by Stu Jones
I can’t even say I know them. Was I so isolated?
“Women? You believe you have the knowledge to help me?”
The first nods with fervor. “Yes, yes we can. I’m Nadezhda, and this is Alyona. We’re engineers. It wouldn’t be so difficult.”
“If it is not so difficult, do I need you both?”
“Yes.” the second blurts, shuffling closer to the first. “We worked in the same lab.”
“We shall see, sheep. We shall see.”
Chapter Eleven
MILA
Evening descends, the cold ever deepening. It’s a foe that never seems to concede. The familiar numbing ache attacks the limbs first, but quickly penetrates the psyche leaving an icy resignation that steals any joy from life. I should be used to it now, after all these years. I’m not.
I lift my chin from the fur-lined collar of my jacket and flash the Logosian enclave brand on the back of my hand to the sentries standing guard at the enclave gate. They barely acknowledge it, but perhaps more surprising, say nothing to Husniya. Do they recognize me and know I wouldn’t bring a radical in, or do they simply no longer care? No wonder Logos is having problems with attacks by outsiders.
We pass through the brass-crested gate and into the cluttered streets beyond. The ramshackle, stone and rusted sheet metal favelas of my home enclave lay ahead. People shuffle to and fro with a distinct familiarity, yet there is a weariness I don’t remember. How long have I neglected my home?
“Oh.” Husniya pinches her nose. “What is that?”
The smell of spices and the smoke of sizzling chiori fills the cold air. My mouth waters. “Chiori with Logosian spices.”
“No, that awful smell.” She shakes her head.
“Oh, the fires,” I say without turning.
“Wood fires don’t smell like that.” Husniya grimaces and covers her face.
“I know. The fires are the only true way to sterilize the infected dead.”
Husniya moans in disgust.
We shuffle past the old street where Clief’s bar used to be, the place where I’d held my friend for the last time. My people have done a good job of rebuilding in the wake of the Creed’s attack on Logos, but it still hurts deep down to know I was the cause of such ruin; that because of me, a good friend and countless others died when the Gracile’s robotic puppets came to end me. My chin drops back into my collar which is still moist with the steam of my breath. Freedom from the Gracile Leader came at a great cost.
Ahead, up several winding flights of steps carved into the rock of Zhokov mountain, lies my reason for coming here at all: The Covenant of The Holy Vestals of the Word. We climb slowly. The sling bag with the ancient tome inside is snug against my back—the heavy binding presses into my spine through the thick lining of the jacket. This slight pressure feels almost symbolic—the weight of my beliefs.
We reach the top of the staircase, huffing and wheezing in the cold. Against my chest, the injured child lies limp, passed out from the pain. Her bleeding has slowed but she will need the Vestal’s intervention if she is to retain the use of her arm. Husniya pulls on the two large metal rings of the covenant doors. They don’t budge. She leans back and, with considerable effort, drags open a small gap. I’m not even through the threshold before I’m approached by two young women wearing the signature crimson and cream-colored robes typical of their order.
“Sister Vestal,” I call out. “I have an injured child here. Her family was murdered along the Vapid road. Please help us.”
“Of course, dear, give her to me,” the Vestal says, wrapping the child in a wool blanket and passing her off to the attendant behind her. She turns back to me, craning her neck to see over my shoulder. “Will your friend come in?”
Husniya is still hovering outside the threshold.
“What’s wrong, Hus? Come in out of the cold.”
“I’m, ah,” The girl looks around then down at the snow at her feet. “I don’t feel like I should.”
“Come in,” I say, trying to keep my voice neutral. “The temperature is dropping. You can’t stay out there all night.”
The Vestal steps beside me with her arms outstretched. “Come in from the cold, child. Every son and daughter of Yeos is welcome here, no matter their beliefs.”
Husniya hesitates still. Though never as religious as Faruq, she holds to her faith in Ilah.
“Please,” the Vestal says. “We would love to have you with us, even for a short while. I have a blanket and a hot cup of soup for each of you.”
The mention of hot soup does it. Husniya slips through the gap, pulling the door shut behind her with a hollow clang.
“Okay, but I’ll just stay here in the entrance if it’s all the same to you,” Husniya says.
“Oh, yes, child. Yes, that’s fine.” The Vestal drapes a wool blanket over her shoulders. “Whatever makes you comfortable.” She gestures to a bench. “You can sit here while you wait for your soup.”
A blanket slides over my shoulders followed by the strong hands of the sister Vestal, who begins to rub the chill from me.
“Thank you, sister.”
“Oh no, thank you, Mila,” she says with genuine warmth. “It is so good to have you with us again.”
“Yes.” She knows my name? “It’s good to return.”
“Will you come with me? We’ll take good care of your friends.”
“Okay, thank you,” I say and give one last glance at Husniya, who now sits on the floor cocooned in her blanket.
I follow the young Vestal down the curving candlelit stairs lined with pale sculptures meticulously cut by hand from the living stone. As we walk together, the sculptures are replaced by tapestries, relics, and tributes. Some are items from the old world so rare and valuable, it would be impossible to calculate their worth—much like the tome in my bag. It may well be the greatest treasure I have ever possessed. A gift from Yeos via Demitri. And now I must find a way to let it go.
We exit the stairs, pass through the arched hallways of the catacombs, and meander to the simple underground chapel. It’s beautifully adorned with flickering candles, hanging cloths of the deepest crimson, marble effigies, and elaborate frescos. Here the air is warmer, the musk of incense and mountain herbs a pleasant bouquet that lifts my spirits. Extending my index and middle fingers, I touch the founder’s stone, then my bowed forehead. The plea for mercy spills out, a prayer rehearsed and recited thousands of times before.
It was here, some four years ago, the Mother Vestal cared for me and shared with me her wisdom and strength. A moment that helped me to carry on. “You were fashioned with love by your creator to do one thing,” she’d said. “You have a destiny even you do not yet fully understand. No matter how dark the path, you are destined to carry the message of the light.”
At that time, I’d thought I had lost everything. Little did I know I would lose much more.
The sister Vestal directs me to a padded bench where I sit and am given a hot mug of broth by another attendant.
“Thank you.” The delicious warmth seeps into my fingers and I cautiously take a sip from the steaming mug.
“You are most welcome, Mila.” The Vestal smiles. “My name is Katerina. What brings you and your friends to us today?”
“Several errands, one in particular, which is long overdue.” I swallow another large sip of the herbal soup then set the mug aside.
Might as well get this over with.
I pull the bag open. My heart beats faster in my chest. The longing to cling to something that is not, and never was, mine alone grows stronger.
Sister Katerina waits patiently, her hands clasped in her lap.
My face tingles with heat. “I’m sorry. I didn’t intend to make such an ordeal of this,” I swallow and continue opening the bag. “This is difficult for me.”
In one swift movement, I pull the heavy tome from the bag and rest it in my lap.
Sister Katerina’s eyes grow wide, and her hands fly to her lips.
/> “That can’t be what I think it is.”
“It is.”
“Sisters.” The Vestal calls at the top of her lungs, her voice high and shrill. The outburst catches me off guard. It takes a moment, but the rapid shuffling of feet greets my ears as women dressed in flowing crimson and cream round the corner and pour into the chapel.
“May I?” the sister says, turning back to me with wonder in her eyes.
“Of course, Sister Katerina.”
She receives the tome tenderly, the way one accepts a baby into their arms, and turns it so she can marvel at the ancient leather bindings and flaking gold lettering. The others gather in hushed whispers of praise. The sister Vestal opens the cover and appears to wonder at the faded handwritten script inside, stroking the page with reverence.
“I came into possession of this some time ago,” I say, unable to divulge it’s been four years since Demitri gave me the Writ. “I knew it had to come here, especially since it might be the last one. I meant to do it before now—I couldn’t bring myself to let it go. It was selfish of me, I know.”
“Dear.” Sister Katerina’s voice is gentle and without judgment. “Do not be hard on yourself,” she says and pats me on the arm. “Which of us would have had the strength to let go of such a priceless treasure?”
“Thank you, sister.”
The sister stands and holds the tome up for all to see, the room now full of the resilient ladies of this ancient order. “The Holy Writ has returned to us.”
The small room echoes with cheers and the sound of applause and shouts of joy. She waits for the jubilation to subside before continuing.
“I know you are all as anxious as I to see more, and we will each have our turn to study the words of the Lightbringer, but for now, please return to your duties. Those who do not have pressing matters may sit and listen to Mila’s tale.”
Without protest, most of the graceful women file from the room with beautiful smiles, hugging one another and giggling.
There’s a smile on my face too, a big one. I tell the sister my tale, sparing no detail. How the Writ had previously been held as part of a Gracile collection of old books. How Demitri had brought it to me as a gift before we together took on the Gracile leader with hopes of saving Etyom, and how it had stayed safely with me since. The Vestals listen, awestruck, hanging on every word like children receiving a bedtime story.
One of the young women raises her hand.
The senior Vestal nods to her. “Yes, sister?”
“Miss Mila, would you say the Holy Writ empowered you through the dangers you faced?”
I consider the earnest question of the girl who looks so young in the flickering light of this place. It’s easy to forget some of these young ladies took their vows of service at a young age and have seen little of the terrors that lie in wait right outside the doors to their sanctuary.
“Well. It didn’t give me inhuman power, if that’s what you mean, but it did give me strength in my heart. To know one is not alone, even when the days grow dark. You can’t put a price on that.” My fingers graze the frayed edges of the crumpled photo in my pocket.
The young vestal bobs her head vigorously.
Why do my own words feel hollow? Have I strayed so far from the path? Why does Yeos no longer speak to me, in dreams or otherwise? I try to stand for the weak and oppressed, to search for Demitri and Faruq. Yet these days I can’t help but feel so distant from the Lightbringer.
“And um,” another Vestal starts, only raising her hand when the Vestal Katerina shoots her a scolding glance. “The Gracile man, was he as handsome as the stories tell?”
“Sister Eugenia,” Katerina admonishes. “That will be enough of that.”
The young Vestal blushes.
“I don’t begrudge your curiosity.” I wink. “He was handsome, perfect in appearance some might say, but he was also troubled. A demon was at war with his better nature.”
“What happened?” the girl blurts, not even bothering to raise her hand this time.
“His demon stole him from me.” I turn my gaze down. “I tried to find him, to help him overcome it, but he was gone.”
“Is the will of Yeos to help Graciles, too?” another young Vestal asks.
“He was my friend. In the end, that’s all that matters.”
The chapel grows quiet, the flickering candles throwing dancing shadows on the walls.
Sister Katerina clears her throat. “I think it’s time you all return to your duties. I will see to our guest.”
The young women acknowledge their senior and leave the small room with grace.
Sister Katerina moves to the floor, pulls a basin from under the bench and fills it with crystal clear water from a nearby ceramic jug. I protest, but know full well it will do no good. The washing of a weary traveler’s hands, feet, and wounds is a servant-hearted practice the Vestals have engaged in for as long as their order has existed.
In an instant, the weariness of my trials slips away as the sister’s sponge strokes from my calf down to my toes in a cleansing process as much for the soul as it is for the body. A few quiet moments pass. I take a deep breath of the scented air through my nose. But this is not why I came.
“Sister?”
“Yes?”
“I am also here on an errand to investigate the attacks in Logos last night. Do you know anything of this?”
The Vestal does not raise her eyes. “I know several Logosians were murdered, but not by fanatics. Their bodies were dismembered. At first, people said it was a Ripper attack, but I have seen the results of such an end and this was not that.”
“Then what?”
She shrugs. “I gave the final blessing over the remains. The wounds were clean, the flesh cauterized as though by fire. It was unusual. And we did not find everyone. Some must have been taken.”
“We experienced something similar in Fiori. People dismembered in an almost surgical fashion. I’m struggling to understand who or what could have done this.”
“Some mysteries are not so easily answered.” Katerina sighs. “Be careful how hard you pull on such a thread, Mila. The perpetrator of this ugliness is not to be taken lightly.”
“Of course, thank you, sister.” We sit for another moment in silence. “When I came here last, I had the fortune to speak with the Mother Vestal. Is she here?”
Katerina hesitates. “Our good mother passed from us into the arms of our creator almost two years ago.”
“Oh.” My heart aches at my ignorance of her passing. “She was so good to me at a time when I needed it.”
The Sister Vestal smiles. “That was her way and how she shall be remembered.”
“And who is the mother now?”
Another small sigh from Sister Katerina. “None has taken on this great responsibility as of yet, but I fear it will soon be mine to bear since I am senior.”
I touch her arm. “You are well suited for it.”
She bows her head but says nothing. Several moments pass in silence, and I inhale deeply the fragrant aroma of spiced incense.
“May I ask you something about the end of days as spoken of in the Writ?”
The good Sister dries my feet with a clean cloth. “Of course. I will try to be of assistance.”
“Well, uh.” Come on Mila. You can tell her. “I have dreams. Terrible, prophetic dreams that come true.”
The sister gives a dip of her head but doesn’t seem surprised.
“Years ago when I was a child, I dreamt of the New Black Death ravaging the people of Etyom. Not long after we had the worst outbreak we’d ever seen, at least until now. My father was lost to it.”
“A pestilence,” the sister says. “The plague.”
“Yes, exactly. Then years later, Kapka rose to power over the Musul nation and my visions turned to war. With the Gracile taking most of the resources, we were forced to fight for what scraps remained.”
“War and famine. It is the four horsemen you dreamt of,” she says.
“Yes,” I whisper.
The sister begins cleansing my hands and face with the sponge. “And now, you dream of Death?”
My throat seizes. “I did, though the dreams have stopped.”
“And what causes such fear of Death? Your faith in the Lightbringer ensures you eternal life in heaven, does it not?”
“Yes, sister. It does. But my faith in the unseen sometimes wavers when it shouldn’t. I fear this final horseman the most, because ... I know him.”
The sister is quiet, now stroking my face with the cool sponge.
“Remember the demon I mentioned? The one who stole my friend from me?”
“And you believe this demon will usher in the end days?”
“Yes.” My voice is but a whisper. “He is planning something terrible. I can feel it. I don’t know when, but he is coming and when he does, he will watch this world burn. How is it possible to defeat such evil? Must I sacrifice my friend to save everyone else?”
The sister’s face softens. “With love.” Sister Katerina sets down her sponge and holds my face in both hands. “You carry the weight of the world on your shoulders, dear Mila. Remember the saints? Remember the prophets, and the martyrs who came before you? Did they carry their burdens in despair? No, they did not. They knew the weight and instead of continuing on with their chests out, they humbled themselves choosing a life of service. They understood it was not about them, but about the giving of themselves so others may find the light. That is called sacrifice.”
Her words ring true but are quickly clouded by my own faithlessness. I fear my path has strayed so far even Yeos cannot see me.
“There is one way to endure the path of the Lightbringer,” she continues. “Every step, every single act must be one of love. Not pride, nor strength, nor self-righteousness. Love and faithfulness are the only weapons that will defeat such evil.”
