by Watson Davis
The prince whimpered. “Windhaven. Caldane going to Windhaven.”
Fi Cheen strode over to a blank patch of wall, raising his hand, calling forth his records, the overseer’s records, the magic displaying them on the blank wall. A few flicks of his wrist and the boy’s records appeared. Fi Cheen closed his hand into a fist, bringing the spell to an end. He wheeled around, nodding to the sheriff. “You may try to find the Onei’s trail in Fizer if you wish to test your mettle, but I would prefer you accompany me to the outskirts of Timyiskil to a certain brewery there first. We may catch him there. If not, we will meet the Onei in Windhaven.”
“Shouldn’t I return him to the monastery?” Renaud peered into the cell at the smoking body of the prince inside.
Fi Cheen considered Diyune’s reaction on learning of the sacrifices’ continued existence. “No. We’ll bring him with us. He may yet be of some use.”
# # #
“Please, please, make yourselves comfortable,” the abbess said, gesturing to empty chairs at the table, an indulgent smile on her old lips.
Voices, praying, chanting, whispering, filtered through the thick kitchen doors the abbess had shut behind them, the shuffling of feet, of laughter, sounds we had not heard outside the abbey walls. Sunlight, hot on my neck and back, flowed in through the stained glass, blues and reds and yellows in intricate swirling patterns, beautiful motes of dust hanging in the still air, air joyous with the fresh scents of the lunch recently eaten in this room.
I slid a delicate chair from beneath the table, the back carved with a scene from a story about the early days of the empress, when she sacrificed herself to the Nayen gods, the chair making a loud, rude sound as I dragged it across the wooden floor.
“Ah, I know just the ale to drink.” The abbess turned her back to us, opening a cabinet, rising up on the tips of her toes, reaching out her hand toward a jug too high up and too far back on a shelf for her to reach. The jug slid across the shelf to her hand.
The hair on the back of my neck raised, my magesight exhausted in town or I would have surveyed this kitchen—the large room empty, cleared out so the abbess could talk to us—to see what magic imbued this place and the rest of the abbey, to see the truth of what surrounded us, a truth I suspected at odds with the visible. I hoped Aissal, with her greater experience and strength, could still see but her eyes were just as wide as mine, her face just as tense as I imagined mine must be.
“Can I get you something to eat?” The abbess poured a honey-colored ale into the mugs, and set them before us.
Aissal and I shared a glance. Aissal shook her head in the negative, a small motion. I looked back to the abbess, smiled, and said, “No, thank you.”
“It’s no imposition.”
“Well,” Rucker said, sniffling, his eyes red, pouting his lips.
“Oh?” The abbess studied him, turning her head to the side, the edges of her lips rising. Claw-like hands caressing a canister on the counter behind her, she asked, “Does someone want a cookie?”
“Yes.” Rucker clapped his hands, eyes brightening, sliding into his seat.
I inhaled, peering over Rucker’s head at Aissal. She pursed her lips and shrugged.
The abbess reached into the canister, pulling out two cookies, her eyebrows raising. “Are you sure you two don’t want a cookie or three your own selves? Cookies make everything better, and ours are known throughout the land.”
“No, thank you.” Aissal bit her lip.
The abbess eased herself into a chair across from us, handing Rucker his cookie across the table, putting the second down before herself, and took a sip from her own mug, moaning with pleasure, her eyes closing. “Nothing in the world better than Fosler’s ale.”
“Fosler’s?” Rucker set his cookie down, already half-eaten, and grabbed his mug, guzzling the contents, the honey-colored liquid dripping down his cheeks and off his chin. “That’s my dad’s ale.”
“Indeed, it is.” The abbess sighed, still smiling, leaning back into her chair, appearing relaxed and at complete ease but her eyes seemed cold and hard and calculating. “General Silverhewer sent me a gift jug from his first batch.”
I raised my mug to my lips, sniffing at the contents, the scent of apples and cinnamon, of sugars and spices. My mouth watered, but I set it down, just in case. “I’m confused.”
“Aren’t we all?” The abbess took another eye-closing sip, and smacked her lips. “Tell me of your confusion, and I shall tell you of mine.”
“Rucker’s father is dead?”
Rucker’s head swiveled toward me, his eyes widening with fear. “What?”
“He is?” The abbess sputtered, springing forward, her eyes flying open. “When did that happen? How? Is that why you returned the poor boy without warning me?”
“His mother said so.” I peeked at Rucker and Aissal for support. “Right?”
Aissal nodded. “Yes, but she also said that Rucker had died some time long ago. That was his mother, was it not?”
“Well, yes.” The abbess nodded her head. “She is his mother. As is often the case, she was so distraught when he was selected for the monastery. We all thought it best her memories be adjusted to make her transition easier.”
“Adjusted?” Aissal asked the question before I could.
“A complicated spell but a most humane one, thank the empress, a spell to lessen her suffering.”
Aissal shifted forward, her forearms on the table, her face darkening. “You changed her memories so that she thought Rucker had passed away?”
“Of course.” The abbess reached out a wrinkled hand, taking the edge of the cookie between her finger tips, breaking off a piece. “Better a mother believe their child passed away years before, and now inhabits a pleasanter world, than to deal with the grief of knowing they have a child serving the empire, a child they’ll never hear from or see again, always wondering, always feeling that hole in their hearts, knowing something important is missing. This way, they remain productive. As you saw with Rucker’s mother. She works twice as hard now than she did before we sent Rucker to train in the monastery.”
“To train?” I asked. “You mean to be sacrificed to the gods?”
Her hand rose, placing the bit of cookie in her mouth. She chewed, swallowed, and said, “When a child—a special child like Rucker with the potential for significant magic—is taken off for training, their lives are sacrificed to the empire, to the empress, never to see their families again, their lives being dedicated to the greater good of the empire, to be trained in the fine arts of magic and instructed in the knowledge of the realms.” Her eyes narrowed, staring at me. “You of all people should know this.”
I gaped at her, my mouth hanging open, no words to say, no questions to ask, my mind racing.
“But, what happened to my father and who is that man with my mom?” Rucker asked.
“Your father serves with General Silverhewer, if you can call being the general’s brewmaster serving.” She lifted her cup. “Your being dedicated to the empire upset your mother. Even with our spells, the sight of your father reminded her of you, working away at the spell like rushing water on the banks of a stream, loosening its hold on her mind.” She shrugged, breaking off another piece of cookie. “To soothe her suffering, we decided to assign your father to a new position, a position with Silverhewer, and we inserted another man in his place, a good man, a hard worker. She will be happy again. Don’t worry.”
“So you sent Rucker off thinking he’d receive training in the magical arts so he could serve the empire?” I asked.
“It’s a great honor.” She leaned forward, toward Rucker, leering at him with a big, hungry smile. “You will be a man of power, one of the empress’ magicians, fighting against chaos and ignorance, bringing civilization to the whole of the world.”
“I think you are mistaken,” I whispered.
“They were going to kill me,” Rucker said.
“Oh, child.” The abbess shook her head. “I kn
ow it may seem that way. I remember when I went through the training in Leetyo-ke. It was hard and I didn’t think I would make it through, either. But I did. Everyone does. We would not have offered you to the monastery, especially a monastery as prestigious as the archbishop’s, if you did not have amazing gifts.”
“No, really.” Rucker stood, pushing his chair back with his legs, a stricken look on his face. “He tried to sacrifice me to demons and devils and things, tried to have me be ripped apart, my body spread all over the altar room. I’ve seen him do it.”
“Children. Such imaginations.” The abbess squinted, smirking, shaking her head, smug that she knew best, that Rucker was wrong. Her gaze returned to me, contemplating me, pondering me. “And now my confusion. Why did you bring him here? That’s against protocol, but you must have had some reason. Diyune must have had a reason.”
“Yes.” I grabbed the mug before me with my right hand, with my eyes locked on hers, unblinking, not looking away, my left hand sneaking down to my hip. I took a long slow swig.
The abbess, straightening up, sliding to the edge of her seat, no longer at ease, her hands in her lap hidden by the table, said, “I’ve heard of some Drow coulven in the empress’ service, but only one Onei.”
I sputtered, coughing, pressing my hand against my lips, my mind checking that my spell of disguise had not faltered.
She continued, “I saw them once, the empress and her servant Gartan, returning in glory after the destruction of Windhaven and the despicable Onei empire, no offense. When did you enter her service?”
Hurling my mug at her, the ale splashing into her eyes, my left hand wrenching my dagger from its scabbard. I jumped to my feet, knocking the chair backward to clatter to the floor, vaulting over the table, aiming my dagger at her chest, where her heart should have been.
Spitting the ale from her mouth, the abbess shouted a word, her hands rising up from under the table.
A gale of shrieking winds blew up from nowhere, flinging me up toward the ceiling before my blade touched her skin, tossing me back spinning heels over head to crash on the table, to bounce to the floor, my dagger spinning out of my grip. Aissal rose, chanting a spell, her hands flailing. The abbess staggered back, struggling to set her feet, moving her hands, shifting her wall of wind into a blast pummeling Aissal, surging past and striking the stained glass, shattering it, spewing it out into the gardens beyond.
On my belly, ogling the abbess’ legs from below the table, I pulled a dagger from my boot and threw it. The point entered above her ankle, at the junction between her shin and her foot, slicing into her, parting muscle from tendon from bone. She fell to her knees, screaming, her spell breaking, magical energy releasing in a backlash, a pulse that drove me across the floor, lifted the abbess from the ground and left her sprawled unconscious on the floor.
I pushed myself to my feet, head ringing, and I grabbed Rucker, tossed him through the window into the garden. I picked up Aissal who lay bleeding on the floor. Her arms wrapped around my neck, her head fell to my shoulder.
“Hurry.” Rucker said, bouncing, his arms windmilling, urging us forward, wanting to run, having to wait for us.
I launched myself through the window, butt skidding over the sill, twisting, landing on my feet, running toward Rucker with Aissal in my arms, into the gardens, boots crunching on the gravel path, Rucker running alongside.
“Let me down,” Aissal whispered in my ear.
“Are you sure?” Eyes searching for another threat, I slowed to a stop, setting her on her feet, watching back the way we’d come, staring back toward the kitchens, afraid to see the abbess, afraid to see the other priests and priestesses swarming through the door.
“Let’s go,” she said, hobbling with Rucker and me jogging by her side, through the gate into the front of the abbey. Parishioners waited outside, common folk in common clothes, talking to themselves in frightened whispers, milling about in front of the doors to the abbey, come to ask the forgiveness of the gods, the aid of the empire.
“Rucker?” One woman in a heavy apron separated from the group, the woman from the brewery, rushing toward us, throwing herself to her knees before us, before Rucker, taking his face in her hands. “It can’t be you, can it? I don’t understand, but I thank the gods for bringing you back to me.”
“Um.” I looked around. “We’ve really, really got to go.”
# # #
A black-robed priest ran out of the doorway, a large vaulted archway of gray stone, the joints between the stones darkened by the years, blackened streams running down the stones like tears, like the building wept, the priest pushing parishioners aside to clear his path, the old, the injured, mothers and grandmothers with rocking sniffling infants in their arms, dead-eyed children whimpering at their legs, those petitioning the temple for the supplication of the empress. The priest scanned the yard, his mouth set in a grim line, a halo of energy circling his head.
“Hide.” I crouched, seeking to conceal myself, to blend in with Rucker and his mother, his mother shaking, Rucker patting her back.
A priestess joined the priest, the supplicants reaching out to them, touching their arms, begging for help, for healing, for aid.
“There.” The priestess pointed across the yard toward us. “The coulven girl and the boy.”
Wresting their arms away from the supplicants surrounding them, the two clerics sprinted across the yard, yelling, “Be still and you will come to no harm.”
A lie.
I backed away, clawing at the empty scabbard on my belt where my dagger had been, trying to summon some magic but finding not enough, my reserves still recovering, the other scabbard in my boot, empty.
“Stay back.” Aissal raised her hands to them, staring down at Rucker and his mother, still locked in their embrace. “Let us go. Don’t you see what’s happening?”
“Where’s the Onei?” the priestess growled. “She said there was an Onei.”
My disguise? My disguise worked on them, confounding their senses, unlike the abbess.
A shovel lay in the cart, stuck into the dirt, the handle ashen with age, the wood gray and desiccated, the flat blade rusting and worn. I reached out as I walked past, the handle of the shovel fitting in my palm, cracked wood pinching at my skin. I pulled the shovel free. Head down, looking at the ground like a safe little southlander going about his daily toil, I circled around behind the priest and priestess, raising the shovel, spinning it in my hands.
“I don’t know what to do.” Aissal, hands glimmering blue, her lips stretching back from her grinding teeth, refused to look at the priestess before her, the threat to her, but instead concentrated on Rucker and his mother.
Rucker’s mother had picked him up from the ground, squeezing him in her arms, but Rucker pushed against her, mouth open, eyebrows soaring, his eyes agape.
“They’re not in the empress’ embrace.” The priestess stomped on the ground, throwing her hands forward, magical words streaming from her mouth, energy pouring from her hands, wrapping around Aissal, pinning Aissal’s arms to her side, snapping her legs together. Aissal hopped, trying to maintain her balance, but toppled to the ground.
“Give me the boy.” The priest put his hand on Rucker’s mother’s shoulder, yanking Rucker’s arm, pulling him away from her, dragging him out of her grip.
Rucker’s mother took two lurching steps forward, her body jerking, out of control, her head flopping back, her face turning to the sky, a shriek gushing from her. She spun, mouth convulsing, the whites of her eyes, the irises of her eyes, now black, the color draining from her skin, growling at the priest.
“Caldane!” Aissal screamed. “Help! Hurry!”
The priestess whirled to cast another spell toward Rucker’s mother. I swung the shovel with both hands, driving through with my hips, the flat of the blade connecting with the priestess’ face. The impact lifted her from her feet, magic spraying out from her hands, fading.
Behind me, the parishioners squealed, their
feet pounding on the gravel, on the concrete and stone of the temple steps, shouting for help, crying and sobbing. The magical bounds around Aissal winked out of existence, the priestess no longer maintaining them, her consciousness evacuated to another realm.
The priest tossed Rucker aside, throwing him back, the priest preparing his feet to cast, his tongue tripping over the words of the incantation, his hands rushing through their movements, the movements incomplete, sketching the cantrip without forming the forces. Rucker’s mother launched herself at him, snarling like an animal long caged catching its keeper by surprise, her teeth sinking into the man’s throat, ripping it out, blood spattering through the air, her fingernails tearing his flesh, slashing him open.
I wrapped my arm around Rucker’s waist, and I ran, whistling, calling “Spot!”, Aissal racing at my side.
# # #
Renaud, the Sheriff of Fizer, rapped on the door of the stinking excuse for a brewery sitting outside and downwind of the citadel of Timyiskil, belching foul, noxious fumes into the air, competing with the tanneries and slaughterhouses on either side of it for the most putrescent. He squinted, tears welling at the corners of his eyes. Lyu-ra waited beside him, her hands folded before her, head tilted in an elegant fashion.
A perfumed handkerchief beneath his nose, Fi Cheen lounged well back from the others, admiring the wretched excuses for trees, admiring the amount of the empress’ infernal influence required to keep these people functional, admiring the vapid emptiness behind the eyes of the people so studiously going about their work, doing their duty in the name of the empire, an empire they’d fought so hard, an empire they’d rebelled against so often, but would be resisting no longer.
The rickety door creaked open, unleashing a blast of heat like that from one of the infernal pits and a stink as fierce. Renaud and Lyu-ra stepped back in unison, their hands covering their mouths and noses, gagging.