Blood Requiem

by Christopher Husberg

  She approached one door, and broke the lock on it easily. Slowly, the door creaked inward, and Astrid peeked inside.

  A desk, some bookshelves, a few chairs. Nothing more. She felt only the slightest hint of sickness from nightsbane— the herb couldn’t be in this room. There was no other exit in the small office, either, so Astrid closed the door behind her and tried the other one.

  Astrid began to feel the effects of nightsbane before she even broke the lock.

  She pushed the door open and looked inside, trying to ignore the churning, burning sensation in her gut as it began to spread through the rest of her body. She took one step into the room and the pain intensified, blossoming in her skull. Astrid clutched her head, looking around the room in a squint.

  She recognized the place immediately, even through the pain. The room was simple, with a table along one wall and two mismatched chairs nearby. A row of cupboards lined another wall, and that was about it. This was the room the Black Matron had taken her to before, where Astrid had been tortured with her own memories.

  The nightsbane must be in one of the cupboards.

  Quickly, she stepped back out, backing away, gasping in deep, heavy breaths.

  When she’d regained her composure, Astrid walked back out of the chapel. She looked around outside, and finally saw the emaciated man she’d dragged along with her.

  “Come with me,” she said, motioning for him to follow. “Quickly,” she added. His saunter was not nearly quick enough. Of course, that was the price she paid when this was the kind of help she sought.

  She led the man into the chapel, toward the room with the nightsbane.

  “In there,” Astrid said, pointing to the room. “In the cupboards, there is an herb. Make sure you get it all, then bring it out to me.”

  “That’s it?” the man asked, craning his neck to look into the room. “That’s all you want from me?”

  “That’s all I want,” Astrid said, “and then the silver is yours.”

  The man glanced at Astrid, his eyes hollow, then shrugged and walked into the plain room.

  Astrid stood at the doorway watching him, making sure he checked every cupboard, even ordering him to look in the corners of the room and under the table. Sure enough, in one of the cupboards he found a large bunch of nightsbane, the small white flowers standing out against the darkness.

  “Bring all of it outside,” Astrid repeated, stepping out of the chapel as the man followed at a distance behind her.

  When they’d reached the street, Astrid turned. The man continued walking towards her, but she raised her hands.

  “Stop right there,” she said. “Do not come closer to me.”

  The man stopped, clearly confused. Astrid didn’t care.

  “I gave you flint and tinder,” Astrid said. “Take it out, and burn the herb.”

  “This is the strangest request I’ve ever—”

  “Just do it,” Astrid growled, and for a moment let the glamour she’d woven for the man dissipate. Instead of an innocent, well-dressed girl, he would glimpse what she really was. Her claws, her teeth, her wild hair and glowing eyes.

  The man’s eyes widened, and he took out the flint and tinder and began striking them together. Sparks showered down on the nightsbane.

  The convenient thing about nightsbane, of course, was that it was a dry flower. Even shortly after being cut, it was not a difficult thing to burn. It caught fire almost immediately.

  Astrid watched it smolder. Slowly, she stepped forward. Step after step she took towards the small fire on the cobbled road, but she felt nothing.

  No sickness. No pain.

  She ordered the man to stamp out the fire, which he did. Then, Astrid held her hand out. In it, she held a half-dozen silver coins. She had no illusions about what the man would use it for, but she did not much care. He had made his choices. He had done what she had asked, and that was all that mattered.

  “Thank you.” His eyes shone as he looked at the money.

  Astrid turned her back on the man. She entered the chapel one more time and approached the room where the Black Matron had tortured her. No sickness, no pain. She nodded to herself. That was good.

  She glanced at the statue of Canta once more before she left the chapel. She wasn’t sure why she’d thought the look depicted on the Goddess’s face had been pleading or concentration. The look on the sculpture’s face was one of fulfillment; the hand that reached upwards was closed, as if Canta had finally grasped whatever it was She sought. Astrid was surprised she had not noticed it before. Darkness cast strange shadows on things, sometimes.

  Astrid made her way back out of the city to the Odenite camp. The Black Matron would have other sources of nightsbane, to be sure, but at least Astrid had made progress. She had struck back.

  It would not be the last time.

  19

  Eastmaw Mountains, Khale

  WHEN THE SOLDIER’S SCREAMS faded to whimpers, Publio Kyfer knew it was time to talk.

  Not that the man could really be called a soldier. A good soldier would always stand tall, back straight, chin up, even after a flogging. Kyfer had never cowered the way this man did, curling into a ball as the chains that had kept his arms spread apart between two posts were unlocked, blubbering like a baby. A flogging bloody hurt—that was the point, of course—and it drained a man, too, but it was nothing to sob over. Kyfer had been flogged, and taken wounds a dozen times worse, and had yet to shed a single tear over it.

  “Bring him to me,” Kyfer said. His soldiers—real soldiers— lifted the man by the arms and half dragged, half carried him to where Kyfer stood a few rods away.

  The faint smell of smoke on the air still stung Kyfer’s eyes. Around him were the smoking remains of what had once been a thriving village. It was a shame to lay waste to a part of Khale’s economy, however small, but such actions were necessary when the village willingly housed traitors to the republic.

  Kyfer’s soldiers threw the man at his feet in a cloud of dust. Dirt already caked the man’s bloodied back, and mud and sweat covered his face. The man groaned, and Kyfer rolled his eyes.

  Kyfer crouched down, bringing his face closer to the man’s level. He almost reared back at the overwhelming smell of shit, sweat, and blood, but pushed through it.

  “Are you ready to talk?”

  The man looked up at Kyfer, and the beginning of another sob escaped his lips before he caught himself, choking it down.

  “I… I told you I was willing to talk…”

  “That was halfway through the beating,” Kyfer said impatiently. “I could not very well curtail your punishment just because you changed your mind after it had begun. Actions have consequences, my friend. We can never escape consequences.”

  The man whimpered again as Kyfer stood. “Tell me what you know about the remaining rebels, and your punishment can end.”

  The man looked up at Kyfer, saliva slowly leaking down his chin, dripping to the dust in long, viscous strands.

  Disgusting.

  “A cave,” he rasped, head bobbing. “A cave on the southern side of the mountain, near the peak. They’ll be holed up there… waiting for you to leave.”

  “You are sure?” Kyfer asked.

  The man’s head bobbed more quickly.

  “And can you take us there yourself?”

  “No… need. The cave is easy to find. A path leads up the face of the mountain, and there is a hidden fork… you’ll know it by the rihnemin…”

  “Very well. Thank you for your honesty, my friend.”

  “Please,” the man said, reaching up to Kyfer. “Help me. I have a family—”

  Kyfer raised one knee and brought his heel down onto the man’s face with such force that blood splattered in all directions in the dirt. He groaned something unintelligible, so Kyfer slammed his heel twice more into the man’s face.

  “Be grateful,” Kyfer told the corpse. “If you’d lied to me, your death would not have been nearly so painless.”
r />   He had, of course, received the same information this man had just given him from several other villagers. Some had told him freely, others had taken some persuasion, just as this man had. But so many voices confirming the same thing was good news; they were likely to root out the rest of the rebels within the day, and perhaps Kyfer would finally receive some well-deserved recognition.

  “General Kyfer.”

  Kyfer turned to see his telenic, Genio, with forearm extended forward and bent across his chest in the Khalic salute. While Genio was one of the Nazaniin, he was also conscripted into the Khalic army, and took orders from Kyfer. Through Genio and the other two in his Nazaniin cotir, Kyfer could communicate instantly with his superiors in Triah. The price he paid for the convenience was that all such communication passed through Nazaniin operatives—who might, in some cases, be more loyal to the Citadel than to the House of Aldermen.

  Kyfer returned Genio’s salute, then walked over to a patch of grass and began wiping the heel of his boot.

  “What is it, Nazaniin?”

  “Grand Marshal Carrieri wishes to speak with you.”

  Shit. It wasn’t a request. Carrieri never made requests.

  “Very well.” Satisfied his boot was clean enough, Kyfer nodded. “Lead the way.”

  They walked through the charred remains of the village, towards the clearing in the mountain forest where most of the Steel Regiment had made camp. They were in the middle of the Eastmaw Mountains, south of Cineste. Kyfer was grateful for the mountain assignment; summer had all but arrived, and the cool air made him feel at home.

  “I assume the Grand Marshal did not tell you what this was about?”

  “No,” Genio said, shaking his head. Genio was a short man, but tough and stout. Not a man Kyfer would fancy fighting against, telesis or no.

  “Of course he didn’t,” Kyfer muttered. He could not imagine it would be something good. He and the Grand Marshal did not have the greatest of relationships. Carrieri had actively fought Kyfer’s promotion to general. It had only gone through with the help of the Parliament.

  Genio led Kyfer to the Nazaniin tent. Kyfer ducked through the entrance to find his other two Nazaniin, Ila and Pruse, lounging within.

  “Let’s get this over with,” Kyfer said.

  “He’s here.” Ila was the acumen, and she was not looking at Kyfer. Her eyes were glazed over, and she stared out at nothing.

  Shit. Whatever this was, it was important enough to keep the Grand Marshal of all of Khale waiting to speak with Kyfer. He was suddenly very glad he had not resisted Genio’s summons.

  “General Kyfer,” Ila said, although she was not looking at Kyfer but rather past him, “this is Grand Marshal Carrieri.”

  Kyfer saluted immediately, even though Carrieri could not see him. Only psimancers could communicate through the Void, and neither he nor Carrieri were psimancers. So they had to communicate through respective spokespeople, two Nazaniin acting as translators, more or less. The acumen on the other end, whoever it was, could see Kyfer, and he or she would be doing exactly what Kyfer did, copying his body language and speech patterns as accurately as possible to ensure communication was as clear as possible. Ila, on Kyfer’s end, would in turn mimic Carrieri’s every move. Kyfer had long gotten over the strangeness of seeing Ila—a short woman, even shorter than Genio, and as petite as they came—act with the authority and power of Riccan Carrieri. Ila pulled it off rather well, all things considered.

  “Grand Marshal,” Kyfer said, relaxing when Ila saluted in return, “to what do I owe the pleasure of this conversation?”

  “Do not patronize me, General. We both know how little we enjoy one another’s company. I have orders for you, and these come directly from the Parliament.”

  Kyfer tried to keep his face still—many acumens even mimicked facial expressions—but could not stop his eyes from widening just a bit. Kyfer was used to taking orders from Carrieri, but even then they usually came through one of the other generals.

  Orders from the Parliament were another matter entirely.

  “I live to serve the will of the people,” Kyfer said.

  “A large group of tiellans have left the city of Cineste,” Ila said, speaking for Carrieri. “A thousand, maybe more. On their way out of the city…”

  Here Ila hesitated, and Kyfer wondered whether the hesitation was some hiccup in the communication process through the Void, or something on Carrieri’s part. Communicating through the Goddess-damned Nazaniin was incredibly frustrating.

  “On their way out of the city,” Ila continued, “they encountered a cohort of the Cinestean City Watch. The tiellans demolished that force, and are now making their way east, towards the plains.”

  Kyfer tried not to seem surprised by the information. Tiellan–human relations were bad and getting worse, but he had not expected something so drastic.

  “Your orders are to move the Steel Regiment north.”

  Kyfer felt a rush.

  “Monitor the tiellans. Send us intelligence. We will send you further orders when we have discerned more about the situation.”

  As quickly as the rush came, it subsided. “If they have destroyed one cohort, they surely could do worse to other groups, other towns and cities…”

  “You are not to engage them,” Ila said. Clearly, Carrieri understood Kyfer’s implication. “Not unless they put the lives of other Khalic citizens in danger. Is that understood, Kyfer?”

  “Yes,” Kyfer said, although his mind was already working on engineering a way to make that happen. If he waited for the tiellans to do something on their own, he might wait a lifetime. But if he could add another victory to his imminent one in Eastmaw, he’d return to Triah a hero. “I understand.”

  “Good. Monitor them. Trail them. But do not engage. That is all, General. Until we meet again.”

  “Until we meet again,” Kyfer muttered. By the time they met again, it would be on equal footing, if Kyfer had anything to say about it.

  20

  Odenite camp, outside Kirlan

  KNOT HELD ASTRID’S VOIDSTONE, running one thumb across the rune, blood-red and jagged, etched into the rock.

  It’s always blood, he could hear her say.

  He reconsidered what he was about to do, and not for the first time. Thought it might help him forgive her. Might help him help her. But these memories had tortured Astrid for centuries. Did he really want to uncover them?

  Knot took a deep breath, and extended a tendron into the voidstone. His remaining tendra were small in number, two or three at the most, and incredibly weak. But he could access them nonetheless, and this seemed about the only thing they might be good for.

  As soon as his tendron made contact, Knot felt the stone open up to him. Not physically; it remained between his thumb and forefinger, solid and unyielding, but at the same time Knot felt the shell of it open, and while he had not returned to the Void since Wyle put him there to stabilize his sifts—as a telenic he could not access the Void himself—he felt the residue of it, could almost see the tiny star-lights shining around him. The voidstone he held in his hand was almost one of these lights, but not quite. It blinked in and out of darkness. Knot focused on the shadow of it, until the voidstone’s light expanded into dozens of smaller, multicolored lights. Knot was not sure whether the light representing the voidstone expanded, or he moved into it. The latter seemed more likely, despite the fact that he knew, deep down, he was still just sitting on his cot, in his tent, in the Odenite camp, holding a stone in his hands.

  Stood to reason that each of these lights represented a memory Astrid had lost. The fact that there were dozens of them made him wonder exactly how many things she had done that she wanted to forget. There was no semblance of order among the memories, no way to intuit when it was from or what occurred in it.

  “Might as well start with the closest one,” Knot said to himself, and with another tendron—his first was still connected to the voidstone itself—he dove into the closest me
mory.

  * * *

  Knot watched as Astrid walked through the darkest forest he had ever seen, her green eyes glowing brightly. She moved with purpose but not secrecy. Before Knot’s eyes, Astrid’s appearance shifted. Her claws and fangs disappeared, and the glow of her eyes faded until it was hardly noticeable at all, even in the dark forest. Her clothing looked nicer, her hair well kempt and tied neatly behind her head. She had told him she could use something called a glamour to change her appearance at night, but he had never actually seen her do it.

  Soon, she came upon a group of four men, heavily armed, conversing together.

  “You’ve brought them?” Astrid asked.

  The four men stared at Astrid for a moment, and then three of them burst out laughing. The fourth stared at Astrid, eyes narrow.

  “This some kind of joke?” one of the laughing men asked.

  Astrid held up a large purse, jingling it before her. “No joke. I have your payment. Where are they?”

  The laughing men sobered at the sight of the coin purse, and one of them pointed at it. “That real money, girl?”

  “Either way, we’ve struck a vein of luck today, boys. I say we take what she has, add her to the package, and sell it to the next bidder.”

  Two of the other men nodded, while the serious one stayed quiet.

  “I recommend you take the money,” Astrid said. “It’ll go better for you.”

  The same three men chuckled again, but each drew their weapons and started to fan out around Astrid.

  “I think we should listen to her,” the serious man said, hanging back. His sword remained in its sheath.

  “Don’t be a fool, Hedro,” one of the others said. “We’ve got money just asking to be taken, right in front of us. We both know we can’t afford to pass it up.”

  The men closed in on Astrid, but she did not give any ground. One of the men lunged forward, reaching for the coin purse, but Astrid whipped the purse away while simultaneously slapping the man hard on the face. He stumbled away at the force of the blow.

  The other two men laughed, and Knot pitied them. They had no idea what was about to happen.