Host tsc-3

by Faith Hunter

  My plan had already been changed by the vibration in the earth, and now it felt full of holes, patched together by glue and baling wire, but it was all I had. I took a calming breath. I had been taking a lot of those lately, and they weren’t working well at all.

  I sheathed my swords. “Audric Cooper, second unforeseen, dead-miner, warrior, protector, teacher and friend, master of savage-chi and savage-blade, bound servant of the seraph Raziel, assigned to me by that seraph to assist in the fight against the Dark,” I said, naming him in his full identity. It was a way to both claim him and to protect him, offering the half-breed the shelter not just of myself, but of the Battle Station Consulate, and through that naming, setting in motion the half-baked plan I had come up with when I lay against Rupert’s back after his prediction. “I name you my first and senior champard.”

  Audric sheathed his weapons and stepped around me. He drew back his battle cloak and knelt in the snow. A large snowflake fell, landing on my cheek with a faint ping of discomfort. Another touched down on Audric’s dark-skinned head. Others followed, falling slowly, drifting down on the still air, wide, flat discs of lacy white. To my back, the sun rested on top of the western mountains. Clouds thinned for a moment, throwing the world into golden tints of light.

  Bathed in that light, the snowflakes caught the sunbeams, falling like coins of golden lace. My own body was thrown into momentary silhouette. Before the light faded, I said, “Rupert Stanhope, more than human, progeny of Mole Man, seer of visions, swordsman, metal worker, wise in the ways of the earth and of men, fighter against the words of man and the slings and arrows of the Dark, companion of my youth, I name you second champard.”

  Rupert sheathed his weapon and knelt bedside Audric.

  “Eli Walker, aptly named, as you walk between two worlds, the world of the Earth Invasion Heretics and the world of the Administration of the ArchSeraph.” The crowd murmured at the claim which outed the spy. “Tracker, miner, dancer, one who brings me laughter, I name you my third champard. Come. Kneel. Bring your prisoner.”

  Eli dragged Cheran with him, both men slight, delicate, but Eli with the greater human muscle mass, the mage’s powers effectively constrained. Eli tripped the mage to the snow and knelt on top of him. Cheran grunted and thrashed his feet, boots grinding into the ice, trying to get away, until Eli casually cuffed him.

  “Lucas Stanhope, former husband,” I said, enunciating the word “former,” “progeny of Mole Man, feaster on manna, sought by the Dark for the perfection of your blood, father of the child of my heart, I name you fourth champard.”

  Lucas left Ciana at my side and stood beside Eli. His eyes begged, asking me to relent and name him more. His back to the camera, his lips shaped the word, questioning, “Consort?” I shook my head no. Lucas glanced at Eli and then down to the street, not kneeling, as if making a decision. Seconds dragged by measured as heartbeats. Slowly, he dropped to his knees. A pent breath escaped, hurting my chest. I took in the frigid air and went on.

  “Ciana Stanhope, child of my heart, progeny of Mole Man, braver than the fiercest warrior, seeker of truth, speaker to seraphs, caller of Flames, holder of the seraph wings,” I said, giving away all her secrets in the hope of keeping her safe should I die tonight. If the world knew what she was, then the AAS would have a hard time making her just disappear. “I name you my fifth champard. As you are too young to accept, I ask Lucas Stanhope. Will you allow your daughter to accept my protection and favor?”

  “In the name of her mother, Marla Stanhope, and in the name of the Mole Man, I will,” Lucas said. He gestured Ciana and she raced to his side, kneeling on the frozen, iced street.

  She was wearing the bloodstone cat I had carved for her, on a silver chain around her neck, and she grinned, showing me her teeth. She had lost another tooth, leaving a wide black hole. In case I missed it, she pointed at the hole and mouthed, “I lost a tooth.”

  I nodded and winked and felt my heart lift at the excitement in her eyes. For Ciana this was the height of fun. For me it was terrifying. Now came the dangerous part, the part not listed in the library of information or history stored in the interactive visa. This was the part I was making up. This was the part that could bring down on me the ferocity and might of the High Host.

  I gripped the visa, drawing on the gift of volume it offered, and raised my voice. “Thaddeus Bartholomew, Hand of the Law, investigator for the Carolina State Police, progeny of Mole Man, friend, kylen…” The crowd gasped; Romona nearly dropped her camera. “I name you my sixth champard and emissary from the Realm of Light to the Battle Station Consulate.”

  Thadd, standing at the edge of the sigil, threw off the cloak he wore. His wings lifted, feathers trembling. Slowly he spread them, the wingspan catching golden snowflakes, the light of dusk riming his bright red plumage in gold. The crowd stepped back from him as he walked forward, crossing over the edge of the sigil in the street.

  He came toward me, eyes locked on mine, fear and trust in them, waiting for the ruling of the High Host. They could appear and carry him off. Or they might, just might, offer their approval. In too many ways to count, I had stepped beyond the limits of my powers as consulate general. In others, well, there had never been a consulate general of a battle station who was also an omega mage. I was blazing new ground. Lucky me.

  The light dimmed as clouds once again draped the sun. A pall of gray, all the darker for the falling snow, settled on us. Still holding my eyes, Thadd folded his wings and went to his knees, the wingtips feathering out around him. He tucked something into a pocket on the leg of my dobok and folded the flap back down to keep it inside. The action was furtive, and he looked up at me and raised his eyebrows. I nodded and he shifted his weight back on his knees.

  He was wearing the suit and overcoat I had first seen him in, now slashed open along the back for the wings. Thadd would need a new wardrobe. As my champard, I’d have to outfit him. The irrelevant thought was the useless kind of thing that flits through one’s head at inappropriate times, like now, when we were poised on the knife edge of death and life and seraphic judgment. It pulled a smile at my lips.

  The sigil seemed to glow brighter for a moment, but perhaps that was just my eyes adapting to the falling night. When nothing else happened, I took the breath I had feared to draw and addressed the champards, speaking words of my own choosing, words based on Audric’s to me earlier, rather than the more proper, official words the visa had suggested.

  “You who would be champards, I offer you my protection, such as a battle station in the midst of a war with Darkness can proffer: safe haven, healing after battle, and a home where you will be valued and loved.” I lifted the necklace of amulets from my neck and held the visa high.

  “I am yours to call, in wind and hail, in storm and lightning, in injury and healing, in this life, for as long as you will have me. I will meet your needs, dress your wounds, and when you die at the end of a long and glorious life, I will dress you for battle and send you to the Most High for his blessing and reward. Will you have me?”

  “We will,” they answered, the words not quite in unison, unrehearsed and unprepared.

  Audric stood and said, “I am yours to call.”

  The others stood and repeated after him, and it was clear that Audric had coached them at least a bit. Tears gathered in my eyes as a feeling close to joy welled up and overflowed in me. I held Audric’s gaze with my own, letting him see my reaction, this gratitude and happiness, and some unnameable emotion, as intense as ecstasy.

  “In wind and hail, in storm and lightning,” he said, and the others repeated the refrain. “In injury and healing, in this life”—the words in the uneven litany echoed up and down the street—“for as long as you will have me.” The champards repeated the final line, their voices falling into a common cadence at the last few words.

  “Amen,” a voice chimed from the side. I recognized Jasper.

  Unexpectedly, the crowd joined in, as if merging with the ceremony,
repeating, “Amen.” The word was full and deep, echoing off the buildings. The two syllables seemed to gather up and hang on the air, to fall and settle on the earth as slowly as the snowflakes. Jasper’s eyes widened. Clearly he hadn’t expected the liturgical response. It made the town more than witnesses; it made them participants.

  The sigil around us brightened perceptibly. I took it as an omen and would have been satisfied, had not the lynx taken that moment to roar its warning across the mountains. Not good.

  With mage-sight, I found Shamus in the crowd and said, “Get the children and anyone else who wants protection into the shop.” On my last word, the sun fell behind the western mountain, darkening the whole city, and long shadows draped across the ground.

  A sound like whispers built as sleet joined the snowflakes. My skin seemed to burn from the snowmelt, something I hadn’t felt in years, though only a little had fallen on me. The lynx cried again, a deep growl-scream that held warning, danger. “Hurry!” I shouted.

  Shamus raised his voice, rushing the noncombatants into Thorn’s Gems. I saw him lift a toddler and toss her to Jasper, who placed her inside. Polly, Jasper’s wife, stood in the shop, and she shoved the girl across the room to an elderly woman. There was a sudden rush for the door and children were pushed, shoved, and dragged inside by their parents and grandparents.

  One woman, her belly big with child, her face lost in shadow, called out to me, fear in her voice, “Is it tonight? Are they coming tonight?”

  “I think so,” I said, as the certainty of attack clamped down on my bones. “Yes.”

  “I’ll pray for you,” she shouted, and she ducked inside Thorn’s Gems with the throng. The lights of the shop brightened; heads were bobbing everywhere. The dress shop next door was lit as well, and it looked as if the whole town were in one place, families jostling for position, for a bit of floor space, the elderly sheltering the young while parents rushed about.

  Faster than I thought possible, the street was empty, but it looked like standing room only in the shops. I heard something fall and crash, and a chorus of “Oh no”s followed. This was going to be an expensive night for my partners and me. If we survived.

  I looked around. Warriors raced along the street, lighting bonfires of scavenged wood. Other fires burned in old fifty-five-gallon drums. Armed men and women appeared, standing in small groups, legs braced, weapons ready.

  Audric said to the new champards, “Prepare for war.” As most of the champards raced away, he said to Eli, “You hold the mage.” I shivered at his tone.

  Lucas paused at my side and placed his hand on Ciana’s head, like a blessing or a benediction. “See her safe,” he mouthed to me. And he dove into the night.

  There wasn’t much more to do but wait. Except deal with Ciana.

  I touched her on the head and when she turned to me, there were tears in her eyes. “I want to stay with you,” she said. “I want to be a real champard.”

  I knelt at her feet and took her in my arms. Her bones were fragile and delicate as a butterfly pressed to my chest, her heart beating fast, her life and my weapons so close. I eased her away and wiped her tears. “I need you to be just what you are right now. Not a fighter, but the one who holds the seraph wing pin. I need you to help protect the townspeople in the shop.” I placed the marble oval that activated the shield in her hand and closed her fingers around it. “I know you can make this work.”

  She sobbed once and threw her arms around my neck. I cradled her close and rocked her, fighting my own tears. If I failed tonight, Ciana might die. We all might. And selfishly, I hoped that if Ciana died, I’d already have bled my life into the snow, because I didn’t think I could live knowing I had failed her.

  I sniffed and hugged her tightly. “Did I ever tell you how much I love you?” I asked, rocking her. “You are the child of my heart. And I love you with all my heart and mind and might. And if I had a soul, I’d love you with that.”

  “I love you too.” I heard the tears in her voice, thick with pain. Her arms tightened so that my breath was stopped, and I nuzzled her hair, turning so I could breathe, drawing in her scent. To remember.

  When I realized she wasn’t going to let go, I reached around and pulled her arms from my neck. “Go inside,” I whispered. “See if you can activate the shield. Go on.” I pushed her toward Lucas, who had reappeared. He hugged her and whispered into her ear. With a final touch, he sent her on, leaving his outstretched arm empty. Kneeling in the street, the ice freezing my knees, I watched as Ciana walked into Thorn’s Gems and reappeared in the display window.

  She stared into the night and splayed open one hand on the glass like a benediction, her long Stanhope fingers oddly shaped. Her mouth moved, soundless in the distance, and energies rose in the foundation, lifting through the walls to the roof. The loft blazed with power, glowing with an energy pattern that looked like oily scales and dripping water. The shield was in place.

  I took a frozen breath, inhaling air so cold it hurt my lungs, feeling raw on my scarred throat. The two-story shop and the building beside it weren’t invincible, but they were now danged hard to damage. Satisfied, I rose from my knees and studied my champards as they began to return, armed to the teeth. They were checking weapons, looking toward the Trine, the three peaks lost in the night, sharing a word or two, but mostly they were silent. They were ready, or as ready as one can ever be to face death.

  Eli was still waiting, and when my eyes met his, he stood and picked up Cheran. With a wrench of his shoulders, he dumped the mage at my feet. Cheran’s face was white with frostbite where his cheek had rested against the ice, and his eyes were slit, anger and humiliation spitting from them. He was in shirtsleeves, shivering, wrists tied with rope at the small of his back, the witch-catcher strapped around his head, rods inserted in his mouth, holding his lips apart, his tongue depressed. Unable to keep his mouth closed, spittle had dried and frozen on his face. His ankles were snugged together with leather straps over his boots.

  I inspected him with mage-sight, seeing the energy patterns like lacework over his body. “Take off his boots,” I instructed.

  At the words, Cheran bucked up and Rupert promptly sat on his back. The small mage whuffed out a breath at the weight.

  “I always get the nasty jobs,” Eli complained to no one in particular. Giving the mage a halfhearted kick, he bent down, saying, “Hope you ain’t got smelly feet, bro.” Eli grabbed a boot and pulled, as the mage kicked and fought, both of them grunting for breath. A moment later Eli said, “He’s got his ankles locked.” With a wicked grin, he added, “Want me to cut ’em off?”

  “Yes,” Audric said.

  Cheran made a strangled noise and relaxed his ankles. Quickly, Eli slid the boots off. Conversationally, he said, “I meant the boots, not your feet, bro. But whatever works.”

  Cheran struggled again, mumbling what sounded like “uck ooo,” and Eli chuckled. “Now, now. Watch your mouth. We got kirk elders nearby. Wouldn’t want to get branded, and scar up that pretty face. Hey, senior champard,” he said to Audric, holding up the boots, “I really like these. Mother, may I?”

  “Spoils of war,” Audric said.

  Eli wasn’t much larger than the mage, and as he pulled off his own boots, replacing them with the nearly priceless mage-boots, I knelt in the snow and peeled down Cheran’s right sock. Against his skin was a circlet of gold and copper, the wires braided and wrapped and shaped to fit his leg without chafing. It fit him so perfectly there were no marks, no blisters. Mage-work had gone into both the creation of the conjure and fitting it to his limb.

  “Mamma mia. That looks nasty,” Eli said of the twisted wire.

  “It is,” I said. “Very nasty.” Cheran bucked and writhed. Rupert rode the struggles like riding an untrained horse. I worried about his back, but smelled no fresh blood on the air and hoped the healing stones I had bound there were working. When Cheran wore himself out, I rested a knee on his calf and inspected the amulet.

  Th
ere were many kinds of conjures, from the simple ones I usually employed—incantations to heat bathwater or to spark the flame on my gas stove—to complex conjures that moved storms over places of drought or shielded entire cities. This amulet contained a complex conjure. It glowed with peculiar energies, and as I studied it, I decided my first impression was right. This thing had dangerous mojo.

  Careful not to touch the wires, I nudged Cheran’s foot over. The talisman was imbued with curious patterns, in colors I associated with Darkness, though it smelled of mage energies, not brimstone. Because I had made the marble egg, I recognized the amulet was a relay, a switch to draw on stored power. It was a link to a formidable energy sink, more potent than the energy sink that powered the shield over the loft and shop. The sink activated by this talisman had to be ten times bigger, and because Cheran was a metal mage, it had to be stored in metal, tons of metal dedicated to one conjure. Metal was rare and growing more scarce. I had no idea where sufficient unclaimed metal could be found, but wherever it was, it was primed for activation.

  The talisman controlled way too much power to carry around safely, proving that Cheran had great control. Without it, he could go blooey, a very messy way to die indeed, scattering bits and pieces of himself as he took out half the town. Or half of the state where the sink was.

  I wondered why he needed so much power, and doubted that the entire neomage council that licensed and sent him knew about it. If not, this was proof of something sinister in the ranks of the Enclave council. A shadow council? I should tread carefully here. Should but wouldn’t.