any survivor of Cataclysm had ever heard their female sing.
***
“What are the Soshiia?”
Arden glanced up from where he’d placed his journals in an alcove. The golden one tilted up the corner of his lips, and seemed to think on his answer. “Every society has their anarchist.”
That wasn’t exactly the answer Sigil had been looking for. Scowling, she looked at his books. “Sovereign told me your journals told the story.”
Returning to his work, Arden admitted, “I suppose they do.”
Staring at the long plait of golden hair that hung down the entire length of his spine, Sigil grunted, “And if I want to know, I have to read? You won’t just tell me.”
“It’s a complicated explanation requiring a detailed understanding of our history. Anything I might tell you in casual conversation would lack the necessary depth of the truth.”
Leaning back on the red damask couch, Sigil understood. “So it’s something terrible... I will blame the empire for it unless I understand the why of it. And to understand the why of it I have to commit to absorbing a lot more than just the story of a rebel group.”
“Maybe.”
He was teasing her. She could sense the playfulness, and could not help but smirk. “I thought you were supposed to be on my side.”
Utterly serious, Arden turned so she might see his fervent expression. “I am on your side, Sigil. I will always be on your side.”
Pointing to the volumes, Sigil sighed. “Give me one.”
Pleased, Arden pulled a red bound book from the shelf and held it out. “You have enough time before Dryden and Corths arrive, to read at least the initial instalment.”
She’d only shared evening meals with the High Adherents at the Water Palace, never had they come to her rooms midday. Unhappy with the thought, she ground her teeth and opened the cover.
“It would break their hearts to see you scowl so at the prospect of their company. They love you greatly, Sister, and are only coming to assure your attendants behave in accordance with the honor of their position.”
Now she was really annoyed. “What?”
“Each Convert woman was hand selected—reared—to please you.”
“Slavery is illegal in the Empire.”
Arden laughed as if she’d said something cute. “Believe me, the females are willing, eager even. For humans with no military skill, who lack influential bloodlines, there is little opportunity to advance. Considering your needs, it is an ideal arrangement on both sides.” He had a further point to make. “No son, no daughter, or anyone tied to a human house of standing could possibly be in your intimacy without upsetting the balance of power. So, several of your Brothers have taken it upon themselves to cultivate your retainers from the lowest tribes, sending them as gifts.”
It seemed the Brothers played at politics with each other just as the humans did... all seeking favor. “Why would I need attendants?”
“To dress you, bathe you, amuse you, and even die for you should the situation require. If you want silence, they will be mute. If you desire court gossip, they will disclose anything they uncover.”
She shook her head. “They would be loyal to the Brother who’d raised them, directing their conversation to uplift the one who gave them the position.”
There was no advantage on lying on that point. “Fortunately, you are an empath and can use such an extraordinary sense to protect yourself from the unworthy.”
He had earned Sigil’s attention, the female sitting up on her elbows. “Are you warning me against your Brothers?”
“As I said, I am on your side.”
Narrowing her eyes, Sigil cocked her head and looked hard at the man putting away trinkets like a servant. “Just how fragile is your compact with one another?”
Smiling, beautiful, Arden reached forward and ran a finger over her jaw. “Everything you need to know is in my journals.”
It was obvious how badly Arden wanted her to read his account of things, how manipulative the Herald was behaving. That did not stop her from lowering her eyes to the page and starting at the beginning.
Chapter 6
The sensation of thick cosmetic dragging over her skin was unpleasant, how they tinted every last ounce of flesh, pointless in Sigil’s opinion. But she stood stagnant while five women, all so different it seemed they’d been chosen as art, painted her body white.
The attendants were quiet, focused on their work, just as they had been each time they had invaded her space. The Convert females, Sigil found, were harmless. Weak. They behaved as complaisant dolls, wandering about in a fixed internal state of awe. But she wasn’t sure if it was her they were in awe of, or the High Adherent overseeing the dressing of the Imperial Consort.
The women wouldn’t meet Sigil’s watchful eyes, too busy in the artful application of inky script flowing down her limbs; they were too busy painting a new face over the one she already owned. But they did send furtive glances toward Dryden, constantly gauging his appraisal.
He, apparently, was the gatekeeper to a position of high desirability. He was also exacting no matter how softly he smiled. Done up in full regalia far more ornamental than the military uniform of Brotherhood soldiers or the tailored tunics of Heralds, his short cropped hair hidden under a miter etched with the same symbols a doe eyed attendant painted between Sigil’s breasts, Dryden looked ridiculous.
It was nothing compared to the layers of fabric they would pull over her, constructed gowns the attendants would lace and tighten, layer and hook. And once they were done, all clothing would be removed, an hour’s effort wasted.
Sigil did not like restrictive garments. She didn’t like the paint, the jewels, the weight of complex headpieces, or the taste of black lacquer on her lips.
More importantly, Sigil refused to leave her rooms, making the dressing unnecessary—mere practice for future excursions.
Three days she’d remained sequestered. For three days Dryden had tried to tempt her out, offering to show her the palace, the gardens, the tombs, anything he thought might en
tice. Arden had remained neutral on the topic, always near, the Herald’s arms crossed over his chest and a sly smirk on his mouth as he watched the procedure.
Sigil suspected the Herald remained silent because Arden was getting what he wanted. She spent her waking hours reading his vast collection of journals—much to her frustration. Even after ten volumes, she had yet to come across mention of the word ‘Soshiia,’ but she could name every last Brother who had died since the formation of the Empire. She could list battles, and noble houses. She knew the names of Imperial planets, how they were captured, if they were converted or slaughtered.
Sovereign had not commented on the matter of her isolation. Nor had Karhl. Perhaps they condoned it; Sigil didn’t know, and she didn’t want to know.
All in all, time in the Imperial Palace was similar to her seasons on the water planet. Always food waited in a hall austere in its black stone and bronze veined walls. Rooms were filled with items collected to entertain her. But where the Water Palace soaked rooms in sun, there was scant natural light in these new vaulted caverns. Every room faded into the shadows, every space seemingly carved out of the mountains of Irdesi Prime.
But there had been a glowing room she’d seen upon being dragged in by Karhl days ago. A domed ceiling of stained glass, tier after tier of arcades circling up like a cathedral—the gallery at the heart of the family rooms, she’d been told. Rooms for her children. For her children’s children. For visiting Brothers invited inside. All empty at present.
It was through that vast space she’d have to pass to reach the massive armored gates that separated her from the remainder of the palace.
Seeing Sigil was lost in thought, Dryden, again, made a play for her attention. “Reports indicate Jerla is responding well to his immunity fortification. He may wake tomorrow.”
The boy had only been allowed to see her once upon his arrival to this human cesspool, before Arden had carried the strangely lethargic boy away. Sigil had been denied the child since, left only with a hologram projection so she might watch Jerla’s sleeping response to the seemingly necessary, invasive vaccines all Tessans had to undergo to survive amidst the Convert worlds. Unlike her, he lacked an advanced immune system, Jerla’s weaker still from the subpar environment of his hatchling years.
Her eyes went back to the projection, watching the physician attending the boy. It was the same Brother who had attended her in her sleep. The High Adherent Corths, sat with the child, monitoring his stasis, his vitals, beefing up a fragile system so her toy might be returned to her.
That was how they treated her Jerla—as an extension of whatever made Sigil happy. In the Brotherhood’s eyes, he was a tool. If that were not the case, Arden, the one charged with tending him on the water planet, would have been with him and not with her. His affection was not sincere. The thought made Sigil bitter, made her narrow her eyes at the Herald.
“Are you feeling unwell?” They were the first words Arden had spoken since the attendants’ arrival.
Movement came from the hologram. Sigil looked back to see Corths take the boy’s hand and pat it as he spoke. The image lacked audio; she could not make out what was being said.
Arden, it seemed, understood. “He’s telling your boy a story.”
Her question was harsh. “Why?”
A golden head cocked, the Herald taking measure of their female. “Corths held your hand often in the decades you slept. He told the same stories to you. When he did, your vitals steadied, your brain waves calmed, and you rested more soundly.”
Sigil offered a hiss. “I don’t much like your stories.”
The room went quiet, the females who had been combing something viscous through all her hair, who had been sculpting the clay-like mass into intricate fans about her skull, stepped back.
“I ordered Corths to attend him.” Sovereign slipped into their company, a commanding presence that diminished all others. “There is no better physician in the Empire, beloved. Nor will your Brother leave the child’s side until the therapy is complete. You do not need to worry.”
Only half dressed, half painted, and with little more than half her hair attended to, Sigil stepped off the dais.
There was a smile, a caution in Sovereign’s tone. “All Tessans who come to Irdesi must undergo the same treatment. Even seclusion those first hours was not enough to keep him from growing sick in the presence of aggressive microorganisms. The bacteria here, the viruses, are not compatible with their unaltered systems. Jerla will be made stronger for this.”
“He never got sick on Pax.”
“He was constantly sick on Pax, riddled with parasites and tumors that squeezed his digestive tract. They were removed and treated while you slept, while he slept waiting for you. Had they not, he would have died in a matter of years, no matter where he’d been freed.”
Then what of all the other children she had set free? Had they too been eaten from the inside out?
Her fingers flared, her face one of horror at her thoughts. A moment ticked and Sigil searched for something to say. “Then why was this procedure not conducted back then? Why now that I’ve been dragged here?”
“We were not sure if you desired to keep him or if he was to be sent to a Tessan world. The gift of survival on our planets is not given to foreigners. Only ambassadors granted approval are offered such a boon. And, they are not permitted to leave the Empire, ever.”
Pacing nearer the emperor, Sigil measured what she’d heard. “Jerla will not be allowed to leave?”
“Do you wish to send him away?”
“No.”
Sovereign reached out to twist a decorated bit of Sigil’s hair between his fingers. “Have you not accepted him into your family?”
What did that matter? “Yes.”
“Then what is the issue that upsets you?”
A jumble of arguments banged around in her skull, her face a mixture of expressions. “Once grown, he might not wish to stay. One day he’ll desire a mate. How will he find her? What if he grows unafraid of the sands and wishes to pilgrimage...?”
“Your chosen child will not leave you, Sigil. Tessan family bonds are distinct. As for a mate, he may choose a human. Otherwise, there are years yet to solve that riddle.” Sovereign slipped closer as if to take her in hand and force calm. “If he wakes and sees you so unsteady, it will worry him. Jerla needs you to remain collected. You’ll have him back soon enough.”
Every time she twitched it was as if the Brothers thought she might pop. But she was fine. Sovereign had fucked her often enough to assure it. Sigil was fine so long as she remained parted from humans that might incite her irrepressible reactions. It did not change the fact that she wanted to return to the Water Palace, that life in Irdesi’s Capitol made her skin crawl.
It had been only three days, but it felt like eons, like grit under her fingernails she couldn’t pick out.
The damned journals were a part of it, that much was true. The information Arden, Sovereign—all of them—wanted her to absorb from their histories plagued her thoughts. And for good reason; there was inconsistency in the story, facts recorded wrongly that made no sense to the female who’d lived what Arden thought to recreate in text.
The first volume was the most flawed. In decisive script the entirety of the book detailed her childhood, initially correct to a point Sigil found it greatly disturbing to relive in reading... and then the tale grew blaringly inaccurate. The chronicle outlined her incarceration on Condor—her routine, meals, behaviors, training—all leading up to her violent escape. From that point, several Brothers’ accounts were written. Karhl’s version was there, his explanation of how a child had almost killed him cautioning heavily against anyone approaching without a cage already constructed to contain the little girl. Arden had been there too; he had seen her from a distance when she ran through Sector C. The former assassin had given chase, only to be crushed by debris when Sigil began tearing down the walls of the compound. On and on stories went, piecing together
the first moments of the Alliance’s fall into a timeline the Brotherhood could trace and agree upon—their profile of her behaviors haunting.
Her memory of that day, even though she’d been caught in a rage, was precise. She remembered hearing her mother’s mental screams. Sigil remembered that first burning wave of childlike panic distorting the walls of her cell. Psionics clicked into place, and it was easy, so very easy, to enact long imagined vengeance.
That’s where the book began to fill with outright lies. Unwilling to draw attention by staring at one page longer than another, Sigil had continued reading Arden’s collection of eyewitness accounts. Then her escape from Condor ended, replaced by boring pages filled with confirmed sightings over the decades, suspected places she’d been, interviews with witnesses—a nightmarish psychological profile stared back at her, wherein Sigil was the villain of every story, the bringer of tragedies. Damaged.
Through all those pages, Sigil was left with an utter lack of progress on her original question.
Who were the Soshiia?
But it seemed that was no longer the only relevant question. It was that last day on Condor. Why did the canon of her breakout claim she was responsible for the death of a potentially valuable human hostage, a female someone else had murdered? Why had the only Brother she’d shared any significant contact with that day omitted such an important fact in Arden’s histories?
Why should she care?
After all, Sigil was not willingly involved with any of the survivors of Project Cataclysm or their fabricated culture.
Life had once been simple at the Water Palace. Stuck on Irdesi, with every passing hour, Sigil grasped that she lacked the aptitude to balance complicated.
But Sovereign could.
It was the oddest sensation, allowing Sovereign to stand so near her, pretending to be unaffected by the immensity of his presence, to let him touch her because it was simpler than trying to detach his arms from his body.
The truth was, compared to Sovereign, she was meek without her once titanic psionics. Coming to terms with the loss of such uncontrollable, terrible power, was beginning to feel burdensome, not liberating. Were she to fight Sovereign, to fully attack him, he would defeat her every time.
