“Arak’Jur?” the man called, his voice caked by disbelief.
He raised a hand in reply. Drawing nearer, a tenuous relief spread through him.
Ilek’Inari.
“My apprentice,” he called back as they closed the gap. He expected some manner of warmth from Ilek’Inari—it was his apprentice’s nature, even in the worst of times. Yet instead he saw a pale cast to the younger man’s face, a trembling, unsteady look in his eyes. And when his apprentice looked past him to settle on Corenna, Ilek’Inari’s expression twisted into a grimace, as if he recoiled from the source of a fresh wound.
His stomach sank.
“What news?” he asked, fearing his apprentice’s next words as he had feared little else in his life.
“You’ve seen it,” Ilek’Inari said. “The Ranasi village.”
“What do you know of my people?” Corenna said.
Once more Ilek’Inari turned to look at her, then winced and looked away.
“Ilek’Inari,” Arak’Jur said, “tell us what has passed here.”
“Madness,” his apprentice said, eyes downcast. “She corrupted them. The new magic. I should have seen it. I should have—”
“Slow down,” he said. “What has happened? What news of our people?”
“The Sinari have gone mad, Arak’Jur. Llanara’s power has twisted our people into vile shells of what they were. The atrocity of the Ranasi village, it was done by our hand. The Sinari fell on the Ranasi with the fair-skins’ muskets, beguiled and goaded by her magic.”
Ilek’Inari’s words faded into a dull hum, the void following a thunderclap.
Corenna’s eyes widened to pale moons, her jaw working as if she meant to speak.
“No,” he said. “It cannot be so.”
“It is,” Ilek’Inari said. “Spirits curse us all, it is the truth.”
“What was your part in this, apprentice guardian of the Sinari?” The ice in Corenna’s words took him aback, and he saw a pale film cover her eyes in mist.
“Corenna,” he said. “No. Ilek’Inari cannot have known—”
“I will have the words from his mouth, Arak’Jur!”
Ilek’Inari met her eyes with pain in his own. “I fled, honored sister. I knew their intent, and I fled. Spirits curse me for a coward; I could not stand against her.”
Corenna quivered on the edge of fury, checked by the barest shred of restraint.
“Corenna—” he said.
“Arak’Jur!” she shouted at him, stepping back. “How am I not to believe this part of your plan from the start? Arak’Doren fell on your lands, and then you came to us speaking of peace, you drew me away, you left us open to be murdered like defenseless children.”
The shock of her words struck him like a blow, and he watched the rage boil behind her eyes, searching him as she spoke.
He fell to his knees.
“Kill me, if you believe it,” he said. “If the spirits of your people whisper to you of my part in this, then exact your revenge. The Sinari guardian as first payment for our betrayal.”
She held steady, her gaze fixed to his. Then he saw the film of her magic fade from her eyes, replaced by tears and pain. He rose and moved to her side, cradling her in a firm embrace as he looked back to his apprentice.
“Tell us all, Ilek’Inari. Tell us what evil has taken our people.”
His apprentice nodded, still watching Corenna with a lingering concern as he began to speak. He told of Ka’Vos’s death, how Llanara had proclaimed it the will of the spirits. How he had opposed her in the steam tent, stunned to find himself dismissed before a rising tide of passion and a growing thirst for blood. Llanara’s new magic had hold over them, he claimed, and before Ilek’Inari could understand the depth of her power, she had assumed a position of leadership and guidance over the tribe.
As he listened, a knot of anger took root in his stomach. He had been a fool to ignore her strange new gift. That Llanara had her share of ambition he knew well—no secret to him she had sought his companionship in some part due to his status as a guardian of the tribe. But he had never imagined such madness in her. The more he listened, the darker his spirit grew.
Corenna had recovered herself as best she could, sitting cross-legged in the snow beside him.
“Her gift,” Corenna said. “It came to her through the hands of a fair-skin, did it not?”
“Yes,” Arak’Jur said. “From a man called Reyne d’Agarre. He visited the village a number of times, instructing Llanara.”
“I do not understand; the fair-skins have not stirred from behind their barrier in ten generations. If the fair-skins wished us destroyed, could they not have made war? Why plant such a pernicious seed among our people?”
“Llanara claimed her gift was related to the spirits’ visions,” Ilek’Inari said. “That she spoke on their behalf. The elders swore she could make a spirit appear to them, to confirm her words.”
Arak’Jur nodded. “I saw such a thing, the day Reyne d’Agarre first came to our village. Llanara may well have spoken true—yet if her gifts are of the spirits, they are tainted by the evil against which we have struggled for so long.”
“And her power corrupts the mind,” Corenna said. “Inspiring madness. Yet it does not appear to have taken hold in you, Ilek’Inari?”
“No, honored sister,” his apprentice said. “I watched my people succumb to heated emotion as Llanara spoke, and felt none of the passion that stirred within them. They marched to war, to the unspeakable. And I was powerless to dissuade them.”
If what Ilek’Inari had said was true, his people may already be lost. None among the Sinari would countenance such atrocities—his people loved peace, had shown wisdom enough to walk its path even as others gave in to the urgings of the spirits. Perhaps if he could reach Llanara, confront her …
“Where is she now?” he asked. “What does she intend?”
“I fled from the tribe, hiding in the wilds when I came to understand their purpose. I had a vision of your return, and came here. I have not heard tell of her plans since.”
He and Corenna shared a look.
“We must seek her out,” he said. “And put an end to this corruption.”
Corenna nodded. “Then we travel to the Sinari village.” She rose to her feet, dusting snow from her furs.
“Wait,” he said. “Can you forgive my people, Corenna?”
Her back stiffened.
“I must know you can lay blame for this at its source,” he said. “The madness of the spirits, of Llanara’s vile gift, and not the men and women corrupted by its power.”
She took a long moment, looking between him and Ilek’Inari.
Finally she spoke. “I can judge what I see. No more, no less. If all is as Ilek’Inari has said, then I will content myself with finding Llanara. Finding her, and seeing her dead.”
He held her gaze, searching the pained look in her eyes.
She spoke again, voice wavering. “Do not ask me for less than this.”
He saw anger in her, the grief of loss. Fury, but also hope. She could find forgiveness, when the moment had passed, but now she wore the pain of the horrors she had borne like an open wound.
He rose to his feet, taking her hand in a steady grasp.
“If what has been done to my people can be undone, it must be so. After, it is the place of a guardian to mete out justice.”
Her eyes closed as she nodded, fresh tears streaking down her face.
“I swear to you, Corenna of the Ranasi, by the spirits of our lands—I will see justice done, for the blood of your people.”
50
SARINE
Public Tribunal
Market District, New Sarresant
Sarine, please. Listen.
The buzz of the crowd made ignoring Zi that much easier. Anger seethed beneath her skin at his words, fitting with the mood of the men and women around her. She had often sold her sketches here in the central market, what felt like an age ago. Now
the only wares on offer were flavors of violence, death disguised as justice. And rage. The hunger for food she had seen so often in the eyes of her fellow citizens had been replaced by a hunger for blood. They clamored together, congregating at the base of a hastily erected platform in the middle of the fountain square, watching as d’Agarre’s men prepared the stage for the afternoon’s work.
A cold sky looked down on their gathering, empty and blue with the promise of ice lingering now the storms had gone. A few of the crowd called out, impatient to see the accused, or just to profess their support for the causes of freedom and égalité. Most were content to wait, breath misting in the biting cold.
Sarine, Zi tried again. Please.
She cleared her mind, focusing on watching the stage for signs of another kaas.
The wound of Zi’s betrayal was too raw, too near the surface to listen to him speak. Her relationship with Zi had never been easily understood, but it was one thing to know her companion had a strange, often cryptic manner and another entirely to have him intervene to keep her from knowing the truth of her place and purpose. When she’d been a girl her gifts had been mysteries, mysteries she was content to leave alone. She’d had no cause to believe herself more than an orphan girl upon whom Father Thibeaux had taken pity, enough to keep her from being taken and trained as he had been, as all children were when they showed the signs.
Now she saw Zi’s touch in it, in what she had once believed to be her uncle’s charity and good heart. It made her anger flare again. How far did her companion’s reach extend? Had every step of her life been some machination toward a deeper purpose, a hidden path she walked unknowing to satisfy Zi’s design? She had counted him more than a friend. Zi was part of her, had saved her from the horrors of the streets. Without Zi she would have been dead a hundred times over. She had never truly questioned him before, but now she began to see the childish mistake of that blind trust. Hadn’t d’Agarre been led to his madness by the same force, his kaas? Could she assume Zi was not guiding her toward a similar end?
I have not been corrupted, Zi thought to her. I do not compel you, only protect you from that for which you are not prepared to face.
“Shut up, Zi,” she whispered, tears stinging the corners of her eyes.
He complied for the moment, thank the Gods, falling silent in the recesses of her mind. Just as well that one of d’Agarre’s men chose that moment to unveil the instrument of the afternoon’s justice: a guillotine, on loan or stolen from the city watch. The man climbed the side of the elevated stage, drawing eyes and excited whispers as he pulled back the linen sheet that had been draped over it for just such a dramatic effect. He pulled the cord and the steel blade rose up, glinting in the afternoon sun, with all the promise of swift death the next time it fell. Excited whispers became hushed anticipation as he tied the cord, stepping back with a twisted grin.
“Citizens of New Sarresant,” another man proclaimed as he strode up the steps, raising his arms to draw their attention. “Citizens, we gather here today to see justice done, before a tribunal of the peers of the accused.
“I speak, of course, of you, the citizens of our city. For as we know in our hearts, we are all one peerage, never mind what our onetime King might have had us believe. A lie, I call it!” He paused for effect, his words having already stilled the crowd to silence. “A lie, to claim nobility, to claim the exaltation we owe to the Gods. Do these so-called nobles not eat, the same as we do? Do they not sleep and shit and fuck?”
He stepped back, gesturing toward the guillotine, where the steel blade had been raised taut and fastened beside him. “Tell me, my brothers and sisters. Do the nobles not bleed red and true, the same as any man?”
Cries shattered the silence of the crowd as the man put on a broad smile. He let the moment linger before turning behind his stage and calling out, “Bring forth the accused!”
She scanned the crowd as d’Agarre’s men hauled their captive up the steps, drawing jeers and cries of hate. No sign of manipulation from d’Agarre’s kaas-mages; this crowd was a fire that needed little in the way of kindling. It seemed their captive was an army officer today, though the uniform seemed strange to her eyes, looping tethers in place of buttons on the coat, with a cut unlike any she had seen in the days since the army had moved into the city. The accused bore the mockery of the crowd with stoic grace, eyes upraised to the horizon as if the assembled citizens were beneath his notice. If the prisoner had calculated it as an act of defiance it had the desired effect, spurring the onlookers to hurl insults with ever-increasing fury even as the plain-looking man at the center of the stage raised his hands to beg for calm.
“Citizens,” the man called, then again. “Citizens, please.” The crowd paid him little mind, stirred to a frenzy by the officer’s haughty disdain. If not for Zi’s warnings she might have thought the display a product of the kaas’s influence—Yellow, to irritate the emotions. That Zi had not abated in using his gifts on her behalf stirred mixed feelings; she’d grown accustomed to his magics and his warnings, even as she resented their source. Enough that Zi would reveal one of d’Agarre’s kaas-mages here today, if they were foolish enough to show themselves. Across the square she met Axerian’s eyes, the hook-nosed God standing as she was, waiting hidden in the crowd for sign of a kaas’s powers in use. He gave a subtle shake of his head, indicating he had detected nothing so far, and she returned the same gesture.
The Nameless. Working with her to hunt Reyne d’Agarre’s lieutenants, and d’Agarre along with them if he dared to show himself. Her head spun as she reflected on their strange alliance, a God walking the streets of the market, breaking bread with her at suppertime. An oddity beyond belief, but there it was all the same.
“State your name for the tribunal, prisoner,” the speaker demanded, having wrested a measure of control over the crowd. The officer-turned-prisoner looked back at him for a long moment, the crowd’s energy as taut as the cord that upheld the guillotine’s blade. And then he spat at the speaker’s feet, a subtle gesture without exaggeration.
Once more a tide of insults broke against the officer’s iron exterior, redoubled in force when the first man—the one who had tied the cord—donned a black hood in plain view of the crowd. Always before at the executions she’d attended the headsman wore his mask from start to end, a messenger of death, faceless, unknowable, inhuman. This man had gone from grinning bystander to executioner in a moment, a perversion of the typical ceremony that only added to the gruesome spectacle.
She’d seen enough. If there was a kaas-mage here they would not reveal themselves; no outside power would be needed to stir this crowd. One last chance to draw them out.
Yellow flared at the edge of her vision. She hadn’t asked for it, but it was there at the moment she willed it. A sign of Zi’s attentiveness, and another spark to fuel the anger in the back of her mind. She felt his power weave through the crowd, reading their emotions: rage, hatred, envy, satisfaction. Zi replaced them all with shame and fear.
The crowd broke.
Even the headsman tore off his hood, flinging down his axe and leaving the guillotine cord taut and uncut as he fled into the snow. Across the square Axerian stood, watching for signs as the crowd surged around him. The officer looked bewildered watching from the stage, as even the speaker dove from the platform in a flying leap, running away on a hobbled ankle.
Only one woman stood her ground, her eyes wide as saucers as she darted uncomprehending looks at her fellows, who moments before had been raging and screaming for blood.
She and Axerian closed on the woman from opposite sides of the square, stalking toward her like alley cats sighting a wounded pigeon.
“What is—?” the woman started, pivoting between them. “I don’t—”
Understanding dawned in the woman’s eyes and she flung herself at their feet. “Mercy, please. Please!” the woman cried. “I never meant to touch the lines, I swear it. I’ll never do it again, I swear on the Exarch himself, p
lease.”
The tension melted away, she and Axerian exchanging a look on hearing the woman’s pleading cries. Axerian reached her first, kneeling and peeling away one of her woolen gloves. Binder’s marks.
“Please!” the woman cried, twisting beneath his grasp. “Please, I swear!”
He let go of her arm, standing in a swift motion. “You’re free to go, my dear,” he said. “So long as you honor the Gods.”
Her eyes remained wide, looking between them before she scrambled to her knees. “Oh thank you, my lord, my lady, thank you. I swear it, I do. I promise.”
She watched the woman run, trailing after the other members of the crowd, long since vanished down snow-covered streets.
“A freebinder,” she said.
“Yellow is a fickle thing,” Axerian said. “Xeraxet detected nothing here, only an ordinary slice of mob justice.”
She looked up to the stage where the officer stared at them, as if unsure whether he should flee along with his captors.
“You’re free, my lord,” she called to him. “Do you have a safe haven here in the city? Or with the army outside the walls?”
The officer steadied himself, giving a slight shake of his head as he considered them both. “My thanks,” he managed at last. “Who are you, madam? And what was …?” He left the question unfinished, glancing around the square.
“‘And he came forth from shadow, and his eyes were the twinned pearls of a viper, shining the light of judgment upon the souls of the unworthy,’” Axerian said. She recognized the passage, from an old translation of the holy books.
“We’re enemies of Reyne d’Agarre,” she said firmly. “I can escort you back to the camps if you like. Bold of them, to risk abducting an officer. I hadn’t seen it before today.”
The man knelt, stepping down from the front of the stage. “I’m no officer of this army, madam,” he said. “My name is Vaudreuil, a captain in His Majesty’s navy. Master and commander of the Redoubtable. My crew and I have been imprisoned here in your city since we refused the High Admiral’s dictum to support the rebels.”
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