Blood Requiem

by Christopher Husberg

  Astrid skidded to a stop and turned, only to find another white-and-red-cloaked woman had appeared behind her, also wearing nightsbane.

  “Please,” Astrid said.

  And then she saw her. Another woman, older, robes almost completely crimson, only trimmed by white. A thin face, with high cheekbones and wrinkled skin around sunken eyes.

  In a flash, Astrid suddenly saw herself alone in a small shack, sitting on a chair in the middle of the space. There was a single door, in front of her. Closed. Astrid gripped the chair on which she sat so tightly her fingers cramped in pain. Her breaths were quick and ragged, her heart pounding violently in her ears. She was coming. She would be here. Astrid didn’t know when, but it had to be soon.

  “Come with us, child,” the Black Matron said.

  Astrid had no choice but to follow.

  * * *

  They brought her to a Cantic chapel, and dragged her into a large side room. Compared to the ornate painted grandeur of the chapel itself, this chamber’s plainness was glaring. A table ran along one side of the room, with two mismatched chairs nearby. A row of cupboards lined another wall, and that was all the room had to offer.

  The last time the Black Matron had been angry with her, she’d been tortured by a priestess in Izet. Astrid wanted to vomit just thinking of the nightsbane water that woman had poured all over her, burning her, choking her, killing her over and over again.

  And yet, Astrid was no stranger to torture. If it was torture she faced, she could get through it.

  “Sister Arene taught you a lesson in Izet,” the Black Matron said, as if reading her thoughts, her gaunt eyes lingering on Astrid, “but it seems that lesson did not stick. You have been obstinate since you joined paths with Lathe, or Knot, or whatever he calls himself lately. Obstinacy is not an attribute we appreciate in servants, child.”

  “What do you want with him?”

  “Our business is our own.”

  “If I knew, it’d be easier to—”

  The Black Matron slammed her fist down onto the table with such force that Astrid heard the wood crack beneath her hand. No woman of her age should be able to do such a thing.

  “Redemption does not require knowledge, girl. Only obedience. When will you comprehend this lesson?”

  “Give me more time—”

  “Did you give your family more time before you slaughtered them?” the Black Matron asked.

  Astrid froze. She herself did not remember anything about her family, her life before she was turned. Nothing more than a single hollow, meaningless, horrifying memory. It was impossible for the Black Matron to know anything.

  “My family died hundreds of years ago,” Astrid said. “You couldn’t possibly know what happened to them.”

  “But you do,” the Black Matron said. “And because you do, so do I.”

  “You couldn’t, not unless you’re…”

  Astrid stumbled backwards, crashing into the cupboards behind her. The Black Matron was an acumen.

  “Yes,” the woman said, her eyes dark. “And I can tell you every detail of how you killed your family. I can tell you exactly what you did, how you tortured them. I can tell you about every victim of yours, the innocent and the guilty, given enough time. I can tell you exactly what you need redemption from, little girl.”

  Flashes of things Astrid once knew, of friends and acquaintances and actions, crackled through her. This had happened before, she realized. The Black Matron had leveraged this against her before. And because she was an acumen, she had simply forced Astrid to forget.

  Astrid cowered against the wall as the Black Matron closed in on her. She was truly helpless.

  “Believe me, child. The list is long.”

  * * *

  Astrid did not know how long she stayed in the Black Matron’s custody. The nightsbane made her senses dull and groggy, and the Black Matron’s words… Astrid could not believe them. And, at the same time, she had no choice but to believe them.

  The sky was dark when they released her, but the moon had waned. They’d kept her an entire day, then. She felt, on her way through the streets of Kirlan, that she ought to be limping. It was an odd sensation. They had not harmed her physically, other than keeping her in close proximity to nightsbane. Astrid did not remember what the Black Matron had shown her. The details of her past, especially before she was turned, were still unclear to her.

  But she could remember the pain.

  Questions crept across her mind, but Astrid could barely acknowledge them. Why had the Black Matron come herself? What did they want with Knot? How had they found her? One of their number must be a voyant, she decided.

  And had the Black Matron been telling Astrid the truth?

  The Black Matron had promised her redemption. If that meant escaping the pain she felt from all she had done, it was something she had to consider.

  8

  Cineste, northern Khale

  DUSK HAD FALLEN, BATHING the streets of Cineste in cool, gray-violet light, as Gord and Eranda led Winter to a tall, unassuming building at the border of the tiellan and merchant sectors of the city, not far from the Wolfanger Inn. A tiellan man stood at the doorway, short but thickly muscled, and eyed Winter uneasily. She could almost see him squirm, trying not to look at her bare neck, the clothing she wore that he must surely find strange, if not outright offensive. The man’s gaze shifted to Gord. “She’s with you?”

  “Aye, Talian, she’s with us,” Gord said.

  “Very well then,” Talian said, glancing again at Winter’s neck and then quickly away. “Ain’t gonna turn any tiellan away. Need all the support we can get.”

  Talian stepped aside, allowing Gord, Winter, and Eranda to enter. Darrin had stayed home with the children, while Galce and Urstadt had stayed at the inn they shared with Winter. Winter wanted to introduce them to her old friends, but it was not yet time. She wasn’t ready.

  Inside was a wide room, full of tiellans. The space was larger than Winter would have expected. A few long tables had been pushed entirely to one side of the room near a set of stairs leading to a second level, leaving the other side relatively open. A small wooden platform opposite the door through which they’d entered stood at the front of the large open space. Tiellan bodies milled together in front of the platform, chattering together. Winter noticed more than one tiellan staring at her unusual appearance.

  “How many come to these meetings?” Winter asked. She could not think of the last time she saw so many of her people gathered together.

  “More than a hundred,” Gord said. “This serves as the headquarters for the movement, but it is just one of the many meeting places in Cineste, these days. Some of the Druids estimate over one thousand tiellans have joined the movement.”

  “They really call themselves Druids?” Winter asked. The term seemed so… archaic.

  Before Gord could respond, a handful of tiellans approached the platform, and the crowd cheered. Winter inspected the group carefully: three men, two of them quite old, climbed onto the platform ahead of two women. Each of the men wore an araif, pulled slightly back on their heads to let the light shine onto their eyes. This wasn’t unusual—it was considered impolite to shade one’s eyes indoors.

  “Are they elders?” Winter asked, leaning towards Gord. Elders were the cultural leaders of the tiellans; ages ago, they had held real power, but now the name was nothing more than a formality. Too often, they and their female counterparts, the matriarchs, had seemed a superfluous, outdated remnant of a lost past to Winter.

  “The two older are, but not the younger. The younger is Ghian Fauz.” Gord said the name as if Winter should recognize it, but the man meant nothing to her. He was older than Winter, but not by much, and handsome, with silver hair cut short above a round, handsome face and long, sinewy limbs.

  “Goddess, is that Matriarch Esra?” Winter asked, her eyes widening. The older of the two women—though both had clearly waxed long in age—looked very familiar. Long, auburn hair
streaked with gray. Firm, smooth features. And the way she carried herself… Very few tiellans moved as confidently as Matriarch Esra, her back always straight, shoulders square, neck long and proud even beneath her siara.

  “Aye,” Gord responded quietly. “Was wonderin’ if you’d recognize her.”

  Matriarch Esra had lived in Pranna for years, when Winter was young. But she left before Winter had seen her fifteenth summer.

  “So the Druids are just… elders and matriarchs?” Winter asked.

  Gord grunted. “Not exactly. Ghian is the true leader of the Druids. When the elders and matriarchs started to see the popularity of the Druid movement, they attached themselves to it.”

  “And Ghian just… allowed this?”

  “Ghian believes the Druids must unite tiellans,” Gord said. “He wants to include all who are willing.”

  Or, she thought, he knows how to stay in power.

  That thought brought a frown to her face. It sounded very much like something Daval would say. Surely she had left all of that behind, in Roden.

  Esra stepped forward, hands raised, and the crowd quieted.

  “My brothers and sisters,” she said, her voice firm and strong. “Welcome. We like to see so many of you. Our numbers continue to grow. A welcome to those of you who are new here.”

  Winter could not be sure, but she thought Esra met eyes with her when she said that. Winter could not pretend she was surprised; she stood out in the crowd. She wondered if Esra had recognized her as Bahc’s daughter, or simply as a newcomer.

  A round of gentle applause and muted cheers greeted Esra’s welcome. She lowered her hands, and the crowd quieted once more.

  “Tensions keep risin’ between humans and tiellans. We’ve received word of more atrocities, and our people keep bendin’ their backs beneath the hand of human persecution. Many of you know of the long walk of Sazar Mekeen.”

  The crowd murmured at the mention of that name, though it was another that meant nothing to Winter. She glanced at Gord.

  “A tiellan man from Farahle City in southern Khale,” he whispered. “Physician’s assistant who eventually became a physician himself.”

  Winter’s eyebrows raised. Tiellans never became full physicians. That was a human’s job.

  “He saved many lives, human and tiellan,” Gord continued, “but was, of course, unable to save everyone. A few human patients of his perished, and then the humans turned on him. Put him through a farce of a trial, and then made him walk Farahle’s streets, naked and beaten, stripped of honor, until they finally executed him.”

  Winter stared forward, eyes unfocused. How could such a thing have happened? What could possibly possess the humans to hate a tiellan man so much—a tiellan man who had helped them, no less?

  At the head of the crowd, Esra continued speaking. “Here in Cineste, we’ve had our own Sazar Mekeen. Jemmen Kantrel was beaten to death in the street just last week.”

  The crowd’s murmurs transformed to shouts, and, looking around, Winter saw the anger on the faces around her. Gord’s face was red as he shook his fist in the air. Eranda, on Winter’s other side, was quiet, her jaw set.

  Goddess… Beaten to death in the street? What has happened since I’ve been gone?

  “And we’ve just got word of a massive attack on the west coast,” Esra continued. “A mob of Kamites—more than one hundred, if the rumors tell it true—attacked and slaughtered dozens of our people near the town of Tinska just a few weeks ago. An attack of such a blatant and malicious nature ain’t occurred yet in Cineste, but I fear it’s only an omen of what’s to come.”

  An attack. Winter could hardly believe it. There had been nothing like this, not since the King Who Gave Up His Crown.

  “Make no mistake, brothers and sisters,” Esra continued, “things’ll only get worse before they get better. We must band together. Show our strength. And we have strength. I know it.”

  Winter’s hand strayed to the pouch at her belt as the crowd murmured in agreement. On either side of her, Gord and Eranda were nodding.

  She was not sure what to think of any of this. The persecutions, murders, and attacks might have horrified the girl Winter had been in Pranna. But the woman she was now looked at them differently. Tragic, to be sure, but no worse than some of what she had seen—some of what she had done—in the past year of her life.

  Which, perhaps, was all the more reason to help these people.

  Esra pursed her lips. “I’ve said enough. Here’s a man who needs no introduction.” She looked behind her at Ghian Fauz.

  “Although I do wish you’d let me say a bit more every once in a while. Some of the newcomers ain’t heard all you’ve done for your people, Ghian.”

  Winter could not tell if the matriarch’s words were sarcastic or genuine. A low murmur of polite laughter rippled through the crowd. They, at least, read it as praise.

  “Suppose they’ll find out, one way or another. Brothers and sisters, I give you Ghian Fauz.”

  Ghian stepped forward to take her place. “Thank you, Matriarch Esra,” he said, smiling at her. He removed his araif.

  Winter tensed, looking around her. Had he removed it because of her? But the rest of the crowd did not seem put off by the gesture. Was this something he did frequently?

  And yet, as Ghian began to speak, Winter felt his eyes rest on her. He looked right at her, it seemed, almost through her. He spoke with confidence, his voice assured, his words clear and concise. He, like Winter and her father, did not speak with the typical tiellan drawl, and immediately Winter felt a sense of kinship with him, something she had longed for since she’d reunited with Gord, Eranda, and Darrin but had not yet found.

  She turned, suddenly, looking at the door behind her. She’d thought she heard voices outside, but as she strained her ears, she sensed nothing out of the ordinary. The guard was probably still posted outside the door; maybe it was a short exchange with someone in passing.

  “Make no mistake,” Ghian said. His accent was that of an educated human. “A war is coming. We cannot avoid it. We cannot stop it. We will have to fight for our families, our way of life, and our very lives.”

  Winter blinked. A war. Between humans and tiellans?

  “We have already begun preparations for that war: we are learning to fight, to defend ourselves. Many already participate in our Ranger training programs. I encourage the rest of you men to begin as well. We are stronger when we are together, and when we fight at our full strength, there is nothing on this Sfaera that can stop us.”

  Ranger training programs? Tiellan Rangers had been the great warriors of the Age of Marvels, the militaristic counterpart to the mystical Druids, but they were warriors of legend. It seemed a bit pretentious to use the name. And he’d invited only men to be “Rangers,” something that made Winter bristle.

  She flinched as three loud, sharp knocks rang through the large meeting space. Everyone turned to look at the door. Winter instinctively slipped a frost crystal into her mouth.

  The door burst open, and Talian, the short, stout man who’d been guarding the door from the outside, tumbled into the room. From her position close to the door, Winter could clearly see the blood on Talian’s face. He groaned, writhing on the floor.

  A dozen humans strode into the room, armed with cudgels, clubs, and rods. As faltira took effect in her veins, Winter was suddenly acutely aware of the vulnerability of the tiellans around her. None of them were armed, at least as far as Winter could tell, and despite the fact that they outnumbered the humans almost ten to one, they shrank back towards the platform.

  Almost before she was aware of it, Winter extended one of her tendra before her, snaking towards the club held by the human closest to her. But, before her tendron made contact, she stopped herself. She knew nothing of the Druids, nothing of their true goals or motivation. She had only just arrived in Cineste, only just reunited with Gord, Eranda, and Darrin. She had sought them out to let go of all she had done in Roden and Navone. De
spite that not going as well as she would have liked, she hesitated.

  Slowly, her tendron retracted, and she closed her eyes. There, Chaos awaited, smooth and pearl-white. It was not her time to intervene.

  “What do we have here?” one of the humans asked, swinging his club with a flick of his wrist.

  “An elf orgy, by the looks of things,” another said. A few of them chuckled, but most of the men were straight-faced. Angry.

  “Can I help you folk?” Ghian stepped down from the platform and walked through the parted crowd towards the humans. Ghian did not seem a coward. That much was in his favor, at least.

  A human stepped forward. “You can shut this shit down.”

  “We’re within our rights to meet here,” Ghian responded, walking up to the man. Ghian was of decent size for a tiellan, about the same height as the man he faced. They looked at each other eye to eye.

  “Your rights don’t concern me. What does is the safety of those I care about.”

  Ghian smiled. “We do not mean any harm to you, and certainly not to those in your care.”

  Winter scoffed. Had Ghian not just been advocating war with the humans? How did that not invite harm towards them?

  “Your ‘training programs’ tell a different story,” the man said.

  Ghian’s smile faded.

  A lanky man laughed. “What, didn’t think we knew what you people were up to? Trying to train yourselves to fight against us? Take everything that’s ours and claim it for your own?”

  The man facing Ghian raised a fist, and the lanky man closed his mouth. “I have nothing against any of you personally,” he said, looking around the room. “But I will protect my family. And I’ll cross any line to do that.” He dropped his club and snapped forward in a smooth movement, twisting Ghian around and wrapping one arm around his head. In the other, he brandished a thin-bladed dagger.