by John Marco
"I'll need more food if you're going to march me to Falindar. I might collapse on the way."
"It's not that far."
"I won't be able to make it, I tell you. Let me share your horse."
"Tell you what--you tell me who you really are and I'll think about it."
"What's wrong with you, you bloody fool? I've told you everything. You're just not listening."
Richius Vantran yawned and stretched his arms into the air. "I'm too tired for this. In the morning we'll talk more."
"That's it?" Simon railed. "You're just going to leave me tied up all night? I'm a legionnaire of Nar, damn it! I want some respect!"
"A legionnaire? Oh, yes, sir!" Vantran wrapped his arms around his knees and grinned. "You have the nerve of a bull, my friend. Legionnaire, indeed. Even if you were one, you're a deserter. A traitor."
"Oh, yes," said Simon. "And you'd be an expert on spotting traitors, wouldn't you, Jackal?"
The smile vanished from Vantran's face. "Don't call me that."
"Why not? That's what they were calling you in Nar. You know that, don't you? Frankly, I think it suits you."
"I'm Richius Vantran, King of Aramoor. Call me king or Vantran or anything else, but don't call me Jackal. I won't allow it."
"King," scoffed Simon. "There is no Aramoor, Vantran. Not anymore. How much do you know about the Empire anyway? Blackwood Gayle's family took over your country. It's a province of Talistan now."
"I know that."
"What do they call you here?" Simon asked. "Do they call you king?"
"No," the young man admitted. "They don't."
"No. Because you're not a king. Even the Triin know that, Jackal. They call you Kalak here, don't they? That's their word for you, isn't it?"
"You are an obnoxious creature," Vantran declared. "Be quiet and let me sleep."
"What are you doing out here?" Simon pressed. "Why are you alone?"
Vantran rolled his eyes. "Lord, you talk too much."
"Do you live in Falindar?"
"I live with my wife."
Simon smiled wickedly. "Yes, your wife. You left your kingdom for her, didn't you? We all knew the story. Blackwood Gayle told us what you'd done. She must be something, eh?"
"Fellow, I'm going to tell you this one more time. I don't want you talking anymore tonight, all right? And I don't want you ever speaking about my wife. I don't trust you, and I'm not going to tell you a blessed thing. So save your breath and go to sleep."
Simon leaned in closer. "Who do you think I am? Really now, tell me? You think I was sent to kill you?"
He watched Vantran grimace at the question.
"I have enemies," said the man. "You might be one of them. I don't know. But I can't take any chances."
"Biagio sent us all here to find you, to bring you back alive. That was part of our mission. We were supposed to find magic to save the emperor, but Gayle and Biagio wanted you captured. I admit that. But that was a long time ago, Vantran. And as far as I know, I'm the only Naren left in Lucel-Lor besides you." Simon offered a gentle smile. "You've been hiding for a year now, I can see that. You're unbalanced, fearful. I can see it in your eyes."
"Are you a mystic too?" asked Vantran sarcastically.
"I don't need mysticism to see you're afraid. Maybe you should be, I don't know. But not of me. I swear this to you, Vantran. I'm just a deserter."
Vantran looked at him skeptically. "That's impossible. Legionnaires are loyal."
"So are kings," chided Simon. "Yet here you are."
There was a contemplative silence. Vantran's hard eyes softened with understanding, and Simon watched him coolly, reading his weakening defenses. The young man buried his chin in his knees and stared into the fire, and suddenly he was miles away. When he spoke it was out of a fugue, his tone emotionless.
"So why did you desert, then?" he asked softly. "What happened to you?"
"Nar happened to me, Vantran. Nar and its misery. I never belonged in uniform. I joined because I had nowhere else to go, and I needed to eat. But when they sent me here, I realized I didn't belong with them."
"That's not an answer." The young man was still distant, staring blankly into the flames. "What made you leave?"
Simon looked into the fire too, recalling his pretense. He had expected these questions. "Ackle-Nye," he said softly. "Do you know what happened there?"
Vantran merely nodded.
"It was butchery, plain and simple. When we came through the mountain pass, the Triin there tried to defend themselves against us, but they had nothing. We burned the city to the ground. We killed everything. I . . ." Simon paused theatrically, choking on fake emotion. "I murdered children. Little ones no taller than my knee. I was ordered to do it but that didn't make me feel better about it. And when we were done we lit the whole place on fire."
"The burning city," Vantran echoed. It was what Ackle-Nye was called that night of the massacre. It was said the flames of the city could be seen across the world.
"That's right. They were beggars and refugees and old women, and we killed them. I will never be the same again, Vantran. So don't you lecture me about being a traitor. What I did took courage. I can never go back to the Empire. I'm stuck here."
Vantran turned his eyes on Simon. "You made your choice," he said. "Live with it."
"I have been living with it," said Simon. Then he cocked his head inquisitively and asked, "What about you?"
As expected, Vantran balked at the question. "I've been just fine," he said. "Not that it's any of your business."
"You live in Falindar?"
"Yes."
"With the warlord?"
"There is no warlord in Tatterak anymore. Not since the old one died."
"Then who are you taking me to see?" Simon asked. "Why am I your prisoner?"
"Because you can't be trusted. I don't know if what you've told me is the truth, or if this is all some elaborate lie of Biagio's. Either way, I want to keep an eye on you, Simon Darquis. That means you have to come back with me to the citadel. You will speak to the master there, Lucyler. We'll both decide what to do with you."
"Triin justice?" flared Simon. "That's your idea of fair? They'll slit my throat just for being Naren!"
"Maybe," said Vantran casually. "Maybe not." He smiled faintly at Simon. "I want to believe you, I really do. But I can't. If you were hunted like me, you would understand that."
"Rubbish," sneered Simon. "You're not hunted any more than I am. It's all in your imagination. You're living in fear of nothing, and now you want to drag me into your illusion. That's all this is--one man's fantasy. I pity you, Vantran."
The young man's face hardened. "Pity yourself," he said. "Because if I find out you're lying, nothing on earth will save you from me."
Then Richius Vantran rose and stalked off into the darkness, leaving Simon alone by the fire. Simon watched him go, watched the night and his own black mood swallow him, and knew with certainty that his mission would succeed.
NINE
The Cathedral of the Martyrs
In the center of Nar City, near the shining Black Palace across the river Kiel, the great Cathedral of the Martyrs rose above the polluted avenues, its metal steeple reaching for heaven over the constant smoke of the war labs. Ancient gargoyles stalked its ledges, their stone eyes fixed on the metropolis around them, and windows of stained glass cast colorful shadows, bathing the streets in rainbows. A century of rainstorms had rubbed the limestone smooth and turned the copper green, and when the sun was bright the cathedral glimmered like a star through the haze of the capital. Ten thousand slaves had labored ten years to construct it, and even in the current chaos of Nar she was an ambition, a destination for pilgrims from around the Empire. Each holy day the square around her filled with believers eager to hear the word of God and to gain absolution for their wicked lives.
Archbishop Herrith understood the importance of the cathedral. It was more dear to him than scripture, more dear even than his life. He believed t
hat God truly dwelled within its walls and vaunted steeple. It was where, he presumed, God lived on earth. He was nearly fifty now, and had spent the majority of his years in this holy place, walking its halls and greeting the faithful. It was where Naren nobles took wives, where Richius Vantran, the Jackal of Nar, had been made king, and where, Herrith hoped, the Lord would take him when he died. In its many tabernacles Herrith had seen many things--miracles certainly, like the weeping God-Mother and the bleeding chalice, and these things were precious to him too. They gave him strength. And in these dark days, Herrith needed strength. He needed God to speak to him in a clear voice, without being muddled by interpreters and priests. Herrith spent long hours in prayer now, fasting and begging Heaven to hear him, and wrestling with the things God the Father had told him to do.
On this day, like any other, Herrith saw to the functioning of his majestic cathedral. He had acolytes to oversee and an army of cowled priests, and a thousand tedious details nagging for his attention. He was worn from the war in Goth and his ongoing feud with the traitor Biagio, and he longed for some solitude, to be merely a priest again, a servant of the Almighty. He had spent the morning with General Vorto listening to details of the soldier's campaigns, and his head ached from Vorto's voice. Herrith moved through the cathedral's gilded hallways, hoping no one would see him. It was Seventh Day, the day the cathedral opened its private chambers for confession. This, the most intimate of sacraments, had been taken from Herrith by the pressures of his lofty office, but on rare occasion he participated in it and heard the sins of his flock. Today the archbishop needed to hear confession. He needed to know there were others in the world who sinned.
Herrith pulled his white silk cowl closer around his face as he walked like a whisper down the golden corridors. Father Todos, his assistant, was waiting for him in one of the confession chambers. A very special confessor was with him, hidden from sight in the booth. But Todos had thought he'd recognized the voice, and so had summoned his master to hear the confession himself. It was a private confession, the confessor had explained, and so he had come to the private chambers.
Naren nobles and men of high rank were allowed the privilege, leaving the less fortunate of the flock to crowd into the main tabernacle and wait for acolytes to hear their sins. Herrith had always thought it an odd separation, but he had allowed it because it had been the will of Arkus. In the wake of the emperor's death, the archbishop had thought it best to leave the private chambers available. He needed the goodwill of the nobles. Too many of them had already sided with Biagio. Goth had been the latest, and worst, of the secessionists, and Herrith prayed mightily for no more fractures in his weak coalition. God's hand was vengeful, he had learned, and the pain of it was destroying him.
Across the great hall where the painter Darago worked tirelessly on his latest masterpiece, the private confession chambers stood apart from the public tabernacles. Herrith moved cautiously through the hall, careful not to disturb the artist's tools. Because it was Seventh Day, Darago wasn't working, but his implements--his brushes and knives and pots of colors--all remained behind. As he walked through the hall, Herrith glanced up at the ceiling he had commissioned. Soon Darago would be finished and the great hall would be open once again to the public. They would see the work of the master-painter, and they would know with certainty that God existed. For without divine inspiration, no man could paint like Darago. His ceiling was like staring into Heaven itself.
Herrith's gaze lingered on the ceiling for a long time. He craned his neck to survey the fresco, some of which was draped with cloth to hide it from curious eyes. There were panels even the archbishop hadn't seen yet, for Darago was an intensely private man, moody like all artists, and though Herrith regularly pestered him about his progress, Darago kept his secrets locked away, constantly promising Herrith that he would be pleased with the results. Herrith was already pleased. The ceiling was the masterpiece he had imagined. It was the perfect gift for God.
God had delivered Nar to him. God had killed the immortal Arkus and had banished the demon Biagio. God's was the glory, and Herrith wanted to repay his heavenly Father. He had commissioned the ceiling years ago, well before the first cracks in the Iron Circle, but it seemed fitting to him that Darago was finishing now, when Herrith's hold on Nar was becoming final. It was all divine, the bishop decided, part of a design more vast than them all. The Black Renaissance that had relegated the Lord to nothing more than a means of controlling Nar had been almost entirely vanquished, and God had spoken to General Vorto and brought him into the fold. God was good and powerful. God wanted the Black Renaissance dead. And Herrith, who had dedicated his life to the service of Heaven, was not about to disappoint his Lord.
He slipped through the hall to a secondary chamber guarded by a consecrated statue. Saint Carlarian the Confessor watched him enter with marble eyes. When he was inside the chamber Herrith lowered his cowl and looked around. The room was empty. He had expected Todos to be waiting for him. The bishop crossed the room and peered through the door leading to the confession chambers. Father Todos was outside one of them. His eyes were closed in prayer.
"Todos?" asked the bishop.
The priest's eyes snapped open. He put a finger to his lips to quiet his master. Then he pointed into the confession booth.
"In there," he mouthed silently.
"Who?"
Todos went over to his master and whispered a single word. "Kye."
Herrith frowned. He didn't need Kye backing away from their grim work. Without his leadership, the legions might splinter.
"I thought you should know," said Todos apologetically. "I'm almost certain it's him. The voice . . ."
Herrith nodded. Kye's voice was unmistakable--a low-pitched rattle, the result of a Triin arrow through his neck. It took an experienced ear to understand him now.
"You did the right thing," said Herrith gently. "Thank you."
"He's been waiting," said Todos. "But I'm not sure you should hear his confession, Your Holiness. He will recognize your voice."
"Let him. He will be talking to God, not me. Go now, my friend. You've done well."
"Thank you, Your Holiness."
Herrith watched his assistant leave. He loved his old friend dearly, but wanted no witnesses to what was about to happen. Kye was an unbeliever, and he needed to be convinced. And although Herrith knew he had a placid reputation, God demanded things of him these days, things that often changed his personality. It wouldn't do for his underlings to hear him rage.
Take care, he reminded himself as he walked into the booth and closed the door behind him. You need this one.
Like he needed Vorto and all his soldiers. They were the only thing keeping together the fragile coalition of Naren nations. Fear of the legions had kept Biagio's loyalists in check. Fear was the fist of God. Without the army to prop up his church, Herrith knew, Biagio and his hateful Renaissance would triumph.
In the small chamber was a comfortable stool for the attending priest. Herrith took a seat and looked at the mesh screen separating him from the man on the other side. He barely made out Kye's shadow as the colonel sat opposite him, patiently waiting. The bishop said a silent prayer, crossed himself, and softly bade his penitent to speak.
"Go ahead, my child."
There was a long delay as the man on the other side of the screen adjusted himself.
"Yes, Father," he croaked. "I'm here because I think I've sinned."
Herrith closed his eyes. The voice was obviously Kye's. "How long has it been since your last confession, my son?"
"I've never had confession, Father. This is my first time."
"I see. Don't be frightened, then. I will help you."
Herrith knew Kye was listening intently, trying to decipher the voice on the other side of the booth. There was a long pause before the colonel spoke again.
"I don't know where to begin," he said shakily. "Perhaps I should go."
He knows it's me, thought Herrith. Fine.
"Don't leave. God doesn't care if you know the rituals. He only cares that you speak from your heart. Can you do that for Him?"
More silence. And then, "Yes. Yes, I can."
"Good, my son. We are listening, God and I. Tell us your sins. What troubles you so to bring you here?"
"I have never been a believer," said Kye's disembodied voice. "But I need God now. I need to know if I'm damned for what I've done."
"What have you done?"
"So much," moaned the colonel. "So bloody much . . ."
"Tell me," urged Herrith. "Tell God."
There was a sigh from the other side of the chamber. Colonel Kye's shadow lifted a hand to its head and rubbed. His breathing was erratic, unstable. It quavered as though he was about to weep. Archbishop Herrith said nothing, letting the colonel compose himself.
"I've killed so many people," said Kye. "Your Holiness, there is blood on me. So much blood . . ."
"You know who I am," said the bishop. "Does that not frighten you, Kye?"
"Yes, it does," admitted the colonel. "But you should know what we've been doing for you. You should know the blood we've spilled. It is like a river, Holiness."
Herrith began to tremble too, not with rage but with remorse. He had already heard the reports from Goth. Formula B had worked better than promised. And he had given that order himself. If there was blood on Kye's hands, then Herrith was drenched in it, too.
"The horror," Kye went on, his voice breaking. "God have mercy on me for what I've done." His shoulders slumped and he began to gasp, until at last the sobs overcame him and the booth rang with his anguish. "Tell me there's a God," he begged. "Absolve me, Holiness."
"There is a God more powerful than you or I, Colonel Kye. A God whose plan might seem harsh to us both, but who makes demands on us sometimes. You are pure in His eyes, Colonel. You are one of His soldiers, not Vorto's. Trust in Him. You are doing His work."
Even as he said it, Herrith wondered. Kye seemed to take no solace in the words. His sobs went on and on, until Herrith could hardly understand the babbling of his raspy voice. Kye was mumbling about children and screams, and something about mothers dying. Goth, the city of death, where nothing lived or could live anymore.
