by Matt Russell
Arkas left the study and walked to the small room down the hall where he found two members of the Lucinian Order in brown robes sitting straight and upright in their chairs. They both turned their heads to face him as he entered. One was a man in his late twenties—handsome in an angular, severe sort of way. The other was quite ancient—perhaps as old as Cromlic himself, with a bald head and surprisingly alert blue eyes.
"Hello, brothers of the church," Arkas said. He gave a nod and said: "I am Arkas Adronicus, Starborn of the Nineteenth Generation." As he said this, he noticed the younger man—just for a fraction of a second—shift his gaze to Arkas's right hand. ‘The Claw-Hand-Prince,’ many in the empire now called him. The bite Cassian's dragon had taken out of him had become the stuff of jokes and mocking songs. The young monk did not get to see the mauled appendage though. Arkas kept a leather glove on his right hand at all times. It was carefully stuffed in places to make his hand appear whole.
"My prince," the younger monk said, rising. "I am Sullivan Mensk."
"Prince Arkas," the elder said second, also rising. "My name is Cordus Silkim."
"Good to meet you both,” Arkas said, "The bishop will see you now." He stepped away from the door, not holding it for the guests, and walked back to Cromlic's study. The two men entered a brief moment after he did, and both introduced themselves to Cromlic, who motioned them to sit before his desk. Arkas moved next to the bishop and remained standing. He fixed his eyes on the younger man as the conversation began.
"Good evening, gentlemen,” Cromlic said. The elder opened his mouth to speak, but the bishop said: "I am afraid I have no time for proper pleasantries. Please be so kind as to come to the purpose of your visit immediately."
The two monks glanced at each other, and then the younger one, Sullivan, spoke: "We wish to share information with you about the heretic, Cassian Asango."
A little thrill passed through Arkas. The monk had referred to Cassian as ‘the heretic.’ That was quite a good sign, and this was evidently not lost on Cromlic, for the old man leaned forward across his desk and said in an excited voice: "Then please share. Is your bishop going to vote for excommunication?"
"Well…no," the older monk said in a grim voice.
"WHAT?!" Cromlic shouted. "Why the hell not?"
The bishop drew in a slow breath, seeming to grudgingly accept the advice as the younger monk said: "My associate and I believe our master is...misguided."
"But the two of you understand Asango should be declared an enemy of the church," Arkas said.
"Of course he should," Sullivan said, his tone full certitude. "Translating the Enumis—it was never meant to be done. Putting the holy scriptures into the hands of common imbeciles will have tremendous consequences to the future of theology."
"That is...why we are here," the elder monk said. "We want to see every one of those translated texts burned. They are far too dangerous—they could cause a split in the church."
"A split in the church?" Arkas said, raising an eyebrow. He guessed he knew what the man meant by this, but it was best to hear it outright.
"There already is division in the church," said Sullivan. "Asango gains new followers every day—men and women who believe that they are qualified to interpret the laws of our Holy Gods for themselves because they can read a few poorly translated words. Can you imagine how many idiotic interpretations of the Enumis we are soon to have? Every damned fool on the street will think himself expert enough to question the clergy."
"Yes, exactly!" Cromlic snapped, slamming his fist down. "Why can your bishop not see this?"
"He believes..." Sullivan answered, grimacing a little, "that knowledge will ultimately enlighten. Our bishop, unfortunately, agrees with Asango that the common man should learn to read, and that translating the holy book may lead to a revolution in literacy in the empire."
It probably will, Arkas thought, though he said nothing.
Cromlic muttered through his teeth: "If your order is set against mine, then what can you possibly offer me?"
The two men glanced nervously at one another again, and then the older one said: "First I must ask a question. Assuming you could never gain the blessing of the conclave of bishops, would you still arrest and kill Asango?"
Cromlic's face became sour. "I would kill the heretic this very instant if I could, but he is... remarkably formidable."
"We believe we have discovered a contingency," the elder monk said, his tone sounding troubled. "Should all else fail, we have perhaps found a way to defeat—even kill—Asango, no matter what his resources."
The younger monk drew a folded piece of parchment from under his sleeve and nervously unfurled it across the bishop's desk. Arkas hunched over and scanned the document. It was a tattered thing, the ink worn and barely legible, and of course, it was written in Dhavic. Fortunately, Arkas's years under the bishop's thumb had made him into a moderately adept scholar, and he worked the translation in his mind with only a little difficulty here and there. The scroll seemed to be a historical account—a series of edicts made by the first emperor of Denigoth. It discussed punishments for thieves, for murderers, for rapists, and then—Arkas let out a loud gasp. His heart leaping in his chest, he turned to Cromlic, who was staring back at him, a mirrored look of exhilaration on his face.
"We could kill him—without the Onkai or anyone else!" Arkas said.
"Would—would your father allow it?" Cromlic half wheezed.
"I think so—he has always said Asango must fight his own battles—yes—I think he would refrain from interfering."
Cromlic stared down at the scroll again, probably re-reading the beautiful passage near the middle. "I had no idea," he whispered.
"We believe the information was suppressed by the seventh emperor—for fear of the church at the time," the younger monk said.
Cromlic drew in a slow, trembling breath, and Arkas could almost see the wheels in his head turning. "For this to work, Cassian has to be in the capital." The bishop switched abruptly to telepathy as he added:
Arkas nodded, though he recoiled inside. It was true that Cassian's death in any form would come as a great relief, but it was irritating to be reminded that even after his years of service to the Nemesai order, the bishop did not see him as the future emperor. Always it was Dimitris...
"How many others know of this?" Cromlic said, staring at the two monks.
"We kept it secret," the younger monk said with the hint of a cocky smile. "The more people know of the trap, the higher Asango's chances of side-stepping it."
"Agreed," Cromlic said, just before he telepathically whispered to Arkas:
Arkas was already scanning the men. As the bishop had said, they had both been trained thoroughly in occlusion. Their thoughts were obscured behind strong mental walls, yet emotion was leaking through. Arkas sensed what felt like sincerity.
"I thank you for bringing this to my attention," Cromlic said to the two men, his voice icy. "You have given me a great deal to consider, and I must bid you goodnight. High Inquisitor Arkas will see you out."
"Oh," the younger monk said. He hesitated, then said: "We are in agreement, are we not—about the copies of the Enumis?"
"Of course we are," Cromlic said with a tense smile. "I promise you I will make it my life's mission to see every last shred of Asango's legacy burned away, once he lies dead at my feet."
"Ah...good," the young monk said.
"Gentlemen," Arkas said, gesturing for them to rise. "Before you go, I was wondering if I could ask for your opinion on a piece of archaic text I found tucked away in our west wing. Would you mind following me?"
"Of course," the elder monk said with a friendly smile.
Arkas returned his grin and stole a quick glance at his bishop. The old man was staring down at his desk looking almost horrified. Was he really troubled by killing a few monks? Arkas rolled his eyes at the doddering old fool and led the two men out into the hallway. His mind was already spinning through dozens of different scenarios. How much did this actually change his plans? Arkas was not sure. It was only a few months now until the Norn's prophecy would come to pass. If her prediction proved true, he would acquire a weapon that could kill his father—the man many believed to be the most powerful Starborn who ever lived. Surely, such a tool could kill Asango, as well as Dimitris and Cromlic, but there was no way to be certain. He did not know the nature of this weapon—perhaps it could only be used once, or it had other strange limitations. No, it was best to keep as many avenues of attack open as possible toward Cassian. One way or another, the son of a whore who had humiliated him in front of the whole empire, and whose pet had mutilated Arkas’s hand, was going to die.
Chapter 6:
Cursed
We think of Promethiock's gift as the greatest blessing humankind has ever received, and it is. Magic has allowed the fragile, mortal race of man to rise up and face all the enormous challenges of this world time and again. It can be used to heal and to repair and to build, but not all who have possessed the gift of sorcery have used their power for good. We who wield magic must always remember that it is a tremendously dangerous power that has brought down terrible consequences upon innocent people.
---Telemachus Vale,
Starborn of the nineteenth generation
Why had she not warned Dalvin and his partner about the Nemesai? Livia imagined the two Cassianites in chains. Were they being tortured even now as she sat there in her bed? Her stomach twisted painfully as she watched her little Iona sleep so peacefully under the folds of her rough spun blanket. Their two cots were little more than an arm's length apart in the tiny room they shared. Livia had spent the entire night clenched in terror next to Iona, her imagination inventing dozens of different scenarios for what had happened. She had no idea if the sorcerer had been working alone or with others. She did not know if he were alive or dead, or if he had communicated anything about her. Perhaps the man was still unconscious. Perhaps he had awoken only a short time ago. At any moment, Nemesai soldiers could come bursting into the Sondal home to capture her or kill her on the spot. This thought had been recurring over and over throughout the night, and every distant sound she had heard from the world outside her room had filled her with silent terror.
"Huh-h-h-h," Iona yawned as she sat up and stretched her arms. She was wearing the same tattered, over-sized tunic she wore most nights, and her wild brown hair was a mess all about her shoulders. When the young girl finished stretching, she turned her head and looked at Livia, muttering in a tired voice: "Good morning. Why are you up already?" She blinked a few times, and then her eyes focused, and she peered closer at Livia. "Hey!" she said, her eyebrows rising in an expression of surprise and worry, “are you alright?"
Livia swallowed, wincing slightly under Iona's gaze. She felt horribly tired. Her eyes hurt, and her skin was covered in oily sweat from hours upon hours of terror-induced alertness. Iona could detect the stress, and concern flashed in her kind, loving eyes.
"Did you not sleep?" Iona said.
Livia breathed very slowly as she met her surrogate sister’s gaze. She had considered telling Iona the truth for a brief moment the night before, but that would put the sweet girl in even more danger than Livia had already done. Instead, she reached for her paper and charcoal pencil, which were on the small table between the two heads of their beds, and wrote with a creaking hand:
I have a terrible headache.
"Oh, I'm sorry," Iona said when she read the words. She reached out to touch Livia's head, but Livia could not quite help flinching sharply away from the sudden movement. This, of course, drew more concern from Iona. "Did something happen last night? I was worried about you when you stayed late at the shop."
Livia forced a smile and shook her head, clenching her toes within her socks as she did. Lying to Iona of all people felt terrible, but it was a lie of protection. She held up the paper with the sentence she had just written and tapped at it, emphasizing that a headache was all that was wrong.
Iona's dark eyebrows knitted together in consternation. "Did you even eat the pheasant I left out for you?" Livia managed another smile and a nod, though this was also a lie. Eating had been the last thing on her mind. She had stayed for hours in Hervin's shop under the pretense of doing a careful audit of the books, which she sometimes undertook. Livia had sat alone at the desk, debating taking the money the mysterious Lady Gretis had given her and attempting to flee the city. She had ultimately concluded that leaving immediately after the attack would draw heavy suspicion from the Nemesai Order, and a mute girl with a slave tattoo would be an incredibly easy thing to find in any of the cities to which she might run. She had no confidence in her ability to survive if she tried to vanish into the untamed forests of the empire either. Being alone in the wild would mean being defenseless against the crude sort of men who leered at her every time she stepped out into the streets.
After several nervous hours, Livia had also realized that the sorcerer might not wake up, which meant running away could cast suspicion on her where none would have otherwise arisen. That logic seemed incredibly flawed now. If naïve little Iona could see how flustered and disheveled she was, what chance did she stand?
"I... I'll make breakfast," Iona said. "I'll fetch you some water first though."
Livia ached with thirst. The city's aqueduct would have cool, crisp water this early in the morning. Perhaps because she could not think though, she shook her head and gestured to the kitchen, indicating that Iona should instead begin the day's cooking.
"Maybe a little later," her sister said. The young girl turned to the shelves where she kept her work clothing and quickly changed into her rough spun dress and apron and disappeared into the kitchen.
Livia gripped the sheets under her hands. What was she going to do? Was she putting the family in danger simply by being among them? These panicked thoughts ran uncontrolled as she heard Hervin thump out of his bedroom. Through her thin door, Livia listened to him speak to Iona in his kind, fatherly voice: "Good morning, my dear."
The Nemesai sometimes held masters responsible for the actions of their slaves! Livia’s eyes moistened. With the right pretext, the holy men could force Hervin to confess to following the heretical ideals of Cassian Asango. Then they could confiscate his business and all of his savings and property, including Iona. The entire family could be doomed because of Livia’s foolishness. She could not allow that to happen.
Stiffening, Livia picked up her paper and pencil from their resting place on her small table. There was only one thing to be done. With a shaking hand, she wrote:
My Confession:
I, the slave named Livia, confess to conspiring against the church. I did this in secret, without the knowledge of my master or my slave sister, Iona. My master trusted me and gave me a great d
eal of freedom, and I used this to my advantage. I hid literature from him that denounced the authority of the Nemesai. No one influenced me to do this. I wanted a life where I was not a slave, and so I turned to the teachings of Cassian Asango. To this end, I attacked a member of the Nemesai order.
I am guilty, and I make no excuses. Please have mercy on me. I offer to serve the church for the rest of my life as penance.
--Livia Sondal
She swallowed, gazing at the paper. It would be her damnation if she ended up using it, but it might save everyone else. There came an odd sensation of calm at having written it. She could at least exercise some control over the situation, however small and pitiful it was.
Livia moved to the shelves and threw on a dress and then folded up her confession and slipped it neatly into her pocket. Her hand had just fallen on the bit of rope that served as the handle to her door when she heard a sharp knock come from the front of the house.
If Livia had a voice, she would have screamed. Instead, she took in a shrill breath and flattened against her wall, feeling a sickly tingle in her face as her blood drained away from it. In this stupor, she gazed around her small room, searching for a hiding place or a route of escape even though she knew none existed. Through the walls, Hervin’s voice reverberated: "Yes? Who's there?" Livia began to breathe very fast. She was shaking so hard that she had to lean against the wall to keep from falling.
"Good morning, Hervin!" a voice Livia recognized said. It was Pontis, one of the city's shipmasters with whom Hervin had done a great deal of business over the years. As she heard his voice, she let out a deep sigh and stumbled over to her bed. Her head was spinning.
"What a nice surprise," Hervin's voice boomed with its usual friendliness. "What are you doing here? May I offer you breakfast?"
"Oh, I thank you, but no," Pontis said. "I did not come here to eat." There was a brief pause, and then the man said in a more serious voice: "From the look on your face, I don't think you've heard yet. There has been a bit of trouble."
