Dark Immolation

by Christopher Husberg

  Ferni nodded vigorously. Astrid released her hand from his mouth, but kept her claw close to his open eye. “In a pouch, near my cloak,” he said.

  Sure enough, she found the stone in a pouch. She held it up. “This is the one?” she asked.

  “Let me see it.”

  Astrid held it up to him, showing Ferni the rune on the smooth stone’s surface.

  Ferni nodded. “That will get you in touch with Rune.”

  Astrid looked at the voidstone, turning it over in her fingers. Then she looked back at Ferni. “Transfer it to me,” she said.

  With a sob, Ferni’s head bowed. “I already have,” he said. “I began it the moment you asked where it was.”

  Astrid nodded. What the man said was true. She could feel the voidstone bonding to her. This might be what could truly help Knot. This might be what they had both been looking for.

  You only had to torture a man to get it.

  Astrid banished the thought. What was done was done. She could help this man, now. “Thank you, Ferni,” she said. “You’ve been a great help. I’m sorry for what I have done to you.”

  Astrid reached out and drew one claw across Ferni’s throat. She did not stay to watch the blood flow.

  * * *

  “Did you get what you came for?” Trave asked.

  “I did. Did you take care of the bodies?”

  Trave nodded.

  “Good,” Astrid said. “Then let’s get the hell out of here. I would love to never see this city again.”

  “I know what you mean,” Trave said, and as he said it Astrid caught the hint of something in his one eye—what was it? A flicker, perhaps of the fear she had sensed in him days ago, perhaps of the anger she had known before. She could not read him.

  They walked out of the Nazaniin tower-house together, into the early morning darkness.

  There waiting for them was Olin Cabral and what appeared to be all of his Fangs.

  “What is this?” Astrid asked, looking at Cabral.

  “You’ve done me a great service, Astrid,” Cabral said. “It is now my turn to repay you.”

  “I have what I need,” Astrid said. “I don’t need payment.” She knew what Cabral considered payment; she wanted none of it.

  Cabral sighed. “I was afraid you would say that. And I’m afraid I must insist.” He nodded to Trave.

  Astrid turned to Trave just in time to see his face. He did not look triumphant. If anything, his face showed… sorrow?

  “I’m sorry,” Trave said. Then they descended upon her.

  151st Year of the People’s Age, Cabral residence, Turandel

  Astrid scrubbed the floor, watching the blood fade from the stone. Another servant dead. Another one of the silly human girls who thought they could gain something by associating with Olin Cabral. And Astrid was cleaning up the mess.

  Behind her, the Fangs laughed and drank. Cabral had been gone for almost a week; no one would say where. That had made the week difficult. Without Cabral, the Fangs were unruly. Without Cabral, the Fangs were unafraid.

  The smell of sanguinar reached Astrid’s nostrils, and her mouth watered. They let her have the drink only on occasion. When she was a good girl, they said. She had to resist the urge to lick the blood from the floor, suck it from the cloth. They would beat her for drinking it. They would break her bones, only to let them heal, and then break them again. Astrid knew that from experience.

  The other servants, all older than Astrid, the fools who thought there was something to gain from being here, attended the Fangs, seemingly oblivious to the blood on the floor.

  The sound of a bottle shattering reached Astrid’s ears, the sharp crack and sprinkling of glass, and the Fangs laughed harder. One of them laughed so hard that he began choking on his drink. Astrid turned, hoping it was Trave. She was disappointed; it was only Fuud, the buffoon who made an idiot of himself once an hour or so. One of the Fangs shouted something, but Astrid ignored them, hoping she could clean this mess and go back to her quarters without any trouble.

  It wasn’t until she heard the shout a third time that Astrid realized it was directed towards her. She immediately turned, her face growing pale.

  Trave was staring at her, red-faced. “What did you say, girl?” Trave rasped. Astrid had heard many stories of what happened to Trave’s voice. Some said that, before he turned, Trave had suffered from some disease. Others said he’d growled his throat raw while running through the wilds like an animal. Still others said Cabral had once forced him to eat hot coals as punishment. Astrid did not know which was true, if any of them were.

  Astrid stood, head bowed, facing Trave. “Nothing, sir. I didn’t say nothing.”

  Trave laughed. “If you didn’t say nothing, then you said something, girl. What did you say?”

  Astrid swallowed. Sometimes they fell for the poor-child routine, the child who couldn’t speak properly. Other times, they did not.

  “I am sorry, sir. ’Fraid I misspoke. I did not say anything, sir.”

  Trave frowned, glaring at Astrid with those horrible, dead eyes. The now-silent Fangs glared at her with contempt; the other servants stared at her with indifference. Astrid had never gotten along with either—the Fangs thought her inferior, even though she was one of them, and the servants viewed her as one of the Fangs but worse: not just a monster, but an abomination that had taken the soul of a child.

  “Very well,” Trave rasped. He sat back down, chuckling. “Back to work, bitch.”

  Astrid nodded, swallowing hard. She had barely knelt down when she felt strong arms lift her back up.

  No.

  The Fangs laughed as they carried her across the room. Trave smiled as Astrid was brought to him. She returned his gaze, too afraid to look away. That only made things worse.

  The two men set her down in front of Trave, still seated at the head of the table, where Cabral normally sat. Trave had grown bolder, lately; there was once a time when no one would have dared sit there.

  “Our little Astrid,” Trave whispered, leaning forward. “You’ve never quite learned to behave, have you? Never quite learned to obey your betters.”

  A few Fangs, Fuud included, chuckled at this. Astrid knew the routine well. She would find no friends here. The best thing to do was submit. But that did not stop her mind from pleading against what was about to happen.

  “I am very sorry, sir,” Astrid said.

  “You aren’t sorry,” Trave rasped. Then, in one smooth motion, he stood, and punched her in the face. Astrid’s head snapped back, her neck cracking. She lifted it just in time to see another blow pound into her gut. Astrid’s body tried to double over in pain, but the Fangs held her up. Night had fallen a few hours ago, and the vampires were at their strongest. This included Astrid, but she was by far the weakest vampire present, nighttime or not. Being punched by Trave was like a human child being punched by a human adult.

  Astrid endured a few more punches, hoping that would be the worst of it. But, when Trave ordered the Fangs to hold her down, she knew it would not be.

  “Fetch me the Songbird,” Trave rasped.

  No, please, Goddess.

  The Fangs hurled Astrid roughly to the table, crushing china and sending silverware and goblets flying. The tangy fumes of sanguinar filled Astrid’s nostrils, but she had neither time nor energy to crave it. Four Fangs now held her down, one on each limb. Astrid raised her head as much as she could, staring at Trave through a swollen eye. Her heart pounded in her skull, her eyes were blurred with blood and tears. One of the Fangs arrived carrying a small, silvery hammer. The thing looked tiny in Trave’s large palm.

  “Do you know why I call this one the Songbird?” Trave asked, grinning down at Astrid.

  Astrid shook her head, unable to stop the tears streaming down her face. Of course she knew why Trave called the hammer the Songbird; he had told her dozens of times, and insisted on retelling her, every time.

  “Because it makes people sing like little birds,” Trave sai
d, laughing and laughing. Then, his voice grew hard. “Hold her hand down.”

  Fangs slammed her palm onto the table, and Astrid knew from experience that if she did not spread her fingers wide, she would face worse.

  Trave laughed. “Such a good little girl,” he said. “You know the routine so well.” Then, with a sharp crack, Trave slammed the Songbird down onto the tip of Astrid’s little finger.

  Astrid shouted, her shout quickly fading into something between a cry and whimper.

  “Ah, just like a songbird,” Trave said, and smashed the little hammer down on Astrid’s ring finger.

  This time she screamed, her scream deteriorating into sobs, and Trave continued, shattering the bones in each one of her fingers.

  “I grow tired of this,” Trave said, having finished with her left hand.

  “Want the Minstrel?” one of the Fangs asked.

  The Minstrel was a normal-sized hammer. The bones Trave crushed with the Minstrel were much more difficult to heal. Astrid took a deep breath. She could handle the Minstrel. As long as he didn’t—

  “Bring me the Diva,” Trave said, tossing the Songbird aside. “I’m in the mood for a real performance.”

  No, no, no, Goddess please, no!

  Astrid tried to stay calm, but fear raked at her chest, made her shiver. Best thing to do was stare at the ceiling and wait for it to be over. But with the Diva, she couldn’t do that. Trave would break her legs, her arms, her ribs, everything he could with the massive sledgehammer. Astrid couldn’t endure pain like that again. She would not endure pain like that again.

  And then, something within her snapped—she almost heard whatever it was break apart in her mind. She looked from side to side, at the Fangs who held her arms. Gardin to her left—he was too strong for her by far, and her left hand was all but useless. Fuud to her right. Fuud. He was drunk, and he was a fool. Fuud was the one.

  Astrid twisted her right arm so she could grip Fuud’s forearm, and then squeezed with every ounce of strength she could muster. She felt the bones of Fuud’s forearm break. Fuud screamed, and the crunch of bones filled Astrid with elation.

  But her right arm was free, and between Astrid and Fuud, lying on the table, she saw salvation: a long knife, meant for cutting fish, slightly curved. Astrid swept the knife up in her hand, raised her head, and stabbed Trave in the eye.

  Trave, who had just taken the Diva up in one hand, looked out into nothing for a moment, his mouth agape.

  Astrid did not know why, perhaps from the shock of what had just happened, perhaps because of an act of some god or goddess that had a brief fraction of a moment of pity for Astrid, but the Fangs who held Astrid’s legs suddenly let go.

  Only then did Trave begin to scream.

  Astrid twisted, brought her knees to her chest, and then kicked with all her strength. Both feet connected with Trave’s torso and sent him flying across the room like a stone from a sling, crashing into the wall above the fireplace. Trave fell, part in and part out of the fire, and before Astrid could even register what she was doing she had leapt across the room and was beating him, beating Trave’s head into the coals of the fire, blow after blow raining down on him, feeling the flames lick up her arms but not caring. She tore the knife from his eye and began stabbing him, again and again in the chest. She laughed, sick with herself for what had been done to her and for what she had done, but now too far gone to stop herself, and with her injured left hand she reached into the fire for a glowing orange coal.

  She held the coal before Trave’s face for a fraction of a second, the skin of her hand burning, acrid smoke rising into the air. Then she thrust the coal into the bleeding hole where Trave’s eye had been.

  “Do not ever touch me again or I will kill you,” she wanted to say. But all she could do was scream into Trave’s face, scream and scream until her throat was raw. Then she pulled herself away.

  Everyone in the room was staring at her, eyes and mouths wide. None of the Fangs made any move to approach her. No one made any move at all.

  So Astrid limped away, felt the burning heat and crushing pain of her charred left hand, the raw soreness in her throat. She fled Cabral’s great hall, already feeling her body heal, already wondering whether her soul ever would. At the entrance of Cabral’s tower-house she ran. She ran and ran, until she left Turandel, until she left everything and all of it far, far behind.

  30

  Imperial palace, Izet

  WINTER STOOD TALL NEXT to Daval, the fire of faltira burning in her veins. She couldn’t help but try using her tendra, but—as always—she was blocked. No matter. She would find a weakness one day; that was why she needed to take the faltira so often, now that she had a limitless supply. She needed to take it to test the blocks on her power.

  They were in the Lords’ Hall, meeting with the Ruling Council. Daval sat on a throne at the head of the long oak table. He had recently appointed his new son-in-law, Girgan Mandiat, to the position of First Counselor—the position the young man’s father had occupied until he’d been killed at the succession vote. Girgan sat on Daval’s immediate right, Hirman Luce next to him. Daval had allowed Luce to remain Second Counselor, even though Luce had tried to mount a coup against him. Winter couldn’t fathom why he’d been chosen to serve on the Ruling Council. Luce, Winter realized, was likely one of the enemies she had been hired to intimidate.

  To Daval’s left sat Watch Commander Borce Kuglen, merchant leader Arstan Dagnatar, and High Priestess Jemma Rowady. His daughter Cova, as the new crown princess, sat opposite him on the other end of the table.

  Each of the members of the Council eyed Winter warily; this was the first time Daval had deigned to display her in public. The stares of fear and distrust brought Winter a great deal of pleasure.

  Daval’s retainer of Ceno monks stood near the doorway, while Winter and Urstadt flanked the throne. Winter wore a dark tunic and a black leather overcoat, the hem of which reached her thighs. The overcoat was padded and studded, but still surprisingly light. She also had tight leather breeches, similar to those Kali had given her, but more comfortable and useful. Galce knew his business; the breeches had hidden pockets for blades and other weapons. She carried a dagger and a small knife, and the fact that she had no knowledge of how to use them, other than for hunting and fishing, was something no one else needed to know.

  “It is time we recommence Grysole’s work,” Daval was saying, looking around the table. “Grysole was building our power, preparing to attack Khale. It is important that we continue what he started.”

  “Your Grace,” High Priestess Jemma said, smiling, “with all due respect, are there not more appropriate actions to take at this point? We must rebuild after losing an emperor and a… a major public figure in such short time. The palace sustained such damage…” Jemma’s eyes flickered to Winter as she trailed off.

  Bloody right, Winter thought. I destroyed your dome, and the abominations that you’d brought into the Sfaera with it. But her smugness dissipated as she remembered the monsters she’d faced. She suppressed a shiver.

  Girgan Mandiat laughed. “Of course you would want to hold off on our offensive against Khale, High Priestess. The Denomination wouldn’t want the seat of its power threatened.”

  “The Denomination is neutral, my Lord,” Jemma said, her voice stern. “We don’t take sides in such things. We prefer peace, of course, and that’s always what I would advise.”

  “Neutral my ass,” Arstan Dagnatar muttered. The table erupted in shouts and accusations, the nobles and leaders yelling at one another in anger.

  “Order!” Daval shouted above the chaos. “I will not have my Ruling Council behaving like children. We will discuss this civilly, I command it.”

  Borce Kuglen leaned forward. “I’m sorry, Your Grace, but I must agree with the high priestess. Our forces in Izet were greatly diminished during the…” he too glanced at Winter, “the disaster. Rebuilding is necessary, I’m afraid.”

  “If we are consta
ntly rebuilding, we’ll never accomplish anything of our own,” Dagnatar responded. “We live in a new age, a time where the Sfaera is open to us. I say we seize every opportunity we can.”

  Kuglen shook his head. “If you had any military experience at all, you’d know that an offensive move is folly when there is unrest at home. We must take care of the inner vessel first, before we look outwards.”

  Winter knew next to nothing about these people, only what little her servants had told her. Daval had remained silent about the business aspect of these meetings; he only wanted her there for intimidation purposes. She considered, not for the first time, entering the minds of some of these people to discern what their true intentions were. But she did not know if she could stop herself from slipping into the strange place of star-lights, as she’d done before. And she couldn’t risk her acumency being discovered.

  Hirman Luce, who had been silent up until this point, raised his head. “I’m surprised you’re willing to consider an offensive against Roden at all, Your Grace,” he said, spitting out the last word with derision. “You’ve taken one of their own, a tiellan, as your pet. How do we know you don’t mean to sell us out to Khale, or worse, allow the tiellans a place in our society once more?”

  All eyes turned to Winter. There was animosity, fear, and distrust on everyone’s faces.

  “Winter is now my private bodyguard,” Daval said, “that’s all. As for her status as a Khalic citizen and a tiellan, I have granted her amnesty as long as she serves me.”

  Dagnatar leaned forward, speaking more quietly, as if doing so would mean that Winter couldn’t hear him. Winter was quickly placing the merchant leader solidly in the idiot camp. “Can you really control someone of such… such power?” he asked.

  “Of course not,” Daval said, inducing a bout of nervous shifting around the table. “I couldn’t possibly control her. But why ask me? Why not let her speak for herself?”

  “I have sworn to serve Daval Amok,” Winter said. “And by association, the good of Roden.” It was much easier to say than she had thought it would be. She wanted vengeance against those who had slaughtered her loved ones but vengeance was exhausting. And she simply did not have the resources to mount such an offensive. It did not seem to satisfy the others, but it wasn’t meant to; her unpredictability was as important to her intimidation factor as her reputation of power.