Chaos Queen--Fear the Stars (Chaos Queen 4)

by Christopher Husberg

  “The Eye requires but little sunlight to work, Grand Marshal— the merest beam; and the clouds are moving swiftly today. We will send a message Roden will never forget,” Terris said.

  It took a few moments to get the rest of the apparatus in position. Terris did not need every halo for this attack, but he did require the use of eighteen of them. When all of them except one were ready, Terris turned to the Grand Marshal, sucking air through his teeth.

  “We are ready, sir. At your command, we will take down those ships.”

  The Grand Marshal hesitated, as if considering, and for a moment Terris feared the man would go back on his decision to use the Eye. But then the Grand Marshal nodded.

  “Do it.”

  “Halo Two, in position!” Terris shouted. Prompting the Eye’s mechanism was less majestic than firing a weapon of any other sort: it had no physical trigger, but only needed every piece to be moved into an exact location. With each of the other halos prepped and ready, Halo Two slid into position. As if by his command, the sun slipped out again from behind the clouds, and the bright reflection that issued forth from the mainframe lens distorted, instantly reflected and refined through the series of eighteen halos until it burst forth in a fine bar of golden light, jutting west-northwest, toward the ships in the harbor.

  * * *

  The beam of light came in an instant, and silently, and Cova hardly noticed it in the distance. It almost seemed a particularly bright glint of the sun on the water, until it struck out toward them at a speed that took her breath away, and the seawater the beam moved along began to sizzle and pop. Cova followed the beam back up from whence it came. Not the sun, she realized, but the top of God’s Eye.

  The beam of golden light curved toward them and before Cova could react, it reached the next ship over, slicing the craft cleanly in an uneven diagonal, leaving two burning, charred masses that steamed in the ocean.

  We’re too close, Cova thought, far too late. Only luck saved her; instead of continuing north toward the Reckoner, the beam curved west and then south, and then arced east again, cleaving three more ships down the line. The beam had cracked four of Cova’s ships like eggs, each one already taking on water as her men panicked, many of them already abandoning their ships, in the space of time it took Cova to take just a few breaths.

  “Come about!” Cova screamed—and then realized that her captain was already giving orders. The Reckoner tacked, and the other undamaged ships followed suit. The Eye’s beam arced swiftly along the water, mocking them as they fled.

  “Get out of range!” Cova shouted, having no idea how far that actually was but knowing the weapon had to have some range, because holy Goddess, something simply could not be that powerful.

  23

  Canta’s Fane, Triah

  CINZIA APPROACHED CANTA’S FANE, her hair whipping in the wind. It had been almost two years since she stepped foot in the most holy place in the Denomination, but she felt she had been gone for decades.

  An aching sense of loss had lingered in the back of her mind ever since receiving her papers of excommunication, and now that feeling only grew. This temple had once been the nexus of her faith, her religion, and her everyday life.

  Now, it had nothing to do with her, or so the Denomination claimed.

  Canta’s Fane rose high and wide, two tiers of great pillars, capped by a massive dome rising up above everything around the Center Circle, including the House of Aldermen and the Citadel. With the destruction of the imperial dome in Izet, Cinzia mused, the dome of Canta’s Fane was now likely the largest on the Sfaera. The Fane’s entrance faced directly east. In contrast, the House of Aldermen faced northwest, while the Citadel faced southwest, forming the three corners of the Trinacrya’s triangle.

  Standing atop the Fane’s first tier of pillars and in between the pillars of the second were huge statues of each of the Nine Disciples, carved from bright white stone—almost twice the height of a woman. Each Disciple had been sculpted into a specific pose and carried an artifact: Lucia knelt, eyes cast upward in pious prayer, hands clasped around an ornate scepter, capped with the image of a blazing sun; Danica stood straight and tall, her hair and dress flowing behind her, holding a sword in one hand and a shield emblazoned with the Trinacrya in the other; Arcana looked down at the pages of a great tome, held open in her hands. The Disciple Cinzia’s artifact was a tiny egg-shaped stone, which was paneled with geometric shapes, like some kind of rare gem.

  The statues—and the sheer size of the temple—were impressive, but from the exterior, Canta’s Fane was not particularly ornate, at least not compared to other cathedrals. The spires of Ocrestia’s cathedral in Cineste were certainly a sight to behold, and Valeria’s cathedral in Cornasa had taken the statue theme to the extreme, with hundreds of statues of the Nine Disciples, other important figures in the Denomination’s history, and one of Canta Herself at the apex that dwarfed all the others.

  But Cinzia loved Canta’s Fane. Something felt right about the balance between simplicity and artistry. It felt an appropriate homage to the Goddess and all she had done for the Sfaera.

  Two arched double doors, four times Cinzia’s own height, constituted the main entrance to the Fane, but as usual they were closed. They were incredibly difficult to operate, even with the system of chains and pulleys that had been integrated into them a couple hundred years ago, and the Denomination only opened the great doors two or three days per year, for holy days or particularly special occasions. One door displayed a silver circle, and the other a golden triangle.

  On either side of the great doors were two smaller, simpler sets of doors. Even these were twice Cinzia’s height, and would have been impressive on any structure save for this, where they were dwarfed by the Fane’s central gate.

  The doors on either side were always open, at any hour of the night or day. All Cantic chapels used to follow this rule, keeping their doors open at all hours, until thievery became too much of a problem. Most now locked their doors at night. Only those that could afford to commission Sons of Canta to guard them through the night kept them open. The Fane’s open doors were a formality, however; only members of the Denomination’s ministry were allowed in after hours, and a whole platoon of Sons kept watch.

  But it was daylight now, and Cinzia entered unquestioned; she wore a large cloak with hood up to keep her face in shadow. Excommunicated, she was no longer allowed in Cantic places of worship.

  All three of the entrances at the front of the building led into a wide corridor that ran perpendicular to the doors. Huge marble tiles, cream-colored and accented with red, gold, and silver, inscribed and engraved with aspects of Cantic lore and doctrine, covered the floor. Cinzia walked past the row of wide columns at the other side of the corridor, her footsteps echoing on the tiles, and into the main worship space of the Fane.

  Hundreds of wooden pews lined the cavernous interior. Canta’s Fane was the largest Cantic cathedral in existence, and could accommodate over forty thousand people when occasion called for it. At the moment, it seemed that hundreds of worshippers occupied the pews—not uncommon for a midday recitation in the middle of the week—and many more benches could be brought in when the Fane expected larger audiences. Right now, there was a fair amount of open space. Beneath the center of the massive dome at the back of the Fane rose a large circular silver altar, and above that an ornate, great golden canopy on three twisting columns of bright, polished gold.

  Only high priestesses ministered in Canta’s Fane, and one now stood at the altar beneath the canopy, reciting Cantic history as a large choir of men and woman chanted and hummed behind her.

  Cinzia sat down on a pew. The sights and sounds of it all overwhelmed her. The woman in crimson and ivory robes, her voice carrying loud and clear throughout the Fane, the familiar tones of the choir’s singing, the silver altar and golden canopy that formed a Trinacrya when seen from above, the people looking up to the high priestess expectantly, hopefully, or even with boredom, an exp
ression Cinzia had seen more than once herself while she recited these same passages, an expression that she’d thought was inevitable in any religious sermon until she saw her sister preach…

  The high priestess had just reached the Zenith, the part of the recitation where she spoke of Canta’s birth on the Sfaera, her ministry, and her death. Cinzia realized how different the history recited by the high priestess was from the history she and Jane had translated from the Codex of Elwene. She had recognized the differences as they had translated the Nine Scriptures, but she had never been fully aware of the disparity until now, as she heard a high priestess reciting what Cinzia herself had recited so many times before.

  “While Canta was born in the spirit eons ago, we know she came to us in the flesh during a very special time. At the midpoint of the Age of Reification—indeed, at the midpoint of our entire history—Canta condescended to be born among us. We do not know the circumstances of Her birth, but they must have been humble. Her mother was but a servant to a high house of the time, and her father hardly more than a beggar. She was born in the wilderness, but became the greatest among us.”

  Cinzia shook her head. That had been one of the most shocking revelations of Elwene’s Codex: In the book of Arcana, Cinzia and Jane had learned that the Goddess’s mother had been a prostitute, of all things, and Her father a cruel nobleman who had tried to have the prostitute killed when he found out about her pregnancy. The woman had escaped, and borne her child amidst a circle of ancient standing stones in the wilderness, with only wild animals to keep her company—the only thing the Denomination seemed to get right. Cinzia could imagine why the Denomination would lie about such a thing—to say the Goddess their entire religion worshiped had been birthed by a prostitute wasn’t exactly good publicity.

  But, according to Cinzia and Jane’s translation, it was the truth.

  “She was born with neither privilege nor advantage,” the high priestess continued, “but she grew in wisdom and compassion. The baby soon became a young girl, instructing the very priests and priestesses that taught of gods from which Canta herself had sprung. That girl became a woman, and that woman changed the Sfaera.”

  Cinzia found her lips moving with the high priestess’s with the next section of the recitation.

  “When we sought wrath, she taught patience. When we ran from death, she taught the beauty of life. When we valued pride, she taught fear. When we grew greedy, she taught temperance. When we lusted, she taught love. When we could not bear the madness of the Sfaera any longer, she taught serenity. When we deceived one another, she taught integrity. When we coveted, she taught compersion. And when fear overcame us, she taught hope.”

  The subtle references to the Nine Daemons were not lost on Cinzia. She was surprised Luceraf had nothing to say; the Daemon seemed to be in and out of Cinzia’s head lately, her presence unpredictable.

  If the attributes of the Nine Daemons were everything wrong with the world, weren’t these the antidotes? Was Canta not the cure?

  But if Canta was the cure, where did Cinzia, an excommunicate, stand? She had consorted with a Daemon, and was not even sure she was still worthy to be one of Jane’s disciples. And, more than that, Cinzia could not help but wonder whether both administrations of the cure were flawed. Both the Denomination and Canta’s Church had accomplished great things—even miraculous things—but both had also been responsible, inadvertently or otherwise, for great suffering.

  The choir’s chanting became more melodious, splitting into harmony and rising in intensity with the high priestess’s words. Cinzia continued to mouth the recitation.

  “She taught us in word, but also in deed. She led the people of the Sfaera against a great darkness, a darkness we have not known since and will likely not know again. She led us against the darkness, and saved us all. Only she could have done it. No other has done so much for the Sfaera. Her life did not begin that night in the wilderness, nor did it end that day as she fought the battle that none of us could fight. She lived before us, and she will continue to live after all of us have passed.

  “She is the bride, and Her Denomination the groom. She is the mother, and we Her children. She created our souls, and she will reap them when the time is ready. One day we will all see Her again, and know her as She is, and be one with her, breaking the bonds of Oblivion. Her path is the way to happiness in this life and joy in that which is to come. Canta be thanked for her incomparable gift to us.”

  The high priestess’s last words echoed through the Fane, with the last tones of the choir’s harmony. Cinzia wiped the tears from her cheeks. She cried because she felt nothing, and she was not entirely sure it was because of the Daemon inside of her.

  A matron and her priestesses administered to the congregation with water and oil. When one priestess approached Cinzia, she shook her head, hood still drawn over her face, and the priestess continued on through the crowd. Cinzia breathed a sigh of relief. There were hundreds of priestesses in the Denomination, but Cinzia had at least been able to recognize most of the ones in Triah. She was sure most of them could say the same about her, especially now.

  Afterward, the high priestess offered some closing words, and then the crowd dispersed.

  Cinzia had arrived at the Fane during a recitation for this reason. She hoped the departing crowd would mask who she was and where she was actually going.

  Instead of following the majority of the crowd back to the Fane’s entrance, she joined a smaller group moving west, and then north, toward the offices of the Ministry. There were always a few dozen laymen that made their way through the offices after a recitation, usually to speak with a particular member of the Ministry or to observe the Cantic artifacts visible on the main floor of the offices.

  Those artifacts were hardly what the Denomination claimed them to be. Most of them were replicas of the real artifacts held in the Denomination’s security chambers below—the basement and higher levels of the Fane were strictly reserved for those with the rank of priestess or higher.

  But the artifacts, real or not, were not what interested Cinzia today. The stairwells leading up to the restricted offices were not under constant guard; she just needed to slip into one without looking too conspicuous.

  A few of the people who had entered the office corridor with her had gone straight to their destinations, whatever they were. A half dozen more lingered about, without any clear purpose. Cinzia remained with that group for a few moments. There were no Goddessguards in the room, and the members of the clergy present—a matron and two priestesses—were otherwise occupied.

  Cinzia slipped away from the group she stood among and up the spiral steps, keeping her footsteps as light as possible. She passed the entrance to the first-floor offices, reserved entirely for priestesses. She wondered if the two women with whom she had once shared an office here still remained. Surely by now they had found someone to take her place.

  She was halfway to the second level of offices when she heard two voices in conversation. Cinzia froze.

  “The movement will eventually disperse, as will the followers,” one woman said. “This will amount to nothing, as these things always do.”

  “‘These things?’” asked a second woman. “I should not have to remind you that something like this has never happened before, not in the history of the Denomination. You cannot possibly speak to what might happen here, sister.”

  At first, Cinzia had been unable to tell whether the voices came from above or below her, but now it was clear they came from above. She paused for a moment longer, the voices growing louder, before she finally leapt to action and moved back down the stairwell as quickly as she could. She slipped out onto the first-floor corridor—still blessedly empty—and hid herself in a small alcove. A wall now separated her from the stairwell.

  The women’s voices grew louder, and Cinzia hoped they would continue downward to the ground floor, but instead two women—two matrons—made their way onto the first floor, passing not one rod from
where Cinzia stood. She could have touched the hem of one of their garments if she had desired.

  Fortunately, the two were still engrossed in conversation, and did not yet notice her. Making sure neither were looking back, Cinzia slipped back out of the corridor and padded her way back up the stairwell.

  “Did you hear something?” one of the women asked, her voice growing faint below. Cinzia did not stop to see what came of the question, and made her way upward.

  The second-floor offices were reserved for matrons, and the third for diviners, but she had no business there, either. When she finally reached the fourth floor, she peeked around the corner into the corridor. Empty, thankfully. There were three floors above this: one for the high priestesses, another of meeting rooms for the High Camarilla, and the top floor reserved explicitly for the Triunity—the Oracle, the Holy Examiner, and the First Priestess. The Essera’s quarters were somewhere else in the Fane, their location unknown to the general public and the lower offices of the priesthood.

  But the fourth floor was what drew Cinzia today. The Holy Crucibles of the Arm of Inquisition made their offices on the fourth floor, and there was one specific Crucible that Cinzia hoped to find.

  She made her way down the corridor, passing rows of doors on either side. The offices on this level were noticeably nicer than those on the previous two floors. The wood was darker, stained and polished, and same with the flooring. There were twenty-seven Holy Crucibles in total, and while their seniority among one another was determined by how long each had held the position, there was no rhyme or reason to how the offices themselves were arranged. Shiny bronze nameplates declared to which Crucible each office belonged. Cinzia recognized most of the names—Crucibles, like high priestesses, were known to just about everyone in the ministry.