Knot grunted. “It’s all familiar to me. That’s Lathe’s doing for the most, but others’re responsible for it, too. The investigator, and one other, I think. The warsquares champion.”
“But do you feel anything?” Cinzia asked.
Knot looked up at the gate before them. He only shook his head in response.
Cinzia sighed. Knot had been quiet lately—ever since their confrontation with the Black Matron, where he had evaded the trap laid for him by the sift Lathe and the Daemon Bazlamit.
The gates opened before them as they approached. Inside was a squad of Khalic soldiers, waiting for them. The men wore full armor and plumed helmets, each carrying a spear, shield, and sword. The captain, his plume red instead of white, asked to see their papers.
Cinzia reached into her satchel for the documents they had been given by the parliamentary representative to secure them entry into the city, and showed them to the captain. He examined Knot, Cinzia, and Jane closely; he must have been given descriptions of their appearance.
“Very well,” he said. “You may enter the city.”
The soldiers parted, allowing Cinzia, Knot, and Jane entry into the city. But before she could enjoy being in her city once more, another group of armed men greeted them just inside the gate.
Sons of Canta.
Cinzia recognized them easily; their red-and-white livery made them stand out even more than the Khalic Legionaries. There were a half-dozen of them, but they parted to make way for a woman and man. She wore the robes of the priesthood, but they were trimmed with gold, and a long gold chain hung from her neck. A high priestess—one of only nine on the Sfaera. Cinzia recognized her—she would recognize any high priestess in person—as Garyne Hilamotha. Her Goddessguard, an older, grizzled man with high cheekbones covered in scruff and a higher hairline, walked beside her.
“Cinzia Oden,” High Priestess Garyne said, frowning as she met Cinzia’s eyes. The woman’s dark hair sat atop her head in a towering bun, and her dark eyes were ready to pierce whatever they locked on to. She was almost a full head taller than Cinzia.
Cinzia and Knot exchanged a glance, then Cinzia stepped forward. “Yes?”
Garyne looked Cinzia up and down, then handed her a large envelope. “This is for you,” she said. She and the Sons turned and walked away.
“Well, that was short and sweet,” Knot said, puzzled. The last time they’d been confronted by Sons of Canta, back in the city of Kirlan, they’d nearly been slaughtered on the spot. Now they didn’t seem interested in the Odenites at all. “We could have done with more of that back in Kirlan.”
“Cinzia, are you all right?” Jane asked.
Cinzia had not taken her eyes off the envelope since Garyne had handed it to her.
“What’s that?” Knot asked. “What’d she give you?”
“These are my papers of excommunication,” Cinzia said softly. She knew they could not be anything else.
Slowly, she broke the seal of the High Camarilla—the familiar circle-and-triangle of the Trinacrya embedded on a blazing sun. The excommunication of someone who held the priesthood had to go through the highest bodies of the Denomination. Cinzia unfolded the note, and began to read.
A tear dropped from Cinzia’s face onto the paper, and she quickly brushed it away, wiping her eyes with one sleeve. A plain, brown linen sleeve. No crimson and ivory; no robes of priesthood. She’d thought she had come to terms with the idea of never being a part of the Denomination again. It was corrupt, after all. Flawed.
And yet, for years, it had been her home. The Denomination had taught her so much—in addition to Cantic doctrine, she had learned history, sciences, and medicine at the seminary. She had made friends in the Denomination—Goddess rising, she had met Kovac there. The thought of him, of everything they had been through and everything she had been through since he died, racked her body with pain and regret. She could not feel her fingers, she realized. She could see them, gripping the letter in both hands, white-knuckled, but only the slightest tingling sensation made her aware that they were attached to her body.
“Silly of me to get worked up about this,” she said, her throat dry. “I have not been part of the Denomination since we left Navone; no reason to let it affect me now.”
She felt Knot’s hand on her shoulder. “Grieving ain’t something we can control,” he said. “Comes at us in different ways. Usually when we least expect it. Sometimes we think we’re over a thing, but turns out that’s far from the truth.” Knot glanced at Jane, then back to Cinzia. “Nothin’ wrong with being sad about losing a part of your life, something you thought would be with you for a long time. Doesn’t do us any good to wallow in it, either, but ain’t nothing wrong with acknowledging the grief is there.”
Cinzia met Knot’s eyes. Whether the words were his own, or dug up from one of the buried sifts that made up his soul, or from somewhere else entirely—she loved him for saying them. The embarrassment heating her face faded, just a fraction of it.
“Of course,” Jane said quickly. “Knot is right. You are part of something new, now, something greater than you’ve ever been a part of before, but… it’s all right to acknowledge that you miss the past.”
You’re better than this, Cinzi.
Cinzia almost jumped at the sound of the voice echoing within her mind. Only she heard it; it came from Luceraf, the Daemon of Pride, who now festered inside Cinzia, seeing and hearing just about everything Cinzia did. Every time Luceraf spoke, Cinzia felt a jolt of horrible realization at what she had done.
She had made a deal with a Daemon. It had been to help those she loved, but the Denomination had been right to excommunicate her. Even if all the other charges weren’t true, or if she could explain them away, there was one she could not.
She consorted with Daemons.
You’re better than this, and you know it. You’re better than the Denomination—you were too bright a star for the likes of them. But you’re too bright for your sister’s little charade, too.
Luceraf didn’t know what she was talking about.
If you don’t see it now, you’ll see it soon, Luceraf hissed at her. Trust me, Cinzi. I know what I see.
* * *
They parted company from Knot in the city—both he and Cinzia had old contacts to find, in very different worlds. Cinzia and Jane spent the day in search of people and organizations that might support their cause, but didn’t make much progress. Now that she had been officially excommunicated, Cinzia was cautious in who she approached. Not everyone would be willing to even speak with her, let alone help or offer support. She certainly could not contact anyone else in the Denomination.
She also regretted bringing Jane. People had heard of the Prophetess of the new Church of Canta, and even if they were interested in such a thing, they were extremely cautious about showing it. The Denomination had all but threatened excommunication, at best, to any who sided with Jane and the Church of Canta.
Walking about the city had been a small comfort at first, but then it had become just as painful as reading the papers High Priestess Garyne had delivered to her that morning. She saw the seminary, and her apartments where she had lived—where she would surely have no place anymore. She wondered what happened to the meager belongings she had left at the seminary, but was too frightened to ask after them, or to even approach anyone in the Denomination. It made her think of the friends she still had there, and thinking that she had given all of that up hurt. Even seeing Canta’s Fane from a distance was painful.
The memories were too strong, the pain too fresh. With time, she hoped, like anything, it would heal. But she was glad to leave the city as the sun set.
“Well, today could have gone better, I suppose,” Jane said as they passed through the outer gate alongside homebound merchants and farmers, and turned off the road to find the Odenite camp.
“Yes,” Cinzia said quietly. “I suppose it could have.”
“Will you translate with me tonight?”
You fear translating, Luceraf hissed in Cinzia’s ear.
But it had been long enough since she had translated. They needed to get back to work.
“Absolutely,” Cinzia said, filled with resolve.
Jane smiled. “Wonderful. Let’s get set up.”
The Odenite camp was almost a town in itself; they had brought hundreds of followers on this journey, and many more had joined them on the way. Their tent was located toward the center of the bustling camp, alongside the tents belonging to the rest of the Oden family. It was larger than most, made of waxed canvas that did a fair job at keeping out the weather. The two women nodded at Alidar, the Prelate guard assigned to guard their tent. The translated pages of the Codex of Elwene were kept in their tent, and the two had agreed it was best not to risk losing them. A Prelate guard was posted at their tent at all hours of the day. Alidar’s long face, patchy beard, and bright eyes were familiar, and Cinzia smiled at him as she ducked into the tent.
The inside was cozy, and barely high enough for them both to stand without stooping. Two cots lined two of the walls, while a small traveling desk stood opposite the entrance. Jane approached the desk quickly. Stacks of paper covered the ground around the desk as well as its surface, and Jane began to go through them.
Cinzia went around lighting candles. It was still light outside, but nightfall was imminent. And she wanted to do anything possible to avoid even touching the Nine Scriptures.
You’re afraid because you think I’ll learn something I shouldn’t, Luceraf said, a hint of realization hanging in her voice.
Again, Cinzia refused to answer, but again, Luceraf was right.
Finally, after primping her pillows—she usually sat on one of the cots during translation—and changing into a more comfortable dress, Cinzia had nothing else to do to avoid what came next. Jane sat at the desk expectantly. With a sigh, Cinzia reached for the bag beneath her cot that housed the Nine Scriptures. The Codex was not light, but considering the pages themselves were made of metal, it was not as heavy as it should have been.
Cinzia heaved it onto her cot. She sat cross-legged, and ran her hand over the leather cover of the book before opening the Codex of Elwene on her lap. She marveled, as she always did, at the strange, dark metal pages as they shimmered in the candlelight, a wave of crimson often appearing to ripple across them.
“Very well,” Jane said, a broad smile on her face. She was clearly excited to be back in the process again. “We were in the Book of Elwene, were we not?”
The Codex of Elwene, also called the Nine Scriptures, was a collection of scripture written by Canta’s original Nine Disciples shortly after her Reification. The writings had been compiled and abridged by a woman named Elwene, and her words served as a coda for the collection. Despite her fear, Cinzia was curious to see Elwene’s commentary.
“We were,” Cinzia said, scanning the pages. Odd. She had gotten used to opening the book directly to the spot where they had most recently left off, but right now she was having trouble finding her place.
“Cinzia?”
“I…”
Cinzia did not know exactly how her ability to translate worked; the Codex was written in Old Khalic, a dead language that no one understood anymore. The characters and words appeared as strange symbols and patterns etched into the metal. Cinzia did not speak or understand Old Khalic, but over the past year, she had been able to discern what the symbols meant. If she simply read through the Codex, she could read uninterrupted, as if the book were written in Rodenese. But if she examined any word or character too closely, it blurred back into Old Khalic dizzyingly.
But now, as she looked at the words on the pages of the Nine Scriptures, Cinzia had absolutely no idea what they said. She could not read them at all.
“Jane,” Cinzia said, a lump forming in her throat. As she turned the pages, she realized she was shaking.
She had been unable to translate once before; it was the first night she had spent in Izet. The night Azael had possessed Kovac, and Cinzia had been forced to kill her own Goddessguard. Her old friend.
She feared, now, that at any moment something similar would happen. A Daemon might possess Jane, or Alidar, still standing guard outside. For all she knew, Azael might descend from the heavens himself.
Luceraf’s laughter echoed inside Cinzia’s skull.
“Something is wrong,” Cinzia whispered.
“What is it? Can’t you translate?”
Cinzia shook her head. “No,” she said softly. “I do not think I can.”
It’s because of me, Luceraf sneered. You’ve figured that out by now, haven’t you? Took you long enough.
“I am sorry, Jane,” Cinzia said. Sorrow pierced her. She did not belong with the Denomination. She could no longer translate; her place in the Church of Canta was lost now, too.
If she did not have either of those things, what was left for her?
Without another word, Cinzia rose and swept out of the tent, not sure where she would go.
3
Odenite Camp, East of Triah
AS THE SUN CREPT lower on the horizon, the camp lit up with the friendly glow of cooking fires, and people bustled from one to the other exchanging meals and stories. Astrid sat alone at one of the fires with her feet up, sharpening a dagger. The slow slide of the whetstone against the blade soothed her. She felt the graininess of each movement, the way the vibrations moved up her arm, and she lost herself in the motion until a voice brought her out of it.
“Hello there.”
Astrid looked up to find a family of five standing at her fire. The children watched her wide-eyed with awe; the father had a simple grin on his face.
“Astrid, is it?” the father went on. “I have heard much about you.”
Astrid focused on sharpening her blade. She made no effort to hide her frown. The Odenites had started to recognize her more, lately. While she had to imagine most of them suspected something strange about her—a girl of nine or so, occupied with fighting and sharpening weapons was far from normal— there had yet to be any talk of vampires, thankfully. She had been around people she thought would accept her before, when they found out. It almost never ended well. Knot, Cinzia, and even Jane, to a lesser extent, were rare exceptions to the rule.
“Well, I hope you don’t mind if my family and I join you.” He sat down at the fire, and Astrid’s head snapped up, a scowl on her face.
“I am Jusef,” he said, still smiling at her. Idiot.
She ignored his outstretched hand, but Jusef seemed not to mind. He nodded to the woman with him, then to his children— two boys and a girl. “This is Umia. And these are our children, Daves, Jonef, and Hild. Hild is about your age, I think.”
Hild was actually taller than Astrid by just a bit, but the man was right: she looked to be in her ninth summer, give or take. The girl smiled at Astrid shyly.
Astrid turned back to sharpening her dagger without a word. She was vaguely aware of Jusef and Umia exchanging a glance. But instead of speaking further, Umia sat down near Astrid and pulled out an item of clothing that needed mending. She quietly worked on the garment, head down, while her husband prepared food for their children.
Astrid stopped the movement of the whetstone. Her dagger would be sharp enough, now, and the sun was getting low.
“What do you think you’re doing?” Astrid asked.
Umia didn’t look up from her sewing. “Warming ourselves by your fire,” she said quietly.
“Out of all the fires in the camp, you choose mine?” Astrid asked. “That either makes you stupid, or…” Or you have some other agenda. Astrid doubted it was the latter; this family seemed just strange enough to be normal. If these two adults had brought children along with something nefarious in mind, Astrid was quite capable of tearing them to pieces. But she did not get that imp
ression. Jusef was helping Hild hold a frying pan over the fire. The little girl was smiling, her father’s hand on her back. Astrid immediately looked away.
“Jusef is not the brightest star in the sky, I’ll admit that.” The woman glanced at her husband with an affectionate grin, and Astrid had to stop herself from giggling.
Jusef scoffed from across the fire. “Least you could do is save that kind of talk until the children are asleep.” But there was a smile on his face, too, and the children giggled as he said it, and Astrid hated the way this family made her feel at ease.
“But I don’t see how we are stupid for sitting with you,” Umia continued. “We are grateful for all you have done for us. We watched you lead the Prelates at Harmoth; we saw you fight those monsters that attacked outside of Kirlan. You saved Jusef’s life, that night. He was by the central fire when it happened.”
Astrid had heard enough. She hadn’t done any of those things for the praise of mortals. Umia’s words only made her more uncomfortable.
Astrid felt Umia’s hand on her shoulder. “Look, we know you aren’t like other children. But we want to say that… whatever it is about you, whatever is different, that’s all right. I’m grateful for it, actually. We wouldn’t be here without you.”
If you knew I’d kill you and eat you as soon as look at you, I don’t think you’d feel the same way.
Astrid shrugged out of the woman’s touch.
“I’m not doing this,” was all she said. She got up and left.
* * *
Back in the tent she shared with Knot, Astrid wished, again, that he had taken her to Triah with him. But the People’s Parliament had given leave for only specific Odenites to enter the city, and Astrid was not among them. Any attempt to get a nine-year-old girl on such a list would be met with high suspicion, at best.
But still. She was bored.
Not to mention the fact that Cinzia and Jane had already returned. She had stopped by their tent to check, now that the sun had set. Astrid had half a mind to sneak into the city on her own—easily done at night—and find out exactly what Knot was up to, alone in the city, but she had refrained. Knot could take care of himself.
Chaos Queen--Fear the Stars (Chaos Queen 4) Page 2