by E G Manetti
With all the appearance of relaxed confidence, Lucius says, “I believe that Broken Blade and Matahorn developed these enemies while engaged in the labor of the Five Warriors. Were you combatting trade in decadents or illegal servitude? I fail to recall the specifics.”
Next to Lucius, Aristides’ neutral expression yields naught, but both prelates are nodding. Whatever is in play, these four have conspired to develop this fable. Deciding to play along, he says, “Both, I assure you. We are discussing Servants of Anarchy so vicious that they attempted to ignite half a thousand devoted who were gathered in observance of a religious ritual.”
“That is precisely what we are discussing, Monsignor,” Gilead says. “It is essential that the events of last night not be traced to Serengeti or Blooded Dagger lest connections be formed that could rock the Order the Twelve Systems.”
At the prelate’s grim certainty, Horatio loses his amusement. Over the course of the next bell, his primary emotion is horror. Horatio knows he is being provided only a portion of the tale. It pleases him that it be so. He wishes to know no more than he does.
Lucius reveals far more than he wishes, but with the aid of Apollo, Trevelyan, and Aristides, he has crafted a segment of the truth that will satisfy Horatio and gain his aid in managing the media for the tale of the prior night’s battle.
In the version given to Horatio and William, Lucius names neither Damocles nor Sebastian, stating only that under the auspices of a now-dead warrior, the ancient cult of the Servants of the Eldest, the Despoilers, was recreated. The foul cult was active for over a decade before it became populous enough, and aggressive enough, to come to the attention of Serengeti and the authorities. As part of one of their brutal rituals, they murdered a former Serengeti associate, Mistress Ann Hunter, leaving her body in the Southern Crevasse.
The act was a serious error. It drew the investigative attention of Seigneur Trevelyan. Whether it was the Luck of the First or the Will of the Shades, Lucius’ apprentice had studied with Prelate Apollo and was familiar with Despoiler lore. When discussion of the murder of Ann Hunter revealed certain details, Lilian identified it as the work of the Despoilers. Lucius and Trevelyan immediately sought counsel with Lord Prelate Apollo and Gilead.
The battle of Serengeti was initiated by the Despoilers when they became fearful of discovery. They attempted to destroy the Mercium lab to destabilize Serengeti and hide the evidence of their evil activities. One of Lilian’s friends, captive in the lab, was able to alert her and she in turn sounded the alarm.
They are certain that most the Despoilers on Metricelli Prime have been located and destroyed. It changes not that the cult had over a decade to spread its foul teachings into the Twelve Systems. Using the extensive logistics and communications capabilities of Serengeti, the Third System’s governor and the two Lord Prelates have been clandestinely hunting and destroying the vestiges of the group.
When Lucius finishes, Trevelyan says, “It is imperative that the operation against the Despoilers remain covert. If the remaining members discover our pursuit, they may cover their trail and await another opportunity.”
When they are done, Horatio rises and walks to the edge of the balcony, gazing over the Garden Center and the rooftops of the shrine ring. William does not move, his gaze turned inward. Apollo starts to rise, and Lucius halts him. “Give them a moment. We have had seasons to come to terms with this.”
Horatio turns. Leaning against the rail, he locks eyes with his son. After a moment of silent communication, he turns to Lucius. “You do not consider last night’s attack indication that the Despoilers are already well aware of your condemnation?”
“Possible, but unlikely,” Trevelyan says. “The Lord Prelates and Monsignor Lucius are not easy targets. Nonetheless they could be assaulted more readily than through last night’s elaborate plot.”
“Then of what purpose was the attack?” William asks. “What advantage? Had they lived to escape the inferno, Jarrod and his company could not have claimed the Nightingale.”
“Anarchy,” Gilead says. “Had Adelaide’s Thorn and the free-traders not discovered the plot, consider the repercussions. Serengeti, all but devoid of leadership, would be in a shambles. Matahorn would be crippled, and scores of smaller cartels and consortiums in collapse. Two of the warrior sects left rudderless. How long would it be before pirates reemerged?”
“That is madness!” William exclaims.
“Evil is the word you seek,” Lucius says. “The Despoilers wish to dominate the next millennium in a manner pleasing to their gods. Gods that thrived during the Anarchy and that they wish returned.”
“System shattering, indeed,” Horatio responds. “What of Jarrod or Sadico? I cannot envision confessing that the captain of the Nightingale was a vicious madman.”
Horatio will no more see Bright Star endangered than Lucius.
With a smile that holds no humor, Aristides replies, “The brave captain led the Serengeti forces into the maze in pursuit of Matahorn’s criminal enemies. He succeeded in defeating the shadeless scum, although it cost him his life.”
With a nod of respect for the media management seigneur, Horatio finishes the tale. “Mistress Lilian and the free-traders were but able forces led by the valiant warrior.”
»◊«
The shrines of the warrior ring glow gold in the late-day sun, long shadows striping the central garden as Lilian makes her way through Jonathan’s Shrine and into the alcove, Stefan her sole companion. Before the altar, Apollo waits, grim in crimson and black, the chain of his office with its garnet center catching the light streaming through the fire slits.
I am the sum of my ancestors. She has studied the rite but never witnessed it. As Wraith, and the source of Flavia’s redemption, her role is set in custom as solid as Crevasse stone.
I am the foundation of my family. Donning her mask, Lilian approaches the effigy, raising her thorn on her palms, angling it to catch the light. It glows, and she steps back, sheathing the blade.
Honor is my blade and shield. Apollo reaches into the hollow of the effigy’s crossed legs and pulls forth an urn glazed in black and crimson. All that remains of Flavia. Accepting the urn, Lilian climbs to the gallery, placing the urn before the central fire slit.
Honor knows not fear. She kneels by the urn, face turned to the fading sun, and waits for the sky to turn red. Images of Flavia flicker through her memory: taking the woman’s mark at the alcove trial; Flavia prostrate and entreating, her back bloodied with the scourge; laughing with Katleen in the kitchen; sleeping on the floor; smearing dirt on her skin to hide in the maze; falling. Swallowing against the prick of tears, Lilian rests her hands on the urn as the setting sun covers the urn in dark red light—the signal that Adelaide has accepted Flavia among her hounds.
Honor endures. The urn glowing in the fading light, Lilian gathers it and rises. At the top of the stairs she looks down into the darkened alcove, where the sacred flame is augmented by dimmed lights along the curved walls. In addition to Seigneur Trevelyan, Maman, and Katleen, the free-traders and Lilian’s consortium have arrived to witness Flavia’s final rite. Hidden by her mask, Lilian’s lips curve at the sight of Simon standing with Tabitha.
Honor acts as duty commands. Descending the steps, Lilian focuses on the spirit of the woman who was Flavia. The arrogant discipline master who sought her defeat and Apollo’s disgrace. The desperate and repentant supplicant who threw herself at Lilian’s feet, begging for mercy. The broken and shattered woman who accepted her scourging and smiled at the hope offered by her sentence. The quiet and implacable servitor and guard who was ever underfoot and accepted Katleen’s instruction with humility. The deadly Adelaide adherent who slew Despoilers and gave her life to redeem her honor.
Reaching Lord Prelate Apollo, Lilian opens the urn. With a blackened scoop, he collects a small handful of powder and sets it about the glowing coals of Adelaide’s fire. Banked, the fire will remain alive but quiet until the dawn.
&n
bsp; Accepting the resealed urn, the Lord Prelate passes it to the discipline master, who sets it in a niche at the base of the statue with three others, one with glaze cracked and dulled, indicating at least five centuries of residence. Adelaide’s hounds are a select few.
Apollo and the discipline master step back and Lilian steps forward. Pulling her thorn, she transfers it to her left hand, raising the right. The quick pass is not as fluid as if she used her right, but that is her purpose. She has hampered her battle hand, acknowledging the loss of a battle comrade. Reaching for the Warleader’s warbelt, she gathers the foremost leather ball in her right hand, anointing it in blood.
At her right, Apollo speaks the ritual words. “Drink, Robert Dragon the Betrayer. Drink and be filled. Accept the fallen Flavia into your ranks. Send her forth to devour the Servants of Anarchy, the foes of the light. Drink and sustain your pack.”
With the completion of the invocation, Lilian turns and exits the alcove. Passing Jonathan’s effigy, she removes her mask. Stepping into the darkened ring garden, she breathes deep, the heady scents of green-season blossoms sweeping away the dark scent of death and retribution.
“Is it well with you?” Chrys says from her right.
Raising her gaze to the star-bright sky, Lilian nods. She regrets Flavia’s death but not her redemption.
The murmur of voices surrounds her as family and friends fill the area. Helena and Trevelyan step close, Helena saying, “The transports are ready when you are.”
Apollo and Raleigh have arranged to honor Flavia’s sacrifice at the Sparkling Vistrite, overriding Seigneur Trevelyan’s suggestion of Hidaka’s Café. For all the café is familiar, Lilian finds she prefers the free-trader’s plan. Flavia would be pleased to have her memory honored in the warrior stronghold, and Hidaka’s can remain a place of comfort for Lilian, unmarred by sorrow. “I am ready.”
»◊«
The private reception chamber in the Sparkling Vistrite is all that is elegant warrior sophistication, with not a hint of the overblown grandeur of the Fire Sword. Plates and glasses filled, the servitors have disappeared, available to be summoned at the sound of a fork against crystal. It is odd that the once-familiar luxury seems alien. It matters not. Her friends have once again survived battle and Flavia is worthy of the honor.
“Lilian, are you free to voice it?” Verity asks. “What is the purpose of the urns?”
“In the Five Warriors’ Shrines, the sacred flame is fueled by oil, but in the alcoves, the flame is given life from charcoal. With the arrival of darkness, it must be protected to surge again with the dawn. The powder of the hounds protects it.”
“But they are so few,” Clarice says. “With Flavia’s, it was but four.”
“There must be near four cups in those urns, at least eight times the four ounces permitted by stricture.” Douglas says. Even the largest man can be reduced to naught more than four ounces of fine powder. If it were otherwise, the Twelve Systems would overflow with ash. “Why so much?”
Lilian twirls her wineglass. “They are so few because the price of redemption is so high, as it was for Robert Dragon the Betrayer. There are but sixty-one urns in the entirety of the Twelve Systems. As for the quantity of remains, the final reduction is omitted to retain greater matter. Even with those extra cups, it is not enough to bank all of Adelaide’s sacred flames. After this night, but a pinch from one of the urns will nurse the embers along with the more mundane ash preserved from the flame. Of what is in the urn, two ounces will be sent to the other eleven systems to augment their hounds’ ashes.”
Next to her, Chrys taps the table. “Sixty-one? In a millennium? Even as you voice it, there is insufficient mass.”
“Sixty-one today,” Lilian replies. “With Flavia’s arrival, Adelaide’s Hounds number one hundred fifty-two.”
Silence greets her as the assembled imagine the fearsome force.
Simon raises his glass. “To Adelaide’s hounds. May they enjoy a worthy hunt.”
As ever, the stork surprises. Raising her glass in return, Lilian says, “As you voice.”
Crystal clinks to the repetition of “Flavia” and “Worthy hunt.”
A servitor steps in and is waved away.
Katleen says, “Lilian did well to bring Mistress Flavia to Crevasse City. She was lost when she joined us. She was content when we attended the Inversion.”
“Color and music?” Lilian asks.
“Conversation,” Katleen replies. “She accepted she had offended Adelaide. Mistress Flavia could not understand how she could have been so mistaken in Adelaide’s will. It troubled her for a month before she discovered the answer.”
“The answer?” Tabitha asks.
“Mistress Flavia was certain that her original defiance was Shade driven to place her in a position to protect Lilian.”
At the sounds of consternation from the company, Katleen spreads her glance to encompass them all. “I invent it not. Mistress Flavia spent many bells in the alcove. Before the Inversion melee she voiced that her service was designed to protect Adelaide’s Wraith. Did she die in such service, she would be glad.”
Sevenday 144, Day 1
Pushing back from his techno array, Lucius rises. Eighth bell cannot chime soon enough. Although he would have preferred to attend when Trevelyan and Apollo interrogated Lilian the day gone, he had to ensure that Aristides had Gilead in hand and that Moira would support their tale to Horatio. That his heart seized when he feared Lilian, not Flavia, had fallen was not cause enough to disrupt the plans to bring Horatio and William into the Despoiler security-privilege. Although Tiberius’ shade whispered that Lucius could send for his apprentice at will, it is not a practice he has ever embraced, and he would not start now even to appease his concern. When she yielded her weapon, she was uninjured, although unbelievably filthy. Lucius knew that the greatest boon he could offer her was to release her to find her bath.
At the first chime, the scarlet door recesses.
Socraide’s sword. The woman who enters his office displays legs marred by numerous abrasions and burns. One is severe enough to warrant the telltale white of healer’s sealant. “You offered no indication you were injured.”
“It is naught, milord.” Lilian tilts her head to meet his eyes. “I am well.”
The woman is routinely dismissive of assault and injury. He will assess the damage for himself. “Disrobe.”
Eyes shining, she places her slate on the edge of his desk, followed by her jacket. The short-sleeved top appropriate to the season confirms his suspicion. Another set of abrasions and burns become visible.
As the top joins the jacket, he circles her. The dense support structure of the battle tunic appears to have protected her torso, although one shoulder bears sealant. Crossing behind her as the skirt drops, he discovers additional marks on her thighs and another sealed wound on her right hip. As her lingerie settles onto the desk, he turns Lilian to face him. The last of the damage is revealed. Another burn, severe enough to require sealing, mars the hollow of her hip a half inch from where the clasp lock rests.
Skimming his fingers along Lilian’s arms and shoulders, he avoids the damaged sections. “I had no notion you took such harm.”
Raising her eyes, she says, “I am well, milord. The alcove healers’ potions are as effective as the master medic’s.”
“Are they?” He tests her claim by carefully setting his lips to the sealed mark on one shoulder. At the light touch, Lilian trembles. Raising his head, he finds the gray eyes have darkened. They contain no distress and the lightly parted lips offer naught of discomfort. The woman wishes to be kissed.
Ignoring the pleasant tightening in his loins, Lucius strokes his fingers across her cheek. The Wraith’s mask protected her well. Smiling at the disappointment in her gaze, he admits, “I, too, am disappointed. I can discover no means to pleasure that will not give you pain.”
At his words, the gray eyes fill with speculation. “Does it please milord to be seated, I beli
eve I can manage.”
»◊«
Replete from pleasure, Lilian settles against milord’s reclining form, resting her head on his shoulder without placing pressure on any of the more troublesome burns or abrasions. Milord’s fingertips trace her spine, his lips feathering against her temple. “How fare Lady Helena and Katleen?”
“Maman is well, as is Katleen,” she replies and then hesitates. There is no avenue available to her to thank milord for Cesare saving Katleen’s life. Every possible phrase is presumptuous. Turning her face into the hollow of milord’s throat, she admits, “Milord, there are no words.”
“No, Lilian, there are no words,” milord agrees, resting his chin against her head. “Cesare saved Katleen and then Katleen saved Cesare. My son was determined to locate another exit when Katleen hurled herself through the burning drapes. Had they remained to seek another exit, the pavilion would likely have collapsed with both still within. How came Katleen to take such action?”
Shifting her face from milord’s neck, she settles once again against the warm support of milord’s shoulder. “Katleen heeded Maman.”
At the brief pause of the stroking hand, she nods against milord. The seer guided Katleen as she has occasionally guided Lilian. “For a sevenday, Maman’s training instructions to Katleen were laced with the admonishment to ‘not fear the burning. The flames would yield.’ ”
Tilting her face to examine milord’s, she continues, “It was as much Master Cesare as Maman. The fire slits milord’s son ripped with his blade created the exit.”
Cupping her face, milord asks, “How is it that Katleen was present to heed the seer?”
Not yet of the age of consent, Katleen’s presence at the Inversion was custom violating, although not stricture defying. Leaning into milord’s hand, Lilian says, “Maman insisted. Seigneur Trevelyan disliked the notion, but Maman became overset. Sinead’s Keeper insisted that the seer be heeded.”