The Archbishop's Amulet (The Windhaven Chronicles Book 2)

by Watson Davis

  “Caldane.” Fingers snapping, Fi Cheen raised his hand, glaring at me. He pointed toward the wights. “You know the drill. Feed them.”

  I bowed, not low enough to give him much respect, but low enough that I wouldn’t be punished for insolence. “Yes, master.”

  One hand steadying the yoke, I grabbed the boy’s neck, and shoved him ahead of me, over to the feeding area where the overseer had the wights queuing up before a wooden trough, forcing the boy to remain on his feet until we arrived.

  Once we were there, once I let go of him, the boy fell to his knees, holding his hand over his nose trying to keep the stink out—there was no keeping the stink out—and staring at the horror before us, the graying bodies decomposing even as they staggered around, each wight groaning with their pain, shambling toward the side of the pit where we were. The yoke slid from my shoulders, easing the baskets and buckets to the ground without spilling a thing.

  Feeding time.

  “Come on.” I grabbed the boy beneath his arms and picked him up, setting him on his feet. “Don’t get too close and don’t get bit, or I’ll be feeding you along with them.”

  I pitched the first bucket into the trough, the fouled water pooling up at the bottom. Not waiting to see if the boy followed my lead, I tossed more of the noxious contents into the muck.

  The wights threw themselves at the trough, their mouths clamping down on anything that was once human. With both hands, I threw a thigh in, the water splattering up on the wights, on the remnants of clothes clinging to their emaciated, decomposing bodies, their groaning and moaning frantic, almost comical if it weren’t so disgusting.

  We emptied a basket, another, setting them aside as Fi Cheen waited behind us, peering out at the mountains and the clouds, Lyu-ra at his side.

  “Just like feeding the pigs back home, eh?” Lyu-ra said, grinning at Fi Cheen, the grin fading at his exasperated glance, at his disgusted breath.

  “Take them back to the cell when they’re done.” Fi Cheen stalked off.

  The last dregs of the last basket plopped into the trough, and the boy smiled up at me. “My name is Rucker.”

  I sighed.

  I do not need to know your damned name. I do not want to know your damned name.

  # # #

  The gong of arrival sounded rich and full, reverberating through the monastery, a call from the gate, from the guards on the watchtowers. A new batch of souls for sacrifice, of human slaves for work duty, of undead wights for heavy labor, had arrived. A blessed break from the monotonous toil of building the new hall, Fi Cheen gestured to Syo-see, his senior assistant. “Continue the work.”

  Syo-see bowed deep, with much respect, her fist in her palm. “Yes, Master Fi.”

  He watched the new assistant beating on the boy with her fists, kicking him in the ribs, the Onei boy on one knee beside them watching, his hand resting on a stack of stones beside some of the worker’s tools. Fi Cheen waved his hand toward the new assistant, saying to Syo-see, “Relieve the useless girl. I believe she’s had a long day, and has forgotten herself.”

  “Of course, master.” She bowed once more.

  Fi Cheen nodded, and strode down the path to the Dragon’s Gate, his left fist pressing into his lower back, holding his head high, his right hand in a loose fist before his chest as was the fashion in the empress’ court. His thumb caressed the onyx ring on his forefinger, the ring of his office, a source of power.

  Lower rank monks, a group of acolytes who looked too young to even set foot in the monastery, jogged from their study halls and their current work duties to form up in ranks before the gate. They moved their hands in unison, sliding their feet apart, chanting a magical phrase. Arms shaking, they pressed their hands up, finger’s breadth by finger’s breadth, beads of sweat forming on their brows, their chanting growing more ragged with each repetition.

  The gate, a hulking collection of iron and wood, rose a hand’s breadth from the ground, the guards yelling down at the acolytes, a few words of encouragement, but mostly crude and vulgar comments about their mothers, sisters, and the acolytes’ own sexual habits.

  Fi Cheen sighed, stifling the smile threatening to appear on his face, walking to the edge of the main path, shaking his head at the acolyte’s substandard technique, and the guards’ lack of general creativity.

  “Are these your charges, Overseer?” a rich, basso voice said from behind him.

  Fi Cheen spun, bowing with utmost respect, staring down at the tiles in the pavement, at Archbishop Diyune’s pointy-toed silk slippers, red and black with gold stitching. He said, “No, Archbishop, sir.”

  “Are they a new batch of acolytes?” The archbishop stood, tall and proud in his rich silk robes embroidered with dragons and clouds, his eyes hooded beneath heavy lids, appearing bored, left hand behind his back, his right hand before his chest, his fingertips touching the golden amulet hanging from his neck. His mustache hung down from his upper lip to his chest, the hairs long and black, his eyebrows thick and bushy, his head shaved bald.

  One of the junior masters, one of Fi Cheen’s newest assistants, the one who’d lost her temper and been relieved by Syo-see, sprinted from the direction of the slaves’ quarters, yelling at the young acolytes, correcting their form, taking a spot with them, showing them how to perform the spell first-hand. She was a shapely junior master, and he made a note to learn her name.

  “I believe they are, sir,” Fi Cheen said. “And assigned to the new junior master recently assigned to me. I fear I have much work to do to bring her up to an acceptable standard.”

  “Yes,” the archbishop said, never turning his eyes to Fi Cheen. “You do.”

  With the junior master aiding them, the iron and metal gate creaked, rising with greater and greater speed, until it slammed against the uppermost bracket, the acolytes holding their position, their hands shaking, sweat pouring from their brows, running down their cheeks, dripping from their chins, the junior master’s face a mask of fury.

  The guards pulled their levers, locking the doors into place. “All clear.”

  General Esmela Silverhewer, bane of the Onei, trusted Hand of the Empress, a giantess from the world of Stone standing nearly as tall as two tall men combined, her skin gray with patches of green moss, her hair white, drawn back into a ponytail, with tusks similar to an orc except larger jutting up from her thick lower jaw, her grey eyes oddly human set in her stony brow, swinging her massive hammer at her side, strode through the Dragon’s Gate into the outer yard. A platoon of imperial soldiers, orcs and humans, trailed behind her, herding a new batch of slaves into the monastery: not just children this time, but also the spoils of war, magic-users and enemies of the empire with magical aptitude, even a few blue-skinned coulven witches, a nice batch of souls for the next few sacrifices, along with non-magical slaves, and the undead wights, people whose own treasonous thoughts and actions had resulted in their enthrallment, their turning.

  The general approached the archbishop and Fi Cheen, swaggering, smiling. Fi Cheen bowed, backing off to the archbishop’s side, knowing his place.

  The general set her hammer down on the dirt, the very earth trembling beneath its weight. She inclined her head, bending at her waist only slightly, a lack of respect that grated on Fi Cheen’s nerves, an affront to the archbishop, an affront to the monastery, an affront to him. She said, “Archbishop, I bring you the spoils of war.”

  “So I see, and I thank you,” the archbishop said. “Although I am—”

  “I need more than a thank you.” The general placed her fists on her hips, peering down at the archbishop. “I need troops. I need at least a new brigade and five new shaman.”

  “Odd.” The archbishop raised his hand, turning it over to inspect his fingernails. “Your reports have been glowing, the war effort proceeding as expected, the Onei in retreat, the last remaining states on this continent begging for mercy, their armies collapsing before you like fields of wheat and barley. Wasn’t that in your last report to t
he empress?”

  “Just so.” The general nodded. “And here I thought you’d been sleeping during my reports. But Nayengim is a fair voyage away even with the favor of the gods, and I have immediate needs.” She turned, her arm rising, indicating the slaves in the yard, collars around their necks, manacles around their wrists. “I have brought you souls for your spells to get me what I require. I formally request you cast those spells.”

  “We performed the sacrifices last night when the harmonic resonances were at their most attuned.” The archbishop spread his hands. “I would have to consult the charts, but at least another fortnight will pass before a suitable alignment occurs.”

  “No,” the general shook her head, her voice rumbling. “Now. Tonight.”

  “Would you have me use up these precious new souls you’ve brought me fighting through the dissonances?” the archbishop asked.

  “That bit you just said?” The general pointed down at the archbishop and winked. “The answer would be yes to that. I don’t care how many of these enemies you go through, get me that brigade.”

  The archbishop stared up at the general. Fi Cheen wondered what he might say, but the archbishop looked back at Fi Cheen, gesturing toward the slaves, saying, “Overseer. Please take our new charges and assign them to the appropriate cells.”

  Fi Cheen bowed. When he turned, the junior master who’d had such a hard time with the opening of the gate waited before him, looking up at him with her big dark eyes, her face clear and pure. He said, “You heard the archbishop, get these new bodies to their proper places.”

  Pain enveloped Fi Cheen, a burning weakness clutching his heart, billowing out through his limbs. Falling to his knees, he cried out in agony, “Forgive.”

  “I did not say for her to take them,” the archbishop whispered, fingertips pressing on his amulet. “I said for you to take them. Do not cross me, overseer.”

  The pain relenting, Fi Cheen scrabbled around, remaining on his knees, turning toward the archbishop, placing his forehead on the ground. “Yes, Archbishop. Of course.”

  The general laughed, a sound not unlike an avalanche crashing down on a herd of cattle.

  # # #

  The monk at the door, a bored girl, handed me a piece of bread and a dented cup of water. I stumbled through the door into the sacrifices’ cells, my home for longer than I wanted to remember, the other sacrifices moved out of my way in deference to my survival, to my age, all of them just babies, none of them having seen my sixteen years. Beneath a iron-barred window, I took a spot in the northeast corner, my corner, and I sat down on a pile of moldy straw, sipping at my water, tearing into the bread, my hand shaking with hunger.

  Rucker limped in, his gait worse now that he had an audience to play to, one eye swollen shut, his lip cut and swollen as well. The other sacrifices flocked to him, chattering, asking him questions, glancing back at me, afraid I’d see them and be angry, afraid I’d hear them and yell at them, or something, their whispered questions not so low I couldn’t hear them, about whether I’d beaten him.

  Like I’d ever yelled at any of the brats, let alone struck any of them, and they couldn’t know about what I’d done during the sacrifices. Peering up from beneath my brows, I glowered at them, and they shrank away, holding on to each other.

  Rucker thrived on the attention, his eyes coming alive, telling his story in hushed tones growing louder and louder as he proceeded, his audience soaking up every word, gasping at the horrible remains in the altar room, screaming in fear upon hearing of the wights and their feeding, pulling away in terror of the thrashing Lyu-ra gave him.

  The doors to the outside opened, the whole cell brightening with the influx of light. More people filed in, silhouettes at first, growing clear the further they entered, collars on their necks, manacles binding their hands, all chained up together. More sacrifices.

  I didn’t want to look, didn’t want to see, the fresh young faces, innocent, scared, no clue about their fate nor how close they were to it. A darkness tightened around my heart, rage building in my chest, but I couldn’t stop myself from scanning their number, hoping to discover another Onei like me, even though I’d never want another Onei in this place, especially one I knew and loved.

  This time the ranks held more than children, several adults trudged along, beaten and bloody, heads hanging, one man’s eyes having been removed, blood streaming from his mouth, down his chin and the front of his shirt, his tongue having been cut out, a powerful magician now unable to cast a thing. Not just humans, seven blue-skinned, white-haired coulven wore manacles and approached the cells to be added to those to be sacrificed, the alien magic infusing their souls to be released and used for the benefit of the very empire they’d come here to fight, all the way from another world only to fail, be defeated, enslaved.

  Among the men, a young man of about my age in tattered linens swaggered, a southlander from the look of him, like Rucker, with brown hair cut short, pale skin smudged with dirt, brown eyes proud and angry, the haughty expression on his features of someone unused to taking orders.

  And then there was the girl.

  A coulven, one of the Summoned come here to fight against the empire, with blue skin and eyes, her white hair pulled back in a rough ponytail with wild strands hanging down over her face, dark blue tattoos encircling her eyes, she appeared younger than the other coulven, her body lithe, athletic, but I could not judge her age. She bent as she walked, helping the children around her, her lips moving, no doubt lying to them, telling them things were going to get better, that they’d be safe, that their lives wouldn’t become nightmares. People like her, people with hope, died quickly here, sometimes even before they were sacrificed, their hearts ripped out by the reality of this damned place.

  I pitied her. In a way, I envied her.

  Her sky-blue eyes rose, meeting mine. My heart forgot to beat. Something like lightning cascaded through my body from the top of my head to the soles of my feet. My eyes dropping down to my food, I tried to will my heart to resume beating, to will my lungs to breathe once more. I gulped.

  Glancing up, my eyes found her immediately. She smiled. I tore my eyes away from her, directing them back to the bread in my hand.

  The monk shoved each one of these new arrivals through the door, where they stumbled through looking around, the other sacrifices welcoming them, showing them in, at least until the men and the coulven pushed through.

  The young sacrifices shied away, afraid of the adults, even the kids who’d come in with them. Rucker walked forward, talked to the new arrivals.

  I didn’t look their way, acting like I wasn’t listening as Rucker wove together a steady stream of words seemingly without needing to take a breath, all so fast I don’t think anyone understood all of it.

  Jamming the last bit of bread into my mouth, my stomach begging me for more, I held my cup in my hands, peering down at the surface rippling back and forth, each beat of my heart creating new ripples, wishing the gods could hear my pleas and give me aid. My collar snapped and crackled, burning my skin. I winced, jerking my head back.

  Rucker had gone silent, his endless stream of words interrupted. I peeked up, Rucker held the blind man’s hand, leading him toward me, the coulven girl and the young man not far behind, a triumphant grin on Rucker’s face.

  “This is Caldane the Onei.” Rucker gestured toward me, not that the man could see. He deepened his voice, adding a melodramatic flair like an elder telling a story around the campfire at night. “He’s the only one to ever survive the rituals.”

  I jumped to my feet, dropping my cup, wiping the straw from my clothing, bowing to the teenager and the coulven girl, my breath catching a little when I looked at her. I took the man’s hand from Rucker, encircling his hand in mine, bending over them. “It is my honor, sir. Please have a seat here.”

  The teenage boy pushed his way forward, interposing himself between the man and I, swatting at my hands, pushing them away. “He is Silmon, crown prince of M
orrin, and he will not be pawed at by some vermin Onei.”

  “Cole?” the girl said, a shocked expression on her face. Rucker stood wide-eyed and slack-jawed, his eyes darting to me, to this Cole person.

  My eyes on Cole, judging him, his strengths and weaknesses, his ability to fight, I raised my hands and backed away, biting back my anger.

  Lord Silmon moaned, a horrible sound, pitiful. He shook his head, placing his left hand on Cole’s chest, beckoning me toward him with his right, his eyeless face looking in the general direction where I had been.

  “That’s fine,” I said. “I understand how the southlanders feel about my people.”

  “I think we’d be better over there.” Cole pointed at an empty space by the door.

  Lord Silmon shook his head and pointed down at the ground with authority.

  “Sil,” Cole whispered. “Don’t do this. He’s an Onei.”

  Lord Silmon pointed toward the ground once more.

  I backed away, deeper into the corner and knelt. Cole and the girl helped Lord Silmon sit, holding his arms, guiding him. As he sat, he groaned like an elder, but I studied his ravaged face, the skin of his neck and hands. He was not so old at all, merely weathered by tough times.

  Cole stood, crossing his arms, putting his back toward me, putting himself between me and Lord Silmon.

  The girl knelt beside the man, ministering to him, her attention focusing on him, giving him his bread, concern on her face as he winced while he chewed, settling his water cup into his hand.

  Rucker backed away and knelt before them, gnawing on his crust of bread, watching them, eyes darting to each one of them, to me, each one of them as alien to him as they were to me, as I was to him.

  When the man had finished, the girl broke off bread for herself, nibbling at the crust. She leaned to the side to catch my attention, peeking around Cole’s legs. She nodded her head, speaking in a smooth, throaty voice like one of the stringed Nayen musical instruments, saying, “I am Aissal of the World of Winds.”