Blood Requiem

by Christopher Husberg

  Eranda came back out, a cloth held tightly in her hands. When Winter recognized the thing, she froze.

  It was the swaddling cloth she had received during her Doting, the day of her wedding.

  Eranda extended the cloth, draped over her hands, to Winter. “You left this with us, when you and Lian went after Knot. I know it wasn’t practical to take with you, but I kept it, in case you ever returned. In case you ever…”

  In case I ever needed it. She could not imagine having a child in this world. With Knot, there was a part of her that had thought it might one day be a possibility. She had even dreamt such a thing, a vividly real dream, when Kali had first administered faltira to her. But those days were gone. A great dread welled up within her at the thought of even touching the swaddling cloth. She wanted to reach out and take it, just to be polite, but she could not. A consuming fear stopped her, as if she no longer had control of herself.

  Eranda, after a moment, must have realized Winter could not take the cloth. Quickly she lowered it, tucking it under one arm. “It was presumptuous of me to offer it, after everything you have gone through. I should’ve waited.”

  “It’s all right,” Winter said softly, tearing her eyes away from the pale swaddling cloth to meet Eranda’s eyes once more.

  Eranda nodded, ever so slightly.

  “I need to go.” Winter made for the door. She turned back to look at each of them, these people from her past, who had shown her such kindness. Kindness she did not deserve. “I will see each of you again soon.”

  “Winter,” Eranda said, catching her eye once more. “I will keep it for you. Until you are ready.”

  * * *

  The woman drifts in the Void, sometimes slowly, ripples of color circling outward at each step, sometimes levitating, sinking within herself and into the blackness of the great expanse around her.

  In the Void, the woman has realized, everything is peaceful. “Peaceful” is perhaps not the right word, but the feeling comes as close as the woman can imagine to peace, short of death. The woman senses Kali’s presence nearby, as she always does, but ignores her former teacher. Kali is always close, but has not approached since Chaos dictated the woman attack Kali with her newly discovered acumenic tendra. The woman senses other presences as well, nearby and very far away, but none of them are of any import. None of them could bring back what the woman has lost.

  One of these presences is close. Something large, imposing, a force the woman has never encountered before, neither in the Void nor out of it. The presence looms, a bright red light that slowly forms in front of the woman.

  The woman scowls, halting her slow drift. The red starlight coalesces into a man, bigger than any she has ever seen, all muscle and sinew and unadulterated power. His face is indistinct, like Kali’s shifting visage, but where Kali’s features shift, merge, and transform between different faces, this figure’s visage is blank, a smooth blur where eyes, nose, and mouth should be.

  Nevertheless, the form speaks to her, its voice hardened and sharp.

  “Hello, Winter.”

  The woman steps back, light rippling away from her.

  “My name is Mefiston,” the form says.

  The woman is not familiar with the name. And yet the way she feels, the sensation of anger welling up within her, resonates. She has felt it before, but not like this. She has felt fear like this before, but not anger.

  “You are one of the Nine.”

  “The Nine,” Mefiston echoes, laughing. The laugh is soft, gentle, in sharp contrast to the steely edge of his speech. “A peculiar moniker. Confusing. There were Nine Disciples, once, and they wrote Nine Scriptures. Nine Marvels of the Sfaera, and Nine Ages in Eternity. And, before there was one Goddess, there were Nine.”

  Mefiston has now formed enough that his footsteps, too, ripple in the Void, though his face remains shrouded. She realizes, if she were to see him in the Sfaera, he would be the biggest man she has ever seen. Not just in height, but in girth as well, formed of muscle and sinew, with no excess to speak of.

  “You are Wrath,” the woman says.

  “I am Wrath.”

  “And you serve Azael?”

  A bright flash of red emanates from the form, and the woman takes another step back.

  “I serve no one,” Mefiston says, and the woman cannot be sure but she thinks the form grows larger as he says it.

  “You are associates, then.”

  “Azael does not concern us,” Mefiston says. “I am here to discuss something else with you.”

  “And what is that?”

  “Your ascendancy.”

  The woman must be cautious. She speaks to one of the Nine Daemons, to a lieutenant of Azael—the woman knows this to be the case, whatever Mefiston himself says—and that act alone puts her in great danger.

  But the woman has cared little for her own well-being for some time. She sees no reason to begin again now.

  “I see I will have to explain further. I would like you to be my avatar, Winter. I would like to invest in you my power, and for you to be my mouthpiece on the Sfaera.”

  “Why don’t you just go there yourself?”

  Mefiston paces, now, light rippling back and forth from him, extending out into the blackness. “I will, eventually. But gaining an avatar is part of that process.”

  “That did not work out so well for your master.”

  “He is not—” Mefiston stops, another flash of red light bursting outward. The Daemon’s huge frame is still for a moment, before he finally speaks again. “He is not my master.”

  It seems to the woman that such vehement denial belies underlying truth, but she says nothing about it.

  “You want me to be for you what Daval was for Azael?”

  A low growl emanates from Mefiston’s frame, but he eventually responds. “Yes. That is what I want.”

  She laughs, letting the sound ring through the Void. When it fades, she looks at Mefiston, jaw set.

  “Are you done?”

  A third flash bursts forth from Mefiston’s frame, and for a moment the woman anticipates conflict, and a thrill rushes through her, blended with anger, anticipation, and fear.

  Instead Mefiston, too, laughs; the same soft, fluttering laugh she heard from him earlier.

  “Very well, girl. I figured it was worth the asking. I will not force myself upon you, but the day will come when you’ll wish you’d accepted my offer.”

  “Forgive me,” the woman says, “if I choose not to believe a word you say. And please, take my words to heart.”

  Then the woman winks out of the Void, and feels herself rushing back to her body in the Sfaera.

  6

  Odenite camp, outside Kirlan

  “KNOT, I WISH TO speak with you.”

  Knot turned to see Cinzia. He had been absorbed in watching the maneuvers of the guard force. They had found a space in the fallow land that stretched out before Kirlan’s walls, away from the general hubbub of the Odenite camp. He signaled to Eward, indicating the lad should take control of the training exercises.

  “At your service,” he said. The Outsider’s attack a few days before had shaken Cinzia more than most. She kept insisting on discovering more about the Nine Daemons, but didn’t seem to have much to go on. Knot sympathized with her—she wasn’t wrong, they needed more information—but it was useless to spin a wheel that didn’t touch the ground. They had other problems, ones they could actually do something about, that needed addressing first.

  “Walk with me, please,” Cinzia said, and began moving away from the training Prelates.

  Knot fell in beside her. It was a warm day, the sky cloudless above as the sun arced into the evening.

  “Astrid has not returned?” Cinzia asked, voicing his thoughts.

  “Not yet.”

  She had left on her little spying mission late the previous night. This was not the first time the girl had taken her time on such a task, but worry clouded Knot’s emotions anyway.

 
Cinzia cleared her throat. “I must admit, I…”

  Knot glanced at Cinzia, waiting for her to finish, but she didn’t.

  “You what?”

  “I believe I misjudged her,” Cinzia said. “I still do not understand how or why she is what she is, but… it was wrong of me to assume.”

  Knot grunted. “Ain’t me you need to say that to, I reckon.” There was a long line of people who needed to make that kind of apology to Astrid, and Knot was one of them. But it only did good if they actually said it to her.

  They walked in silence for a few moments. Knot enjoyed Cinzia’s company, whether they were speaking or not. The woman had a calming effect on him. Made him feel more himself.

  As they fell out of earshot of the others, Cinzia spoke again. “I’d like you to be my Goddessguard, Knot.”

  Knot continued walking in stride with her. “Didn’t think having a new Goddessguard was something you’d take an interest in, all things considered.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  Knot cleared his throat. Kovac, Cinzia’s previous Goddessguard, was a sensitive subject for her. “I mean a few different things,” he said slowly. “You cared for Kovac. What happened to him must’ve been rough on you, to put it lightly.”

  Cinzia nodded, but did not respond otherwise.

  Knot continued. “And now… you’re no longer a priestess, last I checked, and only the ministry in the Denomination have Goddessguards. Unless Jane has revealed something different?”

  “Unless we uncovered something different in our translation, you mean?”

  “Sure,” he said. “That, too.”

  “The text says nothing about Goddessguards, for or against. Neither has Jane. And, honestly, I do not care. I think it is something I need.”

  Knot raised an eyebrow. “Something you need, or something you want?”

  Cinzia sighed. “Need, want. I can hardly tell the difference anymore. I need someone I can confide in. Someone who will be on my side.”

  “I’ve got to be your Goddessguard to do those things for you?”

  “No.” Cinzia frowned. “That… that is not what I meant. My relationship with Kovac was important to me. Right now, I question many things. I feel better about a lot of things, too—my relationship with Canta, and my faith, but… but I still wonder about Jane. She should be the closest person in the world to me, and yet I feel we grow further and further apart every day.”

  “That can’t be easy for you.” He meant it. Truth was, he felt the same thing happening between himself and Astrid. There was something between them, some invisible wedge that drove them apart, no matter what either said or did. “And that’s why you want me to be your Goddessguard?” he asked.

  “And to protect me, of course. And Jane, and the other disciples.”

  “I already protect you,” Knot said. He was already willing to do all she asked. Why did she need the label to go with it?

  “I think it might be good for me, Knot. For both of us.”

  Knot let out a deep breath. Beside him, Cinzia stopped. They’d reached the edge of the forest, sparse undergrowth sprouting before them.

  “I’m grateful for our friendship, and I’ll protect you,” Knot said, “but I don’t think I need to be your Goddessguard.”

  Cinzia looked down, and for a moment didn’t say anything. Finally, she met his eyes. “I understand,” she said, with a slight nod.

  “Do you?”

  Cinzia shrugged. “It is not something I wish to impose on you, or anyone, for that matter. Kovac chose to be my Goddessguard, after I asked him. I would never have it any other way with you. If you choose not to do it, I cannot hold that against you.”

  “There’s more to it,” Knot said. “I’ve been a lot better since the cotir healed me.”

  “You have. As much as I hate them for what they did to us, in a way I’ll always be grateful. They made sure you could stay with us. Permanently.”

  Knot understood the sentiment. The Nazaniin cotir that had healed him of his fits—Wyle, Cymbre, and Jendry—had also hidden their ulterior objective to assassinate Jane. Jane and Cinzia had defeated them, but the duplicity still stung. Even more so when Jane had insisted they let the cotir go. She had reasoned that the Nazaniin would no longer cause problems for the Odenites, and while Jane had a suspiciously good track record when it came to such statements, Knot hated the idea of Wyle, Cymbre, and Jendry wandering the Sfaera as they pleased.

  Nevertheless, here Knot was, more stable than he’d ever been. He hadn’t experienced a single episode since Wyle had guided him through the stabilization process.

  “There’s more to it,” Knot repeated. “Other people taking over my body ain’t a worry of mine anymore, but that’s given me time to think about other things.” He hesitated. He had yet to say this out loud to anyone. He might once have told Astrid, but the gulf between them felt unbridgeable at times. But he wanted to express it now. With Cinzia, it felt… it felt right. “I’m nobody, Cinzia,” Knot finally said.

  “Knot, that is not true, you are—”

  “Don’t mean it in a derisive way, darlin’. Just in a factual way. I’m just… no one. I didn’t lose my memories; I just don’t have any. I don’t have parents. I don’t have ancestors. I’m in a stolen body, and it was never mine to begin with.”

  “But you have done so much good.”

  “Ain’t sure good and bad has much to do with this,” Knot said. It’s about identity, he wanted to say.

  “And you worry that if you say yes to being my Goddessguard, you might not discover who you are?”

  “That’s about right,” Knot said, surprised at how astute Cinzia’s observation truly was.

  “I think I can understand that,” Cinzia said. “If you ever do find yourself…”

  “I’d be privileged to serve as your Goddessguard,” Knot said, and realized he meant it.

  “I would be privileged to have you. But you should not feel any pressure from me,” she added quickly. “I do not need a Goddessguard. I can do what I need to do on my own. I just thought…” Cinzia trailed off, and Knot did not know what else to say.

  So he turned back to the camp. “We should get back,” he said. “It’s growing dark, and I have business to attend to.” He needed to find out where Astrid was, and whether she’d discovered anything about the garrison in Kirlan.

  “As do I,” Cinzia said, her jaw set. Knot almost asked what business that might be, but refrained. They walked back to the camp together, in silence.

  7

  Kirlan

  UNDER COVER OF NIGHT, Astrid slipped into the city of Kirlan. Her claws, sharp and strong enough to dig into stone, allowed her to scramble up the walls. She waited just below the ramparts, clinging to cracks in the mortar and rock, and strained her ears. A pair of Sons walked by, patrolling the walkway overhead. The fact the Sons of Canta had taken guard duty of the city upon themselves did not bode well. They must be serious about keeping the Odenites out of Kirlan.

  After the Sons passed, Astrid dug her claws in and leveraged herself just enough to flip silently up onto the walkway. As soon as she landed, she felt a familiar, faint tugging sensation in the back of her mind.

  “Shit,” she whispered. Someone voking her, now, of all times.

  Astrid retrieved one of the voidstones from her pocket— she knew exactly which one she needed—and placed her thumb on the rune inscribed upon it.

  “Yes?” Astrid whispered. To her left, the guards she’d heard pass by were out of earshot. To her right, the walkway was empty. Glancing at the city below her, she saw a dark alley separating the wall from a quiet, unassuming-looking building.

  “You are taking too long.” The Black Matron’s voice was cracked with age. And Astrid had to obey it. She had to, at all costs.

  Astrid leapt down from the rampart, raising a small cloud of dust as she landed in the alley. She checked to see if anyone else was close enough to hear her before she responded.

 
“We’ve run into a problem. From your end, by the way. A contingent of the Sons of Canta have garrisoned themselves in Kirlan, blocking our progress. We cannot continue to Triah until we find a way around them.”

  “The false prophetess and her followers have been barred from continuing their journey,” the Black Matron said, “but I see no reason why you and your charge cannot leave their company and follow the orders we’ve given you.”

  “Things are not that simple,” Astrid said.

  “Redemption is always that simple, child. You either do as your Goddess commands and find absolution, or you do not, and pay the price in blood.”

  Canta’s bones, it’s always blood.

  “Where are you now, child?”

  “I’m with the Odenites,” Astrid whispered. “Trying to keep a low profile.” She swept down the alley, cloak billowing behind her.

  “I see. How soon can you get away from them?”

  Astrid cringed inwardly. She’d wanted absolution, wanted it more than anything she’d ever known, until the price of her absolution became Knot. Now, she was not sure about anything.

  “I cannot arouse suspicion—”

  “Suspicion be damned. You’re never going to return to those people; you should not care whether they suspect anything of you. When you’re gone, you’ll be gone forever.”

  Astrid had nothing to say to that. Instead, she moved quickly through the streets of Kirlan. Her original intent in coming here had been to scout the Sons’ garrison. The longer the Black Matron kept her occupied, the less chance she had of achieving her goal.

  “You are not answering me, little girl. Should I take this to mean you are going to forego any chance you may have at absolution?”

  Astrid stopped running.

  Shit. Shit, shit, shit.

  “No,” she breathed. “Please.”

  “Then fall into line.”

  Was that an echo Astrid heard?

  “You don’t want me to send someone along to help you in your task, do you?”

  Astrid looked around. She was right—every word the Black Matron said had a ringing echo, as if…

  Astrid sprang forward, realizing she had to run, but a woman stepped out of the street in front of her, a sprig of nightsbane pinned to her white and red cloak. Just being in close proximity to nightsbane significantly weakened vampires of any type. Astrid’s strength began to drain immediately. If the nightsbane were to touch her, the weakness would turn quickly into excruciating pain.