by Anne C Miles
O cyntae, keep safe those
Who remain in his sight.
The high cantor lifted his hands high as the Cant ended. A glow emanated from the candles, burning blue and wrapping his outstretched arms. The blue light intensified and drifted up. As it moved, the single arc window opened and sent morning sunlight to blend with the Canting-glow. Siles stood, limned in glory as the light intensified, before falling into the waiting arms of his acolytes, who carried him away.
Bren watched it all with new eyes, trying to understand what was happening in the light of his discoveries. The Canting accomplished something, but what? The light must have been an enchantment, a cheap show. Was the Wyrm truly chained? Did Siles mean to cause and spread Dissonance? Did he know what he is doing? He must.
Bells tolled and everyone filed out of the Quiet Room, vanishing into dark corridors beyond. Bren strode past the altar to the corridor leading to the recovery room. Siles reposed on a cherry velvet chaise longue. He stretched, feline and languorous as Bren bowed.
“Brother Bren,” Siles gestured for him to sit. “The night has passed.”
“Let us enjoy the new day,” he answered, taking the offered seat.
“You’re here to report on Dane?” Siles asked, getting right to the point.
Bren swallowed hard. “He’s recovering quickly. I think he will be ready to continue by the day after tomorrow.”
“Does he still resist?” Siles leaned forward, resting his chin on top of steepled fingers. His eyes gleamed, hungry and eager.
Bren’s lips thinned, but he met Siles’ eyes, unwavering. “I will take care of it. One thing might assist me, if you would be so kind.”
Siles arched an eyebrow and gestured to a servant for wine. He accepted a cup and settled back in his cushions. “Anything you need, of course.”
“‘Do not give up. Do not falter. Those below shall be as above.’” Bren quoted. “This verse drives me, encouraging when my strength fails. Can you expound? What does it mean to you? It would be a great honor.”
Siles put his wine cup aside and leaned forward again, his eyes narrowed. His lips, red from the wine, curved upward in satisfaction. “Fascinating passage. Also interesting in light of your task. I’m surprised we haven’t discussed it more fully before. When Doran spoke this oracle, Modric did explain.”
Bren’s nostrils flared as he inhaled sharply. He looked at the floor. This was it. It was time to set his stones.
“Why is Doran the only cyntae we ever see? Is it truly because the others sustain us? Or is it because they must be…replaced?”
Bren met Siles’ eyes, swallowing down bile.
“Are we being prepared to replace them? I’ve been considering your goals with the chymaera. It must be so.” Bren regarded Siles intently, weighing his response.
Siles’ expression did not change. He remained impassive, interested, attentive. When Bren paused, he set his goblet down, sat up and clapped slowly.
“Well done, my friend. I always knew you had it in you to deduce our true purpose. You show, once again, why your skills as a questioner are unmatched. Indeed, you may be chosen yet.” Siles leaned back, stretching his legs once again on his crimson velvet, a snake uncoiling. “Do not rest. Do not falter. Those below shall be as above.”
The verse dropped into the stillness of the room, chilling it. Bren’s head swam. “You allow the others to believe things that are not true.”
Siles brushed this away with a wave. “We keep them safe. We give them security, a solace to cling to while we care for them like children. Surely you see this.”
Bren clutched the edge of his chair, somehow holding his voice steady. “But if the cyntae return?”
Siles barked a laugh, taking up his wine goblet once more. He held it up, toasting Bren and drank lustily, draining it. When he finished, he wiped the blood-red liquid from his lips with his sleeve before setting the jeweled cup aside. “You cut to the heart as always, brother. The cyntae cannot return. It’s too late.”
Bren’s mouth dropped open. “What do you mean?”
“They are lost beyond thought. The only force that has ever hindered us from moving forward were those accursed instruments the boy Dane and his family made. Brother Aric used Trystan, the northern bard, to draw the dewin out. All our work, centuries of it, is coming to a close. If we cannot bend Dane to help us with the chymaera or use him and his fae, we will simply kill him. We know where all star-marked instruments are. We are ready to confiscate and destroy them. You heard Doran yourself. The Day draws near.”
Bren shivered involuntarily and leaned forward. “What day?”
I want to hear him say it.
“The Last Day. The unmaking. The silence. The day when Dissonance destroys all creation, and we reshape the universe to our vision. It’s the way forward. The only way forward. When this is done, the Song will be reshaped to our vision and all will kneel to us.”
“And we shall be like the cyntae?”
“No, my humble friend. We shall become cyntae ourselves. So it is written, so it shall be done.” Siles looked at Bren, his eyes hooded in shadow, his face a pale mask with scarlet lips. “Does this motivate you to persevere in your work?”
Bren stood and bowed, folding his hands together. His eyes shone with fervor and sincerity as he answered the man who had betrayed his faith so utterly. “I am now certain and sure in the path I must take and will apply myself fully.”
Outside, there was a thunderous crash.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
HIGH CANTOR SILES stared at the door, calculating possibilities. Causes for a crash of such magnitude were limited. Bren was hiding something, of that he had no doubt. But Bren was useful. And as long as he was useful, Siles would indulge him. Of course, now he was privy to the true endgame, so Bren would need his memory adjusted. That was plain enough. At least he didn’t know the full plans for the Pryf.
Siles stood and strode out, walking quickly, but not hurrying, to the courtyard. It was never seemly to appear rushed. At his heels, Bren breathlessly yammered worries and hopes that no one was hurt. Siles ignored him.
The courtyard was chaos. Wreckage and rubble dominated its center, where a Watcher had fallen from midair to his destruction. The huge winged lion should have been perched on the edge of the south tower. Instead, it was smashed to pieces in the courtyard. Fragments lay everywhere. Large chunks nested in dust and gravel. Nearby cantors had received wounds from the debris, but no one seemed seriously injured. Siles took it all in quickly and glanced up at the south tower.
Nothing.
His voice rang out. “Leave the Watcher where he lies, disturb nothing. He will be mended. Those of you who are injured, proceed to the infirmary. You are released from duty for the next bell. That is all.”
He faced Bren, issuing only one word. “Come.”
Siles made for the Monitor’s Wing. Bren followed, now silent. Siles could nearly hear him worrying, smell his anxiety and fear. Bren’s eyes burned a hole in his back.
He knew something, or suspected it.
Siles opened the double doors to the Monitor’s Hall and smiled in spite of himself. This place, of all the buildings in the vast compound, was truly sacred. Scores of cantors worked, laboring over long stone troughs fitted with suspended metal plates. The troughs ringed the room. Glowstones clustered on ledges or in tall wrought-iron holders. The cantors closely observed each metal plate. Others scribed, recording what they saw.
Acolytes poured fresh sand onto the plates to ensure they were not empty. Some sand bounced off into the trough beneath. Others moistened the sand, acolytes Canting to raise a dampening mist of water upon it at regular intervals. Small representations of each Watcher active in the Weldes perched on trough ridges. They hummed and sang. Their joined voices combined to shift the sand below them into shapes and figures, forming scenes.
White sand against black metal, the sand bunched, drawing what the Watchers saw. When several Watchers converged, each w
itnessing a scene, the sand gathered, sculpting a miniature representation of the event. Acolytes carefully replaced sand as it spilled into the trough, and the sands shifted quickly. Those bearing witness struggled not to blink lest they miss something.
Siles loved the music. Even with the Dissonance that had crept in over the years, the clashing of notes and the resulting tension it created. The Song was still a wondrous experience. In recent days he had come to crave Dissonance. It would eventually cause a miniature Watcher to fall silent, but each screech and crackle brought him closer, ever closer to his dream. They filled him with a black pleasure.
Runners stood ready to receive reports of important sights and relay them as needed. They bowed to Siles as he passed.
The attending monitor was Brother Sted, marked a Fennishman by the veil covering half of his face. Dark skinned and muscular, his huge frame half filled the center of the room, where a central, wider sand table showed scenes as sculpture almost exclusively. Currently, the table was dominated by the throne room of the palace in Bestua. Two men knelt before High King Tenneth while a third waited twenty paces behind them.
Siles went to Sted’s side. “I need the chymaera,” he said.
He wasn’t about to waste time with the records, hunting through the pages and pages of the descriptions kept daily. Not when he had his own pet Pryf at his disposal. A chymaera without talons to serve him, Doran be praised. He smiled at the thought of Zonah as a pet. She would not be amused.
Sted nodded once and gestured to a nearby acolyte, who bowed and ran to fetch her.
“Anything of particular note today?” Siles asked. “Any movement near Siarad?”
Sted nodded. “The party you were interested in entered the city last evening at sundown, Your Grace.
“The gnomes? Are you certain?”
“Five gnomes accompanied by villagers. The images were only sand sketches, but clear enough. We have only one Watcher at the guardhouse,” said Sted.
“They made it into the city without incident?”
“The fugitives were escorted by armed men and two chymaera, Your Grace. We have rough sketches of one chymaera, a few of the soldiers. Events changed quickly. There was a disturbance. Of what sort, was unclear.”
Siles nodded, considering. A sand sketch could not be rendered as sculpture, but Zonah could use her heartfire to access the system and commune, seeing what happened clearly. It took hours for her to do so and even longer to recover. The crash today was more important, he decided. But those gnomes should never have reached Siarad. The Shadowborn at his disposal had failed. It was really all he needed to know.
Zonah sauntered into the room, a snow-white panther in all but actual form. Her tall frame barely cleared the doorway and her hair, snow white and close cropped, framed a face that held catlike eyes of striking sapphire blue. Like all Pryf. Siles tracked her approach, savoring her beauty and grace. Rejected, but invaluable, with gems for eyes. And they sent her to him. Quite an improvement over Affra. He still could not believe his luck. True, he had not yet had the chance to exploit Zonah’s resentment as he had done with Affra and his friends, but he was looking forward to the process. They were easily turned.
It was demeaning for the chymaera to work with Watchers and Speakers outside of their aerie, to work with humans at all. Pryf were sent to the Conclave when a task required chymaera lore. As the Minister of Monitors, he required their aid far more than most. It was a position he had used to full advantage over the years, turning the Pryf into a weapon only he could wield. Soon, not only Modric and Doran would know of his achievement. The world would know.
Zonah stood before Siles, her blue robes shimmering. Her skin was ivory, glowing and silken. Siles let his eyes linger, let his imagination wander, a momentary pleasure. He smiled and met her eyes, bowing deeply with his hand over his heart. Behind him, Bren did the same. “Honored Zonah, we have need of your singular talent and wisdom.”
Zonah blinked and lifted her chin.
“Within the last hour a Watcher fell from the heavens rather than from a wall. It crashed here in the courtyard. I need to know what happened,” said Siles.
Knowing the exact place and time made the job easier. She should be able to show them the event quickly.
Zonah placed her hand on one of the miniature watchers perched around the large central sand table, frowning in concentration. She began to sing. A perfect representation of the Chapterhouse compound rose from the sand. The onlookers gasped, collectively, as a human form fell from the roof and the Watcher dived after it, flying. It caught the human and deposited it safely on the roof. A few short minutes later, it leapt, hovered, then plunged to the courtyard below, where it shattered.
“Can you see who the human was? The form is indistinct.”
“The human does not wear cantor robes, Your Grace,” said Sted. “He must be an intruder.”
Zonah gestured to the table and an undeniably female figure formed, her expression expectant. Curls framed a heart-shaped face. The girl wore strange garb, breeches and a tunic rather than proper skirts or robes. Siles circled the image, studying. Zonah’s song faded. The Pryf’s voice was a low growl as she described details the sand could not convey. “The girl’s hair is blonde, her clothing, gray. She has freckles. Her accent is strange. The images from this Watcher stop.”
Siles nodded. He turned on his heel and bowed to her again. “Thank you, Zonah, as ever you have been a blessing. Please attend to the Watcher in the courtyard and do what you deem best with it.”
Brother Bren cleared his throat. “That is a fae, Your Grace.”
Siles whirled, astonished. “A fae? Grounded? How can this be? Your dewin is injured. Imprisoned. Bell has not the skill.”
Bren nodded. “Nevertheless. The accent, the odd clothing, she disrupted the Watcher from its union with the others and made the Watcher fly. What else could it be?”
Siles felt his face heating. “There are other possibilities. Renegades and thieves have access to ancient lore. It’s possible they have mounted an attack with a newly discovered enchantment, and this is but a distraction. Bring Danethor to my chambers at once and alert the guard. Have them search for this woman. If I cannot ground a fae, then that sniveling boy certainly cannot.”
Brother Bren nodded and bowed. “As you wish.”
Siles turned back to the form of the girl, watching it dissolve as Zonah strode away. Whoever this intruder was, one thing was certain. She would learn to regret her meddling.
Bren hurried down the steps, mind racing. He had to get them all out. Dane and the gnome had been reckless, had not trusted him and waited. Now there was no time to plan. Once the guards were roused, there would be little chance of escape. Unless...
Unless the fae actually could make Watchers fly. Her first attempt had obviously been a disaster, but it was possible. If he could disable the active Watchers for a short time, he could bluff his way through the building, pretending to escort the prisoners. Get them to the roof and escape.
Zonah would help me. Pryf she is, but her heartfire is strong. She has honor and kindness still, I’ve seen it. It’s unfortunate she will never have wings of her own.
Bren headed to the courtyard to find Zonah just as the hour bells rang.
Zonah stood in front of the shattered Watcher, singing. Her wordless song filled the courtyard. Each cantor, normally unmoved by even the most reverent services, stopped to listen. Around the cloister, acolytes, servants, and guards lingered to hear the chymaera. Her song rose, echoing. It sounded like harp strings and the warbling of songbirds at dawn. It held the melody of a mountain stream and the joy of a baby’s laughter. But it rang strong, with a bell-like chiming. Bren stopped and waited for her to finish, curbing his own impatience with unabashed delight at her display.
The Watcher reformed, taking shape as she sang. His smashed hindquarters, one leg broken off, shattered, were writhing into a new set of legs, using all of the stone left in the largest piece of the broken
figure. Its wings seemed to melt down. They suddenly unfurled, whole. Shattered fragments merged. When she was finished, the winged lion was a born anew—no longer a huge male cat with a flowing mane. Instead, a smaller lioness with the wings of an eagle crouched, guarding the space.
Zonah turned and acknowledged Bren. “I cannot move her until my heartfire is refreshed. I shall return.”
She turned as if to retire to her quarters, but Bren called after her. “Zonah, wait.”
She pivoted, sapphire eyes flashing with annoyance. “You use my name freely, Brother.”
Bren bowed. “I have great need, Child of the Morning.”
Zonah inclined her head, a queen granting him audience. Bren gulped, stepped forward, and spoke for her ears alone. “The high cantor has lied to your people and is using them. He has captured a dewin of power and grace, one not filled with madness. He wishes to gain power over the chymaera. This dewin grounded a fae to help him escape. It was she you saw in the sands. The fae seeks his rescue even now. He and his beloved are being held against their will. I seek to free them and release you from service to one you rightly find contemptible. I need your help. What say you, Child of the Dawn?”
Warning bells began to sound, echoing through the courtyard. Zonah stiffened, hearing them. She focused her impossible blue eyes upon Bren, studying him for the space of a breath before answering.
“My heartfire is spent, Brother,” she said. “But I shall aid you as I can.”
Bren’s jaw dropped. She had not even truly hesitated. Seeing his confusion, Zonah added, “I heard the dewin. Both of them. It is as you say. I understood this. The high cantor is dead in my sight. I shall not serve him further. I was making ready to leave before you spoke to me. I merely needed to reshape this little one.” Zonah gestured to the newly mended grotesque.
“Can you disable the Watchers?” he asked.
Zonah nodded, her answering smile feral.
Bren licked his lips and muttered a prayer of thanks to the Storm King. “This way,” he said. “We don’t have much time.”