by JANRAE FRANK
The final room stood empty save for a long mirror. Knowing how Galee used mirrors, he stood before it and called her name. She answered.
"I assume you found the box," she said, without so much as greeting.
"Of course."
"It contains the wisdom of the ages past. If anything should happen to me before you complete this creature you are making, open it beside her head on the night of the full moon, which is when it will awaken, and the knowledge will pass to it. It can only be passed to a newborn on its rising. It cannot be passed to one who has already risen. Then close the box and lock it away. It can be used again when that one has perished."
"Why only after you've perished?" Brandrahoon asked suspiciously.
"Because, I'll not have it used against me. That is the lock I placed upon it. Nor will I have my blood deprived of it. It is the knowledge of the Age of Burning. I have recorded the locations of all the caches of weapons the gods themselves fear in that box. I have mapped the uncleansed continents. There are several hoards, both magical and material, whose locations are marked. But I will not have these things put into play against me by one of my blood grown overly ambitious. If the newborn goes rogue, you can destroy him and make another. The knowledge is imbued in the box itself. But it must be closed and then opened again. Follow the instructions on the note."
"You trust me, Galee?"
"No, Brandrahoon," Galee smiled from the mirror. "I quit trusting you a long time ago. However, our allegiances are to the same god. And for the sake of my soul, I will not see my work come undone."
* * * *
Galee watched the mirror go blank. Brandrahoon now had the final pieces he needed to create the nekaryiane, the death-angel. She needed the flesh of the nekaryiane and the blood of a sacred king to restore the fullness of her godhead, which had been stolen from her by Bellocar, her husband, when she rebelled against him and was thrown down in the days of the last great godwar. Brandrahoon believed it would give him mastery of the world, but he was wrong, the mastery would be hers.
"You are pleased, Galee?" Meilurk rose from his corner where he had sat beyond the sight of the mirror. The mirror magic was an old technology predating the godwar, which few had the art of.
"Yes." Galee rose, stretching. She hungered, but there were things to do before she could afford time to hunt. So she unlocked the door behind the mirror and took out another bottle of Lord Ky's blood. She carried it to the table and sat it down, then fetched two glasses, deciding to be generous.
Meilurk watched her pour and then turned the bottle in his hands to read the labeling. He could read the old language, for Galee had taught him. "Channadar's father? I suspected you had a hand in that."
"You are my favorite son, Meilurk. More loyal than Brandrahoon and Frozbrodarbrin. A gift from the Master of Blood. He will arrive for the party eventually."
"Have you found the branch clan? You know very well they'll try to take Creeya from you once you have it, raise the countryside."
"I am chasing them. I nearly had them a fortnight ago near St. Jon Dulac."
"Ambrose seems of the opinion there might be one of them in Havensword already." Meilurk sipped from his glass, rolling the blood around in his mouth like fine wine to savor it before swallowing. "A good vintage."
"Channadar's blood will be an even better vintage."
"I will cut him for you." Meilurk lifted his glass in toast.
Galee smiled. "I adore you, Meilurk. First we must find him at a disadvantage. I will not risk you needlessly against the Fae. Soon, soon, I will have Creeya and the means to free my accursed husband, which will release me from the geis. And the box will be opened and I will be restored. I will make you my priest and we will reign over hell on earth together."
"Together, Galee." Meilurk raised his glass again and this time Galee clinked hers against his and they downed their drinks. "And if there is a member of the branch clan here, may I have him?" Meilurk brought the conversation back around again.
"If you find him before Ambrose."
* * * *
Twenty Guildsmyn from the military deployment branch entered the wing as Queiggy stood leaning upon the guardian desk speaking with the young mon manning it. Leonè led them in. They wore their dress uniforms with the gold embroidery at every seam along the heavy black fabric and the book and blade emblazoned large upon their chests with the crossed swords on the shoulders to show which branch they belonged to.
"What is this?" Queiggy muttered to his companion. Leonè was second to Galee in the deployment branch. The senior wing officer pushed away from the desk to face Leonè, his slender frame very straight, his hand on the sword at his side: Queiggy no longer needed the cane since partially renewing himself in the earth.
The stocky mon with the close-cropped sandy beard approached and dropped to his knees before the Wing Master. "We have come to pray, and wish your permission to withdraw into the wing."
"We need to discuss this in private, Leonè," Queiggy responded. "I grant it now on condition that I can and will rescind it if forced."
"We stand before you," Leonè's voice was harsh with strain and emotion. "We stand before you penitents, risen against the blasphemy of fiat, our lives be forfeit to Hadjys if we have chosen wrongly."
Queiggy's eyes widened in shock. The oath would demand that they take their own lives before the altars to Hadjys if their decision was proven to be wrong. Twenty-one myn willing to die by their own hands rather than obey Galee's orders. "You are all welcome here."
He knew he should have given them a more formal response, but he could not think. He snapped his fingers at an aide sitting on the benches.
"Show them to quarters and then to the chapels."
* * * *
Philomea entered the apartments, and as she went up stairs she saw that the lamps were still lit in Belyla's room, which meant that her sister must be upset. Belyla was a weather vane and Philomea knew that Belyla's mood usually reflected their father's. If she had caught hell from him, then sooner or later the rest of them would also. Belyla might be the quietest of them, but she was also the most rebellious and outright defiant. And she was running with the wrong crowds – all of Terrys' Guild friends. Especially Yahni Kjarten. Philomea had noticed the way they looked at each other the day she made her pass at Yahni. Yahni was so beautiful. Philomea had wanted him terribly.
She decided to investigate what was wrong with Belyla and headed for her room. Philomea found the door cracked open. She heard nothing and pushed it completely wide with a soft knock. The room was a mess. Their father had been angry again. Bottles had been thrown from the dresser. She went further inside and, as she drew near the curtained bed, a scream welled in her throat. Her sister lay nude, ankles and wrists tied to the posts, staring sightlessly at the canopy, a long tear in her neck showed Philomea how Belyla had died. There was blood on her lips as if she had bitten him in her futile desperation to get free.
Philomea backed away from the bed, another scream trembling in her throat, pressing at her clenched teeth. She bumped into a chair, stumbled, and strong hands caught her. Philomea twisted in their grip, but they held her fast. She screamed again.
"Philomea," her father whispered in her ear.
Philomea looked into her father's face, his shining red eyes, his lips with blood smeared across them – Belyla's blood. "You killed her..." Philomea accused. "Like Mother. You killed her."
"She got what she deserved. She was seeing a Guildsmon, carrying his child. What is his name?"
"Father ... I don't know," Philomea lied, wishing desperately that no one would tell them. Certainly she would not. Yahni. What a pure sweet mon he was and too good for someone as stained as herself. She was terrified. Her father had been raping and beating them since early childhood, but he had never killed one of them as he had their mother, although he threatened often enough. Philomea prayed that she would not be next. She had done nothing wrong, except in her heart by wanting Yahni. She had obeyed the
admonition to avoid Guildsmyn.
"I'm still hungry," Wrathscar said. That was when Philomea saw the fangs and knew it was all in vain and she would follow her sister into death. The monstrous mon had become a monster in truth and he would kill all of them.
* * * *
Talons lay in the middle of her low bed, her dozens of woven and embroidered pillows littered the floor. The west-facing windows looked down like blank, staring eyes above a long mahogany dresser. A wardrobe and a plain oak cabinet framed a small closet. The healer rose from Reading her a second time, and gestured for Bryndel to step into the little parlor with her. She closed the door quietly as she turned to him.
"Well?" Bryndel demanded.
The spiderweb of lines around Sha's cornflower eyes deepened with her frowning. "I don't know," she said bluntly. "The children are fine. I found nothing at all untoward in her body. Anything strong enough to knock a Sharani down should leave a residue of some kind. There isn't any. For now, keep her warm and, when she wakes up, try to get liquids down her." She walked past him and out the door without another word.
Bryndel returned to the bedroom and sat on the edge of the bedding for a long while after the healer left, watching Talons sleep. He brooded about Galee. Every time he thought he had matters under control and working nicely, she talked him into doing something shameful, or stupid, or just plain mean. His bad reputation stemmed mainly from actions that Galee persuaded him were the right things to do. Then once he had done them, he hated himself for it. Time and again, he promised himself that he would stop listening to Galee only to find himself persuaded once more.
"Face it, you're spineless," he muttered to himself. He remembered his mother, how much he had loved her, the soft hands that brushed away his tears. He should have gone to the Guild when his father killed her, but he had been too frightened, too terrified. The image of poor little nine-year-old Belyla curled up against their mother's body erupted from his memories. Bryndel had been fourteen. He took Belyla to his room and held her all night, both of them crying. That was when he stopped praying, which caused his dismissal from Guild training. Sometimes he wanted to kill his father. He shook it off.
This episode had set him to wondering whether his decision to stop slipping Talons the medicine had been the right thing to do. The medicine had been one of three drugs Galee mixed together.
Bryndel heard the door and saw Edouina come in. She held a piece of meat to her eye, her clothes were torn and muddy and her frown was enough to frighten the dead.
"What happened to you?"
Edouina lifted the meat for a minute to display her eye, black and swollen.
"Whoa! Who gave you the shiner?"
"None of your business. But, oh, honey, you should have seen the other two. A priest broke it up." Brawls were not infrequent; however, drawn-sword quarrels were strictly forbidden and formal dueling highly regulated. But that did not mean they did not happen. Since the betrothal, the Wrathscar soldiers seemed more ready to draw steel and no one was stopping them. Protesting to the Grand Master achieved nothing.
"What was it about?"
"Idjit shit. Said I was trying to kill Talons by not giving her the medicine. Everywhere I've gone today, people are handing me shit about the bi-kyndi being a disease. A disease that requires medication. I explained to them as patiently as I could that it is not a disease; it is a result of the god Ishla Twice-Gendered's deliberate genetic changes and that I should know because I am one. I even tell them the story about how Ishla came up with it, looking for a non-magical solution to a magical problem – even you've probably heard about that problem we had with Aurean's curse, right?"
Bryndel nodded.
"You know what their response was, honey?" She had a droll grin as she waited for him to request the answer.
Bryndel shook his head, grinning back: he liked listening to her talk and watching the way she punctuated each sentence with theatrical gestures.
"They ask me what I'm taking for it."
"Edouina," Bryndel grabbed her hands to stop her from talking. "Edouina, Talons had another attack. Not as bad as the last one a few days ago. But bad. Real bad."
Edouina froze, swallowing. "When? Where did it happen?"
"The Cloverleaf. We were on our way back from the Music Chamber."
"Who did you meet there?"
"Several people, including Jimi and Alora, Sirikit, Tulik, Dynarien, Yukiah, a lot of students, foreign nobles. Galee and my father sat with us."
"Galee and your father?" Edouina's tone turned suspicious.
"Edouina! They would never hurt her. They have too much invested in this alliance. Galee gains too much influence. So does my father. I love her. I love you too. We're the planets revolving around her star."
Edouina sighed, lowering her eyes. "Bryndel, I want you to leave. I need to be alone with her."
"I understand. I truly understand." Bryndel gathered his things, preparing to depart, when abruptly he turned, saying desperately, "Edouina, the healers cannot find anything in her body, no poison, nothing at all. She's sick, Edouina. That's all. No one's poisoning her. No one is doing anything at all to her. She's sick. All this morbid talk is not helping. I want it stopped. And I want it stopped now."
"Get out, Bryndel." Edouina advanced on him. "Get out now."
"You will stop, Edouina."
"To your face, but not behind your back."
Bryndel lifted his fist to strike, and Edouina gave him a withering smile. "Honey, throw that punch, and you'll wish you were dead."
Bryndel fled.
Edouina checked the closets first, and finally knocked on the pantry. "Arruth? Arruth, are you in there?"
The door opened a crack.
"Did you hear everything?"
"Yes," Arruth said in a very small voice.
"Come out and tell me what was said."
Arruth emerged, followed by three catkins.
* * * *
Queiggy sat alone with Leonè in his cellar apartments. When he had declared the 'up drawbridge' Queiggy had decided to move his living quarters here as it better served his needs. He wanted to be able to discreetly shove his fingers into the earth and draw power from it. It would not be as good as his garden, but it was far better than nothing at all. He grew more and more certain that he would need all the strength he could call on.
"So, what is going on, Leonè?" Queiggy demanded querulously.
Leonè dropped his head, rubbing at his beard in silence, considering for a long time.
"You have placed yourselves in my hands, now you must trust me," Queiggy pursued his point.
"My branch is withdrawing all over Creeya."
Queiggy's eyes nearly popped out of his head. "What?"
Leonè nodded. "The blasphemy of fiat has become too much. Our orders are becoming questionable. We believe we have been compromised. But we cannot prove it. There are no actively deployed Guild in Lord Wrathscar's domain, they have all retreated into the temples to pray. Two thirds of the deployment wing in Creeya has withdrawn into the temples. So far as I can tell, this is happening all over the continent. What is more, there are people who are calling themselves Guildsmyn and attempting to enter the temples. The priests refuse them entrance, claiming they sense a taint in them."
"Galee is losing her command to a silent mutiny."
"Yes." Leonè's voice was somber, his expression tired. "I felt that it was time that I joined them. That I showed my support for what they were doing."
"Your courage and honor are great, Leonè. I pray to our god that it does not cost your life."
"If my life is forfeit to my god, then it is forfeit. I have prayed long about this, my old friend. I know that you have made a similar choice."
Queiggy nodded. "With the 'up drawbridge' I have made myself complete Master of the Wing. We no longer trust Mohanja. Nor any of the upper echelons."
"Hadjys will look into our souls and decide when the game is played."
"As he will."
* * * *
Edouina walked down the long corridor at the top of the northeast wing. The council was not meeting that day so she had decided to try and see the Grand Master for herself. The corridor was a series of tall windows to her left, their stained glass throwing multi-colored light in distorted patterns across the floor and the intricate fresco of saints and heroes to her right. She noticed that some sections of the fresco had been covered over in fresh black plaster that made her skin prickle. There were too many troubling changes in the building. She arrived at the heavy carved mahogany doors leading into the Grand Master's star room and pounded on them.