Children of the Wastes (The Aionach Saga Book 2)

by J. C. Staudt

  Toler shook himself free and stood on his own, wrists and ankles straining against the ropes. He said nothing and looked ready for anything, but Lethari could smell his fear all the same. Those on the factory floor quieted, gathering round to watch.

  “I saw your brother’s daughter in Bradsleigh,” Lethari told him. “The household is yours now, Maigh Glaive. You are free to take your inheritance.”

  Toler gave him a blank look.

  “That is what you will do when you leave here. Savannah has no one left to her now. You must see her cared for.”

  Toler’s brow furrowed. “You’re letting me go?”

  “With two promises. The first, that you will not leave your brother’s daughter alone in this world. The second, that you will tell your master… Vantanible… tell him his people will die by my hand so long as they continue to cross our sands. The master-king will have his due. Our soothsayers have seen your demise and have shown us the paths your caravans travel. No matter which trail you ride through the wastes, we will find you. And when we do, your lives and your riches are forfeit.”

  “You’re lying,” Toler said. “Your soothsayers can’t see shit. My brother didn’t travel all the way from Bradsleigh to Sai Calgoar just to say hello. He brought you a map of our movements. A map he stole from me.”

  Lethari struck him again. “Silence, mongrel. I am the one who speaks truth, and you the lie. Deliver my words to your master. Then decide how you will take your inheritance. Bring your family’s cargo vessels to Vantanible, and you will die with them.”

  A murmur spread through the crowd. Lethari could hear scattered words among them, words of mistrust and speculation. So Toler Glaive knew about the goatskin record. Perhaps I should silence him before my people start to believe what he says. But no, he did not think Toler meant to uncover his falsehood. The pale-skin didn’t know Lethari had kept the record secret. Sending him to Vantanible armed with a threat would serve the calgoarethi far better than killing him now. Besides that, Savannah needed someone. Surely her uncle would not abandon her altogether.

  “Vantanible isn’t going away, Lethari. Your attacks are nothing but a minor setback. Daxin is dead now, and that means all we have to do is change the routes and you’ll never get a leg up on us again. We’re coming back, and stronger than ever. As for my family, haven’t you done enough damage already? How about you stay out of my personal business and I’ll stay out of yours?”

  Lethari grunted. “So be it. If ever you find yourself in need of my favor again, I will remember this.”

  “You don’t get it, do you? Without trade, people across the Inner East are going to starve. Some will go thirsty for lack of clean water. Others will succumb to injury and disease without the right medication. You don’t own this land just because you were here first. Every person in the Aionach has to share this shithole of a planet. We all deserve a chance to survive. We might not all get there, but we all deserve a chance.”

  Lethari pointed out into the rain. “There lies yours.” He uttered a command to his men, who brought Toler’s horse around and let him mount. Then they untied him and handed him his effects.

  “Go,” Lethari told him. “You have much to achieve for foe and family. Come again if death is what you desire. My feiach craves after the blood of your people. You are strangers in our home, and a stranger who enters another man’s household as a thief does not deserve his mercy. Ride the wastes with your trade, and we will cut you down like grass until you learn the true might of the calgoarethi.”

  Lethari slapped Seurag on the hindquarters to send him bolting into the downpour. Toler snapped the reins and ascended the rise, fading into the haze beyond blinding sheets of rain.

  “Watch him,” Lethari said. “Be sure he leaves. Do not allow him back inside. And someone bring me the cloth I asked for.”

  The crowds dispersed and returned to their activities, lugging supplies, tending to the herds, guarding the slaves, preparing food, and sharing news between camp and caravan. Lethari trudged up the catwalk stairs, rubbing his throat and looking for a reflective surface in which to assess the damage.

  Diarmid Kailendi raced up after him and came alongside, hands on hilts. “My lord, you should not have let the lathcu go free,” he said, his tone sharper than was appropriate.

  “I owe you and your men a debt,” Lethari said, ignoring the challenge. “The pale-skin would have killed me.”

  Diarmid shook his head. “My master summoned me, and I came. That is all. It was a cruel stroke of fate that I did not arrive sooner.”

  “Set your humility aside, Diarmid. I have no need of it. The men you lead have no desire to see meekness in you.”

  “And what did you show them by giving the pale-skin your mercy? The feiach will think you have lost your taste for blood.”

  “My taste for blood has never been stronger. Look to the wagons if you doubt me. Our horses strain beneath the weight of the pale-skins’ treasures.”

  “If you did not wish to kill him, you should have taken him to slave. His life is of no greater worth than that of any other mongrel.”

  “That is where you are wrong, Diarmid. He is a Glaive, an ancestor of a great household. He wields influence over the affairs of the Black City and its traders. You will see, my captain. He has a purpose yet to fulfill.”

  In the office, Lethari’s chair lay on its side and the floor was smeared with blood. Men had already come to clear away Bael Verendi’s body. Armaen Yeilada would be no worse for wear once the warlocks bound his wound. The cloth Lethari had asked for was sitting on the desk beside his pack. His skin was dry by now, and reddened with irritation, but he wiped himself off anyway.

  “Is it true, what the pale-skin said?” Diarmid wanted to know. “Did his mongrel brother bring you foresight of the Black City’s caravans? Is that why your wagons are so heavy?”

  Lethari’s throat burned when he swallowed. He did not let his eyes wander to his pack on the desk, from which the goatskin still protruded. He kept his gaze on Diarmid and tried to overcome the dry rasp in his voice. “Toler Glaive did not lie. He only mistook the truth. His brother gave me many insights. These I surrendered to the master-king, who dispersed them amongst his warleaders. He gave some of them to you, did he not?”

  Diarmid nodded. “That was a long time ago, though.”

  “Toler Glaive is a dangerous man who would stop at nothing to see the calgoarethi destroyed. When he heard his brother had been helping us, he turned against him. Daxin Glaive fled to Sai Calgoar in fear, seeking safety in my household. The same man who tried to take my life today did the same to his own brother.”

  Anger descended onto Diarmid’s face. “Then why did you let him go?”

  “Because the first thing he will do is return to the Black City and provoke the lathcui to come against us.”

  “That would be a poor thing for us, my master.”

  “A war with the lathcu would be a fine thing. My feiach has crippled them. They are vulnerable. Their pride will blind them to their own weakness. And in their weakness, they will find only defeat.”

  “How can you be sure?”

  “Amhaziel has foreseen it. He has demonstrated to me the certainty of our triumph. See the flaw he has given me…” Lethari fingered his newest scars, the grisly chest tattoo now healed.

  “What is it?”

  “A creature, both beast and man.”

  “What does it mean?”

  “That, I have yet to see. But the fates have demanded it, and I have no doubt I soon will.”

  CHAPTER 31

  Closing In

  After the sand came the earthquakes. The basilica’s foundations, rooted deep in the earth, did not falter, even as Belmond’s distant skyscrapers shifted and crumbled. When the earthquakes subsided, the rains came. And the rains were the worst of all.

  Dark storm clouds doused the basilica in gloom for days, sickness and malaise spreading with the eerie glow of the starwinds. Schedules relaxed due to i
llness; progress faltered; and the planned trading excursions with the heathens of the city south were postponed. Brother Belgard would be forced to come clean about the empty storerooms any day now.

  Bastille had been looking for an opportunity to speak with Brother Lambret in private ever since she’d found Froderic’s urn in the Hall of Ancients. She couldn’t just stroll casually into his office, due to its proximity to Sister Gallica’s in the administration section. Then one day, she got her chance.

  Lambret was leaving the sanctuary after morning services, which had been sparsely attended all week. Bastille fell in beside him while he was on his way down the aisle.

  “Hello, kind Sister Bastille,” Lambret said.

  “Brother Lambret, you’re just the person I’ve been meaning to speak with,” she said.

  “How can I help?”

  “There’s a problem in the conservatory. Do you have a moment to join me for a look?”

  “Certainly. What seems to be the issue?”

  They exited the sanctuary and turned right toward the gardens, instead of left toward the dormitory hallway as Lambret had probably intended. Bastille’s heart pounded with the thought of Gallica spotting them together. She glanced around, hoping Brother Lambret wouldn’t catch on to her paranoia. “I was making my rounds this early morn when I noticed the corn patch beginning to wilt.”

  “A lack of daylight such as we’ve had lately is apt to cause the crops a certain amount of stress,” he said, slowing his pace. “The short year is not far off, though. I’m sure the gardens will recover nicely once the starwinds pass.”

  Lambret stopped walking, convinced he had provided an ample solution. The conservatory doors were a ways off, and Bastille didn’t feel safe broaching her true topic until they were within the thick of the garden greenery.

  “Humor me, kind Brother,” she said, taking a step and gesturing toward the doors.

  “Must I?” he sighed. “I’m very busy, you know.”

  “Yes, Brother Lambret. I know. You and Sister Gallica both. Everyone is frightfully busy these days, but there is an important matter I must discuss with you in private, if you wouldn’t mind.”

  Lambret’s eyes glazed over. “Lead on, Sister.”

  “There are things you may not enjoy hearing,” Bastille said.

  “That would be nothing new…”

  A moment later, they were deep in the gardens alone. Sister Usara and her minions had not yet resumed the day’s tending, so Bastille was reasonably sure they’d made it into the foliage unnoticed. “Brother Lambret, I’m afraid the situation has become quite dire.”

  “How so?”

  “I came to you because I didn’t know where else to turn. It’s Sister Gallica, you see… I believe she may be next in line to inherit. If she receives her Enhancements, that would leave you in charge of the entire basilica. You’d be responsible for everything. You may even be elevated to the Most High.”

  Suddenly Lambret was far more interested in the conversation. “I wouldn’t mind that so much,” he said wistfully.

  Bastille did believe Sister Gallica was next in line to inherit. She could not say which Cypriest would be next to retire, or when. Nor did she know for certain that Brother Lambret would be elevated, as she claimed. But there wasn’t much time to uncover Gallica’s schemes, and she needed Brother Lambret’s help. “You don’t know what you’re saying,” she told him.

  “Should I be concerned? Is there something you aren’t telling me?”

  Bastille gave a bashful shrug. “You’ve seen right through me, I’m afraid.”

  “What is it? Please, kind Sister. You can tell me.”

  “Can I? I think not.”

  “You can. You can, Sister Bastille. Let me assure you, I—”

  “How do I know you won’t turn around and make me regret it?”

  “I give you my word. I promise.”

  And thus, I set a trap of my own. “I have reason to believe Brother Froderic has been sneaking into our storerooms at night and smuggling supplies out to the heathens. He grows wealthy off the fruit of our toils. That is why he hasn’t returned in so long.”

  Lambret frowned. “That cannot be.”

  “Oh no?”

  “No, Sister. Brother Froderic is dead.”

  That was easier than I expected. Finally, someone who knows what’s really going on. Bastille feigned surprise. “What? How?”

  “He was killed. Murdered by savages, I hear.”

  “Where did you hear that?”

  “From Sister Gallica.”

  “Gallica herself? Then answer me this, kind Brother. If Froderic is dead, and Gallica knows it, why have the Most High elevated him?”

  “As a matter of fact, I asked her that very question. She dismissed me—told me there was a good reason, and that I should trust she had everything in hand and say nothing more about it to anyone. I feel bad now, having told you. I’m sure you’ve begun to learn by now what being one of the Esteemed is like… there are secrets everywhere, most of which we must keep to ourselves indefinitely. But what’s all this about Froderic stealing from our stores?”

  “Well,” Bastille said, balking, “I didn’t know it was him for a fact. He has always been the one in charge of our stores, so naturally I assumed it must be him. There are only four people in the whole basilica who have keys to the storeroom. Froderic, Belgard, Gallica… and you.”

  “Well, I can tell you it hasn’t been me or Gallica stealing from the rooms. Our oversight does not involve micro-managing the individual segments of the basilica’s day-to-day operations. A representative from each vocation reports to us once a week, and we commission the work that needs doing based on their reports. I don’t believe we’ve had reason to check the storerooms in months.”

  “I would consider doing so, if I were you.”

  Brother Lambret turned hostile. “How do you know all this, Sister Bastille? The keys, the storerooms, the crops… none of these fall in line with your responsibilities.”

  “I have always prided myself on knowing more than I should,” she said. “I often find myself having to shore up where others are lacking, so the knowledge comes in handy. You’ve made me reconsider.”

  “I confess, you’ve made me do the same. This business with the storeroom… how did you find out someone’s been stealing?”

  “Why, from Brother Belgard, of course. Surely you can’t believe he’s the one behind all this…”

  “I don’t see who else it could be.”

  “Perhaps Froderic’s key was misplaced, or it fell into the wrong hands. Is there any chance someone else got hold of it?”

  Lambret looked around to make sure they were still alone. “We have Froderic’s keys. Are you suggesting an outsider might be stealing from us?”

  “Not at all,” Bastille said. “An outsider would need both the storeroom key and one of the Arcadian Stars to get into the basilica. Not to mention they would’ve needed to avoid being noticed time and again. I think that’s highly unlikely.”

  “As do I,” said Lambret. “But we dare not accuse Brother Belgard of theft without just cause.”

  “No, I agree. It is possible that Froderic was the thief, and that the thefts have stopped now that he is dead.”

  “I should hope no further theft will take place,” Lambret said.

  “The real question is why the Most High elevated Froderic to the fourth seat even though they knew he’d been murdered. Any chance you could do a little more digging?”

  “Are you asking me to spy on Sister Gallica?”

  “I’m asking you to use your intuition, Brother Lambret. Pick up whatever clues you can without behaving conspicuously. Now that you know the Order is on the brink of a food shortage, promise me you’ll do what you can to prevent it. Brother Froderic’s elevation is related to this shortage, I have no doubt. Find out how, and we may save everyone in the basilica from starvation.”

  “Why are you doing this, Sister?”

&nbs
p; “Because our vow is to preserve the Order against all threats. Even those from within. We must stick together in times like these. Our mission is not to undermine the leadership, but to ensure the Order’s future.”

  Lambret straightened, nodding. “We’ll meet again in a week’s time. I’ll share anything new I’ve learned in the interim.”

  “I shall do the same, kind Brother.” She took his hand. “Should you rise to take Sister Gallica’s place among the Most High, I shall not forget your dedication to the Order.”

  “You are too kind,” he said. “Shall we?”

  “You go ahead. I think I’ll walk in the gardens for a while.” This only gets easier with practice, she thought as she watched him disappear through the undergrowth.

  When she was alone, the stream carried her to the grotto as if she hadn’t the will to stop it. She stood there looking at it for a time, letting it tempt her. The texts in the hidden library had not given her the answers she’d been hoping for. The desire within her was still strong. If the fates revealed themselves through communication with mortals, surely there was more yet to be learned. If she could only talk to him again; look into his face. Know what he knew.

  She remembered what Sister Dominique had told her. The moment you looked into his eyes, his will took root inside you. That’s why you were tempted to come to him again. Was that what had happened this time? Had she led Brother Lambret here with the intention of visiting the monster below, not realizing she had done so until now?

  If she descended into the grotto and was interrupted by the high priestesses again, it would be the last time. Gallica and Dominique can’t be watching me every second of every day, surely. And none of Usara’s underlings saw me enter here.

  The idea was tantalizing, but in the end the risk was too great. Who knew what sorts of powers Dominique possessed. Maybe she was listening in on Bastille’s thoughts even now. Maybe she knew her plans, her schemes. No, the very idea was absurd. Bastille pushed it aside and left the conservatory.