Dark Immolation

by Christopher Husberg

  “All right,” Cinzia said. “I’m so sorry, Janey.” Then, in one swift motion, Cinzia pulled the bolt from her sister’s body. Jane screamed, her back arching. Cinzia tossed the shaft to the side, trying to ignore the streams of blood that poured through Elessa’s fingers as she pressed down on the wound, despite the cloth. Instead, Cinzia looked into Jane’s eyes, holding her hand.

  “It’s going to be fine, Janey,” Cinzia said, trying to smile. “You’re going to be fine.”

  “Is there anything else we can do?” It was the woman Cinzia did not recognize.

  “Not right now. In a moment we will take her into the house,” Cinzia whispered, looking down at Jane. She had done what she could, what she knew, but with a wound like this…

  She sensed motion above her, and turned to see the woman—her eyes suddenly narrowed and full of deadly focus—standing above her, a long dagger in her hand. Cinzia’s breath caught in her throat.

  Knot was moving before Cinzia could scream. He grabbed the woman by the head and twisted, sharply. The would-be attacker slumped to the dais, dagger clattering harmlessly beside her. There were more shrieks from those Odenites who hadn’t fled.

  “What—”

  Knot swore. “She must have been one of them,” he said.

  “Goddess rising,” Elessa whispered, her hands still pressing on Jane’s wound.

  “I don’t recognize her,” Cinzia whispered.

  “Nor I,” Elessa said.

  Knot grunted something in response, but Cinzia ignored him. She was looking at Jane, whose lips were moving.

  “Quiet, everyone!” Cinzia leaned in close, gripping Jane’s hand tightly in her own.

  “What is it, Janey?” Cinzia asked. “What are you saying?”

  “Heal… me…”

  “What did she say?” Elessa asked.

  Jane pointed slowly at Knot. “The way… I healed… him,” she whispered, her voice barely audible.

  “She wants us to heal her?”

  Cinzia nodded, slowly, feeling numb. What could she possibly do?

  Jane squeezed her hand, so, so slightly. “Please,” she whispered.

  “I… I don’t…” Cinzia felt Elessa’s hand on her arm.

  “I can do it,” Elessa said. “I was there when Jane healed Knot.”

  Cinzia scowled at Elessa. What could this woman possibly know about healing? She had only known Jane for a few weeks. She couldn’t possibly—

  Elessa placed her hands on Jane and started to speak. Cinzia was too dazed to truly understand what Elessa said, but she was aware of the other woman praying, invoking, doing something. Cinzia’s vision was blurry with tears but as Elessa spoke, Cinzia could have sworn she saw something. Light, perhaps. Color. A blur and shift.

  As quickly as it began, the strange vision stopped. Elessa stepped back, and Cinzia felt hands on her own.

  Jane’s.

  Cinzia sobbed as she looked down at Jane’s face. Jane was smiling weakly.

  Jane pulled lightly on Cinzia’s hands, and Cinzia lifted them. She looked through Jane’s torn dress, where the ragged, bleeding wound had been. In its place was a wound, yes, but one that had healed. A scab, on the verge of scarring over.

  “Oh, Jane,” Cinzia whispered, and she knelt down to hug her sister.

  * * *

  After a quarter of an hour arguing, of Cinzia and Knot insisting that Jane go inside to rest, to stay safe, Jane’s stubbornness finally won out.

  And now she stood, with Cinzia’s assistance, on the dais where she had been shot only a short time ago, addressing her people.

  Jane’s speech was moving; it was well put together, articulate, and inspiring. She spoke of Canta’s guiding hand in drawing them all to this place, together—and that more would arrive every day. She spoke of the importance of unity, and that Canta viewed all of her children—human and tiellan—alike and with love. Jane spoke of her visions, and Cinzia realized it was the first time she had shared her story publicly. Jane spoke of the Codex of Elwene and of their work in translating the sacred text. Cinzia blushed, unable to help herself, as Jane lauded her strength and level-headedness in the journey they had undertaken. And, finally, Jane spoke of the new religion—the Church of Canta, she called it—that they were planning to revive upon the Sfaera. Jane introduced Cinzia and Elessa as her first two disciples, and promised the imminent ordination of many more.

  At the end, the Odenites did not cheer, but Cinzia did not think it was necessary. It was not a speech that invited cheering. It invited awe.

  “Help me down, please,” Jane said quietly, when she had finished. “I need to rest.”

  “Of course,” Cinzia whispered. With Jane leaning heavily on her, Cinzia led her sister down the steps. Whispers began before Jane’s feet had touched the grass. Cinzia couldn’t hear what they were saying, but she could guess. Hardly an hour ago, Jane had been on the edge of death. Then, one of her disciples had placed her hands on Jane’s head, and now Jane was healed. It was a miracle. It was a day people would whisper about for many years to come.

  But Cinzia felt as if her soul were being torn in two. Elessa had healed her sister; Cinzia had not been able to do it. She had chosen not to step forward and try.

  “Jane,” Cinzia began, “I’m sorry—”

  “It’s all right,” Jane said, breathing heavily. “Don’t regret your actions, Cinzia.”

  “I just… I did not know if I could do what you asked…”

  “It was as Canta willed it,” Jane said, smiling. Cinzia could tell the expression was forced, but she thought it might be because of the pain rather than ill will.

  Cinzia shook her head. “I failed.” She thought admitting it would make her feel better, but it only made her feel worse. “Canta wanted me to heal you, and I couldn’t.”

  Jane put a hand on Cinzia’s shoulder. “I don’t mean to sound rude, Cinzia, but… not everything is about you.”

  Cinzia stared at her sister, not sure how to respond. Given what Jane had just been through, Cinzia could forgive a little rudeness, but the comment stung nonetheless.

  “Canta did not necessarily want you to heal me.”

  “But you asked me to do it.”

  “That was me, Cinzia. I do not speak for Canta every moment of every day. I was desperate, sister. It is just as likely that Canta wanted me to ask you because the Goddess knew how you would respond. She may have been trying to teach you something, knowing that Elessa would heal me all along.”

  “Yes…” Cinzia said slowly, “perhaps you’re right.” What Jane said made sense. But it did nothing to change the fact that Cinzia’s faith had failed her once more.

  22

  AT CINZIA’S REQUEST, KNOT had moved the body of Jane’s would-be assassin to one of the house’s empty rooms. The woman lay naked on a table, her clothing in a neat pile at her feet, ready for the body to be washed and laid out for burial. She was an older woman, her body lean and well-muscled, but her skin now had the pale, artificial look of death.

  “What have you found?” Knot asked Cinzia, who had summoned him.

  “Two things,” Cinzia said, walking around the table. “This,” she said, lifting a small parchment, “and something on her body.”

  Knot took the folded paper from Cinzia, examining it.

  Mark: Jane Oden.

  Location: Harmoth estate, outside Tinska, northwestern Khale.

  Description: 1.7 rods, 63 kels, blond hair, blue eyes. Known associates: Pascia and Ehram Oden (parents), Cinzia Oden (sister), Kovac Lothgard, Eward Oden (brother), five younger siblings (names unknown), Danica Cordier (tiellan), Lian Sorenhald (tiellan), Lathe Tallon, and a young girl (name unknown).

  Orders: Eliminate.

  “Knot? Are you all right?”

  Knot looked up from the paper, suddenly aware he had been staring at it for some time. Two words leapt out at him: Danica Cordier. They had neglected her middle name. The name she went by.

  Winter.

  “Fine
,” Knot muttered. “This is a mark order. Not uncommon, although sloppy business to carry it on her person. A professional would have memorized it, then destroyed it.”

  “Whoever sent the order has our names,” Cinzia said. “All except some of my siblings, and Astrid’s.”

  “What do you know of the seal?” Knot asked, pointing to the image at the bottom of the parchment. It looked like the Trinacrya, the entwined circle-and-triangle of the Cantic Denomination, but instead of the shapes being hollow, the entire image was inked in. It looked more like a black circle with three points emerging from it.

  “I can’t be sure.”

  “But you can guess?”

  Cinzia nodded. “I can guess.” She sighed. “The Denomination has many factions. The three main branches, of course: Revelation, Inquisition, and Priesthood. But there are others. Only rumors, of some.”

  “And what faction would this be?” Knot asked.

  Cinzia shook her head. “I don’t know. I can’t say for sure. But based on what happened in Izet and what is happening now… it might be the Cult.”

  Knot raised his eyebrows. He had never heard of such a thing.

  “Goddess, I can’t believe I’m even suggesting this,” Cinzia whispered. “The Cult is a rumor, a joke. Something priestesses at the seminary tell stories about late at night.”

  “But it is real enough for you to suspect that this may be them?”

  Cinzia stared at Knot, unblinking, for a moment. “I think it might be.”

  Knot shrugged. “We knew the Denomination would come after us eventually.” He looked up. “You said there were two things. What was the second?”

  “Of course.” Cinzia walked around to the body. “Help me turn her on her side. You need to see her back.”

  The woman had a small tattoo on her back, no larger than a clenched fist, but it was incredibly detailed. It was a seal of some kind, a perfect circle with a maze-like design within, hundreds of tiny intricacies and pathways jumbled together. The symbol meant nothing to Knot and he said as much.

  “I don’t recognize it, either,” Cinzia said. “I just thought you might. It could have nothing to do with the attempt on Jane’s life. But it was the only other thing about this woman that might be of any use.”

  Knot nodded. “It may have significance. If we could… if we could make a replica of this design, that would be helpful.”

  “Soffrena is a talented artist,” Cinzia said. “I believe she could make an accurate copy.”

  “Good.” He examined the parchment again. “There is something else.”

  “What?”

  “This ain’t a personalized mark order,” Knot said. “It’s a general one. There’re likely other people out there with this order, too.”

  “You said this woman might be working with someone.”

  Knot shook his head. “Not what I mean. If someone was working with this woman, he would have received the same order she did. They’d be considered a single unit. I’m saying that orders like this one went out to other units.”

  Cinzia’s eyes widened. “How many?”

  “Impossible to say. Could be only a few, three or four. Might be a dozen or more.” For the second time Knot wished he’d never sent that damn vampire away.

  “What… what does that mean?”

  “Means I can’t protect you anymore. Not alone. We’re fortunate we’ve gotten this far.”

  “But who else is there? Astrid is gone, and there’s no one else…”

  “We’ll need to train guards,” Knot said. “We have dozens of young, strong people out there. They won’t make great warriors, not many of them, anyway, but we can at least give them some training, some discipline. Between protecting Jane, you, and Elessa I’m spread too thin. They can help.”

  “They might be of help with the Kamite attacks, too,” Cinzia said.

  “Might be,” Knot said, although he wasn’t as confident about that. What was happening with the Kamites was messy, unclear. He was not sure how to go about dealing with that. When it came to tactics, however, to guard duty and training and giving and taking orders, he could hold his own.

  “I’ll start recruiting tomorrow,” Knot said. “With your and Jane’s permission, of course.”

  “Of course. I’ll ask her.”

  “We’ll also have to investigate this,” Knot said, nodding to the woman’s body. “If she really was working with someone else, we need to know who, and whether he or she is still around.”

  “I can help you with that,” Cinzia said. “I’ve got a talent for reading people.”

  She put her hand on Knot’s shoulder. “Get some rest,” she said. “Tomorrow we’re going to have our hands full.”

  23

  Keep Amok, Izet

  “HELLO?” WINTER CALLED OUT, knocking lightly on the door.

  She was on the ground floor of the keep, where Daval had said she would meet her tailor. She had already met the rest of her personal servants—a half-dozen just for her—but apparently her tailor, whom Daval had simply referred to as “Galce,” had his own quarters within the building, and she was to go and see him.

  Winter had never owned more than half a dozen outfits in her life, let alone had her own tailor. Or servants. Or a room in a castle.

  She wondered what it would be like if she simply lived this way. Serving Daval. It seemed she would have all of the money—and frost—she desired. What else did she have to live for?

  You can live for revenge, a part of her whispered, angered at the idea that she would consider anything else. And yet, she was. This life would be comfortable. It might even be interesting. Assuming, once her usefulness expired, Daval didn’t kill her.

  “Enter, enter,” someone said, and Winter slipped through the doorway into a small, well-furnished room. A set of large mirrors stood at the far end of the room, each facing inward to a small diamond-shaped pedestal. Dozens of drawers lined two walls, and two large doors led into what Winter assumed must be large closets.

  She grasped a pouch in one of the pockets of her dress, a pouch that had been waiting for her when she entered her new chambers. It was full of faltira. Winter had immediately taken a frost crystal, just to make sure it was real. Then she had made herself promise that she would take them sparingly. Daval said he could get her a limitless supply, but Winter doubted that was the case. At some point, there would be a shortage, a catch, a price she couldn’t pay. She needed to have a stash saved up for that day.

  But until then, she was looking forward to getting new clothes. She now wore a loose, sky-blue dress, simple but elegant. It was not her style, however. Daval had informed her that none of her things—not her clothes, her bow, her siara—had been kept during her imprisonment. Winter was surprised at how devastated she was; the tight, form-fitting leather clothing she missed because it had represented the new her, the powerful Winter. The siara she couldn’t care less about, but the bow had been a gift from her father.

  Standing towards the back of the room was a short man, bald, with a significant belly and dark skin.

  “Welcome,” the man said. “I am Galce. You are Winter?” Winter nodded. Galce smiled, cocking his head to one side. “Ah, a tiellan. The emperor said you were a tiellan, but I almost did not believe him. I’m happy to see the rumors are true.” Galce walked up to Winter, circling her, looking her up and down. “I have always wanted to design for the tiellan body, truth be told,” he said. “You’re so delicate, so elegant. I look forward to this very much.”

  Winter was surprised to hear Galce mention her heritage. None of her servants had—Daval must have ordered them not to, Winter realized in retrospect—and, after spending over six months in the dungeons, Winter had almost forgotten that Roden was a nation that had completely exiled the tiellan race.

  Funny what one could forget while rotting in a dungeon.

  “You’re from Andrinar,” Winter said.

  “Yes I am,” Galce said, smiling, looking into her eyes. Winter was
surprised at his boldness. She wondered if this Galce knew who she really was, what she had done. Would he still look into her eyes if he knew?

  “And how did you find yourself here, in Roden?” Winter asked. “I thought Andrinar was independent from the empire?”

  “Not in so many words,” Galce whispered, with an odd wink. “We are technically still under the empire’s rule, though we all but run ourselves.”

  “Then why don’t you leave it?”

  Galce shrugged. “Things are good for us. We have all the benefits of running our own nation, and the benefits of the empire’s protection and resources, meager as those have been of late. We have no conflict with Khale, but we have never been friendly with them, either. Until Roden completely withdraws their support, I don’t think we will, either. You must take life as it comes, my dear. The only order is chaos. The only way to live is to let yourself go.”

  Winter blinked. How could there be order in chaos?

  Galce pulled out a long tape measure. “But that’s a discussion for another day. For now, we have much work to do. I must say, I have dozens of ideas for how to dress you, Winter. Dozens and dozens, I think. A black dress is a must. How chic you would look in a black dress, hugging your hips, in the fashion of my lord’s young daughter. An innovative young mind, she has. Yes, a black dress, and I believe a light fawn color would go very well with your skin tone…”

  “Wait,” Winter said, putting up her hands. “I want something different.”

  Galce laughed. “Not a dress? My garice, you’re now in Castle Amok, and I daresay you will be spending a great deal of time in the imperial palace itself, what else in the Sfaera would you wear?”

  Winter shrugged. “You may make me dresses if you wish, but I won’t wear them. I need something practical. Black leather, form-fitting, that provides a bit of protection and a lot of movement.”

  Galce blinked. “I don’t think a dress will—”

  “Not a dress,” Winter said, “breeches and a shirt or tunic of some kind. Waistcoats work, too. A leather overcoat, perhaps.”

  Galce stared at her, and Winter could almost see his mind racing. “Yes,” Galce said, quietly at first. “Yes,” he said, this time a bit louder. “Yes!” he shouted. “This will be a challenge for me. Black leather can look very stylish, yes, but it can also be functional, and… yes, I believe I can do what you ask. Come, Winter, come to the measuring stool, we will see what old Galce can do for you, my garice.”