by D. P. Prior
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 shoulder.”
“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 the 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.”
“Anyone can hack like a butcher. Oh, I’m quite sure you have the fire for combat, but what about the grace, the skill, the speed of hand and eye? You’ve seen Shader in action?”
She nodded.
“I trained him,” Aristodeus said, “and it is a rare pupil who outgrows his master.”
Rhiannon studied him with a new respect. “You’re a swordsman? Aren’t you a bit too bookish for that?”
“I am many things, my dear, and I have lived long enough to excel in more than one discipline.”
She eyed the black sword, imagining what she could’ve done if she’d had such a weapon before and known how to use it. Her parents might still be alive for one; and Gaston… She cut off the thought of what she would’ve done to him; it didn’t sit right with her, not now he was dead.
“You can make me as good as Shader?”
“Maybe better.”
She leaned forward, curled her hands around the sword hilt, lifted it to her lap. “Why?”
Aristodeus tucked his pipe away and steepled his fingers. “Because Shader is failing. He lacks both the purity of his mother and the ruthlessness of his father.”
“That surprises you?” What did he expect? Taking two opposites and blending them in one individual? It was no wonder Shader was so screwed up.
“Maybe not with hindsight. The problem is, both qualities are needed. He has just enough holiness to wield the Sword of the Archon, but not an iota of that needed to unleash its full might. And as for decisiveness in striking the killing blow…” He left it unspoken, but she knew he was referring to the Homestead, and Shader’s balking at the final hurdle. He had a point. If Shader had struck true, this could all have been ended right there and then.
“That’s been your plan all along? Have Shader kill Gandaw with a magic sword?”
Aristodeus gave a tight smile. “The sword is more than magical. It is intimately linked with the Archon himself. You could say it’s a part of him. But it’s not Gandaw we need it for. If it had just been Gandaw we had to worry about, the Unweaving would not even be a possibility, and I would have ended this centuries ago.” He closed his eyes, and a tic started up beneath one of them.
“Gandaw has the Archon’s sister and has found a way to harness her power against her will. This makes him, you might say, god-like.”
“The statue? Eingana? The sword is for her?”
Aristodeus opened an eye and pursed his lips. “Seems logical, don’t you think? Her might is beyond any we can muster. Only her siblings can rival her. The Demiurgos is no doubt loving every minute of this, and even if he could free himself from the Abyss, he’d be more likely to ravish her than kill her. And the Archon will not act directly for fear of ceding to the Demiurgos the same liberty. It seems the Aeonic Triad are bound by a rather compelling form of justice.” He shook his head, leaned back, and studied Rhiannon. “You’ll never be accepted by the Archon’s sword, but we must nevertheless plan for every eventuality. If Shader fails, nothing we do will matter,
for there’ll be nothing left. If by some miracle he succeeds, the war will not end there, and we must be ready for the next phase. Maybe the enemy can be fed a dose of his own medicine.” He reached over and tapped Callixus’s sword, winced, and sat back.
“What… what can I do? I’m no Shader, and this sword… I’m not sure if—”
Aristodeus squeezed her knee, and she didn’t even flinch. A warm tingle thrilled its way up her spine.
“Let us enjoy another bottle.” He grabbed the second and popped the cork. “We should talk some more, get to know each other better. There’s no hurry. We’ll begin slowly, then take the feeding apparatus to New Jerusalem and go from there. How does that sound?”
Rhiannon’s eyes were rooted to her glass as Aristodeus refilled it.
“Something to eat?” he said. “I have some excellent brie, if only I can find a knife to cut it.”
With a start, Rhiannon remembered entering the plane ship atop the Homestead with Shader and the midget. She felt about in her robe pocket and brought out the wire between two sticks she’d found on the floor.
“This any good?”
“What’s that, a garrote? No, a cheese-cutter. Perfect,” Aristodeus said. “Like the company.”
He shuffled his chair closer to hers so they could chink glasses.
Rhiannon laughed, feeling a rush of heat through her veins that burned away the tension and left her more at peace than she could remember.
NEW JERUSALEM
Dawn light bled atop the city’s battlements as one sun crested the horizon. The scale of the walls reminded Shader of the Homestead. They must have been close to five hundred feet tall, and they extended for miles without end. The sections stretching between the scores of cylindrical towers were heavily buttressed, and embrasured on dozens of levels. Lanterns ghosted in between the merlons, and cones of stark light roved the ground before the walls. The architecture was of a magnitude Shader had never before witnessed. Not even Sarum could hold a candle to New Jerusalem, and the city’s defenses dwarfed those at Trajinot entrusted with keeping out the hordes of the Liche Lord. A cluster of bronze-capped minarets peeked above the walls, and way off to their left, the top of a ramshackle tower billowed smoke that swirled into a dirty canopy of smog.