City of Storms

by Kat Ross

  “Malach,” Nikola said desperately, shaking him. “You have to wake up.”

  His eyes fluttered open. There was no recognition. Nothing but pain and confusion. Glass smashed. Nikola screamed as hands dragged her from the car. Three of them together now and she saw what it was that had tripped a wire in her brain. The pupils of their eyes had vertical slits like goats. She punched and kicked. Somehow she fought free and ran into the field. From the dusky hollows under the trees, more appeared, swift and silent. They’d probably been following the car like hyenas on the trail of a wounded animal, waiting for it to give up so they could close in.

  In the distance, the last molten bit of sun sank behind the basilica.

  The world tilted. Nikola was swept by a powerful sense of deja vu. Her field of vision—the basilica, the palace to the east, the grassy bowl-shaped cavity in the middle of the park where a shell had exploded a long time ago—superimposed itself over a place she knew, a place Malach had shown her.

  She sprinted left, tearing through thorny bushes that raked her skin, and there it was, partially hidden by dense foliage. She could just make out the Raven in a circle at the top. Another ten strides and she was able to read the words carved on the stone pillar.

  Pax intrantibus salus exeuntibus.

  Nikola heard Malach’s sweet teenaged baritone giving the translation even as knives scraped the marrow from his bones.

  Peace to those who enter, health to those who depart.

  She tripped over a root and fell on her face, frantically crawling the last few meters. She pressed her back against the stela, praying to all the Saints and Martyrs that it would work.

  Her pursuers stopped ten meters away as if they’d hit an invisible wall. They stared at her for a long moment, faces slack, then turned as one and started back for the car.

  “Hey!” Nikola yelled, waving her arms. “Over here!”

  They didn’t slow. She swore loudly. Even if she could have carried him along, the stela wouldn’t shelter Malach. It would finish him.

  “Hey!” she screamed. “Come back!”

  The female reached the car first. Nikola watched, gorge rising, as she yanked Malach’s door open. He tumbled out and she caught him by one arm, dragging his limp body from the vehicle. Her mouth opened, far too wide for a human mouth, more like a snake unhinging its jaws to swallow an overlarge meal. Nikola didn’t even realize she’d picked up a rock until it was flying from her hand. She was too far away to do any damage, but the noise of it striking the ground made the female pause. Nikola moved a little way from the stela and waved her arms.

  “Come on,” she yelled. “Come get some!”

  There were eight of the creatures. Not people, though from a distance it would be easy to mistake them for human. Three suddenly exploded into motion, sprinting for the stela. Nikola almost pissed herself. She waited, giving them hope, then dashed back to the Wardstone. Two stopped at the perimeter. A straw-haired boy kept coming, his eyes fixed on Nikola, until blood gushed from his nose and he finally gave up.

  She realized that several of them were children. They even looked alike. Some kind of twisted family unit.

  The female had paused to see what happened. She held Malach the way you might hold a leg of chicken, dangling from one hand. Nikola thought the things were stupid, brainless, but then the female caught her eye and gave a calculated, knowing smile. She seized Malach’s hair in her free hand, bringing his face up as if she meant to kiss him . . . and then she stiffened and fell down, an arrow jutting from one eye. A woman in a red cloak stepped out from behind a tree. She drew fletching to her cheek and released another arrow in one fluid motion. She had two companions, both wearing clothes that blended with the jungle, and they were armed with crossbows.

  The creatures died. Some died running and some died where they stood, but not one managed to escape.

  When it was over, the woman hurried to Malach and knelt down, then beckoned to her companions. They lifted him up and bore him towards the Pontifex’s Palace, which was not far off, struggling a bit under his weight. The woman walked to the stela, pausing at roughly the same distance the attackers had. Wisps of auburn hair fell around her face. The rest was tied back in a high, bouncy ponytail. She looked like the university girls who jogged around the oval at Arkadia Park on Saturday mornings, except for the Broken Chain around her neck and the blood red cloak, which fell in rich folds to her feet.

  “I am Bishop Dantarion.” Her face was grave. “Did you do that to Cardinal Malach?”

  Cardinal? “No! I just drove all night from Novostopol. I was trying to save his life when those things attacked us.”

  “Perditae. When the ley floods, they go mad. What is your name?”

  “Nikola Thorn, Your Grace.”

  “You are safe now, Nikola Thorn.” She held out a gloved hand. “Come with me before night falls. There are things in the forest that do not fear the stelae.”

  Nikola hesitated. She trusted the nihilim about as much as a rabid dog, but she couldn’t stay there forever. A refusal would cause offense and this woman had saved their lives.

  “Where did they take him?”

  “To Tashtemir. If Malach can be saved, he will do his best.” Her hand fell. “Remain at the Wardstone if you wish. But do not expect us to come out again.”

  Nikola slapped at a mosquito. Darkness cloaked the buildings now. She thought of the thing in the reflecting pool and wondered if it emerged at night to hunt. With a last glance at the Raven Ward, Nikola pushed off the stela and approached the nihilim. She halted a short distance away, ready to run again, but Dantarion made no move to threaten her.

  “He was stabbed by a priest,” Nikola said. “A laqueus.”

  Dantarion’s eyes went flat. “I know the Order.”

  She’d practiced the tale in her head and thought it credible enough. “Cardinal Malach was looking for something inside the Arx. I’m a char there. Our paths crossed and I agreed to aid him.”

  Dantarion’s clear blue eyes weighed her. “Why?”

  “He said something to me when we met. That he would rather rule in the Void than serve the Via Sancta. I will never rule anyone, but nor do I wish to serve for the rest of my life. We made a bargain. I helped him get into the Arx, and he was supposed to help me escape Novostopol. I intend to leave the continent and built a new life elsewhere. But he was badly injured so I brought him directly here.”

  The young bishop smiled. She had rosy cheeks and a scattering of freckles across her upturned nose. “You have our heartfelt thanks, Nikola Thorn. Cardinal Malach is a favorite of the Pontifex. She will wish to meet you right away.”

  Dantarion turned to the palace across the field. It was an enormous building of pale stone with symmetrical wings that extended for a full city block in either direction. Lights shone in the windows—and glimmers of silver emanated from within the stone itself. Astrum. Despite her misgivings, Nikola felt she’d slipped into a land of dark enchantment. Her life in Novostopol was a blur of sameness. Work nights, sleep days, drink to dull the tedium. Bal Kirith was different. She could sense the danger here, lurking just below the pretty surface like the reflecting pool. The water had gone still again, but Dantarion gave it a wide berth.

  “What’s in there?” Nikola asked.

  “Only a few crocodilians.” Dantarion glanced over with a faint smile. “But they have excellent night vision.”

  The palace entrance was flanked by tall columns that twisted like horns. It appeared to be unguarded. “Aren’t you afraid of the Perditae?” Nikola asked.

  “Usually, they are afraid of us,” Dantarion replied wryly. “But the ley riled them up. My cousins and I were keeping an eye on that band.”

  “Lucky for us.”

  “Yes.” She pressed an ungloved hand against against one of the huge bronze doors. It swung open on silent hinges. “Lucky for you.”

  Small yellow birds swooped through the interior. The vaulted triple-height ceilings and insane amount
of gilding indicated a place that had once been opulently furnished. Most of the windows were broken. The marble walls were bare. The niches and pedestals were empty. Every painting, tapestry and statue, every knick-knack, had been carted off to Novostopol and Nantwich, where it was on display in various museums. The result was a gorgeous shell, slowly going to seed.

  “Will you take me to Cardinal Malach?” Nikola was always conscious of using proper titles with the clergy and doubted the mages would be any different.

  “We shall see, Nikola Thorn.” Dantarion threw open the door to a long hall where a banquet was in progress. Masked servants moved along the table, refilling goblets. The hall was lit by three enormous crystal candelabra that hung suspended over the table, but Nikola’s first overwhelming impression was of the color red. Tablecloth, drapes, carpet, candles, even the stained glass windows—all were of the deepest crimson.

  “Make an obeisance to the Pontifex Beleth,” Dantarion said softly.

  Conversation ceased at once. A dozen faces turned to the doorway. Nikola couldn’t decide which was more disturbing—the porcelain masks of the servants or the people seated around the table. She curtsied deeply.

  “Reverend Mother.”

  “You may rise,” a melodic voice commanded.

  Nikola had never seen anyone quite like the woman seated at the head of the table. She wore a low-cut red gown with a tight corset that thrust her breasts skyward. The skin of her face and bosom was powdered deathly white. It was hard to guess her age, or even speculate as to what she truly looked like, because her features were painted on—scarlet bow-shaped lips and two thin arching lines for eyebrows. A white wig threaded with black pearls towered above her head like a wedding cake, the sides trailing ringlets that tumbled across her exposed shoulders.

  “Dante,” Beleth said, her eyes still locked on Nikola, “come here.”

  The bishop hastily approached and bent down to whisper in her ear. Thick makeup made the Pontifex’s reaction difficult to gauge, but one hand tightened around a folded fan, tapping it against the table. The fourth finger held a heavy gold signet ring.

  “Malach has returned,” Beleth announced. Her gaze settled on Nikola. “You bring me my nephew at the brink of death. I would hear what happened to him.”

  Nikola repeated the story she’d told Dantarion, sticking as close to the truth as possible. They’d first met a few months before. The only major lie was the terms of their bargain. Right now, she meant nothing to them. But if they discovered she carried Malach’s child . . . .

  “He entered the Arx?”

  “Yes.”

  “What was he looking for?”

  “He didn’t tell me, Reverend Mother.”

  “Do you have Malach’s Mark? If so, I would see it.”

  “He was stabbed before he could give it to me. But I kept my end. I helped him escape the city. He said nihilim always honor their bargains, Reverend Mother.”

  Beleth stared at her without speaking for a long moment. “I hope he tells the same tale when he wakes, Nikola Thorn.” She used the fan to point to an empty chair near the head of the table. Scarlet lips curved in a perfunctory smile. “Join us.”

  Nikola curtsied again. She made her way down the table, feeling their eyes on her the whole way, and sat down. Immediately, a servant filled her goblet to the brim with dark wine. Another set a gold plate in front of her. It held a few withered tubers and some kind of fish swimming in a thick cream sauce.

  “A toast,” Dantarion said. “To the swift recovery of Cardinal Malach.”

  Everyone raised their goblets. Nikola touched the rim to her lips, but the fumes made her stomach roll. Through her lashes, she studied the other nihilim. Except for Dantarion, all appeared to be in their sixties or older—the last survivors of the generation that had been excommunicated. Nikola loathed the Curia, but her skin crawled as if she’d tumbled into a pit of vipers. Surely their faces must reflect some sign of corruption and cruelty, although as with the Pontifex, it was hard to see past the extravagant costumes. Both men and women were heavily painted, powdered and perfumed.

  “She tried to draw the Perditae away from him,” Dantarion said.

  “How brave,” Beleth said. “Do you dislike the vintage, Domina Thorn?”

  Nikola looked at her untouched goblet. “Not at all, Reverend Mother.”

  “Then why did you not drink?” Her blue eyes were cold. “It is an ill omen to snub a toast to a dying man’s health.”

  “My stomach is a bit rough from travel, Reverend Mother.”

  “Still, I find it distinctly peculiar. Let us try again.” She raised her goblet. “To Malach.”

  “To Malach,” the others echoed.

  Nikola forced herself to swallow a mouthful of wine. It was cloyingly sweet. The moment it hit her stomach, she knew she wouldn’t keep it down. She lurched to her feet. With a muttered apology, she ran from the hall, just making it to the corridor before violently retching. She’d drunk bad wine plenty of times before. Never had she felt so ill.

  “Are you all right?”

  She wiped her mouth and looked up. A boy and girl stood there, obviously siblings, both quite pretty. They had straight black chin-length hair and wore clothing in shades of green. Nikola realized it was the two young mages who had been with Dantarion. The ones who took Malach away.

  “I’m afraid I’ve disgraced myself,” she said.

  “The servants will clean it up,” the girl replied carelessly. She was taller and sturdier than her brother, who hovered behind her.

  “I’m Nikola.” She smiled. “I don’t believe I’ve thanked you for saving us. What are your names?”

  “Sydonie and Tristhus.”

  “Can you show me where you brought Cardinal Malach?”

  “He’s with Tashtemir. We must not disturb them.”

  “I promise I won’t disturb anyone. In fact, I have some medical training. Perhaps I can help.”

  “Then why didn’t you help him before?”

  The girl was sharp. “I didn’t have the supplies. Please, I would like very much to see him.”

  “Maybe you can do that tomorrow.”

  Nikola wanted to take her by the collar and shake her, but no doubt that would end badly. “Well,” she said, looking at the door to the hall. “I suppose I’d better go apologize for my abrupt departure.”

  “They won’t care if you go back in. The feasts last all night sometimes. They’ve probably forgotten about you already.”

  Nikola very much doubted that, but it was true that no one had come to look for her, not even one of the servants.

  “Where did you come from?” Tristhus asked. He had plump cheeks and a high, sweet voice. Nikola placed him somewhere between eight and ten, while his sister was about twelve.

  “Novostopol.”

  “Oh, that’s a very long way. You must be tired. Maybe that’s why you sicked up.”

  “Trist.” Sydonie frowned. “Don’t be rude.”

  “It’s all right,” Nikola said. “I don’t mind. He’s right, I’m quite tired.”

  “Would you like us to show you to a bedchamber?”

  “That would be wonderful. But are you sure it won’t cause offense if I retire without the Pontifex’s permission?”

  Sydonie gave a merry peal of laughter. “Beleth doesn’t care about things like that.”

  “What does she care about?” It seemed a sensible question to ask.

  “Her manifesto. She’s always scribbling. And Malach. He’s her favorite.”

  “And us,” Sydonie said. “She loves us ever so much.”

  “Of course she does,” Nikola said. “You’re both charming.”

  Tristhus beamed, but Sydonie gave her a sly smile. “You say that, but you don’t know us at all, Nikola.”

  “That’s very true. And I must remedy the situation by getting to know you both better tomorrow.”

  “Oh yes, we would like that,” the girl said, flashing even white teeth.

>   The children led her up a wide flight of stairs and along a gallery lined with mirrors that were miraculously intact, chattering all the way about the Perditae and how foolish they’d been to enter the city. Except the children didn’t call them Perditae. They called them leeches.

  “It’s more fun to watch them fight each other,” Tristhus said. “If you put the leeches in a pit and let them get hungry enough, they’ll provide good sport. But we couldn’t let them eat Malach, could we?”

  Sydonie giggled. “Beleth would have gotten very angry with us.”

  “Shooting them is okay, too,” Tristhus said, miming pulling the trigger on a crossbow. “Not much of a challenge, though.”

  “Why are the Perditae like that?” Nikola asked.

  He shrugged. “They just are.”

  “Where do their Marks come from?”

  “You ask a lot of questions,” Sydonie said. The friendliness vanished like a switch had been flipped. “Are you a spy?”

  “If I was a spy, why would I bring Malach back to you alive?”

  “Barely alive,” she pointed out.

  “I’m not a spy.” Nikola turned her head, exposing the side of her neck. “Do you see a Raven?”

  Both children inspected her closely. “No.”

  “I hate the Curia. I’ve been little better than a slave since I was sixteen. When Malach wakes up, he’ll tell you.”

  Sydonie took her brother’s hand. They shared a long, intense look that made Nikola uneasy. “Give us the car keys,” she said.

  “The battery’s dead.”

  “We don’t care. We want to pretend to drive.”

  Oh.” Nikola fished the keys from her pocket. “Keep them.”

  Sydonie flung her arms around Nikola’s waist. “Thank you!”

  “You’re welcome.” She gently disengaged. “Now, where shall I rest tonight?”

  “They’re all empty.” Tristhus gestured down the corridor. “Choose any one you like. Sleep well, Nikola.”

  The children scampered off. Nikola opened a few random doors. The first chamber was empty. The next had a large rust-colored stain on the floor that looked like dried blood and probably was. The third was defaced with graffiti declaring Lux, Veritas, Virtus! in meter-tall letters. Mildew speckled the feather mattress and damp mottled the plaster, but Nikola was too tired to search for better. She sat down on the bed and took her shoes off.