Sin Eater (Iconoclasts Book 2)

by Mike Shel

That made Auric sit up as well. Kennah seemed unimpressed. “He knew your name, lady, and whispered it in your mind? That seems little more than a cheap mesmerist’s trick.”

  “I don’t think you understand the full meaning of those words, lad,” said Auric.

  “How so? He knew her name, something he might have gathered from the chatterers at court, and I’ve seen tricksters at county fairs who can throw their voices or perform acts of ventriloquism. Is it the bit about the mask? All the nobles at court wear makeup like the countess.”

  “Sir Kennah,” said Ilanda in a weary voice, “I’ve been around the court long enough to know charlatans from high sorcerers. This was no low magician’s trick. And the mask he spoke of was not the one I wear on my skin. He knows that my vacuous demeanor is a façade. I’ve worked hard to maintain that ruse for the ten years I’ve been visiting the palace. It’s enabled me to maneuver in these lofty circles without losing my head, which I mean quite literally. Any trip to the Mouth of Boudun will tell you that’s no mean feat. But that man had my measure in the span of a moment.”

  “What else did he say?” Agnes asked.

  “It was most strange. His speech from then on was a jumble of the common tongue, various Djao dialects, as Ulwen informed me afterwards, and a language none present could identify. He went on like that for several minutes, with me catching a word or phrase here and there. It was the same for the others gathered there, save the queen. If she too heard it as nonsense, she would not have tolerated it for as long as she did. I stole a few glances at her from my stool as he went on, and she listened with rapt attention.”

  The countess stood and adjusted the straps of her gown, then, to the surprise of all, went to work undoing the corset that bound her and her voluminous skirts and at last cast them to the floor, exposing the silk undergarments covering her legs. She plopped back down on the couch and let out a long sigh. Auric and Kennah stared at Ilanda in shock. Agnes grinned from ear to ear.

  When the countess took note of the men’s chagrin, she rolled her eyes. “Gods grant me patience, I assume you two gentlemen have seen a woman in her pantaloons before. I’m not parading my labia in the market square, for the sake of Saint Enid. You’ll grant me relief for a moment from that ridiculous constricting costume?”

  Auric muttered some awkward assent, Kennah nodded silently, Agnes laughed loud. “I like you, Countess,” she said. “If such a thing is permitted, I would very much like to be your friend.” Auric’s embarrassment was somewhat assuaged by the notion of Agnes and the countess as friends.

  Ilanda smiled weakly and nodded. “It would be my honor, Agnes Manteo. But the truth is, my telling isn’t over, and it ends in horror.” The words sobered Agnes immediately.

  “The words of the Aerican’s speech…sound not unlike a tumultu,” offered Auric, returning to the subject.

  “Tumultu.” echoed Ilanda. “I’m not familiar with the term.”

  “When diviners do a reading on an ancient object of special provenance, there are times when the Netherworld spirits who aid them offer up these confusing amalgams of many different languages, some of which we cannot fathom. This was the result of a reading by sorcerers of the Counting House in Serekirk, done on the Djao sword that came into my possession last year.”

  “Ah, Szaa’da’shaela. Yes, the queen’s spies and my own informants have been told that the weapon possesses some significant power. It’s the blade with which you slew the Aching God?”

  Though the countess had proven herself an ally, Auric was uncomfortable with the notion that skulking spies in anyone’s employ knew of the weapon. The countess must have read it on his face, for she gave him a disarming smile. “Yes, Sir Auric, we have spies in the Citadel, as do more noble houses than you know. We have not penetrated the Syraeic League’s deepest archives, so many of your secrets are safely hidden. Spycraft has become something of a national pastime, I’m afraid. We live in uncertain times.”

  “How did the queen respond to the old man’s words?” asked Kennah, tugging at his beard and looking somber.

  The question wiped the smile from the countess’s face. She paused a moment, licking her lips and looking from the newly knighted man to Agnes, and then to Auric. “No doubt you’ve heard rumors.”

  “We, too, have spies, my lady,” said Agnes, a hint of defiance in her tone.

  “When the man had finished, the queen stared at him for several moments, a blank look on her face. I considered that it may have been one of her fugues and was ready to call in the Sackcloth Alchemists, who weren’t present that morning for some reason. But then something malevolent blossomed on her countenance—it wasn’t the casual cruelty that manifests itself so regularly now. Instead, it seemed…infinitely more dangerous. I found myself edging from the footstool I occupied, starting to back away a fraction of a second before it happened.”

  Something Auric had never seen in Ilanda’s eyes lit up then. Fear. A kind of fear with which he was intimately familiar: ungovernable, mortal fear. But she managed to summon some inner steel and resumed her story.

  “The queen rose from her throne, slowly. She said some words Ulwen later told me were an obscure Djao dialect, though of course the queen doesn’t even comprehend that language. She entered a strange crouch, hands on her knees, bouncing on the balls of her feet, then launched herself at doomed Kedrech and tore out his throat with tooth and nail. It was the attack of a ravenous animal. Kedrech was on the ground, the queen on top of him, biting, tearing off hunks of flesh and…consuming them. Gore streamed down her chin and neck, and the front of her pearly gown was stained crimson…” Ilanda’s eyes closed and her painted lips tensed in a straight line. Auric could see her envisioning the gruesome scene in her mind.

  “The old man’s words brought this about? He cast a spell on the queen?”

  “At first that was what I assumed, if indeed I was capable of rational thought in that terrible moment. But the old man seemed as shocked as the rest of us. Of course, most present panicked—a perfectly reasonable response to such a lunatic event—screaming, running for the exit, which was barred by the Guard of the Ragged Blindfold as a matter of protocol.”

  “Ragged Blindfold?”

  “You haven’t been to the throne room, Sir Kennah? It’s another name for the queen’s attendant guard. All of them wear soiled cloths wrapped tightly round their eyes—I’m told they’re strips torn from the graveclothes of virgins who suicided, later ensorcelled. Ulwen says it’s a distasteful, ancient necromantic charm we can blame the Buskers for rather than the Djao. She had the practice instituted a few years ago. Apparently, the idea is that so blinded, the guards see only their duty to protect the queen and honor her wishes when in her presence—a literal fact rather than a figurative pledge. At any rate, as the queen hadn’t given leave, they prevented anyone from escaping, and cut down a baron and baroness who tried to break the door down in their terror.”

  Kennah nodded as though he understood this, tugging at his beard.

  “How did it finally end?” Agnes asked, nearly breathless.

  “The Aerican. Geneviva would have eaten the crown prince down to his bones had the old man not intervened. He held up a hand and shouted in a deep, commanding voice, ‘Geneviva Reges, remember who you are!’ She looked up from her meal, seemed livid at the interruption, snarled and hissed at him like a predatory beast, blood dripping from her chin. That’s when he made his hand into a fist, made a twirling gesture, then gave a shove in the air, the palm open. The queen was driven back forcefully, as though by a giant, invisible hand.”

  “He employed sorcery against the queen?” marveled Auric. Whatever the circumstance, such an act was an immediate death sentence. No need to ask what became of this old man. Chances were, his decapitated head had looked down on them when they passed through the Mouth of Boudun. “Do we know anything else of him? A pity we can’t question him now.”


  “But we can, Sir Auric,” said Ilanda. “He was clapped in irons and thrown in the dungeons at the queen’s order.”

  “What? I would have wagered every penny I have that his severed head struck the floor of the throne room within seconds!”

  “It might have, but Geneviva growled out that he be bound and tossed in the deepest cell in the bowels of that place. Ulwen spoke with him twice after that. The first time the old man told him how he might employ his gift, that with it we might speak to the true queen, as you saw. The second time, he refused, telling Ulwen that when the queen’s real desire was known to us, we should send those charged with the task to him. That’s you, Sir Auric. You’ll be meeting him soon.”

  Auric exhaled and put a hand to his forehead. “Supernatural agencies indeed. What is this man’s name?”

  “He says he has many names, but now asks that he be called Ush’oul.”

  It was as though a hand had reached inside Auric’s chest and squeezed his heart to stop it beating.

  “Father,” said Agnes, her voice barely a whisper. “Is that not what the Aching God called your sword?”

  “Yes.”

  “What does it mean?”

  Auric stared at Ilanda, who stared back at him. “Agnes, I have no idea. Supernatural agencies, spinning webs about us. The queen asks that this impossible task be done, but it goes beyond her own desires. My mind recoils at this burden laid upon me, but my heart says it must happen, as absurd as it sounds.”

  “Sir Auric,” said Ilanda in a gentle tone, tilting her head down and looking at him through her eyelashes. “The chaos, the bizarre orders, the capricious cruelty: it grows and wreaks its havoc. You know Geneviva had Duchess Lenore of Warwede beheaded three weeks ago? For wearing red in her presence. Never mind that the color hadn’t vexed her before. Now the Warwede nobles bicker and scheme amongst themselves, vying for advantage. Her young son is the new duke, but he isn’t equal to his responsibilities. All this occurs while Azkayan corsairs prowl the coast. I told you of the Korsa witch-queen harrying our frontier. Kelse is on the verge of revolution. The Earl of Tessy has accused the Earl of Kelby of raping his thirteen-year-old niece, and both marshal their troops and ships, ready for a clash of arms. The list of troubles is endless. If the empire is to survive, we need stable government led by a stable monarch.”

  “You said the queen spoke in some Djao dialect after the Aerican’s own speech,” asked Agnes. “Was Ulwen able to understand it?”

  “More or less. After it was all over. Something to the effect of ‘I know you and know your scheme.’ The words she spoke sounded like more than that, honestly. It’s possible Ulwen hides something from me.”

  “A question,” said Kennah. Auric and the rest turned to the big bearded man. “If our task is to end the queen’s life, who will take her place? How do we know they can manage the job?”

  “I don’t know,” Ilanda answered. “She had a closed-door session with the Priest of Chapters and named him, but it won’t be announced until there’s time for a ceremony. I’ve tried to wheedle it out of the queen, but she plays coy with me. The priest, of course, considers maintaining secrecy a sacred duty, even from his co-religionists. It’s a fact that the Reges family line is played out. Kedrech was the last of any substance. The rest are idiots, wastrels, fools, cowards, or applicants for Saint Kenther. With all the intermarriage over the years, most of the nobility has sufficient royal blood to make a claim. Even my father could make an argument for himself, though there would be some controversy. In all honesty, nearly anyone would be an improvement over the current occupant of the throne; even with a weak monarch, the bureaucracy could restore order for a time, free from this queen’s outrageous commands.”

  “We could as easily plan for my ascension to the throne,” said Auric. “Our success in fulfilling the queen’s wishes seems an unlikely thing.”

  “Pray Belu you are able to execute your charge, my dear friend,” Ilanda responded, smearing one of the filigree decorations on her cheek as she reached up to rub her temples. “I don’t know how much longer the empire—or any of us—can endure Geneviva the First.”

  “Long may she reign,” said Kennah, earning a look of bemusement from the countess.

  12

  Lady Herenea and the Swine

  The old man sat with his back against the cell door, feeling the ache in his ancient bones, the strain of his heart as it pumped blood to the organs of this body. Hidden so long from the sun, it was a great trial for him—its rays fed his soul, nurtured the magic that allowed the mortal vessel he inhabited to function far past the years a human being was allotted. It was his habit when free about the land to sleep no more than four hours in a day, with the rest dedicated to meditation, contemplation, and congress with the people and countryside. Here in this dank dungeon, with only a feeble beam of light coming through the window of his cell door, he spent hours upon hours sleeping, conserving his power.

  His Second Sight told him that the man and his daughter were near. Soon enough he would speak with them and set the final wheels in motion. He wouldn’t need to compel them on their way, though they would proceed with reluctance. All the same, he would lay a number of charms and wards on their persons, for some would stand against them. That would cost him much, perhaps more than he had to spare. He held up his left hand, the hand of power, so that the beam of light peering through the barred cell window above shone on it. He could see mystical tendrils of pale green smoke wafting off his wrinkled, rich brown flesh, wisps of magical energy invisible to the unaided eye. He turned the hand around so that the light fell on the paler flesh of his palm. There was the large V-shaped scar pointing to his wrist, the scar itself whiter than the skin of fair, freckled little Dagna of Zoteby.

  He remembered when he first met the original possessor of this body, the man called Wajid. It was in a little fishing village in the Taniya Delta. Wajid was as weary then as he himself felt now. The harvest had been poor that fall, and the ruling cult had declared it god’s judgment for the toleration of heretics. Thus far the obscure little mystic sect of which Wajid was a seer had escaped the wrath of the inquisitors, but it was only a matter of time before he too was accused of heresy. “I am ready for limbo or paradise,” Wajid had said to him as soon as the proposition was made. “Take this flesh and do with it what you will, only release me from this tearful world.”

  And he had. Now the old man was thousands of miles from that little fishing village, or what remained of it, locked in this damp cell, waiting for the end of this world. He was so lost in the wanderings of his memories that it was only a moment before the rap against his door that he realized the boy-jailer Ghallo was here.

  “Sir?”

  “Yes, Ghallo. I am awake.”

  “I done the drawings, though I don’t know how I knew to do ‘em. But…” The lad paused, his tone filled with worry.

  “What is it, my son?”

  “They’re gone.”

  “What’s gone, Ghallo?”

  “The stuff I drew. Someone washed them off the stone.”

  The old man smiled. “They are still there, my son. I laid a charm on the alchemist’s chalk. The only ones who can see what you drew are those for whom they are intended. It’s why you don’t have to worry about Oxula blaming you for writing graffiti on his dungeon floors.”

  “Magic, sir?”

  “Magic, Ghallo. Thank you for your faithful labor.”

  “Sir?”

  The old man paused then. The boy was going to make a request of him, but he didn’t know what it would be. Would he ask for more coins like the one he gave him to buy the chalk in the alchemist’s market? Would he ask that he lay some curse on Oxula, his stern overseer? Either entreaty would disappoint the old man—he had grown so fond of the lad. “What is it, Ghallo?”

  “I stole a look at Oxula’s book yesterday.”

 
Not a request, then. Where might this lead? “Did you now? I’m most impressed that a boy from your background can read, Ghallo. It’s most rare.”

  “Not good. Oxula taught me. He said I’d need my letters if I want to rise up in the ranks of the jailers. More than just ladlin’ slop.”

  “And what did you read in Oxula’s book?”

  “You have a mark of death on you, sir.”

  “Do I?”

  “Yes, sir. No date, but next to your name in the column for sentence, there’s an ‘x’ below an ‘o’ which is shorthand for a skull and crossed bones—it’s Oxula’s symbol for death. And a question mark.”

  “And what does the question mark mean?”

  “That they haven’t decided when they’ll kill you. Or how, maybe.”

  “How do your prisoners normally meet their fates, Ghallo?”

  “The headsman’s axe, most of ‘em, or the scaffold. I seen a few garroted. And once a priest of Tolwe came down here and peeled the skin off a fellow. I had to help clean up after that.”

  “A most gruesome task.”

  “It was awful.”

  “Do you fear you’ll have to clean up after they’re done with me, lad?”

  The boy said nothing. The old man was about to repeat his question when he heard the young man’s weeping through the oak of his cell door. “Oh, don’t mourn me, Ghallo, my son,” said the old man in his most soothing baritone. “We each of us have a death’s mark on our lives, most without a certain date, without knowledge of the means of our demise. It’s ever been thus for all mortals. Your end will come one day, just as certainly as mine.”

  “Oxula tells us don’t talk with prisoners if you can help it. He says talking to you…”

  “Risks growing attachments,” the old man finished. “Either we die here, sometimes gruesomely, or we’re released and rejoice to never see you or hear your voice again, another thing associated with the horror of these dungeon accommodations.”