The Sword Chronicles: Child of the Empire

by Collings, Michaelbrent

  It had been blotted out.

  The rest of the scroll was divided into columns: date of sale, purchaser, seller, physical description of merchandise (and Sword's stomach turned to see children labeled as "merchandise"), sale point, and sale amount.

  The area Brother Scieran pointed to was covered by wide swaths of ink. As though someone had come afterward and spilled an inkwell across it, then rubbed the area with a cloth for good measure.

  "How do you know this is even the right time?" she said. "This could be listings of totally unrelated sales."

  "Ah, but look," he said, pointing at the columns. "The rest of the columns list as purchasers the various kennels. So this must have been a record of batch sales on dates when the kennels were bidding on new children. And it's for the right general time period," he said, pointing at the dates of some of the other sales. "And perhaps most telling: your friend seemed to think it was the right one."

  "He could have been lying."

  "Do you think he was?"

  She thought of Armor. He might be fighting for the wrong side, but he was not a liar. "No."

  She peered at the swaths of black. "So this is useless."

  "I'm afraid – wait," he said. "Maybe I can…." He held the scroll up, this time holding it high enough that it was between him and the light.

  The look of the ink changed as the light shone through the scroll. Parts of it were as black as ever, but other parts – parts that hadn't been covered so completely by ink – shone gray, even tan.

  A few areas had tiny scrawls below the grays and tans. Sword squinted. Some of the scrawls almost….

  "That," she said, her finger stabbing out. "Does that say, 'Imperials'?"

  Brother Scieran nodded. "It's in the right column. The accounting of this slave's sale amount." He squinted. "And I think I can see… this says 'blue' and I think the next word might be 'eyes.' But I can't be sure." He leaned back.

  Sword couldn't make out anything else. The harder she looked it seemed the less she saw. The squiggles below the ink seemed to both draw together and move away, like insects hiding from the light.

  She cursed under her breath.

  "This was for nothing." She looked out the window. "And Scholar is dead."

  Brother Scieran said a few more words, but she didn't answer any of them. She couldn't. She was someone with no past, and someone with no past couldn't have a present or a future, either, could they?

  She just sat and watched the land go by below them, the stars twinkle above.

  The universe took no notice of her.

  She frowned at something. "We're not going the same way back as we came," she said.

  "No," said Brother Scieran. "I have somewhere else I must go."

  She didn't ask where. She would see when they got there.

  The sun was rising when she saw it. It rose behind the great spire atop the building, seeming to light it on fire for all to see. A great beacon that reached so high it would sometimes touch the clouds above the mountains.

  It was the Grand Cathedral of Faith.

  Faith was different from the other States. The others were each headed by a governor who reported directly to the Emperor – through the Chancellor, of course. Faith had no governor, but rather a conclave of priests who ran the State. In many ways they were the weakest of the States: they took little part in politics, they had none of their number installed as nobles or as officers in the Imperial Army.

  Faith was interested in none of those things. It was interested only in the twin Virtues: Mercy and Justice. Any who came into the borders of Faith could find sanctuary at the cathedrals. As long as they forsook all law-breaking and troublemaking, they were welcome to stay in the towns surrounding the cathedrals, making new lives for themselves – lives with the pasts erased. Lives of good, of worth.

  But if they returned to their old ways, judgment would come upon them. And it would be both swift and terrible. Priests of the Order of Chain would either return them to the authorities from which they had fled – usually the police of Center or those of the Imperial Army – or would simply execute them.

  Mercy. But with immediate justice always hanging in the balance.

  It was a harsh system. But it brought peace. And the Empire, happy to be rid of troublemakers who would otherwise have ended up crowding its own dungeons or the already-overflowing prisons housed in the State of Fear, seemed happy to let it go on.

  Of all the places that the careworn and desperate went, the most sought-after was the Grand Cathedral. It stood in the center of Faith, and was where the conclave of priests sat – both in rule of the State and in judgment of those who broke her laws.

  No one knew for sure who had built the great structure; rumor had it that an entire generation of Engineers had been bound by Threads and so had raised it in a single day. Others held that there had been a Blessed One long ago who could cause the mountain itself to grow stone creations of unparalleled beauty, and the only one of his creations that survived the jealous rage of that time's Emperor was the Grand Cathedral.

  No matter what the truth, the Cathedral took Sword's breath away. The graceful arcs and curves, the spires that glinted with sunlight along their edges, the shallow pools that reflected the image of the Cathedral… it was so beautiful that for a moment she could almost believe that things would work out.

  Scholar's gasp.

  His final breath.

  She felt a tear slide down her cheek. Did not wipe it away, because she did not want to acknowledge its reality. Just like she still didn't want to admit that Scholar was really gone.

  Unlike the palace, the Grand Cathedral was not built for defense. Indeed, it had clearly been built with the opposite view in mind: great glassless windows, arched to graceful points, were on every level. There were multiple entrances on every side. There was no gate.

  This was a building created for invitation rather than possession. A building that could never be taken, because it could never truly be held.

  Rune guided the air-car behind the Grand Cathedral. There was a small air-dock there, and she dropped them to a berth beside two other air-cars. One of them bore the crest Sword thought belonged to a minor noble of Center. Another was unmarked.

  Brother Scieran stood and went to the door. Opened it.

  "What are we doing here?"

  Brother Scieran smiled. "Oh, so you still have a bit of curiosity? That's good – I was starting to worry it was you who died back there."

  Sword felt her expression grow stormy, and Brother Scieran's own features softened. "I am sorry you lost someone dear to you, my child," he said. "But those people were going to kill us – or take us captive, which would have been a more painful path to the same destination." He sighed. "What I said before was true: we are not fighting a war we can win. But neither do we have to lose." He pointed at her. "Don't give up."

  Rune passed her, and nudged her toe with her own. "If you decide to just sit here until you die, can I have your stuff?"

  A pair of emotions fought for control of Sword's heart. On the one hand she wanted more than anything to punch Rune, or perhaps even worse. Who was she to joke? When it was she who had caused the pain Sword now felt?

  On the other hand, what she had just said was so ridiculous, so out of place… laughter, Sword realized, was one way to push away grief. Anger would simply feed it, but laughter might heal – or at least bury – the pain she felt.

  Rune shimmered. Then said, "Good. Laugh. Laughing's good."

  Sword let herself laugh. The laughing turned to a choking cry, then turned back to laughter again. She realized she was a bit hysterical, but couldn't stop laughing. She couldn't stop, couldn't stop, couldn't stop….

  And then she did stop.

  She felt empty inside. Hollow, like someone had come along and scooped out everything that was her humanity: all the love, all the hate, all the pain and all the joy. She was numb.

  And that was a blessing.

  Brother Scieran
had watched the whole time. He didn't move to hold her, and that was right. If he had, it would just have reminded her of Armor, and she didn't want to think of him, either.

  She needed to do this alone.

  She stood at last. She felt wobbly. Her knees didn't want to bend quite the way she was telling them to.

  "Are you all right?" said Brother Scieran.

  "Yeah, she's fine," said Rune. "She's a tough little beastie." She nodded to Sword. "Right?"

  It was hard to look at Rune.

  (Scholar's gasp.

  His eyes closing.)

  Then the moment passed.

  "Right," said Sword. And, saying it, it became true.

  22

  Brother Scieran held out a hand to Sword as she dropped the foot or so the air-car hovered off the dock. She took it – her knees still felt loose and wobbly. Even with his help, she stumbled when she hit the wood planks.

  Some Blessed One – or Cursed One, or whatever I am. Can't even stand up straight.

  She forced herself upright, and that was when she finally realized someone was waiting for them.

  The woman was approximately the same age as Brother Scieran. But her face bore a glow that made her seem younger, and her wrinkles were largely carved by a life of smiles and laughter.

  She wore the same silver-trimmed robe that Brother Scieran wore, as well as a mail hood, pulled back to expose the long gray braid at the back of her neck. She even had a whip and a sickle that were the twins of those Brother Scieran wore – though Sword suspected the priestess' sickle was probably less bent, and her whip unshortened as the priest's had been.

  "Father Scieran!" she said. Only a few short syllables, but Sword heard unabashed glee in every one of them.

  Perhaps more than glee.

  "It's Brother," said the priest gruffly. But he was smiling through his whiskers. The scar on his face curled as he grinned, and somehow made him seem even happier – like every pain he had suffered in his life had served to bring him to this moment of joy. "Brother Scieran. And for you it's just Scieran."

  The woman bowed low. "Please, forgive me, blessed Brother. May your grace and forgiveness rain down everlastingly upon –"

  "Gah!" Brother Scieran threw up his hands in exasperation. But he was still grinning. "Get up, Prasa. And stop with the Brother-ing and Father-ing."

  "Your wish is my command, Your Holiness."

  This time Brother Scieran's scream was louder, more irritated. The smile stayed on his face. "Fine, fine. Call me Brother, then."

  "Thank you, Brother Scieran. We must observe the rules, after all. Here in the center of justice especially."

  "To the Nether with justice," muttered Brother Scieran. But very quietly. And he was still grinning.

  Rune stepped forward. "You gonna say hi to me, Sister Prasa? Or just flirt with the priest all day?"

  Now it was the priestess' – Sister Prasa's – turn to look embarrassed. "I wasn't flirting. I mean, I was –"

  Rune waved her off. "Yeah, yeah. We know. You two are just 'good friends.'" She rolled her eyes. "If I was good friends with anyone like that I'd marry him and start making little Cursed Ones."

  The color on Sister Prasa's cheeks outshone the sun.

  "Well… is this…." Sister Prasa coughed, then cleared her throat and held out a hand to Sword. "Are you the one I've heard of?"

  "I don't know," said Sword. "Who's the one you've heard of?"

  Sister Prasa laughed. The laugh was nervous, but sincere and without any trace of artifice. "That's a good question. Are you Sword?"

  Sword jerked. Stared at Brother Scieran. "Sister Prasa is one of us, my dear," said the priest. "I've communicated with her by Ear all our plans, and she's up to date on everything until last night." His smile grew a bit wider. "Surely you didn't think the fifty or so people in the cave were the only people in the entire Empire working on taking care of its problems?"

  In point of fact, Sword had thought that. "Who else knows –" she began, but Brother Scieran shook his head.

  "Not now," he said. "Now is a time to rest. It's been a long and trying night. You and Rune should get some sleep –"

  "And food," said Rune.

  "– and then we can talk more when you wake."

  Sword wanted to argue. Wanted to go with Brother Scieran wherever he was going and find out what happened next.

  Does it matter?

  And suddenly she was tired. So, so tired. She did want to rest. Not just to sleep, but to simply disappear.

  She followed Brother Scieran and Sister Prasa to the Cathedral. The back of the structure was no less extraordinary than the front, no less a monument to a way of life that was open, inviting.

  Behind the Cathedral, people dressed in the white robes of the Faithful, some in the blue trim that denoted Acolytes, a few of them even wearing the silver-trimmed robes of the priests and priestesses, worked on the gardens. Most of the plants were Gods' flowers, clinging tightly to everything and making everything seem a bit more alive for their presence. But there were also large swaths covered in wheat, other plots devoted to various kinds of berries.

  Rune noticed Sword looking around. "The people here all do it for nothing, you know." She looked wistful. "A few will eat the soup from the Cathedral's kitchens, some of them live in the small rooms that the Cathedral holds. But other than that… this is what they do, and they do it of their own free will." She stared ahead. Looking not only at the path they walked but, Sword sensed, the path she someday hoped to follow. "Someday, when all this is over, when the Empire is as it should be… someday I'll come here. I'll work here, too." She shimmered, and when she re-solidified, she grinned. "And can you imagine what a good gardener I'll be?"

  "You can only see a few seconds ahead. That's hardly going to help with the planting."

  "No, but I'll never cut myself with shears or spill the watering buckets. So that's something!" Rune smiled, but the smile quickly faded and she said, quietly, "I really am sorry about your friend."

  Sword didn't look at her. But she said, "I know."

  And she did. This was a war. A quiet war, with one side holding all the best weapons, all the best odds. But a war nonetheless.

  In any war, there are casualties. And not merely those among the soldiers. The innocent suffer as well.

  Please, Gods, don't take Armor. Don't take Devar or Garden or the others.

  They entered the Cathedral. And Sword could instantly see – even more so than outside – how the legends had grown up about the place. It wasn't that it was particularly ornate; indeed, many of the walls and ceilings were simple rock, perhaps granite or some other stone she couldn't identify. But wall seemed to grow directly from floor, to join seamlessly with ceiling. The farther they got in, the higher the ceilings got, arching to ribbed ceilings supported by marble columns thicker than two men abreast. At the highest points, there were outcroppings that had been styled to look like the walls were alive with white wheat, with bleached berries larger than any person could hope to grow.

  Every ceiling had windows. Some had mirrors above them, craftily angled reflect sunlight into the rooms. No matter where they went, it was bright and airy.

  Again, Sword was struck by the fact that this place was open. Impossible to defend.

  "How has this stayed like this?" she said.

  She hadn't really realized she spoke at all, let alone particularly loudly, but Brother Scieran and Sister Prasa stopped their whispered conference, and Brother Scieran said, "What?"

  She felt embarrassed, but continued. "There used to be wars between the States. Always an Emperor, but not always one strong enough to keep the States from being at each others' throats. So how did the Faithful manage to hold onto all," she motioned around her, "this?"

  Brother Scieran smiled. A strange smile, one that played at the edges of his lips, the crinkles of his eyes. "Who says we did?" He stopped walking and looked around, seeming to view the Cathedral with eyes that had never seen it before. Perhap
s that was how he looked every time he came. Perhaps that was one of the reasons he was Faithful. "This place has fallen many times. Looted, ransacked." He looked at Sword. "But always it rose again. Even in the worst times, the times when it was against the laws to be Faithful, the priests and priestesses hid – or fought – and came back again when the time was right."

  Sister Prasa nodded. "As ever we will."

  Brother Scieran smiled. "As I said before, some things are worth fighting for, Sword. Even if you know that they are lost causes. Or," he said, looking around again, "causes that can only be won temporarily, and will have to be fought again and again."

  An Acolyte appeared at the side of the great room, coming in through one of the doorless entries that lined the place. "Father Scieran," he said with a bow. Sister Prasa put her hand on Brother Scieran as soon as "Father" came out of the other man's mouth, stopping him from saying anything. The Acolyte turned to her. "Mother Prasa. The council wishes you to join them."

  Brother Scieran nodded gruffly. The Acolyte bowed again. Deeply. And Sword began to wonder who Brother Scieran was. Not just a warrior-priest, but something more. Something to the Faithful.

  He was being summoned to the Council of Faithful? To the group of priests and priestesses who ruled over and judged the State of Faith?

  And why did the people here insist on calling him "Father" – a name usually reserved for High Priests – rather than simply "Brother"? Certainly he'd been deferential at times to Father Akiro – and certainly Father Akiro had been incredibly insulting at times to him, though always with an undercurrent of affection.

  Brother Scieran – Father Scieran? – was proving to be something of an enigma.

  "Please take my guests to rooms and provide them with food if they wish," said Brother Scieran.

  The Acolyte bowed. Brother Scieran looked at Rune. "Watch after her," he said, with a nod to Sword.

  "Always," said Rune.

  The Acolyte took the two girls to a pair of rooms nearby. They weren't anything special – Sword's room reminded her of the first room she had spent the night in when being tested to see if she could be a Blessed One – just a bed, a small table beside it. The table had a plate of simple fruits and some bread.