He looked at Sword, who still stood at the back of the wagon, mouth open and horrified. She had never known a mother, never known a parent.
So why should they? Why should these children be so blessed, when you were so cursed?
But she knew that was just her mind, trying to defend itself against what she had just seen and what she was being called on to do.
Devar nodded at the children. "There is still a job to do."
Sword remained motionless for a time so long it seemed she must grow old and die, standing here at the back of a wagon where a mother had been killed before her children.
"Kill them!" shouted Devar.
Sword raised her katana. The oldest boy still held his dagger. He raised the tip a few inches, as though to somehow stop the inevitable.
"Don't," she whispered, and didn't know what she meant by it.
Don't resist, boy.
Don't make me do this, Devar.
Don't be real, don't any of this be real.
"NOW!"
She jerked in place. Devar seemed almost to change, to grow in his rage and become larger than he had been.
Her sword lowered. "I can't," she said. "I –"
A sound drowned out the rest of the sentence. A crash that slammed down on her like a hammer blow. She looked upward – the source of the sound – and saw that thick black clouds had gathered. As she watched, she saw them spin into a funnel that reached down toward them. It looked like a tornado, but far too small to be such. Lightning speared out of it, great jagged whips that snapped out and scorched the earth wherever they touched.
The funnel touched the ground, and out of it walked a woman and a man. The man was clad in a white robe with black edges, and jags of electricity seemed to play along his fingers. His features were delicate, but somehow still strong. Slim, with an aquiline nose and a chin that came to a handsome point with no beard at all.
The woman wore a white skirt, and a breastplate, greaves, and gauntlets of polished silver. She seemed to be holding a shield, but Sword couldn't quite see it. It was as though the air itself had gathered around her arm and created a spot where no one could see.
Her face was covered by a silver mask. The mask had eyeholes and a long slit for a mouth. The mouth neither frowned nor smiled, giving the woman the appearance of a stern goddess, come in perfect neutrality to render a perfect judgment.
Both man and woman had silver hair, and somehow Sword knew they were brother and sister.
"No. No!" Devar shouted. "They weren't supposed to be here!"
Another crash sounded, and at the same time all the hairs on Sword's arm lifted. A lightning strike slammed down and obliterated two of Marionette's playthings. At the same moment, the woman in the silver armor jumped up. She flew forward as though pushed by an invisible hand and smashed into two more of Marionette's creatures. They scattered before the force of her blows.
"NO!" Devar screamed again. He looked at Sword and said, "I'll deal with you later." Then, before she could absorb any of what had just happened, she blinked and he had transported from his place in the wagon to a spot behind her. He hit her on the back of the head with the hilt of his rapier.
She fell.
And, for her at least, all became silent.
12
She opened her eyes and saw a face she knew and yet did not. Silver hair, a beautiful face. A flash of silver armor. A woman, her face curled in rage.
Her hand slammed down. There was nothing in it, though her fist was clenched as though holding something. It slammed into the side of Sword's face.
She closed her eyes again.
She opened them. This time long enough to realize she was laying on rough boards. Trees loomed overhead, branches reaching like grasping fingers on either side of her sight, trying to clasp across the path she traveled, trying to shut off sight of the night.
She saw a young man, a bit older than her. He looked familiar somehow, though she was sure she had never seen him before. He had a face that was a bit too round, a bit too squat. But it all worked together to create an attractive whole.
"Awake," he murmured when he realized she was looking at him. He raised something overhead. A rifle, the stock pointed down.
"Wait, wait, you don't –"
And, again, all was dark.
This time, she Dreamed. There was a Man. There was a Woman. They had no names, but for the first time in her life, for the first time in all her Turns, in all her long Dreamings, she saw that they wore black, as though in mourning. They looked at her with a love she had never before known, and the look broke her heart.
"Carry on," the Woman whispered.
"Carry her on," the Man echoed.
Then, as always, they reached for her. They embraced her.
And then, as always, their blood ran red and stained the perfect white and gold floors.
She woke. This time she saw that it was day. She still lay on her back, still there were trees above, but these were different. Not the leafy trees of the Capitol, these were the jabbing pines of the East.
We're in Faith.
She closed her eyes. Just for a second – or so she thought – but when she opened them again she was no longer outside. A vaulted ceiling, curved to a central point high overhead, was all she could see. Several stained glass windows were set in the ceiling and in the walls. Some held renderings of wheat and berries, others showed men and women doing obeisance to beings cloaked in cloud who hung above five mountains that she knew represented the five States of Ansborn.
"Ah, you're awake," said a voice. It was old, grizzled. Strong. For some reason it reminded her of Armor, even though when its owner came into view he looked nothing like her friend and near-father.
The priest was dressed as all priests were: in long white robes that fell nearly to the floor, edged in silver and gold, and with a silver sash that draped around his neck. He wore a mail hood over his head, signifying that he belonged to the Order of Chain – the warrior sect of the priesthood who trained to be protectors of virtue. Like the ascension of the first Emperor, the beginnings of the Order were cloaked in the time before history, but it was understood that they were some of the fiercest fighters in the Empire.
Across his chest there was a symbol:
The symbol of the mountains of Ansborn, with clouds above and a cloud below which none might pass.
Sword wondered again, fleetingly, what lay below the clouds.
The priest was older than she expected – perhaps sixty-five Turns. He was grizzled as a gray-backed bear – all sharp whiskers and with a deep scar that curled over his face from his right ear around his neck. But for all that he had a kindly demeanor, as though he was willing to bite any enemy but would be loyal to any friend – loyal to the death and even beyond, given his way and a few blessings from the Gods.
He wore a sickle on his right hip, a whip on his left that was made of cowhide with threads of silver running through it. And if the books were to be believed he could cleave a gnat out of the air with the sickle or use the whip to flick a hair off a man at five rods' distance.
"Those fools are lucky they didn't kill you," he said.
He moved, and Sword felt something cool on her forehead. She tried to sit up, but the ceiling spun sideways, then moved quickly to the other side of her sight as though drunk and she fell back with a moan.
The priest pushed her back – firmly but not roughly. "Stay down, girl. Unless you treasure the idea of vomiting all over the pews. And I'm the only one who cleans up in here so I would rather you not do that."
Her hands were tied, and through the crippling dizziness that spun its way through her she realized her katana and wakizashi were gone as well. She felt naked without them.
No, worse. I'd rather be naked, if it meant I could keep my weapons.
"I guess you're wondering where your fancy swords are right about now," said the priest with a chuckle. The cool feeling came again and she realized he was putting a salve on her head. Where
ver he touched her it felt better. He must be putting something on her that had been enchanted by a Patch. But that made no sense. That she had been captured by enemies of the Empire was certain, so it was a surprise to see them tending to her with something as expensive as magic balms.
"Are you going to torture me?"
The priest went still. "What?" he said.
"Are you healing me so that I'll be healthier for torture?" she asked.
He laughed. A long, loud belly laugh that bounced off the high ceiling and resounded through the room. "Gods' love, girl, what kind of books do they make you read?"
She didn't feel reassured. "Are you?"
The priest grew serious. "My name is Brother Scieran," he said, and continued applying the salve. He turned her head so that he could reach the back of her neck. She kept feeling better. The room had almost settled back into its proper position. "And as long as I have been a servant of the Gods – which is far longer than you have been alive – I would never have brooked such a thing."
"What about before you were a 'servant,' then?" she asked. And felt like cursing herself. Why was she trying to antagonize this man?
His hands stopped moving for a second. Then he resumed his healing touch. "Well, you should know we priests leave our pasts behind when we enter the priesthood, so I can't really answer that officially." He looked directly into her eyes, and for a moment the steel there had a sharp edge. "Unofficially, I can tell you that I'd be sorely tempted to pull your arms from your sockets and leave you at the Capitol door."
Then he smiled, and the kindness that flooded into him completely replaced the barely-contained mayhem of only a moment before. "Luckily, though, I'm not going to say any such thing."
"I might, though."
Brother Scieran looked over. So did Sword, sitting up slightly – thankfully the world had finally settled into its normal turn, rather than a sickly spin – to see over the pews.
The round-faced young man who had knocked her out stood at the door to what she now saw was a small Cathedral of Faith. He closed the door behind him and began marching toward them. He was still holding the rifle that he had used to knock her out. He also had a bow slung over one shoulder and a crossbow hanging from the other.
Serious case of overkill, she thought. Either he misses a lot or he hits everything he aims at.
Sword realized that for a moment Brother Scieran's attention was on the young man, not her. She moved.
She snatched the sickle from off Brother Scieran's side. Instantly the hum of her Gift surged through her. She flipped the sickle, catching it perfectly by the blade, and with a quick jerk used it to sever her bonds. Then flipped it again and had the polished handle in her hands.
Not my katana.
But it will more than do.
She turned toward the young man at the door in time to see him move –
Gods, he's fast. Must be a Gift.
He's a Blessed One.
– yanking his rifle into firing position and sending off a series of shots.
Sword had heard of a gun in the Emperor's personal armory, one with a rotating barrel that could shoot many bullets in a second. But she doubted that even it could shoot as fast as the man before her. He emptied his magazine so quickly that Sword barely registered it as happening; her arm just went numb as she swung the sickle so quickly it could not be seen, blocking the shots.
The sickle was a bent mess, and she tossed it away. She yanked the whip off Brother Scieran's other hip. The priest was just gaping, utterly surprised by the turn of events.
Sword only had her left hand to work with, and her enemy had already unlimbered his crossbow. She had seen what a well-placed bolt could do: it could put a hole the size of a fist right through a steel breastplate when shot at this range.
Thok-thok. The crossbow was a dual-shot, and he loosed them both.
Th-thap. She whipped them both from the sky. Then leaped the rest of the way to her feet. Sent the whip snaking through the air and circled it around Brother Scieran's neck.
"Stop!" she shouted as the young man drew his bowstring, an arrow already nocked and ready.
He's so fast. So fast.
She knew if this kept up, and if he had enough ammo, sooner or later he'd get through. She had to stop this now.
"I'll tear out his throat," she shouted, and hoped the words sounded less desperate and frightened to her attacker than they did to her.
She pulled Brother Scieran to her. As always, her Gift knew what to do better than she did. She couldn't have explained how to do it, couldn't have taught another, but she jerked in just the right way to send the bigger man skittering off balance toward her. In an instant he was between her and the rifle-/crossbow-/bowman.
The newcomer kept his bow at the ready. Kept the arrow nocked.
"I can put this through your eye at a quarter-mile," he said. "The only reason you're not dead is that we want information."
"I don't doubt it," she said. "But I'm pretty fast with the whip. And I don't think you want the good Brother getting killed." She began to step sideways, angling toward the door. "Move out of the way, please. I really don't want to kill anyone."
And, surprisingly, she found she didn't. Just a few days ago and she would have come after both these people with vigor. That the shooter was an enemy of the Emperor was not in doubt – he was in league with the woman who had come out of the tornado, which meant he had something to do with the traitorous Eva. And the Priest had clearly broken his covenant of neutrality, which made him a traitor as well.
But she didn't want to harm them. She just wanted to leave. Wanted to get back to the palace. Wanted to –
What?
She wanted Armor. She wanted him to talk to her. Wanted him to make everything right. Wanted him to –
(Erase Devar's face when he killed Eva. Make it never have happened. Take away the order to kill children or make them Dogs.)
– be the one nursing her wounds instead of this –
(priest brother helper man of the Gods)
– enemy.
The shooter remained in front of the door. "Move!" she snarled. She gave a jerk, and the whip tightened, the braided leather and silver creaking audibly in the silence of the cathedral.
Brother Scieran made no sound of pain, no noise of fear. But he did speak. "Move, Arrow," he said.
That surprised Sword. She jerked. Arrow? That sounded like the name of a Blessed One. But this couldn't be a Blessed One. They were all either dead or in service of the Empire. She knew there were Blessed Ones she hadn't met before, but this clearly wasn't someone in Malal's service.
Arrow moved away from the door. He kept a consistent distance between them, and kept his arrow pointed directly at her. At her right eye.
She wondered if she could move fast enough. Fast enough to jerk Brother Scieran between herself and a speeding arrow. She thought so, but didn't know for sure.
And didn't know for sure if she would be able to mentally even if she could do it physically. Could she kill a man like that? A priest?
Some servant of the Emperor.
The cathedral door was at her back now. She shuffled toward it, still keeping Brother Scieran in front of her. She hunched lower behind him, but couldn't hide completely – she had to keep an eye on Arrow.
She backed out into the street.
Glanced behind her.
And froze. Because she knew this place.
She had been here before.
13
For a moment the world disappeared. For a moment all there was was the sound of a boy crying out.
"No! Don't kill my daddy! Don't kill him, don't kill him, please kill me but don't kill him!"
And then she cut a throat and a man fell and then a moment later the boy fell along with his father.
She had not been going to do it. She wasn't going to kill Creed – wasn't going to be able to do it – and might not have served the Emperor, if she hadn't seen what the man did. If she hadn't
seen him destroying the village. Bringing forth the men and women and shooting or stabbing or burning or simply choking them to death with his own hands. Laughing as he did. Laughing, and it was for that laugh as much as for the murders themselves that she killed him.
And now… now she found herself in the same village. Nasius.
It was months later. And some of the villagers must have escaped to the nearby woods, because otherwise there would have been no one to care about rebuilding it. But there was a rebuilding in process. Half-constructed houses, a small storehouse. The cathedral was already done, which meant that someone had paid the considerable fee of an Engineer in order to construct the building faster than any normal team of men and women could do.
This isn't a village with money. Even before it was sacked, it wasn't rich. Who paid for an Engineer? The Church?
She didn't know. But it stabbed her to see the work of construction going on all around. To see people – mostly women and children – pushing rough-hewn planks into place, nailing beams together to create walls and roofs and walkways, physical structures representing the re-binding of a community torn apart by a wicked man.
And working among them: the silver-haired brother and sister.
The woman pounded on nails. She held nothing in her hand, but each time she struck down the nail would slam into place in thick wood beams.
Her brother swept his arms around, and a whirlwind erupted, swirling dust and leaves in a mini-tornado that pushed a wall into place long enough for it to be secured.
The woman noticed Sword. She was wearing the silver mask, not covering her face but pulled up over her head. Now she drew it down so she was staring at Sword with those expressionless features.
Fear coursed through Sword's veins. She had exited the cathedral with no escape plan in mind – just getting out of the building had been her only concrete goal. Just staying alive when facing what appeared to be a Blessed One gone rogue.
And now she faced not one, but three.
The silver-robed man who could call tornados saw her. And as he did it seemed the villagers understood that something dangerous was afoot. They disappeared into half-constructed dwellings, and now it was only Sword, Brother Scieran, and the brother and sister on the street.
The Sword Chronicles: Child of the Empire Page 13