26
Celeste Casmarus: The Casmarus Sisters
“Old Angel in the Ruin, I know you’ve forbade me to write to you anymore, but I don’t know what else to do. I’m alone, a sheep among wolves, and worse surround me. Oh how I wish I could be back with my comrades in the military, but I’m alone now. And wish to remain alone. I don’t want to share this danger. I’ve betrayed friends and allies for my safety. I’ve done horrible things for my safety. Pray for me. Pray for us. Our world is in far worse calamity than we’d imagined, and it disgusts me to see wisdom in that Apostate Emperor’s madness. Forgive me for being vague but I don’t want to put you into jeopardy if this letter were to be found. But I want to share this so that if I die, the truth of my intentions may be known. I have infiltrated one of the cults, the Cull of Ragnarok. They believe me to be a descendant of Sybilia Casmarus, the Empress Necromancer and Champion of Ragnarok. By Providence or curse, I share that evil one’s surname. I hope it to be Providence. For the moment, so long as they believe this, I am their ally and I am not in danger, but both will change. I will make it change. This may be my last letter. By Grace, I have been given this singular opportunity to travel close to the Holy City. Our Lady of the Four Drawn Swords has sent me to one of those Swords. He is gravely ill, though I don’t know how helpful I can be. But thanks to the Almighty, the cultists have let me go for this reason: that my refusal or absence my rouse suspicion. My Goddess, what have I done becoming involved with these things. Please, if appropriate, tell my sister that I love her, and I am sorry for never being there for her, for our parents, for blaming her for my failings. And that, she was right. I am selfish.”
-A letter from Genevieve Casmarus to the Doyenne of the Golden Lady
Sil ran out into the overcast night after Markus, sweet sulfur garbage smell assailing her immediately. Gagging with her hand over her mouth, she stumbled into the darkened alley and saw Markus’s figure lit by lamp light. He stood off in the street with his cannon drawn.
His cannon flashed and fired, but he lunged back as an attacker —the gray hatted man— came into view with knife glinting in his hand. He sliced too low and Markus slammed the butt of gun against the man’s head. Such a hard hit, Sil expected the attacker to fall flat on the ground, instead, he lunged himself into Markus’s chest, lifting him up before falling onto his back. Markus let out a groan, rolling to his side as the attacker readied his knife—
She pointed her palms at him and bent her elbows, conjuring a massive wind, this time readying an initiation spell for her body to counter the whiplash. She wasn’t going to injure herself again.
Her clothes began flapping. Rising wind flinched her eyes shut as a deafening whistle pierced her hearing. The wind intensified, stronger than she expected; she tried to weaken it, imagining a gentler breeze in her mind, but in the narrow alley, her wind spell magnified into a high-pitched whirl. No, no, this isn’t what I wanted at all! Sharp pain stabbed her ears, forcing her to prematurely release the spell. Her elbows bent from the recoil as the wind gust shot to the attacker. Before the man could react, his body hurled across the street and broke against the opposite brick building, sending fissure cracks spreading around the impact. He then fell limp onto the ground.
Sil grabbed her ears, massaging the pain away. “Sil, you loaf,” she scolded herself, her voice distant and muted. She should have minded her surroundings; Mother Morn Stella would have been embarrassed. Thankfully, Markus was as ignorant of magic, so he wouldn’t suspect anything wrong had happened.
Markus gasped, lying flat. “Thanks, Sil,” his hushed voice coughed. “Was that loud screeching from you?”
She barely made out his words, so she gave him a noncommittal nod before extending a hand to him. “I see you made it pretty far, Markus. Already in your custody, is she? May I speak with her?”
“Very funny, I was hoping to use that guy as a hostage,” he said as he took her wrist and rose up to his feet, but before he let go, Markus had clamped one side of the handcuffs onto her hand.
She yanked it free, but it was too late. The cuff dangled from her wrist. “You loaf,” she shouted, trying to push her hand through the small cuff hole. Useless. “For the love of the Goddess, why did you do this?”
“To save your life,” he said, grabbing his knee and coughing. “That’s twice you saved me, so I’m returning the favor.”
“Returning a favor? Like this?” Sil outstretched her cuffed wrist to him. “Mister Montgomery. Take. This. Off. Now.”
He shook his head. “Can’t risk you and Gene having a mage fight here in the city. And to be honest, Gene’ll kill you, Sil.”
“She certainly will not!” She shook her cuffed wrist again. “Now.”
He pointed to her ears. “Your ears are bleeding. I seriously doubt that’s what you wanted your spell to do.”
Sil wiped blood from her cheek and cursed.
“Cursing? Finally you’re one of—”
“You will not keep me from confronting my sister!”
“Stop shouting.” He fastened his hat back on his head before regarding her for a moment. Sil dangled the cuffs again, but he just shook he head.
“I will still follow you.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of,” he said, frowning. “Alright. Fine. When I take Gene in, I’ll let you tag along with us so you can talk with…or probably yell at her.”
“No,” Sil spat back, crossing her arms. “She is going back to the Temple.”
“Sil,” Markus said a tightening jaw. “You’re starting to get on my nerves.”
“Good. Now put those nerves to good use, and lead the way.”
“I can’t do this,” he laughed, shaking his head at the sky. “How did she expect me to keep such a naive, pompous, self-righteous” —”Dirty, aloof, self-serving,” Sil retorted with her own insults.— “child-woman alive.” Alive?
“What do you mean ‘keep me alive?’ Someone asked you to keep me alive?”
Markus pointed at her. “You can’t handle your own magic. You can’t handle that knife your hiding. You can’t even handle your own self. And you can’t take Gene back to the Temple.” He then spun and started for the end of the street with a limp a first, then a jog.
“Who is this ‘she,’ Sil shouted after him.
“Thanks for the help,” he replied instead. “But stay away. You’ll get in the way, and I don’t want you on my conscience. Oh, and remember what I said about not going back to the Temple.” Markus slowed at the corner before disappearing down the right side of the main street.
Sil snickered, wiping the blood on her mantle. She had ruptured her eardrums, but they would heal. This chance might never come again. Hurry.
She followed him back up the road to the same main street, well lit by oil lamps hanging above each of the building doorways. Few people were out now too, only two or three groups of older men smoking in dirty work clothes and strolling —more like stumbling and swerving— on both sides of the street. Some were quiet, other boisterous in laughter; all had the unmistakable mien of drunkards.
One group ahead spotted her and leered at her, coming to life from their stupor with hollering and laughing, making obscene gestures. She stuck her chin up, determined not to be cowed down, and hid her cuffs under her mantle before forcing her way through. They made some unsavory remarks as she passed but Sil refused to pay them anymore attention than they deserved. Instead, she scanned down both sides of the street for —there he was! Markus, with his brim hat on his head, one hand by his side, and the other slung to his chest, tried looking inconspicuous as he closed in on Gylur’s parlor. The oil lamp fixed atop the door was out and the curtains drawn, but light shone from inside.
He had stopped before the first window and leaned his back against the building. Sil crossed the street and soon joined him. Markus gave her an ‘unsurprised’ shrug when she turned up beside him. I won’t run because I’m shackled, she wanted to say, but she doubted he would take it in the courageo
us sense she wanted.
“Take this off,” she whispered, bumping her cuffed fist against his shoulder.
“No,” he mouthed in reply. “Just shut up and listen.” He pulled his hat over his eyes before leaning his head back against the wall, titling his ear toward the window.
Sil tried listening too when Markus flashed her an annoyed glance. “What?”
“If you’re going to eavesdrop, at least try to look like you’re not.”
She snickered, massaging her ears. The ringing had lessened, but she knew she’d suffering hearing loss for the months to come. “There’s no one but drunks out here anyway. Look over to our right, the two we saw dancing by the shop are out here dancing too.”
The male dancer bent his knee under a lamp and raised his hand to his partner. She took it, giggling. “Again,” she laughed as they began waltzing to an imaginary song.
“If you’re staying, make yourself useful and watch those two,” Markus whispered. “I don’t believe the emotions I’m sensing from them. And I don’t care what they drank, you can’t stay excited about dancing for that long.”
Sil eyed them, noting nothing strange about them. True, they danced terribly; the lead, the woman this time— Sil caught a glance from her partner; his eyes darted between her and Markus, too lucid and accurate to be intoxicated. Markus was right. They could be working for her sister. But she could win this, if only that blasted loaf hadn’t cuffed her. You are not doing well.
“Maybe we could depend on the local guardsmen. For a diversion.”
“Let me know when you see one. Can’t believe Landrie would leave this city so unguarded.”
Sil scanned the street and, no, there wasn’t anyone she would guess to be a local law enforcer. You still have use of your knife. Rush inside. Surprise your sister. Kill her before she bewitches you. No, that wouldn’t be a good idea; Gene may not even be there, and exposing her knife too early may reduce its effectiveness. Blasted!
“Stop frustrating yourself, Sil. I know what I’m doing. Stay back; stay alive.”
“So interested in my safety, are you?” She jabbed him again with her fist. “I want to know who asked you to look after me. You couldn’t possibly have known I’d go to Sato…” Unless…. The Doyenne had asked her to go there first. But hadn’t she and the Synod hired that coachman? “The Doyenne asked you to, didn’t she?”
“Forget it. I was angry. I lied,” he said, batting his hand at her so he could listen inside.
“I want to know. It would mean—”
“What? That you can ‘trust’ me now? Can’t you make any decision for yourself, or do you need your goddess to tell you what to think too? Never mind. Shut up and listen.” He returned his ear to the window, leaving Sil to wonder what he meant. If the Doyenne had asked him to look after her, it would mean they knew each other. That would mean his story about his family under the Palace might be true, and that more Chills infected were sent there. The idea began to dawn on her that maybe there was more happening here than she knew. How eager her sisters were to send her away to find Gene, and her friend Lyn kept silent. How eager was…the voice in her mind. And willingly, she agreed. ‘Naive,’ ‘proud,’ Markus had called her. What had the Doyenne said before Sil left? ‘Something is amiss,’ she remembered her saying. ‘For a very long time now. A darkness clouds our hearts and a zealousness has risen pride in us.’ Zealousness, dark clouds over her heart, pride. Use your knife. You will have to kill him too. Would those words describe herself too?
Sil closed her eyes and took in a deep breath. Why, she asked. Because your Goddess demands it. No matter what happens, I will not kill him, and I will not kill Gene. I will find a way to bring her to you. You will? The woman who needs a Hyliagor slave to keep her from facing crippling self-doubt and fear? What makes you believe you know more than me? A mind so potent, my idle thoughts give birth and death to civilizations. And while you are in doubt, should Gene be lost? He will take her to the Empire, even to the Emperor. How will she aid him in further desecrating the Sea Roar? Or perhaps lead him to the Black Monolith? Perhaps Gene would give him access to the Temple, to the Golden Lady, destroy all of the priests, all of your friends. Celeste Casmarus will be known as the defrocked disgrace who allowed for the destruction the Golden Lady. Her people slaughtered, enslaved, sold. Gene would never do that! They will say of you, accursed, of a long line of accursed— Why are you saying such things? Do as I command.
Sil leaned her head back and tried listening inside, but tears began cascading down to her clothes. ‘To the Golden Lady,’ the voice in her head had said. And ‘her people.’ Wicked, coercion, threats; nothing of her Valkyries; nothing of preserving the world; nothing of the mercy, healing, and love the Golden Lady was known for. Zandagor the Golden Lady wouldn’t speak like that. She couldn’t speak like that. Who are you? I am the one who has chosen you. What for? To be my Champion.
Markus grunted. “What’s the matter? Why’re you so upset?”
“Nothing,” she sniffled, wiping her tears. Focus, deal with it later. Yes, focus. She just had to get Gene back to the Temple, and then with Lyn and the Doyenne, they would sort out this strange voice.
“Sil,” Markus whispered, again. “Don’t worry, it’ll be all right.”
“Of course it will, you loaf,” she said, more out of reflex than backbiting. A drizzle began falling on her clothes, her bare head and neck, sending shivers down her body. She cursed her bare head, cursed her hurting ears, then cursed her sister, and cursed her runic-shackles now absorbing her magic and scalding her wrist. Cursing inwardly was all that kept her from screaming out. She couldn’t do this; her priest sisters knew she couldn’t do this, she knew she couldn’t do this, even the Doyenne expressed her doubts. Every where she turned, every action she took, every place she went, she didn’t know what to do or how to properly act. A life of a priest didn’t prepare her this; a life meant to die didn’t prepare her for this. Gene was right; everyone was right; she was too credulous, naive, unrealistic. A wasted life. Maybe, it would be better to let her sister kill—
“You know…,” Markus said, lifting his brim hat and eyeing her with his irritating smirk. “You don’t have to do what they say.”
“Don’t have to do what they say,” she barked, afraid her voice would crack otherwise. “Are you suggesting I give up my vows—”
“No, Sil. I mean your thoughts. Your emotions. You’re giving them way too much power over you. Everyone usually does. It’s why us gifted King-Makers are so good at what we do. Some of us are so good at it, we keep ourselves from feeling anything at all, afraid we’d influence ourself. Idiotic, I think. Our emotions work for us; we just need to remind ourselves that we’re the boss.”
“What’s your point? Am I to ignore how I feel and become a stone statue?”
He chuckled. “No, I wouldn’t want anyone to be like them. I know you’re feeling saddened, frustrated, afraid, yet determined, proud, and pious. —the latter is dwindling in favor of resentment, jealousy, and rising despondency; I can sense that too. But below it all, I sense a simmering rage swelling within you.” He looked down on her shackled wrist. “I’m glad I put those on.”
Sil slipped her hands under her mantle, her cheeks warming from feeling so exposed. “I thought you weren’t that gifted, and you sensed all that? Another lie?”
“No. MaCathy told you I wasn’t that good. Your thoughts and emotions made you believe him because they had been telling you along not to trust me. And you listened to them. That’s my point. They lied to you, could still be lying to you. Don’t trust them, not until you master them. …Fat chance that’ll be.”
My own thoughts lie to me? I do not lie. Such nonsense, she thought, her cuffed wrist burning. “My wrist is certainly runic-shackled. My ears hurt; I can’t hear well. My shoulder is starting to throb again. And you’re threatening to take away the whole reason for me being here.” And you are not the Golden Lady! Zandagor will side with me. She has nothing for which
to anchor herself to your world, and the Silence awaits her if she is expelled. “I have every reason, no, I have a right to be all those things you mentioned.”
“A right to feel the way you do? Wow,” Markus laughed. “You hear yourself? Who’s ruling who in your head. Fine. Be miserable. But I’m not going to help you if you decide to tag along.”
“But… you said you would, when I confront her.”
Markus rubbed his eye. “Let me try one more time. You know why I’m always happy? Because I acknowledge what my emotions are telling me, judge whether there’s anything to them, and then act to solve the problem. Notice, it’s me that’s acting. If I was like you —and no offense— I’d let my emotions slip me into a vengeful rage for what Gene had done to my family, but that. Does. Not. Get. Gene for me. So I decide not to listen to it and instead listen to an emotion that does help. I’ve got a good job, freedom, and the chance for justice, and I like being happy. So happy it is. But you’re such a wound up spring of suppressed tension, I wouldn’t want to be anywhere near you when when you finally go off. I know, I know, I’m asking too much. For now, pick an emotion you like, and use it to fuel what you want to do. That’s why you have them, to inform and serve you, not to let them rule the house.” Then he mumbled, “Thank the King-Maker none of my apprentices were as stubborn.” An emotion she liked? One that helped her? That was an easy answer.
“I like being angry,” she said softly. “It makes me feel safe and confident.” And she had tried all her life to make it disappear. What kind of dark dreadful irony was it that she’d need it now to confront her sister?
“Finally,” Markus sighed. “I get to meet the real Sil Casmarus. And I know what your thinking, and your right. Liking anger isn’t a virtue. You’ll have to know what that anger is trying to tell you instead of burying it down.” He chuckled. “Look at you sulking there like it’s the end of the world for you when it’s just starting. You remind me so much of my daughter when she started manifesting her skill. Six or seven. Suddenly being able to sense all her friends, neighbors —her mother and father. The darkness we hide from each other, that’s always there. We can’t help it; life is ‘brutish’ to use one of your words. It can harden the most angelic hearts. A tough lesson for us to learn at an early age, that inside of everyone’s heart is a piece of the madness of the Almighty, Ragnarok.”
Call of the Chosen- Broken Kingdoms Page 66