Wisdom Lost

by Michael Sliter

  Unael gestured Emma over with an impatient wave. Nail and Havert helped her force her way through the milling throng, picking up some other Apple Knights as they went and forming a protective wall around her.

  “You need to disperse your men. Now,” Lord Unael said bluntly, his brow creased in frustration.

  “Of course. As soon as my chaplain is freed of this public torture and released into my custody,” Emma replied, meeting his eye without flinching.

  “This is a matter of the church. I have no authority over the Yetranians.”

  “No authority? This is your city!” Emma snapped. Unael’s face tightened, emphasizing the harsh lines that came with a lifetime of command.

  “The Yetranian Church has historically been run independently of the state. They are outside of Jecustan law.” His voice was as cold as winter.

  “And that includes public torture?”

  “We let them deal with their own traitors. If you don’t remember, I recently lashed quite a few of my own soldiers after the death of your lady. We deal with our own, and they with theirs.”

  “Lash, yes. For dereliction of duty. And then they were patched up and sent north. This is prolonged torture, a spectacle. And, this is an Ardian who is being tortured in your city. One of my followers, under your protection.” Emma clenched her hands in front of her, the ache from her mutilated hand barely keeping her rage in check.

  She was losing control. Her head buzzed so much it might have been vibrating.

  Rential mumbled something to Ervis, who nodded and continued to watch, askance. More black cloaks were marching into the square as they spoke, acting as a caution against further violence. Some of the guards had clustered on the roofs of nearby buildings, stringing short bows and training them on the mob. If one got spooked and released an arrow, this square would become a blood bath.

  Unael leaned toward her, speaking in a hushed voice that smelled slightly of wine. “You know the outcome of this, do you not? If you do not withdraw your men, and if I interfere in any way, you lose the support of the Jecustans. You think Rential or Ervis won’t use this as an opportunity to stay cloistered in their little keeps? Let your man die. It is for the greater good.”

  “If I let my man die, I will not have an army for your support to matter. We need him.” At least a third of her men were here. How many others lacked the fortitude to approach the chapel, but would nonetheless be devastated at the loss of their spiritual heart?

  Unael sighed a cold mist, his eyes distant as if he were watching a memory. “I truly want to help you, Emma. Escamilla was an… unmatched woman. Long ago, I promised that I would do anything to help her in the event of a disaster, and she made the same promise to me. She saved my life fulfilling her promise. I owed her this much, at least.”

  Escamilla had never mentioned the extent of her relationship with Lord Unael—only that he was a staunch ally, someone who she was certain they could rely upon. How had she put it? “If I were to trust my life in the hands of one man, it would be Brox Unael. But only him.” She had provided no additional context; she’d been dying, after all.

  “If we must save your man, though, I will not be able to raise an army. Pandemonium, girl, this would pit me against the church and could spell the end of my rule in Farrow’s Hold. I could lose my position in the military, even.” His voice was a snake’s hiss. “But, I follow through on my debts, even to the dead. Especially to the dead. This is your choice, Emma.”

  Her choice. Again, her fury flared like a stab in the heart. How dare Escamilla put her in this situation? How dare Unael give her this ultimatum? She bit her tongue and looked to the steps, to Ignatius and the Grand Taneo dwarfed by the huge Glory, who was, in turn, made an insect by the majestic Grand Chapel. Her soldiers had pushed the shield-bearers back a step, but there was a fresh contingent of Glories approaching from a side street, bristling like a pearly hedgehog. Someone threw a fist-sized stone into the mass of white-armored soldiers as they pushed their way through the crowd.

  This was going to get ugly, and quickly. Emma forced back her rage as if she was straining to close an overstuffed trunk. There was no choice to make, not here. They needed to act now.

  “Stop this, my lord. Whatever the cost.”

  Unael winced, as if he’d already known her answer. But his face hardened with resolve, a judge about to give a reckoning. Emma felt a brief surge of pride in knowing this man, the Lord of Farrow’s Hold. There were good men left, after all, in this stricken world.

  “Senco, Dinael, to me! Spire formation. No blood. To the stairs.” His voice was sharp with command, and his men responded in an instant. His captains mobilized fifty black cloaks into the proper formation—a hollow triangle with her and Unael in the center. She hadn’t precisely expected to go with him, but, looking at the black wall surrounding them, Emma realized there was little choice. At the very least, Rential and Ervis were outside the wall, but so were Nail, Havert, and Opine.

  Unael’s elite black cloaks parted the mass of buzzing Brockmore soldiers like a leper in a market. It was strangely quiet in the wedge, and the odd silence seemed to amplify Emma’s omnipresent migraine. Unael’s face was steel—a cold, hard cypher. Emma tried to don her own mask, but, as the shielding wall of Glories parted and revealed the damage done to Ignatius, she could not hide her anger.

  The chaplain’s head was now drooping after that last lash, blood dripping down from his double chins from some unseen wound. His stomach and chest were carved with a thin “Y,” a mockery of the Yetranian Ascension, and likely the first Trial, as the wound was scabbed over with dried blood. Around his feet, the scattered snow was stained red, though, as with his facial wound, the cause was not obvious. Missing toenails? The toes themselves?

  “Lord Unael? This is not your place,” said the Grand Taneo, his sharp features betraying no emotion, his voice loud but not unfriendly.

  Then, Ignatius raised his head.

  A metal bar, the width of one of Emma’s thumbs, protruded from both of his cheeks, running through his mouth cavity and held between his teeth, small weights hanging from each side forcing him to clench his jaw, lest the bar do more damage. Blood oozed from the twin wounds, streams running down his cheeks and converging at his chin. His lips were quivering with the effort and tears ran freely from his eyes.

  His face was twisted in the grin of a child’s nightmare, his eyes were glossy with a tired fear.

  “All of Farrow’s Hold is my place, your eminence. Particularly when an act of such violence is sparking a riot in my very streets.” His voice sounded calm as a frozen pond as he ascended the deep steps, Emma struggling to match his confident stride.

  Endo Pious arched a bushy eyebrow at that, looking down upon them both literally and figuratively. “Indeed, my lord. I have more Glories on their way, but your assistance in dispersing this rabble is greatly appreciated. Harmony favors those who assist the church.”

  Ignatius grunted and spat, trying to say something around the iron bar.

  Unael folded his arms across his broad chest, his fingertips barely brushing the pommel of his sword… almost as if it were an accident. A game was being played here, Emma knew. A subtle game of gestures and hidden meanings. A game that Escamilla had taught Emma well over the years. And one that was comfortable and comforting to play. Though, she was going to change the rules.

  “You will release my man immediately,” Emma said, her voice as calm as she could force it to be. Meaning that it had some bite behind it. The huge, hooded Glory stepped forward, still holding his thick leather whip.

  “Your man? Do you claim ownership over this excommunicant?”

  “I claim no ownership. But I do pay his wages and help keep him plump.” Emma heard a snicker from a black cloak behind her, this followed by a barked order for silence.

  “Troubling that you put such faith in a faithless man,” Endo said, his voice solemn with condemnation.

  “I put faith in no one. But I will not see a
loyal follower be tortured without just cause,” Emma said, avoiding looking at the mess that was Ignatius.

  “From a woman who brutally ordered several of her own men dragged to death, simply because they were fleeing for their lives?” Emma’s throat was tight, her tongue glued to the roof of her mouth. “And, this excommunicant vowed to uphold the standards of Yetra when he was sworn into our order. These are not arbitrary standards, nor is this an arbitrary punishment. Yetra’s mortal life and time were fraught with strife and warfare, resulting in nearly the end of humanity. The very face of the earth was changed by these battles, much of that land still unable to sustain life, near to four thousand years later. Because of war. Because of the unchecked use of power.”

  Pious stepped forward, the giant Glory flanking him. Emma noticed that the huge, pale hands of the torturer were covered in a criss-crossing of scars, the pattern so consistent that they must have been intentional. Perhaps a penance for his sins. Emma felt an urge to reach for her knife, though it would do little good against any of them. Even Unael seemed shaken by the size of the Glory, amplified by the fact that they were two steps from the top of the stairs.

  “If we of the Yetranian faith allow such power to be condoned by one of our own, we are in turn blessing the end of the world.” Pious’ expression was solemn.

  Just then, a bright bell tolled from far, far above the gathered masses.

  “Flame, your Holiness,” said the scarred Glory, his voice surprisingly rich—a clean spring running through the woods.

  “The Trial of Flame,” intoned Pious, raising the volume of his voice. “Yetra endured so much during her time on earth, suffering for us, for humanity. One of Her most arduous Trials was also one of her first. Yetra witnessed the death of Her family in the burning ruins of Her home, a city of great good destroyed by the betrayal of the few. Though the flames did not touch Her skin, She felt the searing pain of every charred victim, so great was Her empathy.”

  Pious gestured to a brazier, and a pair of lesser Taneos reached into the smoldering flames with twin tongs. From the brazier rose a glowing orange half-oval of iron, glowing brightly in the misty afternoon. A heavy chain linked the ends of the oval in a twisted piece of jewelry. The lesser Taneos approached Ignatius, heads bowed and expressions blank.

  “Yetra was forever bearing the weight of these sights and experiences, the flame hanging around Her neck as a constant reminder of Her lost family. It symbolizes, of course, Her anger at the atrocities that She witnessed, as well as the light that opened Her eyes to the awfulness that was… that is… humanity.” Pious lowered his head, raising his arms in prayer. The lesser Taneos began to lift the macabre necklace.

  “Don’t,” growled Unael.

  “Don’t?” Pious was almost incredulous as he lowered his arms. One, apparently, did not speak to the Grand Taneo is such a way.

  “Don’t. Or my black cloaks will tear through your Glories, killing those who resist. The Magnates will put you to trial for inciting a riot by torturing a man who is under the protection of the Hold, like all of the Ardians gathered before you.”

  “You wish to do this, Unael?” whispered Pious, voice heavy with threat.

  “I honor my promises.” The Lord of Farrow’s Hold was all regret, but he continued. “You will release this man, immediately, to the custody of Lady Emma Breen. You will disperse your Glories, as their gathered numbers are in direct violation of Wantael’s Concord. And, you will pray for the quick recovery of these injuries that your minions here inflicted.”

  Pious was a hawk, regarding Unael as a defensive rabbit, his mood reflected by his predatory gaze. It was the gaze of a hard, hard man—a man who was both comfortable addressing great crowds and condemning men to death. The gaze of a man who had both been the witness to, and bringer of, numerous atrocities. The gaze of a man who, it was said, had heard the voice of Yetra.

  Then, all at once, he stood tall, posture relaxed.

  “Very well. Release the excommunicant. These Trials have ended. This man is not even worthy of Yetra’s suffering.”

  The lesser Taneos tossed the scalding iron necklace into the snow with a hiss while the Glories roughly untied Ignatius’ wrists. The huge Glory removed the weights from the iron bar that speared the chaplain’s face and yanked the metal out of his face, Ignatius whimpering with disbelieving relief.

  The Grand Taneo had already turned and retreated, without hurry, through the great arched doors of his grand chapel, to be followed by his various underlings. The hooded Glory lingered for a moment, watching Ignatius being carried down the stairs by a pair of black cloaks before turning with the grace of a tiger and disappearing into the center of worship in Farrow’s Hold. Yetra’s perfect face stared down at them from an intricate stained-glass window. She seemed to be frowning in condemnation, Her expression punctuated by the burning scythe that She held in her hands.

  Amidst the cheering of her men, Emma met Ignatius’ gaze. Despite his shattered cheeks, the paunchy man managed something that approximated a wan smile.

  He mumbled something before his head fell forward, limp, as black cloaks dragged his bloodied feet behind him.

  Emma couldn’t be sure, but it sounded like he’d said, “I never lost my faith.”

  Interlogue: Gluttony

  “Sweetling, I know not how many more of these visits you will be able to bear. I see the beast within you beginning to surface. I can hear savageness in your voice, utter instinct in your movements. This happens, every time. You have listened to me tell you of my life while I take yours away. It has been many, many years since I have felt such guilt.

  “I think your goodness is rubbing off on me.

  “There was a time, another time, when goodness was an annoyance. For years and years, it was a fierce inconvenience to me. The embodiment of that goodness, of course, was Amorum.

  “He continued to preach of love and Harmony, of joining together instead of living a fractured, battle-ridden existence. Our town—Oagon—had grown into a great city in a few short years. Amorum was still loved and respected, and I was still feared and powerful. Even then, I was not fully comfortable with my role, and continued to be envious of the great orator. We spoke very little, and only met when absolutely necessary… in council meetings and such. Our relationship grew ever more complicated. We never spoke of our tension, but the schism was growing.

  “As was my power, sweetling. Both in terms of my influence and my own maenen.

  “I learned that I could call upon my own maen as well as maenen. So many pasnes alna who draw upon the maenen of others do not realize that they can draw upon themselves. It is a dangerous balance to maintain, converting one’s own life force into the corporeal. Many also do so and destroy their nerring, and they can never recover.

  “I thought to expand my maen, essentially giving me a deeper well to draw from—so to speak—in the case of great need. Drawing maenen from others also has a small cost to your own maen, but a skilled practitioner understands how to apply that maenen to her own maen, keeping the nerring full. I thought to hold in as much maenen as possible within me to expand my nerring. It is an incredibly uncomfortable feeling, sweetling; one I cannot accurately describe to one who has never experienced it. It is as if one has overindulged on the finest foods, reached far past satiation, and then continued eating. A mixture of incredible pressure, desire, pain, and pleasure.

  “It is gluttony.

  “I truly became a glutton in those early days. I drew more and more maenen whenever I had the opportunity, and held it within myself for as long as I could bear it. Where did I get it from? That’s an excellent question coming from one as far gone as you, sweetling.

  “My followers. Men and women threw themselves at my feet, begging to serve as donors of power. They had begun building a religion. Nothing like the Yetranianism that you see today. Regardless, to sacrifice one’s life force in service of the Blood Maiden was the ultimate honor. I did not lack for donors, though I had to keep
this practice as secret as possible.

  “Amorum suspected, but he never knew for sure, I think. He never accused. He simply spoke to me of Harmony and unity. Kind and inspiring words that, were I not the Blood Maiden, may have touched me.

  “But, instead, I continued to expand my nerring, and continued to master maenen and maen at the cost of my followers. My school began to flourish under Intenu, and I had a small army of pasnes alna. Several emerged as my captains—Yinra, Pinetoe, and Wantran. These people also gorged themselves on maenen, but they preferred animals. Yinra preferred birds… particularly great, predatory birds. He felt as if drawing from great birds—once, an eagle—granted him great freedom and allowed him to call upon his maenen faster. Pinetoe drew, most strangely, from goats. He always suffered from guilt, drawing maenen, and he felt that drawing from goats, which were very common in our region, was the least evil he could do.

  “Wantran was the most unusual. She drew from cats, which she also kept as pets. But, that in and of itself was not unusual. Rather, she also had the incredibly rare ability to draw yenas, the life force of plant life. Even now, it is so rare to find a pasnes alna or metsika who can draw multiple types of miernes, but Wantran could. She was skilled beyond belief, and dangerous beyond belief. Of my followers, it was her who I most feared.

  “As time passed, I felt the urge to draw even more. My expanded nerring almost demanded it. And yet, I did not want to further deplete my followers, as they could be put to other uses.

  “I worked out a plan, a hideous, devious plan driven by my gluttony. Amorum had forged a strong alliance with one of the closest cities—Feriline. We had open trade agreements, protection pacts, and even blood swaps, where the son of their leader was sent to live in Oagon, and the son of one of our councilmen was sent to live in Feriline.