Against the Unweaving

by D. P. Prior

  She reached for it and drew back, feeling suddenly guilty, like the sisters and brothers at the Templum of the Knot had just seen her innermost thoughts, witnessed her depravity for themselves. She extended her hand again. This time, her fingers tingled, and she could swear there was heat—intense heat—coming from the other side of the door. She licked her lips, and a ripple ran up her spine to her neck. It seemed to come from Callixus’s sword. Her mind flashed back to Soror Agna telling her the story of Jose and Carmella, their disobedience of Ain when they’d opened the Box of All Ways. She had to know what was beyond the door. Had to—

  “No! Don’t touch that!”

  Rhiannon’s heart bounced into her throat and she whirled round.

  Aristodeus slung a knotted mess of tubes to the floor and clambered down the ladder with dozens of clear packets tucked under his arm.

  “I’m feeling sick,” she said. It wasn’t exactly a lie. “Just needed to get some air.”

  “Nothing wrong with the air in here,” Aristodeus said as he shot back up the ladder to grab a crate. It rattled as he once more descended. Catching her look, he set the crate down and squinted at some print on one of the slats. “Nutrition. Marvelous stuff, and keeps forever. Now, where did I put the cannulae?” He rummaged around in some boxes beneath his desk. “Or would you say cannulas? It’s so easy to forget who I’m speaking to.”

  Rhiannon didn’t have a clue what he was talking about and really didn’t care. The air felt stifling, and she could’ve sworn the walls were closing in. “Don’t you have a window or something? I can’t breathe.”

  “Ah, here they are!” Aristodeus held up a see-through packet backed with white.

  Rhiannon’s vision blurred, and a wave of nausea washed over her. She put out a hand to steady herself on the desk. “Door,” she gasped. “Open the door.”

  Aristodeus set the packet down. He touched a palm to her forehead then pressed two fingers to her neck. “Febrile and fibrillating. Here, sit down.” He pulled out the chair for her, and she collapsed into it. Callixus’s scabbarded sword caught on the backrest. She cursed and shifted it over to one side.

  “I’m fine. I just need some air, is all.” Rhiannon put her head in her hands and leaned her elbows on the desk.

  “Not pregnant, are you?”

  “What?” Surely not. Her guts churned as her mind flashed back to Gaston’s grunting and thrusting. She sat bolt upright, hands finding their way to her belly. “No! What do you think I am?” She couldn’t be anyway, she told herself. She’d had the menses since, hadn’t she? Yes, at the Templum of the Knot, so she couldn’t be. She let out a long breath and shook her head.

  Aristodeus patted her on the shoulder, gave a gentle squeeze. “It’s the effect of the transition. Don’t worry, it’ll wear off.”

  “Wear off a bloody sight sooner if I could just get some air, take a walk. Or am I a prisoner?” She cocked her head and narrowed her eyes. She could almost feel the black sword pulsating on her back, eager for the fight, thirsty for blood. A thrill coursed through her veins, and she shuddered, suddenly sickened by what she’d just felt.

  “You wouldn’t want to open that door,” Aristodeus said. “Believe me.”

  “Why not? Where the Abyss are we?”

  He gave a tight smile and rolled his eyes. “It’s just not ready yet. I have a hard enough time maintaining the vertical, never mind the horizontal.”

  Rhiannon followed his gaze to the ceiling and the open trapdoor. “How many stories? How high’s it go?”

  “Last time I counted, seventy-two, but it’s never enough. Now listen. I don’t expect you to understand, but I do need you to obey a few simple rules. Go nowhere, touch nothing, without my express permission. Understood?”

  Rhiannon wrinkled her nose at him. “How long you planning on staying? Thought we were just grabbing some junk and heading for this New Jerusalem before the dwarf starves to death.”

  “We are, Rhiannon. We are. But first things first. There are matters I want to discuss with you.”

  “Let me guess. Shader?”

  Aristodeus frowned and perched on the edge of the desk. “He’s not quite what I’d hoped for.”

  “Tell me about it.” She knew she was being unfair, that she expected too much from Shader, but if he didn’t grow some balls soon, work out who and what he was, she’d… Well, she didn’t know what she’d do. It wasn’t like they were an item. Huntsman had seen to that, and he was only acting on the advice of Aristodeus, in any case. She ground her teeth and felt a rush of heat beneath her skin. “What are you up to? What have you done to him?”

  Aristodeus sighed and began to kick at invisible objects. “My relationship with Shader is rather complex. Suffice it to say, I had a vision for him that is not coming to fruition, and if things don’t change very soon, the enemy will…” He licked his lips and sat perfectly still. Rhiannon could almost hear the cogs of his mind turning. “He will win.”

  “Gandaw?”

  “Gandaw’s the immediate threat, the first wave, if you like. Mind you, if he pulls off the Unweaving, it’s game over. He almost succeeded before. I tried to stop him, but things… things didn’t go to plan.”

  “Seems to happen to you a lot.”

  Aristodeus tutted and stood. “When you consider the infinitude of permutations, the sheer magnitude of the battlefield, the cunning of the adversary, I’d say I’ve been thwarted very few times. Very few indeed.”

  “Good on you. So it’s a long game, but you’ve got all the cards, right?”

  “This is no game, girl!” A fire came into Aristodeus’s eyes, and for a moment Rhiannon felt she’d blown the lid off a volcano. She shrank back in her chair.

  “Shouldn’t we… Shouldn’t we get going?”

  Aristodeus held up a hand, and his face softened. “Time has no meaning here. We can take as long as we like, get acquainted, discuss strategy, and still get there before Shader and the others.”

  “Strategy? Right. Like I know a lot about that. What is it with you? I thought you were meant to be some all-bloody-knowing philosopher. Hello! I’m from Oakendale. You know, farmer’s daughter and all that.”

  Aristodeus leaned in close. Too close. “You sell yourself short, Rhiannon. It’s not how Elias saw you.”

  Rhiannon’s insides clenched at mention of the bard. Ain, how she missed him, but when had she had a chance to grieve? It wasn’t like she’d had a minute to come to terms with what had happened to Mom and Dad, or Sammy. Just the thought of the change that had come over her little brother made her fists bunch so tight she thought the knuckles would split. Sammy. Her Sammy siding with that snake-headed bastard over her, the sister who’d virtually raised him.

  “And it’s not how Shader sees you, either. His faith, his vocation wasn’t so shallow he’d toss it away for just anyone. He sensed something in you, Rhiannon, just as I do now.”

  Bullshit. She wasn’t falling for that. Shader had liked her well enough, but not for the high-sounding reasons Aristodeus was hinting at. If she hadn’t stood firm, whatever shreds of holiness still clung to him would have been burned up in the heat of his passion. Maybe she should have given him what he wanted, what she wanted, too, back then. Least that way none of this other shit would’ve happened. Or would it?

  “Now, I have a proposal for you.”

  Aristodeus reached for her breast.

  What the…? Rhiannon swung for him, but he caught her wrist in an iron grip that hurt right down to the bone. Her heart pounded in her ears. No! Never again. She reached for the sword on her back with her free hand. Aristodeus released her, stepped aside.

  “Calm yourself, girl. What’s the matter with you?”

  “What’s the matter with me? Shog you, you pervert. That what you had in mind all this while? Bring me back to your squalid little shit hole for a quick grope and a romp?”

  The color drained from his face. His lips worked silently for a moment before he said, “I was going for your shou
lder.”

  “Never heard them called that before.”

  Aristodeus sighed, and the color came back to his cheeks, red and fiery. “I said proposal, not proposition. For goodness’ sake, if I wanted to cavort, I would already have done so.”

  “Over my dead body. Oh, don’t tell me, that’s the way you like it.”

  Aristodeus clutched at the air above his head. “If there is a God, now would be a good time. Grant me patience!” He closed his eyes and took a long, slow breath. When he opened them again, he seemed tired, maybe a little… smaller. The wind had gone right out of his sails. “I was merely trying to… Oh, never mind.” He whirled away from her, slinging out his arm, as if he were throwing an invisible hat. The wall shimmered and vanished, and beyond it stood another room, this one lit by the orange glow of a crackling fire. Beside the fireplace were a couple of barrel chairs and a side table, atop which were two glasses and two bottles.

  Aristodeus winced, and sweat beaded upon his forehead. “Have you always been strung so taut?” he said, leading her into the room and standing behind one of the chairs, indicating she should sit there.

  “You said ‘God’.” She removed the scabbard from her back, leaned it against the hearth, and lowered herself into the soft-cushioned chair. Soror Agna would’ve had a fit if anyone had said that in her presence. Some of the oldies used it, back in Oakendale, but no one rightly knew what it meant. All she knew was that the word offended Ain, so they’d told her.

  “It’s an old name,” he said, “from an ancient time. Don’t let it trouble you. Always someone telling us what not to say or think.”

  She felt the philosopher’s fingers on her shoulders, his thumbs kneading the knots in her upper back. At first she flinched, then she stiffened, and finally, when he persisted, tears spilled onto her cheeks and she shook.

  “Let it all out, Rhiannon. You are quite safe here. Let it all out.”

  He moved away to the table, popped the cork on one of the bottles, and poured a golden liquid into both glasses. It fizzed and sparkled as he passed her one.

  “Hiedsieck 1907 Diamant Bleu cuvée. A woman of your appetites—” He gave her a knowing look that nearly bought him a smack in the face. “—should appreciate this. Just remember, sip, don’t glug.”

  Scowling at him, Rhiannon took the glass and ran it under her nose. “1907?”

  “Different calendar,” Aristodeus said. “Before the Reckoning. A long time.”

  “Is it drinkable?”

  Aristodeus took a quaff and smacked his lips. “Extremely. It was part of a consignment en route to Tsar Nicho… a powerful ruler, when the freight ship was sunk. There was a war going on at the time. Big war. The war to end all wars, they said.”

  “So how’d—”

  Aristodeus waved her to silence. “The bottles were brought to the surface some eighty years after the ship sank, but don’t worry, I’ve not been hoarding my stock for centuries. I doubt even Diamant Bleu would be quite so vibrant after so long a time. Mine comes, you could say, fresh from the wreck.” He tapped the side of his nose and gave a look of mock surprise before seating himself in the other chair. Setting his glass down, he took out his pipe, tapped the bowl on the edge of the table, and proceeded to fill it.

  The champagne was bitter-sweet, with tangs of overripe pear and citrus, maybe a hint of musk. It had only the ghost of bubbles, but what could you expect after so many years? She took another sip, then drained the glass. Aristodeus looked up, shook his head, and took a taper from beside the fire to light his pipe.

  “Impressions?” he asked.

  “Too early to say.” She held out her glass for a refill, and Aristodeus obliged.

  “Tell me,” he said, taking a puff on his pipe, “what happened?”

  She took another swig, spilling some down the front of her robe. Aristodeus raised an eyebrow, then made a show of smoking nonchalantly.

  “To my parents, you mean?” Or did he mean with Gaston? How much did he know? Anything?

  “Wherever you want to start. There is plenty of time, and I am a good listener.”

  She opened her mouth to start, but he popped the pipe from his mouth and gestured with the stem. “Tell me anything, everything, but only if you wish it.”

  She looked into his glinting blue eyes, seeing in them an easy familiarity she’d not noticed before. There was something about the shape of his face, too, the nose, his cheekbones. The barest hint of a smile curled one corner of his mouth, and he stroked his beard, watching her watching him. When he gave the subtlest of nods, she couldn’t help herself; it all came pouring out, the tears, the self-hatred, Gaston, her parents, Sammy. As she bled herself dry, Aristodeus topped up her glass, barely touching his own drink. He chewed on his pipe stem, grunted attentively, occasionally asked her to clarify something.

  “Life can be so… disempowering,” he said when she ran out of things to say.

  Ain, she’d never told anyone so much about herself, not even Elias, and he’d known her since birth. She’d let a few things slip to Shader, but since Gaston, she’d closed in on herself, spoken to him in fits and starts, and most of that venom. Did she blame Shader for Gaston? It made no sense, but it sure had changed how she thought of him, how she thought of anyone with a cock and fruits. She looked up, aware she hadn’t responded to Aristodeus’s comment. His head bobbed, a new warmth exuding from his face. He was right; he was a good listener, and best of all, he hadn’t judged her, least not in any way she could tell.

  “Events like those you describe can make you despair. It all seems so unfair. You burn for vengeance, or at the very least for justice, and yet Nous demands that you forgive, offer your sufferings as a sacrifice.”

  Yes, that was it. That was how it felt. All that anger, that natural rage, but she couldn’t let it out, not in any way that would make things right.

  “There is wisdom in what the Templum teaches,” Aristodeus said, “but it is a hard path, a narrow gate through which few pass. I struggled with it myself, once upon a time, but I am, shall we say, too proud for such a life. Too self-reliant. Shader is different. He inherited his mother’s piety.”

  Rhiannon leaned forward at that. She knew a little of Shader’s past, but only what he’d told her.

  “His father was an altogether different influence.” Aristodeus leaned back in his chair and took a long pull on his pipe. “A good man, by all counts, a strategist, an organizer, a leader. They complemented each other, Jarl and Gralia. Could have been the perfect match, if only they’d shared the same faith. Jarl was too much the pragmatist, and far too honest to accept the Nousian way. You see, killing was in his blood, and he knew it. It’s a rare thing for a military man to lay down arms and take up the life of a lamb.”

  “But Shader is both,” Rhiannon said. “His father and mother.”

  “Aren’t we all, those of us who knew both parents? But with Shader, it is more complex. Most of us are thrust haphazardly into the care of those that sired us, and it’s blind luck whether or not they are suitable.”

  True enough. Would she have chosen differently, if she’d had the choice? Would things have turned out better if she’d not grown up in the arse-end of Sahul with parents as common as muck? Part of her cried yes, but in the main she’d been happy, hadn’t she? Mom and Dad had been good sorts, done the best they could.

  “In Shader’s case, a little more thought went into the parents—or rather, the foster parents.”

  Rhiannon spluttered out some champagne she’d not even been aware she was drinking. “What?”

  “Please don’t tell him, but our friend is not from Britannia, as he believes. Oh, he was raised there, but he and I share a common homeland: Graecia, nestled in between Latia and Verusia. It’s an arid country, these days, steeped in history. The cradle of philosophy; the godfather of culture—at least what I consider to be the best in culture. My point is that Shader was not simply the product of place or biology. He was plucked from Graecia and planted in th
e somewhat less salubrious soil of Britannia.”

  Rhiannon took a careful sip. “But why?”

  “Pietatis et belli. Piety and war. Gralia and Jarl were the perfect exemplars of what I hoped to achieve.”

  “You? You did this? You took Shader from his real parents? Did they agree? Does he have any idea?”

  Aristodeus rapped his pipe against the side of the hearth, spilling burnt tobacco to the flames. “They did not notice, and he must never know.”

  “Didn’t notice? How—?”

  “We are getting too far from the point. You do not have to remain as you are, bitter, angry, repressed, and powerless. If you wish it, I can offer you what I gave to Shader, albeit somewhat belatedly.”

  She shook her head absently, not really knowing what she was rejecting, what he was offering. “I’m already taken.”

  Aristodeus’s eyes widened.

  “By Nous.”

  He scoffed at that. “Rhiannon, Rhiannon, what I have heard today gives the lie to that vocation. You know as much yourself. Why stubbornly cling to what you know is not your true calling?”

  “Shog you.”

  He spread his hands. “I rest my case. Look.” He leaned sharply forward, penetrating her with those startling eyes. “That sword you have—” He nodded to Callixus’s black sword propped beside the fire, absorbing the light from the flames. “—I can teach you how to use it.”

  Now it was her turn to scoff. Hadn’t she been the one to cleave that half-plant, half-man in two? Hadn’t she done what Shader and the midget had failed to do? “I can already use it, thanks.”