by E G Manetti
Lord Prelate Apollo awaits Lilian at the base of the effigy. For all his puckish ways, the prelate is as formidable as his disciple. There is something about the way the black-and-crimson robes of rank sit upon him, settling the erratic nature of the whirlwind while channeling its power.
“Attend me, Adelaide’s consecrated and Adelaide’s Thorn. Receive Adelaide’s will.” At the formal instruction, Lilian approaches the effigy, where two alcove attendants wait with Apollo. One holds a small cup while another adds Adelaide’s smoke to the shrine pot.
When Lilian reaches the ritual area, Apollo holds out his hand. If he were not so intent on every motion, Raleigh might have missed that flicker of hesitation before she releases the thorn and drops to her knees. If he doubted her trust in Apollo, he does not now. There are few to whom he would release his last weapon.
Taking the thorn, Apollo scores his palm and tilts it over the waiting cup. A few drops fall. The alcove attendant abandons the sacred fire to bind the prelate’s hand. Using the thorn, Apollo stirs the blood into the contents of the cup. Handing the thorn to the attendant, Apollo takes the cup.
Anointing Lilian’s forehead, ears, and throat with the blend of oil and blood, he intones, “Adelaide Warleader claims you as her weapon, Adelaide’s Thorn. Yield to her will. Listen to her voice. Accept her Shade as your shield.”
Bowing her head, Lilian responds, “I am sworn to Adelaide’s voice.”
It is a powerful ceremony for all it is so simple. After a month among the warriors, Raleigh appreciates the importance of the rite even as he wonders at Lucius’ acceptance. As Adelaide’s Thorn, Lilian is an enforcer for the Shades, the status protective if any take exception to her use of deadly force. It also means that should Apollo determine it needful, his will supersedes Lucius’. It is almost beyond imagining that his arrogant kinsman would humble his will to preserve a mere apprentice. Except that she is not meager in any manner. Images of Lucius and Lilian flash through his mind’s eye, a kaleidoscope of protocol, formality, commitment, respect, honor, and . . . is it possible? Does the mighty Lucius Mercio return the devotion of his apprentice?
His shout of laughter echoes in the alcove, drawing all eyes. Next to Apollo, Lilian is as rigid and unmoving as the stone effigy at her back. Does he voice his conviction, it will bring her no benefit and might cause harm. Bowing to the dark figure, he says, “I beg pardon, Adelaide’s Thorn. My amusement is at my expense. I have honored the Shades as a matter of tradition, not faith, only to find true faith in the most unexpected location: a burning maze.”
The rigid figure softens and she reclaims her thorn from the waiting acolyte. Apollo grasps her shoulders and kisses her forehead as the rest of the assembled break into conversation. Lilian goes to her mother and receives another kiss and embrace before the seer turns away, escorted by Trevelyan.
“Where are they going?” Bran asks.
“Sinead’s Shrine,” Caoimhe replies. “The seer will be in demand this day.”
Breaking from the knot of Lilian’s friends, Katleen skips forward, her peridot and silver festival tunic and skirt floating about her. Although warriors don warrior colors for the festival, it is the tradition on the free-trader worlds to don the battle garb of their cities or clans. Raleigh has the wealth and connections to establish a clan banner but prefers to honor Mohawk, as do Bran and Caoimhe. Their pine-green leathers are trimmed with gray, hues that blend into the landscape, offering camouflage from invaders.
“I am glad to see you well,” Katleen says to the group, her eyes on Raleigh.
“And we you,” Raleigh replies. “The curls suit you.”
Patting the halo of red gold, Katleen looks uncertain. “I preferred a queue like Lilian’s, but the fire took so much, there was naught else to be done.”
Stepping forward, Caoimhe says, “The crop is but evidence of your courage. Were this Mohawk, half the young women would imitate it.”
Eyes sparkling at the compliment, Katleen replies, “Your garb is very fine and, if my lessons are true, the colors of Mohawk.”
Pleased that the child took the time to study their rituals, Raleigh nods. “As is yours. But unlike yours, ours are overheavy for this city. It is well we walk at dawn.”
Glancing about, Katleen leans in. “Monsignor insisted. The odds managers have placed five million on Lilian’s life. She must be within my house by tenth bell.”
“Dragon piss,” Bran says. “We knew the Trial by Ordeal brought danger, but assassination?”
“Shadeless scum,” Caoimhe adds. “To send assassins rather than honor the wager pools.”
“Fear not, little one.” Raleigh pulls an errant curl. “We are armed and will not hesitate to defend Adelaide’s Thorn.”
“My thanks,” Lilian says, joining the group. “But worry not. At this bell, there are few about and Blooded Dagger’s militia and spies are more than capable of answering any threat. But Katleen is correct, Monsignor wishes our walk completed at an early bell. We should begin.”
“Who draws the token?” Bran asks.
“Adelaide’s Thorn takes no token,” Katleen replies. “There is naught random in her course, it is set in the canons. We begin with the Fourth, then to the First. After that, it is clockwise around the ring until we are done.”
»◊«
Obedient to Seigneur Trevelyan, Rebecca closes with Lilian and Katleen. Although Lilian is the potential target, her seigneur was beyond distressed at Katleen’s brush with danger. His liaison with the seer is not casual, for all it is discreet, and he regards Katleen as a daughter. The seer’s Shade madness makes her difficult to read, but Rebecca is all but certain her affections for the seigneur are deep and true. When the new year comes, more than apprentice bonds will be proved.
Biting her cheek, Rebecca exults as Lord Gilead directs Tabitha, Chrys, and Simon to Jonathan’s Shrine Keeper, who in turn leads them to the prestigious central station. That the Shrine of the Fourth is all but empty matters not. A year gone they would have been relegated to the least prestigious of the secondary stations even if all the others were empty.
Lilian steps forward, as eager as Rebecca to view a devotion the trio have practiced for sevendays. Tabitha takes the center, executing the discipline of defense flanked by the two men executing the discipline of attack. It is not a Duet, but it is a noteworthy tribute to the martial arts of Jonathan’s sect. When they are done, Raleigh moves forward. To Rebecca’s surprise he does not offer blood with his coin, as is the custom on the warrior worlds. Evidence of Universalist influence in the free-trader societies? As he moves into a demonstration of Jonathan’s Discipline, she abandons her conjecture to focus on his powerful physical devotion. He was not overstating when he assured Katleen they could defend Lilian.
The pathway to Socraide’s Shrine is empty but for shrine attendants and the Blooded Dagger guards. Tripping along between Chrys and Lilian, Katleen wishes to know why Tabitha was center and not Simon, who is highest ranked.
“Master Simon and I are of a height, Mistress Tabitha shorter,” Chrys says. “It made for a better visual.”
Rebecca swallows a snort at Chrys’ half-truth. That display was confirmation that Tabitha could defend herself against strong odds. It was also recognition of her painful journey from Sebastian Mehta’s abused apprentice to one of Trevelyan’s trusted operatives, and a woman able to delight in a lover. Simon’s gangly form and long nose may give him the air of a stork. His decency to Chrys, his courage in battle, and his slow, gentle pursuit of Tabitha make him attractive beyond measure in Rebecca’s eyes. Does the stork ever need her aid, it will be unstinting.
At Socraide’s Shrine, Keeper Virgil is nowhere in evidence. Of all those to survive the Inversion melee, why must that vituperative tyrant be one? Vituperative tyrant. That phrase is worthy of Lilian and Seigneur would be ever so pleased with her. Putting her hand over her mouth, Rebecca hides a giggle.
The shrine attendant glances at Lilian and then back to Douglas befo
re nodding, leading him not to the western devotional station, but to the one closest to the Adelaide Alcove. The prior two seasons, the low-ranked apprentice group was given the most obscure of stations for their devotion. Delighted at further evidence of shrine recognition, Rebecca is surprised when Lilian joins Douglas before the effigy. Chrys’ expression echoes her surprise as they crowd as close as they can, certain they know what is about to occur.
“What do they?” Bran asks.
“He is Socraide. She is Adelaide,” Rebecca says, gesturing their guards forward. They will not want to miss this. Stefan hurries to her, trailed by Trevelyan’s operatives, hands on fire-pistols, eyes darting about the shrine to seek any threat. At the altar, Douglas anoints the coins with his blood. Before the guards can speak, Rebecca whispers, “It is a Duet. Douglas and Lilian.”
Having witnessed both the Inversion and now Douglas and Lilian’s Duet, Rebecca well understands why Apollo laments that Lilian may not execute the Inversion. She far exceeds the graceful and well-trained Adelaide of the prior Sixth Day. When their devotion completes, a dozen Socraide attendants and acolytes have joined the Serengeti group.
At the sound of rapid footfalls, the free-traders and guards turn to see Keeper Virgil approaching. At the sight of Lilian and Douglas emerging from the devotional station, his expression sours. Wondering what ails Lucius Mercio that he has not had the hateful prelate dismissed, Rebecca raises her voice to carry. “Adelaide’s Thorn, Douglas. That was magnificent. The First has been honored.”
Around her, the crowd echoes her words and Virgil can do naught but retreat.
Emerging from the small crowd, Lilian tilts her head, the gray eyes sharp with concern. “What possessed you? We are supposed to be discreet.”
“Keeper Virgil approached. I trust him not.”
The gray eyes shadow and Lilian nods. “Well done. I doubt he would risk Monsignor’s ire, but it is better we not meet.”
Rimon’s Shrine is next. Rebecca makes her offering, delighted beyond measure that Trevelyan’s training has made her worthy of Rimon, an implacable enemy of the Despoilers.
“That was beyond fierce,” Lilian compliments as they make their way to Mulan’s Shrine. “It is hard to recall you struggled to defend against untoward groping our first season at the cartel.”
As much as she would give her life for Trevelyan, her skills were founded by another. “Seigneur Thorvald has not voiced it, but I suspect Serengeti training is unique in the demands it puts on apprentices and the skills it builds.”
Lilian’s fingers flick to the conservator’s seal and Rebecca wishes she had not spoken. Although Thorvald no longer disdains Lilian, being denied Serengeti training due to her tainted genetics left a deep wound. Lifting her gaze to the sky, Lilian says, “He has ever been quick to lesson those who would torment an apprentice.”
Except for Lilian. Until the battle of Serengeti, Seigneur Thorvald would not even look at Lucius Mercio’s tainted doxy. I have no past. As she has for all her life, Rebecca turns her face to the future.
At Mulan’s Shrine, Caoimhe joins Clarice in devotion to the Third Warrior. For all their Universalist leanings, the free-traders adhere to the tradition of devotion to the Five Warriors. Nor do those leanings trouble her after seasons with Seigneur Trevelyan. Whatever the form of Universalist influence, it has rendered Seigneur Trevelyan no less fierce, and while she does not dare to voice it, she believes it enhances his honor. At Sinead’s Shrine, Bran joins Katleen at the central devotional site. Not yet proven competent in her discipline, Katleen may not offer physical devotion. With a slight bow, Bran defers to her. Tossing her curls, Katleen pulls forth her pipes.
Moving forward, Rebecca prepares to sing if the free-trader will not. Lilian has the singing voice of a frog. She might recite, but she will not sing.
Katleen pipes the first stanzas.
At Rebecca’s side, Tabitha hums. Deeper tones come from behind as Douglas, Simon, and Chrys step up. Bran’s shoulders square, his head tilts as his chin lifts. When Katleen pipes the verse, a rich baritone fills the alcove. “I am the sum of my ancestors.”
It is a strange, yet riveting sight, the graying man in green so dark it is almost black, and the slender teenager with her bright-red curls and peridot-green frock. Light and dark, they mirror and complement each other as do Katleen’s pipes and the timber of Bran’s voice. Katleen alters the trill of the pipes, setting them to a slower pace, a more somber tone. Bran’s voice deepens and echoes throughout the shrine.
The pipes die away and then the song.
When they turn from the effigy, Rebecca’s gaze goes not to Katleen but to the free-trader. Rimon’s rage. The man grieves. Before she can gather her wits, Raleigh and Caoimhe are there, wrapping their arms about his shoulders, whispering in his ears. She has witnessed those emotions, that pain. It has lessened in Trevelyan since the seer favored him, but it as familiar as her face. She had no name for it until the recent interrogations. Now she knows it for what it is. Pirate damaged.
At decade gone, the pirate actions were naught to her as she struggled for survival. Even when she entered Serengeti, it was naught but cartel history to memorize. But first she found Thorvald, then Trevelyan darkened by that miasma. Although she hesitated to recognize it, the same dark grief was at the core of Monsignor Lucius’ initial cruelty toward Lilian. With all her heart, mind, and spirit she wishes they could kill Jarrod yet again. She can do naught but pray that Rimon will torture him and all the other pirates for millennia to come.
»◊«
Clasping Katleen’s shoulders, Lilian feathers a kiss on the cropped curls. Exhausted from the maze, she had not comprehended the true threat to Katleen until Seventh Day. Even after her discussion with milord, she can feel naught but profound gratitude to his son. Were she not already bound to it, she would swear to preserve milord’s heir with her life.
Pulling away, Katleen says, “You must go. I am well, as are you. I will be safe here with Maman, and Seigneur Trevelyan will see us home.”
Yielding Katleen to Keeper Waiman, Lilian joins her friends and guards. Although the free-traders express willingness to join her escort, it will serve no purpose. “If it pleases you to accept my counsel, return to the Sparkling Vistrite and garb for the season. Keep your tokens tight as you wander the stalls and arrive soon after midday at Jonathan’s Greenway do you wish a good position for the entertainments.”
Bowing, his right hand to his chest in the most respectful of free-trader salutes, Raleigh says, “My thanks for your counsel. We will change our garb and mind our tokens.” Straightening, he grins. “As for the greenway entertainments, we are Lord Apollo’s honored guests.”
She should have known. Apollo has been enamored of Raleigh since his arrival. Now that he is a maze hero, Apollo will welcome the free-trader as kin. Or lover. Does Raleigh favor men? She thought women, but perhaps both? What of Douglas? She shakes her head to clear her wayward thoughts. “Lord Apollo’s hospitality is second to none. Enjoy the festival. My thanks for your escort.”
With an accepting nod, Raleigh departs, taking his companions with him.
Falling in next to Chrys, Lilian finds the shortest path from the shrines and through the Garden Center. As always, his tall, virile form is displayed to advantage in the Fourth’s hunter green. The burn scar that bisects one eyebrow does not detract from his appeal but draws attention to the lively intelligence in the technologist’s eyes. The sandy hair is no longer a circumspect ear length as required by his apprentice status. Badly singed, it has been cropped close to his head in the style of Seigneur Trevelyan. The spartan style accents his eyes and shifts the pleasant features into compelling. She cannot resist commenting, “The cropped hair suits you. You should consider retaining it.”
“It is a great deal easier to tend,” Chrys replies. “I will consider the matter when my bond proves. Until that day, Seigneur Rachelle wishes it to lengthen.”
“My first act as a free man was to chang
e my attire.” Douglas has caught the last of the exchange. “As well as the olive drab of Grey Spear suited me, after three years I yearned for another hue.” The media management associate is as riveting in the midnight blue of Socraide’s festival garb as he was in naught but a thong and ankle boots.
How Apollo’s passion for the handsome young man can be waning eludes Lilian, although it is expected. The liaison has passed eight months, two longer than is common for the prelate. Douglas’ continued good cheer is reassuring. Lilian is certain her friend has noted the prelate’s declining interest, and he does not seem troubled by it.
“Douglas, I am as one with you in this.” Rebecca joins the conversation. “The dry-season fashion for mother of pearl will become me well. I particularly favor the hue tinted with rose.”
Cartel stricture on associate commerce garb is narrow and requires that hues embrace gray, beige, and the darker blues. It is an ongoing competition among the associates as to who attains current fashion without a stricture violation. Restrictions on master associates and protégés are more liberal, but only the seigneurs have free license in the color and cut of commerce wear.
“Rebecca, you must not,” Clarice says. “That is the hue that suits me best. The blue and green variants will complement you as readily as pink.”
Behind her, Tabitha listens to the discourse with what Lilian considers the spy’s discovery expression. It is bland, attentive, and hinting at amusement. Recalling Tabitha’s overnight transformation from her apprentice garb of tight suits and too-high heels to the image of cartel convention, Lilian tries to imagine what Tabitha’s true appearance might be. Catching her gaze, Tabitha nods, but her expression does not alter.