by J. C. Staudt
“You must understand,” Dominique said. “We are in a difficult position here in the city south. Our internal resources are abundant, and we share from our bounty whenever possible. But were we to share too freely, or allow heath—outsiders to roam our grounds, this thriving little society we’ve built would never last.”
“You sure that’s necessary?” Will asked, flicking a finger up at the Cypriests.
“Rather necessary, I’m afraid. As I mentioned, our protocols are nothing personal. They’re simply a matter of precaution.”
Will raised a skeptical eyebrow and rubbed his neck. “Say, uh… speaking of them resources you was talking about. That there key we found… we heard it’s awful valuable to y’all. Heard it opens some kind of hidden catty-cooms or other. You wouldn’t happen to know what that’s all about, would you?”
“I can’t say I do. Was that the reason you stopped by? To search for these… catty-cooms, was it?”
“Yes’m. Figured it was worth a look. You mind if we take a quick gander around the property? Reckon we could split the profits if we found anything.”
“I’m afraid that won’t be possible,” Dominique said.
“Just a quick one. Promise. Stick a needle in my eye and everything.”
Sister Dominique glanced at Father Kassic before she spoke. “No. For reasons previously mentioned, I cannot allow that. Might I ask how you came into possession of this key?”
“Got it off some shepherd,” said Will. “He was bleedin’ out pretty good at the time. Said he got it here, and he was on his way to look for more of them catty-cooms. Only one he knew about was here, under this church.”
“Was anyone else listening when he said this?”
Will narrowed his eyes. “Weren’t nobody there but me and Jal. Why’d you ask?”
Dominique turned to Toler. “You know I can’t let you leave. It’s against the Order’s rules.”
“Y’all gonna have to make an exception,” Lokes said, fingers twitching at his sides.
Jal took a step forward. “Let’s work something out, here. Ain’t no reason we can’t—” Her voice broke off, seizing up as if she’d been punched in the stomach. She swayed on her heels, then withered and fell.
Will lunged out to catch her and lower her to the ground. Jal began to twitch and gasp, sucking air through a thick-tongued windpipe. Sometimes dead bodies twitched like that while they were deep in the pangs of rigor mortis, or thanks to any number of the strange postmortem phenomena with which Bastille had become so familiar.
Her thoughts shifted to Brother Travers and his sick fascination—no, his sexualized obsession—with the dead. She shuddered, then refocused on the woman. There was no quarrel in Jal’s back. The Cypriests stood on the parapet above, their crossbows aimed and loaded. Jal was still convulsing, but somehow Bastille did not think she was dying.
“What’s happening?” Toler asked.
Will didn’t reply.
“Vicky, you’ve got to do something,” Toler said. “Jallika is a Calsaire.”
A strange look came over Dominique’s face. “A sandcipher?”
“Yeah, whatever. Same thing.”
“Not so.”
Dominique looked at Will. “Are you are a Calsaire too?”
Will’s attention was transfixed on his companion. He didn’t answer.
“Excuse me. Let me by.” Dominique waited for Will to move. She bent over Jal and lay her hands on the woman. The night air came alive with the warm glow of her fingertips.
Jal heaved a breath of surprise and relief. Dominique moved her hands to cradle the woman’s neck; her fingers lit again.
This time, Jal shot upright as if waking from a nightmare. “Was that the end?”
“No,” said Dominique, as though she knew exactly what the question meant.
“I felt the end. I felt it like it was—about to happen.”
“You are close to it.”
“How close?”
“As close as you’ve ever been before, except on one occasion. And that did not go well for you.”
Jal’s eyes came to rest on Will’s. Her vacant expression took on a sobered cast. “Will. I…”
“What, Jal? What is it?”
“I saw the end. I felt it. Again. Like in the mall.”
He frowned. “What are you rambling about? The end of what?”
“The world.”
Will looked around. “Dunno if you noticed, buttercup. World’s done over already.”
“You want to meet your end,” said Dominique. It was not a question.
Jal gave a shallow nod.
“You will not find it here.”
Toler stood above Will and the two women, looking as though he wanted to go to Jal but wasn’t letting himself. The sky was dark now, the starwinds blooming overhead.
“I want my end,” Jal said, wiping away tears.
“You mustn’t go near it. You cannot stay here.”
“What’s this all about?” Toler asked. “What does she mean by her end?”
“I will say no more,” said Dominique.
“Answer me,” Toler said. “You’ve had these powers your whole life, and in fifteen years of marriage to my brother you never used them once, to mend a scraped knee or fix a broken bone? You never told Dax who you really were?”
“There were times,” Dominique began, “when Savannah was too young to know the difference, and no one else was around to see.”
“How could you be so selfish? If I could do that, I’d tell everyone.”
“It’s not that simple,” she said. “Do you remember how sick I was back then?”
“That’s why you left Dax, isn’t it? You didn’t want to burden him with your sickness. He would’ve bent over backwards to take care of you until your dying day. In fact, a lot of times he did.”
“That isn’t why I left. I loved him. You know I loved him.”
“Bullshit,” Toler said.
“Believe what you like. I never meant to stay with him so long. I should’ve moved on from Bradsleigh many years before I did.”
Toler snorted. “Wow. You should’ve left him sooner, huh? Dax would’ve been ecstatic to hear that. He gave you everything, and it still wasn’t enough to make you happy.”
Dominique raised her voice. “It wasn’t about happiness, Toler. I had a responsibility.”
“A responsibility where… here? This city is a cesspit. Sure, Bradsleigh’s no picnic either, but why trade that for this?”
She sighed. “The Aionach is fading, Toler. I’m doing what I can to slow it.”
“Oh, so now you’re some kind of self-appointed savior? You’re more delusional than I thought.”
“The world is working against all of us.”
“You want to stop the world from becoming an uninhabitable scab? Try doing something that actually helps people get by.”
“There was a time, long ago, when I thought I could stop it. Now I fear it’s too late.”
“At least you’re in perfect health again. Shame you didn’t make your miraculous recovery back then so Dax didn’t have to spend the last few years of his life constantly worrying about you.”
Sister Dominique’s posture shifted. “I can’t change what’s happened. Nor would I, if given the chance. My time for such things has passed.”
“Great. Dax always thought you left because you didn’t love him anymore. Now my idiot brother’s dead, and he’ll never know you left him to join some coffing cult. Probably just as well. Do you understand how long he spent looking for you, Vicky? How much it hurt him not to know? I hated him… but I also felt sorry for him.”
Sister Dominique was silent for a long time. Bastille heard her sniff, saw the starlit reflection of moisture in her eyes. The high priestess folded an arm across her chest and buried her mouth in her knuckles. Her body began to shudder.
“I hope you feel like shit about that,” Toler said. “You deserve to.”
“I know,” she said, her vo
ice thick with grief. “I know. I do, Toler. I didn’t want to go. I wrestled with it for so long.”
“I’m sure.”
“I had to do what was right.”
“You have a daughter who grew up half an orphan, thanks to your doing what was right. Now she is an orphan, or she might as well be. And that Merrick dway I told you about… if he’s your son, I can see how he got to be such a loser.”
Merrick. Bastille had heard that name before. The Scarred soldiers who’d helped her three pupils escape the basilica had mentioned Merrick, the healer in the city north. Bastille could only assume Toler was referencing a snippet of conversation she’d missed while running through the basilica. He claims Merrick is Sister Dominique’s son.
Dominique took a moment to compose herself. “What’s he like?”
“I just told you. He’s a loser. He works some shitty night watchman job for the Scarred, or something like that. He has this power like yours, but he hates it. You’re both a couple of crackpots. I hope Savvy doesn’t turn out—wait, she doesn’t have it too, does she?”
“There’s no way to tell until it begins to manifest… or doesn’t,” Dominique said.
“I hope it doesn’t. I don’t want her turning out like Merrick. Or you.”
“Whether it happens or not,” said Dominique, “the worst thing you could do would be to interfere. You’d do far more damage than if you let her discover the gift for herself. There may come a day when I must call my children to me, but in the meantime they’re better left alone.”
“You have other kids? Besides Merrick and Savvy?”
“I’ve lived a long life, Toler. I’ve seen places. Done things. My children are everywhere, though I share less than a drop of blood with many of them.”
Toler shook his head. “You’re a real piece of work, you know that? I never understood what Dax saw in you.”
Sister Dominique pressed her lips together as if to withstand the verbal blow. “Normally I would have no authority to spare your lives. It’s against the Order’s laws to let anyone out once they’ve stepped through our gates and learned our secrets.”
“Coff on the Order’s laws,” Toler said. “We haven’t learned any coffing secrets. We don’t know a thing about this place. All Will and Jallika heard from that dway were the same old rumors everyone already knows.”
“Such as?”
“The men with crossbows on your walls. The purple robes. The fact that you’re all a bunch of psychopaths. Come to think of it, this is the perfect place for you, Vicky.”
Again, Dominique shifted as if to brace herself from Toler’s scorn. “I’m going to let you leave. I’ll accept the consequences of my disobedience. Your body is whole now. I hope you find your way home without further trouble.”
“Yeah… have a nice life,” Toler said. “Whatever it is you all do in here.”
“I understand if you can’t forgive me for everything that’s happened, Toler. Your brother loved you very much, though he didn’t always know how to show it. I hope you can at least forgive him.”
Toler grunted his indifference. “Let’s get out of here before she changes her mind.”
Toler and Will helped Jal to her feet.
Dominique spoke directly to her. “As a member of the Guild of Calsaires, I hope I can trust you not to divulge anything you may have learned about our activities here. The Order of the Most High Infernal Mouth best exists in relative isolation. I think as a Guildswoman, you can appreciate the importance of that, even if you don’t understand the intricacies of our fragile existence.”
Jal gave her a blank stare. When she spoke, her voice was on the edge of breaking. “I don’t give a shit about you or your Order. This place could fall into a sinkhole tomorrow and I’d let it happen with a smile on my face. Open them coffing gates and let us out of here, you whore.”
Dominique turned her sour gaze toward the parapet. “Father Kassic?”
The Cypriests opened the gates.
“Before you go,” Dominique said, “bring me the gray horse.”
Toler brought the wounded animal hobbling over. When Dominique’s hands lit up, the hole in its chest closed.
For all the risky decisions Sister Dominique had made that evening, Bastille couldn’t help but admire her calm under duress. The high priestess watched as the three strangers departed into the night. She stood there looking out into the city until the gates closed in front of her and the Fathers resumed their watch from the walls.
As for Bastille herself, she retreated to the south courtyard as soon as the strangers were gone, and did not speak a word of what she had seen that night for a long time.
CHAPTER 41
Undercurrents
Lethari Prokin rested in the shade of the high canyon walls, surrounded by loose-running livestock and what was left of his feiach. Death lay all around him. The trade caravan had been a greater challenge than he’d planned for, and casualties were heavy on both sides. The pale-skins had learned their lesson and bolstered their defenses in the wake of Lethari’s previous attacks. There were twice as many shepherds for each flatbed, and many of the teamsters carried loaded firearms, which they had used with impunity instead of as a last resort.
Leaving Sigrede’s detachment at the factory camp in Belmond had hampered Lethari’s efforts, but the meager size of his remaining feiach was not the only reason the attack had gone poorly. Cean Eldreni’s men had mistimed their advance, leaving one of the caravan’s flanks open and unopposed. The shepherds had been able to mount a defense, allowing several traders, merchants, and hangers-on to flee the canyon on horseback.
“Pile the bodies,” Lethari told his men. “Make a fire. Burn everything.”
“Should we not bring our dead to Sai Calgoar for burial in the sky?” asked a shaken Luchlais Haredin.
Lethari shook his head. “We have not the strength of numbers to carry such a weight. These lathcu vehicles will never fit through the high mountain pass, nor climb the south road. We must lay our dead to rest here, consecrated in the fire.”
Luchlais did not like that answer. “That is no burial for a warrior of the king.”
“It is the only burial we can give them. Unless you would rather dig graves and suffer the beasts of the wasteland to exhume them.”
“That would be better,” said Luchlais. “Their bodies would return to the sand as they were meant to.”
Lethari was vexed. He had intended to use this great fire as a last ditch effort to slip the goatskin record beneath the pile and hope it burned hot enough and long enough to eradicate every last trace of the thing. Luchlais had the right of it, though; a man’s body was better honored when the scavengers of the land and the air were allowed to take it back for themselves. “You would refuse my order,” Lethari said.
“No, my lord. I would do your will.”
Lethari gave a sigh. “Find Ceallach Golandi and tell him to prepare the bodies for deep burial. We will return them to the sands.”
“You are gracious, my master,” said Luchlais. “Those who pass before us will not forget how we honor them this day.”
That night by the fire, there was no celebration. There was little cause for it after so hard-fought a struggle. Lethari stood alone with mug in hand, letting the fire’s warmth wash over him. He wished he could return to the days of his campaign southward, wherein he had met with success after success and risen to the heights of his ability. He felt anything but powerful now. Chasing pale-skins across the desert was weary work, and his warriors were tired of it, ragged from their long travels.
He wondered what would become of Amhaziel’s vision, in which he encountered the creature, both beast and man, and fulfilled his greater destiny. In times like these, he doubted it would ever happen. Maybe Amhaziel had seen it wrong. Maybe he himself had seen what he wanted to see, rather than what was.
He wondered also how Neacal Griogan and his feiach in the north underlands were faring in their conquest of the muirrhadi. He was glad
he wasn’t there; hunting rat-folk in the tunnels of their below-world home struck him as a tiresome pursuit. At least it was cool down there, and they could slay the beasts without compunction. Not that Lethari had ever hesitated to slay a deserving pale-skin. But the lathcui possessed a humanness the muirrhadi did not—a humanness one couldn’t help but feel while watching their lifeblood drain away.
Lethari had watched the life leave Sigrede Balbaressi, and he had been trying to forget ever since. His guilt over Sig’s death had crept over him slowly, like moss growing over a stone. Cean Eldreni’s accusations had fed that growth. One accused of guilt often dredges up other sins to feel guilty about, and Lethari had done plenty of dredging these last weeks.
He glanced at his tent, where the goatskin record lay tucked inside his satchel. He was tired, but he dreaded sleep. His nightmares of Sigrede discovering the record and telling everyone came nightly now. He woke each morning needing to remind himself Sigrede was dead and his secret was safe. He would be home soon to see Frayla and rest in her comforting arms again. To receive absolution from Tycho Montari and put this all behind him.
Lethari felt heat on his back. He turned to find himself half-surrounded by a group of warriors with torches held high and weapons drawn. They were mostly Cean’s men, as he might’ve expected. But there was one among them who surprised him.
“My Lord Lethari,” said Dyovan Angeides, stepping forward. “The time has come to free Cean Eldreni.”
Lethari laughed, though his heart was racing. “You come in force, as though you mean to take something from me. Yours is not a request. It is a threat.”
“Take it as you will, my lord. We will free Cean Eldreni one way or the other. We would prefer to do so with your leave, so we have come to ask it of you.”
“You do not have my leave. Cean is a danger. He has made threats against me and is unfit to walk free.”
Dyovan pinched his lips together. He nodded to the others, who walked away and left Lethari standing in the darkness beside the low-burning fire. They were moving in the direction of the slave cages.
Lethari considered following them. In his mind he walked beside them, issuing cautions against disobeying his orders; warning them of the consequences. But there would be no consequences this time. He knew that as well as they did. With Dyovan on his side, Cean would make a stronger case against Lethari when he went before the master-king.