by J. Gibson
Kravae’s expression seemed morose and indifferent at once. It was difficult to tell how she felt about the words. “Speak, then.” She pulled her face back and the Archbishop released it.
“You had such potential. Look what you’ve done with it.” Delacroix motioned to the line. “You’ve thrown your life away, and the lives of these people. That is, unless you accept this offer, which is, indeed, more than you deserve. Let your comrades live, so that they might overcome the misfortune of knowing you.”
The fair-faced fair folk dropped her head for an instant, stared at the ground, then raised it. “We accept your offer.” She appeared to reflect on the choice. After a few seconds, the pensiveness left her face and she spoke again. “If I may offer one suggestion, it is possible that your restrictions on the Aether have empowered the minions of Korvaras. Your wards have certainly not exalted your people to the end of their self-defense.”
As Garron and I conjectured.
The archbishops returned to their places behind the table.
Delacroix responded: “Others have offered similar surmisals, but we have found no proof. As the prime source, any restriction applied to the All-Mother’s favor should affect the rest. Furthermore, the feats enacted in the underlands have exceeded what even a powerful mortal necromancer could accomplish in the reported durations.”
“Unless,” Kravae objected, “the favor proportioned and administered between the gods is equal.”
The Vicar ground his teeth. “Hold your tongue.”
“Disregard possibilities defiant your beliefs, it matters not.” Aitrix concentrated on Archbishop Delacroix. “What do you suspect is the cause, if not this?”
“A true necromancer,” Delacroix said.
“Which has purported to be Vor-Kaal herself.” Archbishop Mallum turned a folded sheet of paper on the table beside her. “Of course, we’ve dismissed this notion.”
Kravae’s eyes flickered. “In either case, if what you say is a fact, we are certain to perish.”
“You have a deep understanding of the Aether. None of us deny that.” Umbra gestured to his fellow archbishops. “Your understanding of the Mother’s favor, on the other hand, is—what were the words she used?” He looked to Aramanth. “For the minds of this craven institution?”
“Middling minds, I believe.”
“Ah, aye. Middling.”
That may have been the first bit of humor Amun had observed from the Vicar.
“Not long ago,” Mortem said, “Archbishop Tornaeu and I ventured south. The Undeath overran us. A horde. If it were Vor-Kaal, we might expect her to steal away spirits, to raise a few dead for her own ends, but not to reanimate an army. If her objective was to kill us all, she could do so without the mass. This is why we suspect the magic to be the work of a necromancer, claiming itself in falsehood as Vor-Kaal.”
The half-elf’s brow creased. “To what end?”
Archbishop Tornaeu answered: “To spread substantial fear, as the wicked gods do.”
“We reckon the next major target will be the city of Imbredon,” Delacroix said. “As such, we shall lift most of the restrictions on your abilities, the five of you, with lunar tears, but you won’t be able to cast traveling spells. If you attempt to defect, we shall destroy the beads and inhibit your capacity to access the Aether. In that event, we may abandon you to die by the Undeath, or the inquisitors shall execute you without delay.” Her voice sounded stern but kind. “Adhere to the terms of our agreement. Do not betray us. This is your warning.”
As powerful as Kravae was, their use of lunar tears was complicated magic. Only the most knowledgeable mages could craft such spells or undo them. Kravae wielded the strength, but not the learning, to interfere.
“A regiment of paladins and a knight captain, as well as Archbishops Sangrey, Dred, Hart, and Mallum, shall accompany you in this venture.” The Vicar tapped the table with his pointer. “This common body must see that we are willing to risk our lives for them, and the Empire.”
Kravae frowned. “Not your life?”
“Insolent beast,” Archbishop Crane said. “Not long ago, you were willing to murder everyone in this room if it meant you would have your power again.”
“All Saints would die for our cause. Liberating the Aether is a pursuit of the utmost good.”
The woman called Bhathric agreed: “We are. I would.”
“You shall depart on the morn,” Umbra concluded, indicating that the meeting had adjourned. He and the others exited, save Delacroix. None acknowledged her lingering.
On the table, the Archbishop’s hands folded.
“Are we dismissed?” Kravae asked, in a tone of desire.
“I wanted to take a moment to speak to you in front of your underlings.” Delacroix glanced at Amun. “I’d like you to remain, Sister Halleck, but discontinue the record.”
“Instead of further moralizing, be open and be done with us. You believe you know me so well.”
The Archbishop smiled. “You, I understand—”
“You could not know what life is like,” Kravae interrupted at the outset, “to be apart from every group, to find everyone of every calling and background to be beneath you, and beset with lack-witted trash, scum, and crooks. How nearly every statement, every day, by everyone, drives me mad. How I am the only person in the world who knows what is wrong with it.” Her voice amplified. “What makes me better than any charlatan of your order is that I can explain in specific what one has done wrong, where this one is even the standard of common sense or custom if only by fiat, but not self-scrutiny.”
“You talk of crooks, yet you extol freedom as a virtue.”
“Freedom is for the good. Your control of the Aether is an oppression of that good.”
“The antithesis of order is freedom.” Archbishop Delacroix shifted in her seat. “Is there good and bad? Are there good folk and bad folk? That is, do they regularly embody good and bad deeds? Then there shall always be something or someone to oppress. Freedom is for the trash, scum, and crooks, as you so eloquently described them. Freedom is to be free to be, do, say, think, make, and believe wrong. A lack of freedom is what distinguishes us from lower animals and the hunter-gatherers of the Sightless Era. There is no freedom in ethics and morals, only our three pillars—which you, in your wrath, have no respect for, despite that they have been to your benefit, even this day.”
“I do not respect the pillars of your society or its rights because you base none of them on truth-accounting. Social liars like you go unpunished for your deceits, yet you do endless harm by forcing everyone into the impressions of your inept and uninspired heads and hands. No one can show the truth if everyone with the most might and say has the least ability or yearning to hear and understand. Reasoned words and deeds from someone better, who the same reason cannot erase, should destroy false and cowardly beliefs such as yours. If necessary, we must resort to weapons, violence, destruction, and war. Wrath is a natural tool for that end.”
Delacroix had allowed her tirade, perhaps so she might demonstrate Kravae’s temperament to her followers. We argue not for our opponent, but the observer, she had once told Amun. “You are a killer, Aitrix Kravae. Not a martyr, not a prophet, not a savior. A killer. Nothing more, and nothing less.”
“You also kill. You murder and command murder. You lie of me, know it, and have abhorred me in your envy since our first encounter. You are responsible for all of the hardships that have befallen me. In your conceit and cruelty, you call me mad, tell others that I don’t comprehend social norms, cues, figures, intents. I do understand them. I comprehend many to be wrong. I understand many to hide, defend, and promote flaws. You are one person who speaks as though yours is the absolute authority. You are not so wise as you think.”
Aitrix stood. The inquisitors in the chamber permitted her movement at the Archbishop’s signal. “Your kind of mediocre liar is one facet of society I seek to get rid of,” the half-elf went on. “Everything I do is for a better world. I
do not grovel to get ahead. I do not repeat the mistakes of others. These goals and means are like your own, but because I am here and you are there, I am the monster, and you, the saint.”
The Archbishop had an expression of mild amusement. “Such a paroxysm of umbrage and grief. Poor you, hm? Mistreated, given no compassion in her plight.”
“So, my soul throes—so, what? If you or others are too foolish to understand justice, it is needful for me to correct you. The cause of my beliefs is a mind with compassion for everything that meets its ken. Compassion does not mean that one should accept or allow what is deeply wrong, which not everyone could wit.”
“You needn’t tell me this.” Delacroix rose from her chair. “I have humored you. I thought that you may have grown beyond this petulant hubris, but I was mistaken. We must focus on what is more important now. A darkness comes for us, and threatens to swallow us all.”
“The ichor that swallows the world,” the one called Athenne said.
The Archbishop’s face flashed a measure of genuine surprise. “Where did you hear that?”
This intrigued Amun.
“A Matronian temple. Vekshia showed us a number of visions, including of the priest we killed. In one image, he uttered this. Then Bhathric and I witnessed it, ourselves. A red flood.”
Delacroix admired a window of the chamber. “When you face the Undeath, our mounted chevaliers shall strike first. There are likely to be mountains of the dead when this is through. Fear may overtake you. If you wish to live, you must remain steadfast, fight as though each breath could be your dying rattle. Engage in song or prayer, or forsake these. If you fall, you might become another element of the Undeath. Many have perished or vanished in the underlands—innocent women, children, and men.” A sigh escaped her lips and she stared at Kravae. “I know you care little for them, for all your rhetoric of freeing the Aether for the good of the common woman and man. Let us disabuse ourselves of any pleasantries and fables. Stand with mortalkind against this unyielding viciousness, this churning, hateful wickedness. You face a wretched demise, but at least you may find redemption.”
“My contempt for you is without bound. Nevertheless, we shall do as we are able.” Kravae looked down the row of her allies on each side. “For those I’ve brought to this.”
Before the Archbishop had a chance to reply, a figure emerged by the entrance of the chamber. “Apologies for my intrusion.” Black robes and a mask of plagues shrouded the man.
Is this the one Garron described? It must be.
“Magister Adra Erin,” Delacroix greeted him, crossing her legs. “What may I do for you?”
He titled at the waist. “Word of your endeavor travels. I wondered if I might accompany, witness this Undeath.” His voice sounded gruff yet strangely sweet. It made Amun uncomfortable.
“They depart on the morn.”
“I know.”
He left.
“Take these to the cellars until the morrow.” The Archbishop gestured toward their prisoners.
Inquisitors removed the five Saints from the chamber.
Delacroix and Amun sat alone.
“Archbishop,” Amun said.
“Hm?”
“Forgive me, but I recall you mentioning that you had not met Kravae. She stated that you had envied her since your first encounter. What did she mean?”
“I said that I did not know her and that I had seen her.” Delacroix seemed agitated by her implication. “We met on an occasion or two and did not exchange words at length.”
“I see.” Amun decided it best not to bother her further.
“If that is all, Sister, you are dismissed.”
Amun bowed where the magister had stood.
As she emerged into the hall, a cold gloom of bent shadows received her. Every torch was out. The Priory always appeared darker than when had Garron lived, at least to her.
She must know what they encountered in the underlands.
For Garron, Amun would follow the host in cover, without the Ennead’s knowledge.
First, under the assumption that it was safe, she returned to the Black Pass, to the house Garron had named on the paper he gave her. The home stood opposite where he had been when the Saints killed him.
She knocked on the front door.
A woman answered, revealing a few inches of herself.
“Can I help you?” she said.
“Hello, Mys. I am Sister Amun Halleck.”
“What do you want?”
“Might I come in?”
The woman shifted from foot to foot. “You are alone?”
“Indeed.” Amun peered around.
Seconds more passed, until at last the woman opened the door. Her house was simple and clean inside. She gestured for Amun to take a chair at her table.
“Tea?”
“No, thank you.” Amun sat down.
The woman poured tea and then came over and sank into a seat, steam rising from the contents of her cup. “What brings you here, Sister?” She blew over her drink.
“An incident transpired outside of your home earlier. I wanted to check on your well-being.”
“I saw the inquisitors arrest two people.”
“They did. Members of a terrorist organization.”
Something shook in the woman’s eyes. “Why?”
“Nothing to do with you.” Amun tried to sound reassuring. “What is your name?”
“Demetria Victoire.”
“You grew up here?” What am I doing?
“In the city. My mother moved to Laorta when I took my womanhood. I came to the countryside.”
“Work?”
“I attend the Braxany Institute of Magic.”
“What’s your concentration, if I may ask?”
“Mentalism, I think,” Demetria said with a wan smile. “I’m not able to cast much due to the warding, so my learning is largely theoretical. On the campus, I can spell like most others, of course.”
“Does that bother you?”
“I still enjoy it. I’m not sure I would be any good even without the wards.” She paused. “Why have you truly come, Sister? Not to ask a stranger questions about herself for an incident that had nothing to do with her.”
Amun shook her head. “We had a report that something terrible has befallen you, perhaps a crime.”
The woman’s features hardened.
“We needn’t discuss it if you don’t wish—”
“Nay,” the woman protested. “We may.” She drank her tea, and waited. When she sat the cup down, the shimmer of her russet eyes and the intermittent tremble of her chin evidenced her grief. “I long to sleep, to leave, to be here without the fear. Never waking would be nice. A wipe of my memory.” She bit her lip. “Anything to rid me of this, the ugly thoughts and whispers. He remains forever in my mind.”
“Can you tell me what he looked like? The inquisitors ought to know.” Amun placed a hand on Demetria’s wrist. “You needn’t make a formal statement. I’ll take care of it.”
Demetria’s gaze moved across her own.
Is she analyzing me for trust?
“I often ask myself,” Demetria said, “what am I still doing here? Why do I carry on? It was not as bad as what some have suffered—no violence of the sex. Yet I fight the man every day. His wild blue eyes have burned into my lids. The sound of him never leaves. His grey hair. His hatred. What wrong did I do? Why did he choose me?” Anger, fear, and mourning laced her voice.
“I had never seen him before that day. If he had seen me, I did not know. We met that one night, fought that one night, not knowing one another. I did not know why. Now I see him everywhere. I am chained. I am no longer who I was, cannot be again. I feel his hands around my throat in every breath. He is out there, still. Perhaps he has moved on, forgotten me. Found another. Perhaps he’s waiting to return.”
“He’s dead,” Amun whispered.
“Dead? How do you know?”
“He died recently.” The words almost stuck in
her throat. “I know it. You are safe.”
“Are you certain?” A tear trickled down Demetria’s cheek.
“Sure as the Mother is right. Go out, enjoy your life.” Amun stood. “If you would like to return with me to the Priory for any sort of evaluation and care, you may.”
“Nay, thank you. I am well here. As well as one can be.”
“If you change your mind, ask the inquisitors for me.”
Demetria thanked her again, and she set off. A light breeze buffeted her as she walked, and thought. He would not have done this on purpose. It was the compulsion of that thing.
She stopped and stared to the sky.
He would not.
CHAPTER XXI: IMBREDON
Athenne
The archbishops, knight captain, chevaliers, and the Magister Adra Erin were steadfast in their belief that, this time, the endeavor would be a triumph. Their host made its way southwest from Aros, toward the city of Imbredon, with little outward recognition of the discomfort of this affair.
Athenne sat atop her horse, apathetic to the world. The chevaliers had taken Shah, and would not give her back. She felt disquieted by the strangeness of the steed beneath her.
The sun had set, its haze creeping beneath the Earth’s edge. In the distance waited their destination, a bleak and endless terrain. The emptiness darkened the further they rode. Taxing as it became, they rarely halted, and fed their horses and themselves as they went. On occasion, they had made camp, but only for half a night at a time. The Imperials kept the five of them apart. Prisoners as they were, their guards did not permit them to speak, but otherwise treated them with mildness and dignity.
Do they blame me?
Do Bhathric and Eclih and Uldyr despise me?
She had failed, the prime catastrophe of the mission, captured like a scurrying rat in the cellars. The inquisitors had surrounded her, exterminators cornering frantic vermin. No doubt, Aitrix viewed her as such, by the words of her diatribe in the Ennead’s chamber. She had followed this vicious madwoman into the belly of darkness, and in the process, abandoned herself. Yet she had known deep in her heart that they were likely to fail. The construction of the plan had not been sturdy. Aitrix had probably wanted her to perish.