by A. S. Etaski
Phaelous was of greater help than D’Shea had expected him to be, pinning up his sleeves to reach for the sponge and water bucket. Tarra noticed and allowed him to handle the filthy work, though she also seemed challenged to do as well with the feeding.
D’Shea concentrated frequently on slowing her heart rate so they wouldn’t hear it. Voices sounded in her head—questions, taunts, threats, promises—and she remembered the way Shyntre had moved inside her, as if his tiny body was frantic, scared. She’d seen his face in her dreams by then.
The Sorceress hadn’t spent span after span in the cage down here like this poor commoner, only the few cycles before her contractions began and her son was soon to arrive, but…
I remember both these Davrin with me, afterward.
She almost wished Phaelous had cleaned and comforted her as gently then as he did Bathila, who couldn’t hear him and did not appreciate it.
But I’d rather it never had happened. He betrayed me and his son. I don’t know why I trusted him. I should have known better. Siranet was smart to leave males out of her inner circle.
Ironically, D’Shea had been quietly mourning and missing the Matron’s companionship for decades when the Headmaster had become too interesting to ignore.
And she had let him in.
The pregnant Davrin was left in her cage with enough to eat, a fresh pelvic wrap, bedding, and blanket, while the three mages stood together in the Pit, studying the inert markings carved on every surface. Tarra looked at the altar; Phaelous and D’Shea ignored it.
Then the Confessor pulled out a scroll and a light stone, temporarily blinding them all before comparing and pointing out a few specific runes.
“These,” she said simply.
Phaelous leaned to see. “Those aren’t Abyssal, Priestess.”
“I know. What are they, Headmaster?”
D’Shea didn’t have to look to know what they talked about. “Elemental, my dear Tarra.”
An eyebrow arched. “Don’t you mean Arcane, my dear Varessa?”
“No. There is a deliberate collaboration and intelligence applied to the Arcane studies that you do not see in the Divine. Elemental is neither of those.”
“Yet our crafters regularly collaborate with stone, fire, and water regularly. You and I have done the same creating the spyways in the Sanctuary. The wizards in the Tower are devoted to the Arcane studies. Are not ‘elemental’ spells within the definition of Arcane, Sorceress?”
“Some like to insist so, Priestess. I have changed my mind.”
Tarra was wise enough to stop there, looking at Phaelous, who was watching D’Shea.
“When?” asked the Headmaster simply.
The one word seemed to prick a waterskin as her chest filled with a flood of old emotion. D’Shea tossed a poisonous look at him.
“When our son was born. I only was forced to forget.” Her voice rumbled. “It wasn’t myself alone that Wilsira wanted to finish and strengthen her Forming Pit. It was Shyntre. He is not a wizard like the other buas in your Tower, Phaelous. He is something else, and I believe you’ve been given ample opportunity to notice, yes?”
Her former lover nodded. “I have noticed he accomplishes changes in the fundamentals of stone and fire which he is unable to teach or describe to others. Nor is he able to write it in a language of magic. His jewelry was always one of a kind, sometimes with unexpected qualities, and could not be duplicated.”
D’Shea heard the clear message he conveyed in front of Tarra without specifics. Whether he intended it or not, Phaelous had just given her an idea.
Meanwhile, the Priestess was turning this over, comparing the scroll with the walls. “If Shyntre has an ‘elemental’ talent in which he is illiterate, which I find laughable for one of the highest-tutored buas in Sivaraus, then how are these runes known to be of that talent?”
“They appeared mid-ritual,” D’Shea said curtly, her arms folded over a subtly quivering middle. “No one wrote them first, but Wilsira copied them.”
“Ah-ha,” the Priestess breathed, giving them closer, serious inspection. “Has he been down here since his birth?”
“No,” D’Shea barked, forbidding rather than answering.
Tarra blinked at her, and Phaelous agreed in tone while confirming, “No, he has not been here since then.”
“I see. Well, let us see what the Valsharess thinks, hm?”
The Sorceress Elder stewed in silent fury, kicking herself for the slip of temper, while Lelinahdara made copious notes of which ones were “Elemental” runes, at least according to Phaelous. D’Shea did not help but was privately chagrinned how accurate the old male was.
“Time to go for now,” the Priestess said, “until the next infantile feeding and cleaning. Though I thank you both for your presence. Finally, a breakthrough!”
Back in Wilsira’s chambers, they secured their materials, preparing to leave as all three of them had duties awaiting them elsewhere. The Headmaster said nothing at all until he invited to cut her jump circles in half by going through the Tower. D’Shea recoiled from the blatant attempt to get her into his private space.
“I can manage alone, Headmaster. A few extra jumps do not tire me anymore.”
“Of course, Elder, apology for any insult. If you choose to jump by way of the Twelfth Well, you might retain that endurance. But it is your right as you please.”
This was his version of being stubborn.
D’Shea sighed, rolled her eyes, glancing around them. Phaelous hadn’t blinked. He wanted something. Or, he wanted to tell her something. Unfortunately, she could not tell which, and they were being watched and listened to at all places within the Sanctuary.
Fine.
“No, Headmaster. Mind your circles.”
She wouldn’t know if he believed this key phrase here and now, as he had once, until she waited for him outside Sivaraus.
Just as he wouldn’t know if she would be there once he retrieved whatever it was from the fifth library that he wanted to show her.
*You changed caches again,* Phaelous signed as he looked about the private alcove where D’Shea had only brought Red Sisters in the last few decades, most recently Gaelan and Sirana. She sealed the alcove behind him, where no light or sound would escape.
*And I shall do so again after this meeting* she signed. *The time has come, anyway.*
He wasted no time, reaching into his robe’s sleeve and the pocket she knew was there. She prepared, just in case. He noticed.
*Slow,* he promised, gradually bringing out a scrap of parchment to hand to her without games.
D’Shea accepted, listened to the trickle of water in the darkness as neither of them made another motion until she cast a small light to read it. It was a chart, but not the original. Not even Phaelous could remove records from the library archives, nor could they be copied by magic or by hand using a single mage. It always required at least three, and one of them was the Valsharess.
What she held would be what Phaelous could memorize and transcribe in a way that did not recreate it. There would be deliberate inaccuracies and flaws that made it worthless if lost or stolen; subtle, disregarded as trash in all but the right set of hands.
Peering at it, D’Shea hazarded that he’d provided her with a key component of Wilsira’s cypher, one he had been keeping from Lelinahdara. He’d been waiting for something—perhaps her attention or something else not yet occurred. She never knew all the ways in which the Headmaster’s mind worked. It was why she’d had such difficulty ignoring him at one time in her life.
To the point I could not keep my legs closed.
She tucked the scrap away but kept the light out so she wouldn’t miss a tic in his distinguished face. She used one hand to sign, *How far back? Which mage?*
Phaelous smiled sadly to see how quickly she understood. He answered, *Beliza D’Shea. I was only a century when she escaped the Palace but left four Daughters behind.*
Varessa D’Shea stared, her heartbeat slipping briefly out of her control. The Elder could not, to save her existence, imagine Phaelous once the same age as Sirana, yet here it was.
He was there.
The last sorceress of D’Shea had thought but never confirmed that her House’s lack of property went at least as far as the current Headmaster’s life. Swiftly growing unsettled and faster than she wished, D’Shea shifted the subject, promising herself she would probe into this next time she was in Wilsira’s chambers.
*What is it about Bathila that troubles you?* she signed instead.
Phaelous looked at the pouch where she had tucked his scribbles.
She held her breath, demanding, *What? Who is she?*
His mouth tightened into a straight line. *You said you expected to find Red Sisters entangled in the Conceiver’s plan.*
*A given. But that one is not a Red Sister.*
*True, but I found a strong link to one.*
Only one?
*Who?*
*Rausery,* he answered without resistance. *Wilsira was very interested in her line, Varessa.*
D’Shea had a visible reaction in the light; it was pure disbelief. *Her line? What line? She was an orphan running unfettered trade when the Prime pulled her off the street. Her Mother was a deep trader long dead by then, right?*
The Headmaster nodded patiently, offering nothing else to that story. *This does not change that Wilsira was interested in the General as the head of a line. The Matriarch of the surrogates bearing the new sons of the Priestesses.*
*What? Rausery only had Tahna, who should have been a Red Sister like her Mother but was made to serve in the Sanctuary.*
*Rausery also had half-siblings or cousins she didn’t name in her time under the Prime,* Phaelous answered, *but Tahna must have known who a few of them were, and they might have known each other. I’ve found notes of Wilsira tracking specific Davrin among the commoners and noting them as relatives to Rausery. I assume the Conceiver must have extracted them from Rausery’s Daughter.*
Anger and confusion simmered together in a sickening boil, but D’Shea had her answer why Phaelous was willing to tend and observe the commoner inside her cage.
*Bathila is one of those cousins,* she signed, *bearing a tainted Consort that is not her child.*
*Bathila is distant in blood, but yes. Wilsira had already consumed the strength of those closer to the General, starting with Tahna, whom I believe experienced the Forming Pit about six decades before you did. She may have borne all the Consorts of that time, too close together, and that is what killed her.*
D’Shea’s eyes widened. Her hands fumbled on her next question, and she leaned against the cave wall to get a stranglehold on the fear of the timing.
*That would have been the second generation of Consorts,* she signed slowly, watching him. *Those ones given away at the first worship ball. Well-trained and docile, unlike the initial group which never left the Sanctuary.*
The Headmaster bowed his head. *Exactly, my Elder. Whatever quality the Conceiver discovered in Tahna, it appeared to be critical to her process in trying again. The surrogate matters as much as the chosen Priestess and the sire; these three made the Consort and his magic whole. Tahna wasn’t simply a vessel. None of them were. Or are. They are Mothers sharing the same sons with these Priestesses.*
That might be something Lelinahdara wouldn’t believe even if explained in plain sign language like this. Tarra hadn’t managed to convince Wilsira to give her a Consort of her own blood, but if she had, there would be no “shared” mother.
Yet a subtle lump rose in the Sorceress’s throat which she tried to swallow down long enough to make her next mental leap.
Six decades before me, in the Forming Pit…
Auslan was about fifty turns older than D’Shea’s own son.
*The…healer,* she signed hesitantly. *Whom we are researching?*
Phaelous tightened his mouth at the corners, looking to one side. *Probable. Not confirmed, but probable, given the timing.*
Probably Tahna’s son.
And if so, Rausery’s grandson. Him and many others the Sisterhood had just killed.
*This has been your working theory,* she signed.
*Not confirmed,* he repeated. *Not enough to give the Valsharess. Threads I am chasing through Wilsira’s code.*
Too soon to reveal this, in any case, even if he were correct.
*Understood. Will you tell Tarra?*
*Not if you do not wish it.*
Hmm.
*I do not wish it, Headmaster. Keep this closed for now.*
*I will, Elder.* He bowed again, smooth and without a touch of stiffness or tension.
As if she did not still hate him.
They prepared to leave her cache, the last time she would be using this one for at least a century, when the Elder Sorceress paused with another thought.
As always, her Headmaster noticed. *Yes, my Elder?*
She looked at him amid the Radiants, having doused the light. She could see him without the color, yet the golden flecks in the iris, possessed by both him and her son, somehow made themselves known within lightlessness.
*They know each other,* she signed, *do they not?*
The Headmaster made no assumptions. *’They’, Elder?*
*Shyntre and this surviving Consort.*
*I believe their time and training overlapped on the third floor, Elder.*
She eyed him skeptically. Hm. *Perhaps I will ask if the healer possesses any insight of my son as a child. While he is able to answer my questions.*
Phaelous smiled a bit. *I hope he remembers something worth sharing with you, my Elder.*
CHAPTER 18
There was a commotion on the far side of her plantation. Although the Matron was too far to reach or see it before one of her Guard screamed, Rohenvi knew by the pitch that the time had come. Be it by accident, internal violence, or an attack on her land, she would normally be preparing for a death or several after things got under control.
Instead, she pushed instructions on a child.
“Cover Auslan in hood and robe and lead him to the empty healer’s quarters, Natia. Do not let anyone see you.”
Gaelan’s Daughter nodded urgently and sped off toward the wall passage instead of his locked front door.
On her way outside, the Matron and a Guardsvrin carrying a stretcher were met by her Head Guard and two others who wordlessly flanked her, weapons drawn.
“Lutre,” she demanded. “What is happening?”
“Uroan kicked Drani, Matron. We didn’t detect what caused it but other animals and the Pytes are acting strange as well. We’re securing the borders.”
Could be another House causing trouble, could be Sathoet on the loose, could be a festering pincerworm nest…
It could be too many things. For now, her Heard Guardsvrin would focus on her job, and the Matron would focus on her House.
“Give me Drani. I’ll take care of her. Bring any carcasses or prisoners to me later.”
“Yes, Matron.”
Two fellow Guards moved fast to roll their guardmate and tuck the stretcher beneath her. They lifted, and Rohenvi signed for them to follow her. After they had entered the mansion, cut left at the rear, and entered a smooth stone corridor, Roh knew Natia and the healer were waiting.
She halted them, wrapped blindfolds around the eyes of the two Guardsvrin, and continued. This was not the only unusual thing she had done lately but, so far, they were staying quiet, understanding and accepting that something they couldn’t see threatened their House.
They obeyed because they could not imagine a good place to go if Thalluen fell, a strong possibility in their current disfavor with the Sanctuary. Rohenvi knew they felt this way because she had asked them shortly after Vekika was born. She listened and swore she would protect the place for all of them once again, even without her brother’s many talents.
&
nbsp; Even with Ruk back in my life, I do not know where I would go, either.
As the Matron, she would probably be dead or imprisoned if the House fell, anyway.
…I miss you, Azed.
Rohenvi came beside by the high-stilted bed and patted it with both palms. “Set her on this.”
Between the bed and the wall, Auslan sat in a chair, covered with head down and hood up, his hands tucked inside sleeves too long for him. Natia sat beside him with huge eyes, staring at the injured Guardsvrin as they set the stretcher down.
Rohenvi saw the wound, now. The kick from a bulky hindquarter had been strong enough to shatter her ribs; the spurs on the heavy hooves had gashed her flank where a loop of intestine oozed out. Drani struggled to breathe; her lips were turning grey as blood spilled out. Natia peeped to see this then covered her mouth as if ashamed, and the Consort reached to pat her shoulder.
“Good, now please leave,” the Matron told her guards. “Save the blindfolds for later. We’ll see what we can do for Drani.”
“Yes, Matron.”
Rohenvi locked the door behind them, listened a moment with her ear to it, then braced a chair beneath the knob for good measure. She had turned around to speak when she saw Auslan cupping Drani’s jaw, his eyes closed, and somehow pouring his first magic into her, to where the Guardsvrin’s lips weren’t such a frightful shade of death. He worked his way down, quickly forcing air into her blood without the use of one ruined lung, changing her coloring to normal before he repositioned his beautiful hands to cover the worst of the wound.
As Rohenvi and Natia watched in silence, the Davrin healer magically knitted shattered bones together, covered them again in remade flesh, stopped the bleeding inside and out. This process was neither instant nor without pain for them both. They mewled and groaned, sweated together, heating the room as if the Consort could feel every magical stitch.
Then Drani’s left leg kicked in reflex, and Rohenvi recognized a revival over a death tremor. She stood in astonished silence while Natia cautiously reached for a pulse in the Guardsvrin’s neck with two small fingers. Her shining garnet eyes—her sire’s eyes—brightened first before the genuine smile touched her lips.