Results will come on our next outing. If we are so fortunate.
On the third day since the Dalian came to their hideaway, Ashleigh was growing restless. “He is slowly dying. Our food stores will last only two more days. There is not enough to hunt. I doubt fishing would avail us, even if we had the means. We must leave here.”
“And go where?” Aerona asked as she bit off a chunk of meat.
“Trank.”
“The Corsair will be glad to hear of it,” Jaremy said, grinning.
“The Corsair can fall to his death for all I care,” Ashleigh declared. “Aerona, what paths avail us?”
Aerona sighed. “We do not have much choice. Jakon was a serviceable port. Might be we find something there.”
“You mean to cross on foot and leave the longboat?” Jaremy asked with raised eyes.
“Whatever carried Ser Johnathan, it was a ship from the royal fleet,” Aerona replied. “They came once, and they will come again. The longboat is too large to carry overland.”
“We could be shipless further north,” Jaremy protested.
“Better than dead from Trechtian warships.”
“Aerona, would you leave without Ser Johnathan? We cannot carry him like that. He would be dead before the first night.”
Aerona’s fingers brushed the hilt of the dirk again. “We must learn what he knows, somehow, and soon.”
Aerona was alone with the old knight. He looked like the distrustful oaf from Isil, suspicion still lingering in half awakened eyes. “Do you suspect what I will do to you? Lara. Dominique. Jessica. Claire. Do you remember them? Their mirth and laughter? Their skill with a blade? We were allies, Ser Johnathan, and you wrought their deaths.” The only answer was a groan as meaningless as all that came before it.
As the morning dragged on, the Dalian twisted and turned beneath the blankets, muttering in his sleep, and groaning loudly as if he pulled a muscle. When he did not mutter, he mouthed frantic words, as if in terror.
Must be having a nightmare. The real one is when he awakens. Aerona washed his brow with a wet cloth, and put an open hand over his forehead. “Not much longer now.”
It was noon by her recollection. The stew she made was thin and stringy: more boiled broth than aught else. She spooned some slops into the pewter bowl and took it to Ashleigh. The Isilian asked after Ser Johnathan, and Aerona lied, insisting that his condition was not improving. Even if she left him here to rot, there would be some vengeance—and her survival.
She returned, and the Dalian’s eyes were wide open, and frantic but hushed words came out of his mouth. “Traitors! Traitors all of them! Shadows they brought into our realm. Distrust them, distrust them all. No, no, she trusted them, trusted him. That was the fall. Trusted him and—”
The words fell to muffled grunts as she put her hand over his mouth. She drew a dirk so that he could see it. “I trusted you and now they are dead.” She slowly receded her hand.
“More will die if we do not act, act,” Ser Johnathan said hurriedly. “The shadow has come we must stop it. He’s there, I can see it, shadowing her, guiding her.”
“You are mad,” she hissed. “Do you know who I am?”
“Mother?”
Aerona battered the side of his head with the pommel of her dirk, knocking him out.
Aerona took a whetstone to her blades, and let the fire die down—she no longer cared what the others thought of her disregard. She knew the knight had gone mad in delirium. Even if she cut his throat, he would not know who she was, or why she did it.
She felt so empty.
Lara. Dominque. Jessica. Claire. The names stayed with her. They are names that need to stay with Ser Johnathan. Aerona wanted him to feel them, know them, live them. Before he died, he would know that, she vowed.
If he is not already dead by this madness.
“Aerona?”
She withdrew her dirk again, and placed the tip of the blade above his heart. Ser Johnathan lifted his hands, as if in surrender.
“How did you survive it?” the knight asked.
“I might ask you the same question, before I spill your life’s blood.”
“I understood—”
“You understand naught! You ran and left us to die. Ser Elin, that accursed daemon, he took my Brood. My consort. My people. Dalia can burn for all I care. You with it.”
“I know.”
“Do you wish to die?!”
“He nearly slew me.”
Aerona turned her back, too disgusted to look at him. “What is your meaning?”
Ser Johnathan sat up, left hand pressed to the side of his head where Aerona struck him, groaning in pain. “I sought Lord Kaldred. He was in there, somewhere. The halls were naught but death. Mine and yours alike, bathed in blood. I thought the throne room was as good as any, so I went there and he… a man I thought I knew, but could not know, he butchered knights. There was twenty of them; and he, a single man, he slew them all. Then he went for me. I was hopeless against him. It was like a shadow that slithered through the night. I was disarmed and bleeding, and he showed me his face. Then that terrible light came, and I awoke to death.”
“Lara. Dominique. Jessica. Claire.”
“The Brood who were by your side. I remember.”
“They are all dead.”
“So are many more. The whole of the realm, if the Voice allows it.”
“Is that why you were in chains?”
“Yes, I, urrgh—”
Aerona went to his side, bracing him from behind. “You do not get to die, or lose yourself in delirium. Not yet.”
“You have… my hatred.”
“Your what?”
“Hatred. I wanted naught more than to slay you where you stood. Heh, islanders, all of you, enemies I had fought my whole life, we held up a truce.” He coughed and paused before continuing. “Dalia in darkness, Southern Nations no more. Does not seem to matter. The hatred.”
“It is change—or fall.”
“It is so.”
“Why is Dalia in darkness?”
All the light seemed to go out of Ser Johnathan’s eyes. “After the Calamity, Stephen Francis rose as the counsel of faith. Lutessa trusted him. I could never prove it, but whatever it was that twisted Ser Elin, it twisted the priest. That priest was in Isil. Cursed thing that was.”
“They call themselves the Dark Brotherhood.”
“Fitting,” Ser Johnathan coughed. “You saw his Faithsworn, not likely to forget it, if Lutessa told it true. That was not the end of it, no. The girl unearthed an Animus Stone, and gave herself to it. Stephen was the same, or I will bugger myself. Except it was different with her. I saw her speaking with nothingness, spent and drained. Someone was telling her what to do. Whoever that is rules in Dalia now. Not a thing makes sense anymore.”
That is their nature. “That why you were chained and sold as chattel?”
“Stephen Francis’ notion. I was a puppet. His Faithsworn—his, not hers, do not forget that—gave no other road to walk. In bed with the Trechtians, I do not doubt. That was where we were headed. Never got there. Last face I thought to see was yours. Glad I did. Might be you can stop this. I could not. Curse it all I could not.”
“Lie down.” Aerona carefully lay his head down against the layer of blankets.
“What took Lanan, Aerona?”
“Ser Elin. I saw him.”
The old knight afforded himself a brief laugh, laced with coughing. “Seems he cannot slay us. Small mercies.”
Another makes sure of that.
Aerona let him rest for a couple more hours. Her hatred was dulled, but not diminished. There are larger difficulties, but I shall not forget.
Ser Johnathan woke up screaming twice before closing his eyes again. When her stomach rumbled, she buried her dirk in a barrel on the other side of the room, and started the fire again. She sliced thin strips of meat, chopped up roots and herbs, and made the evening stew. It was tart and thin, but she never thought hersel
f a passable cook.
The knight was awake then, though there was no sign of her companions. The hunters had always returned an hour before dusk. Aerona thought it was dark for some time now. It had been awhile since she heard Ashleigh tap the cave wall or shuffle her feet.
“Someone is coming,” Ser Johnathan whispered, sitting up.
Aerona heard the scrape of steel against leather, an unnatural drip against the ground, and patterned, heavy breathing. Instinctively, she kicked a couple daggers towards Johnathan. The Dalian was still weak, but Aerona would have need of him.
She withdrew Vindication from its sheath, stared down the opening, and the sounds grew louder and louder. She looked to Ser Johnathan one last time, contemplating her need for vengeance, puzzled as to why she did not take his life already.
The hatred cannot consume me, that is why. She crouched and waited. I will not fall without a fight.
There was a score of steel-clad knights, hands upon long black staves that protruded blades from all but the middle hand hold. They each had draping red capes, their armour tinged by a red and black hue. The helmets they wore had only a thin eye slit, with curving horns upon the crest. No blood was seen upon their blades.
There are so many of them.
“Sheath that divine blade. If your friend draws a blade, my steel will find his throat.”
The words could have come from any of them. Aerona could not read the intent of the steel wall. The centre parted, and a tall man emerged with a stern and worn face. He was dressed in robes, but it buoyed, as if links of chainmail hid underneath.
“Who are you?” Aerona demanded.
“We have met twice. You remember.”
Aerona recalled the dark chamber with the stone throne, balconies, and stained glass. The twelve old men with long white hair, speaking in one voice, but separate, and each garbed in a different coloured robe. “That was a dream.”
“Bringer of Dawn, this is not dream.”
“Do not call me that.”
“Aerona Harkan? The Harpy?”
“That moniker—”
“Aerona. You and I have much to do.”
Not knowing how or why, she said, “You are Reuven.”
“Of stone and sky,” he replied.
Ser Johnathan protested, though all Aerona could think about was the destruction of Lanan, and the riddle that was posed by a false friend.
“Where is Gregory Tanev?” she asked.
“At the end of our road.”
She sheathed Vindication. It felt right.
“Yeuil,” Reuven commanded. “See that they do not follow us.”
Chapter Nine
Of Days Long Past
Lutessa trudged through the torrential downpour.
Each murky step taxed more of her strength than she would have liked. Her frayed traveler’s cloak felt heavy, and the whites of her office beneath were soaked throughout. She thought that if any soul saw her upon the road, the wet would put her beyond recognition.
All in accordance to the wishes of the Mother’s Pilgrim.
It is time, Lutessa, the spirit had said while she finished a supper of lamb, peas, and potatoes. The Mother’s Pilgrim had startled her, and she almost choked. There is a man that you must meet.
“Who?” Lutessa asked flatly, wiping the sides of her mouth with a napkin.
Chosen, as you were, who labours from corners unseen. You and him will seize this realm from the evil that grips it.
“Are not the fleets and the knights enough?”
They will not assemble at your beck and call.
The truth stung. “Where would such a man be found?”
Truftan Monastery.
The ruins of Truftan Monastery stood before her; all the while grief and loss churned through her veins. Weeds thrust up between the cobbled stones, the gardens were overgrown with long grass, wilting flowers, and old, dying trees. The hall and great tower was all that remained: its marble stones no longer shimmering, but had faded to a dull white, as if bleached by time’s cruel hand.
Lutessa walked up and down the garden paths, and saw not what it had become, but what it was. Tears brushed her cheeks: for the people that were, and the home that it was. The path turned back toward the main road, and looking up at the tower, she thought it so barren.
She remembered it as a home for children like her, abandoned and disregarded, where they could read, learn, and master the secrets of the Faith. Most days she was secluded inside its walls, at the heel of learned scholars who were kind in voice, but stern taskmasters, dismissive of abject failures of memory and preaching. Unlike others who had come before, Lutessa did not cry, weep, or beg for mercy; for the cruel mistresses had given her a place in the realm where she had none. It was more than she could ever have hoped for.
There were times in the late afternoon that she was allowed outside the libraries and apartment cells. Most of the children gathered together and gossiped, or ran and hid from each other. She always kept to herself, wandering the gardens of the monastery, gazing at and sniffing each flower, watching the birds drink the nectar from its blossoms. The stone paths of the gardens were littered with benches near over-arching trees where brothers and sisters of the Faith would turn the pages of leather-bound tomes. She had asked what they were reading, but the stern glances gave her the only answer she ever received.
All but one.
“You are not supposed to ask, you know,” a slim girl responded with long flowing blonde hair reaching past her shoulders. Lutessa blushed in embarrassment, and even though the girl’s tone softened, the frown did not leave her face. “Come with me.”
Lutessa followed the girl to a wide opening in the gardens where some children were at play. She sat across from this girl, near a low stone wall. The girl asked, “You are the orphan that the first scholar cares for?”
Not entirely sure how to answer the question, Lutessa was honest. “Yes. I did not know about the reading.”
“You know now,” the girl said directly. “I am Rachel Du’vron. Should I call you Orphan?”
“No, no! Lutessa. That is what Anastasia called me. My mother, whoever she is, did not name me.”
“Lutessa, then. This is a hard place. They expect so much of us, and if we are not what we can be, that is the end of our time here. The readers are deep in study; they fear expulsion, and so do not take kindly to disturbances.”
“I will remember,” Lutessa bobbed her head in neat acquiesance. “Is that what you fear?”
Rachel giggled like someone took a feather to her. “No, I came to see who upset the readers so much.”
Rachel…
Returned to the soaked ruins, the wooden door to the monastery creaked and groaned as Lutessa pushed it open. Inside it was dark, gloomy, and thick with cobwebs. There were muddied footprints across the stone floor that lead towards the pews in the main hall. Whoever the Mother’s Pilgrim wanted her to meet, she knew he did not come alone.
Trust. It begins, and will so end, with trust.
Lutessa brushed past the stone pillars, side rooms, and long pews covered with dust and debris. The stained glass upon both walls was shattered; the depictions all but lost. Plain tables and empty pedestals adorned the back of the room: the only remnants of what was once plain to sight.
Guilt churned through her. There was so much meaning to her and the Faith within these walls. As Voice, there was much she could have done for it, but chose not to.
I just wanted to bury the past.
Fires burned near the back wall that lead to the main tower, twisting upward. Uncertainty gripped her heart while she ascended the narrow, spiraling staircase. The wind howled and rain drifted through window slits in the stone. Torches were lit far apart from each other, yielding the faintest of a dull glower. A thousand concerns scuttled through her mind during the descent.
Truftan Monastery has been laid to waste for five years now. None have come here, yet now, an ally appears in a place of my childhood, and m
ine own dear friend. I have trusted my life and soul to the Mother’s Pilgrim, felt the pang and loss of distrusting the divine will, yet I feel as if someone awaits me who would do harm to all who live and breathe in the realm. Yet that cannot be, not of Her messenger. It is through benevolence that my home was spared the worst of the ambitions of an overlord, now dead. It is to the spirit that I gave myself so completely, so utterly, to keep my home safe and free of invaders. Why then is it that my heart wavers in a place that meant so much to me?
I must be strong. I must be the Voice.
Lutessa emerged at the top floor of the tower. It was once the office of Father Deraphan, the monastic scholar. She remembered his long white beard, his stooped step, and his patience for the young and learned. The man was never naïve; for when the priestesses who served must be hard on their pupils, Father Deraphan stood staring at the scene, not judgmental, but glowering piteously at their mistakes, and filled with hope that they would learn.
There was but a mere single occurrence that she was ever called here, and the round chamber was much like she remembered: carpeted with a thick red rug, bookshelves that rung around the room, and a long wooden desk that sat at the western end, in front of a shuttered window. All save the three figures who stood where Deraphan would have held audience. Her heart quavered at the sight of them. This is not their place. They are not that kind soul.
The three figures seemed to be of equal height. They were draped in heavy cloaks with deep hoods. None of their skin was bared, the cloaks were dark, and the hue was indiscernible. They made her skin crawl, and though she was calm, the sensation from Gabriel’s Gift near her breast startled her.
“You have come, Lutessa,” the figure on the right turned, as a cold and chilling voice called out. His face was hidden in the darkness. “There was a resonance of another in the Void. Cognizance screamed out. A man that we had not heard before. You will answer for this.”
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