The Price of Valor

by Django Wexler

  “The naath only have power inside a human soul,” Feor said. “The letters are only sounds, until they are spoken aloud.”

  “It’s just a list? Of names, or spells, or whatever they are?”

  “There is a good deal more than that. Commentary, warnings, ritual, and practice. They were created over many decades, or perhaps centuries, I believe.”

  “Are there really a thousand?” Raesinia looked at the giant plate. “That seems like a lot to fit in, even on something this size.”

  “There are eleven more.” Feor waved a hand at the other archways.

  “Oh.” Raesinia felt suddenly small. “And you’re working on . . . what? Translating them?”

  “In part. There are hints at pieces of our history that I believe nobody living remembers. And descriptions of what purposes the naath serve, although they are often vague or metaphorical.”

  “Okay.” Raeisnia turned to face her. “So if I read one of these out loud—assuming I learned how to read this language—then that’s it? Poof, I’m a naathem?”

  “In your case, no. One soul cannot hold two naath. A naath read aloud by a naathem does nothing.”

  “Right. But someone else?”

  “Perhaps.” Feor shook her head. “The naath binds to the soul, and the soul must be strong enough to bear it. Some naath are weak, and nearly anyone may bind them. For the strongest, only one in a thousand might be able to speak the naath without dying in the attempt. And each naath can only be spoken once, until the bearer dies.”

  Raesinia closed her eyes. She remembered lying in bed, every breath a labored agony, while a bearded priest had knelt beside her. He’d asked her to read something, and there had been pain. She’d never been sure whether the episode had been part of her fevered delusions. They gave me something like this to read. She stared, inwardly, at the binding. And it made me into . . . this.

  “Can you . . . stop being a naathem? Is there a way to get rid of one?”

  “Janus said you might ask that.” Feor sighed. “In short, I do not know, assuming you want to survive the process. I hope the answer may be here, somewhere.”

  “Somewhere.” Raesinia looked up and down the massive plate. “It’s going to take a while, isn’t it?”

  “Years, perhaps,” Feor said. “But I would persevere, even if Janus had not asked. It has become clear to me that Mother—the leader of our sect—concealed a great deal from us. This is the closest to the truth that I can get.”

  “Do you know where these came from? How old they are?”

  “Not precisely. The language is not Khandarai, though there are hints of an influence on modern Khandarai. Nor is it directly connected with any of the modern languages of your people, though again there are a few odd similarities. As best I can tell from events that are mentioned, the plates were carved sometime in the second or third century before the life of your prophet Karis.”

  That made the Names at least fourteen hundred years old. Raesinia didn’t know much ancient history, behind what had made it into The Wisdoms and Church doctrine. The time between the Fall of the Tyrants and the Judgment was a vague era of chaos and destruction, where the lands were ruled by sorcerer-kings and demons of all sorts. All that wickedness had prompted God to send the Beast of Judgment to exterminate mankind, and only the intercession of Karis the Savior had convinced Him to stay His hand. Afterward, the Church had launched the beginning of its endless campaign against sorcery and sin, to prove to the Almighty that His continued mercy was warranted.

  That was the version old Father Nuvell had taught her, anyway. There was nothing in there about the Priests of the Black employing sorcerous assassins, so she was pretty certain there were probably some other missing pieces.

  “I’m interested to hear what you find,” Raesinia said. “Even apart from . . . my condition. If I ever get to be a proper queen, you’ll have any support I can offer. You won’t have to live in a basement, to start with.”

  “Thank you, Your Majesty,” Feor said. “But as long as the Black Priests exist, the Names will never be safe in the open. I am afraid hiding in basements may be my lot in life.”

  “Then at least we can get you a nicer basement,” Raesinia said.

  She grinned, and Feor smiled back. Before Raesinia could think of another question, there was a sharp pain at the back of her head, as though something had popped underneath her skull. She saw Feor stagger slightly.

  “Is that . . . ,” Raesinia said.

  “Another naathem,” Feor said. “Very close by.”

  “A friend of yours?”

  She shook her head, face white. “They have found us.”

  * * *

  MARCUS

  Marcus—

  Yours received. Timing unfortunate. M.’s representatives already arrived here, situation unstable. Will send word of further developments.

  R must be kept safe, Willowbrook secure, all else secondary. Suggest remaining at Willowbrook until safe route out of the city can be secured, then hide in the country. R may object, but no more good options now that M. has revealed his hand. Suspect PD on their way to Vordan, do not risk operating with them at large.

  If things resolve in our favor here, I will be able to assist you. If not, you will be on your own. In the latter case, I have sent instructions home; in the event of my death, take R to Mieranhal. The people there will keep you both safe.

  Hope to see you again soon. If not, it has been an honor.

  —J

  “This is all?” Marcus said.

  “We’ve gone over it several times,” said Lieutenant White, who ran the flik-flik station. Around them, the solar was a mess, as men packed books and papers into trunks. “Orders for us came through a little later. We’re moving the station out of the city down to the first waypoint, in the forest behind the University. Most of our gear is already there.”

  “But this . . .” Marcus gestured at the page. “What the hell does he mean ‘in the event of my death’? What’s going on out there?”

  “Sir, I don’t know,” White said.

  Giforte put a hand on Marcus’ shoulder. “Let the lad keep packing.”

  “Sorry.” Marcus shook his head. “It’s just . . . not what I was expecting.”

  “This has caught us all by surprise.”

  “So you’re pulling out? What about the Names?”

  “Downstairs is staying here. The idea is that if nobody knows about this place, moving the flik-flik station will remove the most obvious way they might find out. We’ll leave a guard as well, of course.”

  “It still seems like it would be safer to move everything out of the city.”

  “The problem is transportation. All those tablets weigh tons—getting them out without drawing attention would be difficult.”

  Marcus thought for a moment. “Maybe we can put something together with the army supply services.” It was working for the refugees—or had been working. They’d put the whole thing on hold when Maurisk had launched his coup. “I’ll see—”

  “Marcus!” The shout came from below, accompanied by a Mierantai voice.

  “You can’t go up there!”

  “Marcus!” Raesinia called again. “We’re in deep shit!”

  “Is that the queen?” Giforte said, frowning.

  “You get used to it,” Marcus said, already headed for the stairs. He pounded down several circular flights to find Raesinia restrained by two sheepish but firm Mierantai guards. Feor hovered anxiously on the other side of the door to the rest of the house.

  “What’s going on?” Marcus said.

  “Someone’s coming.” Raesinia tapped her head. “Like that night.”

  “An abh-naathem,” Feor said, her gray skin very pale. “Not far away.”

  “Oh, Balls of the fucking Beast,” Marcus swore.

  “What
?” said Giforte, descending at a slightly less precipitous rate.

  “They’ve found us,” Marcus said. “Maybe they followed me here after all.”

  Giforte looked at the two Mierantai. “Go find Goffa and Ithan. Tell them to get everyone inside and prepared to defend the house. Now!”

  “Sir!” The two men sprang away from Raesinia, saluted, and ran off. Giforte cupped his hands and shouted up to the top of the tower.

  “White! We’re moving you out now! Grab your gear and move. We’ll burn the rest!”

  The clatter coming down from the solar increased in tempo. Feor, having stepped out of the path of the hurrying guards, pressed forward again.

  “We must defend the Names,” she said. “If they fall into the hands of the abh-naathem—”

  “We’ll do our best,” Giforte said. “It depends how many men they’ve brought. If they don’t know what we’ve got here, it may take them a while to organize a real force, and we’ll have time to ship everything out. Otherwise . . .”

  “We cannot leave the archive behind!”

  “Unless you’ve got a way to carry a ton of steel on your back, we may not have a choice. Like I said, we’ll do what we can.” Giforte paused. “Do you have any idea what this . . . abh-naathem can do?”

  Feor shook her head, looking nearly in tears. “I do not.”

  “Can you or your students do anything?”

  “No.” Feor’s voice was small. “My own power . . . no. Auriana, perhaps, but it would be very dangerous to her—”

  “More or less dangerous than being shot?” Giforte shook his head, and his voice softened. “Sorry. Please, do whatever you can.”

  “Marcus.” Raesinia beckoned him over and spoke quietly. “If it’s Patriot Guard out there, and not just Penitent Damned, I could try talking to them. They might not be willing to shoot the queen.”

  “Assuming they believe you’re the queen,” Marcus said, indicating Raesinia’s not terribly queenly attire. “In any case, I’m sure they’d be willing to haul you back to the Hotel Ancerre. Try it if we’ve got nothing else left, but . . .”

  “What if it’s that woman from the warehouse out there?”

  Marcus looked at the hurrying Mierantai, all carrying their deadly long rifles. “Then we’re going to find out how many shots she can stop at once.”

  Marcus’ position, amid the chaos of running, shouting men, was a somewhat ambiguous one. Technically, he was the senior officer on the scene, and therefore in command of this whole mess. But he was smart enough to know that Giforte and his subordinates had obviously spent time preparing for this circumstance, while he himself knew nothing about their plans or even the layout of the house. Any order he gave was only going to increase the confusion and slow things down. Instead of interfering, he took charge of Raesinia, shepherding her to a second-story window with a good view of the front lawn. Feor had disappeared back into her basement.

  The chaotic state of the Mierantai garrison was at least partly an illusion. For secrecy, none of the riflemen were wearing their neat red uniforms, instead being dressed up for a variety of civilian roles: gardener, servant, laborer, and so on, with quite a few who were apparently on the night shift and wore little more than long linen nightshirts. This did nothing to impede their efficiency, however, as they stationed themselves at the windows, pushed furniture in front of the doors, and distributed boxes of ammunition. The general effect was that of a country estate threatened by bandits, where servants and bedraggled guests had taken up arms to defend it with slightly alarming efficiency.

  Giforte stood down in the main hall, invisible from where Marcus had stationed himself but clearly audible as he shouted orders. He’d lost none of the assertiveness that had kept him as the effective leader of the Armsmen for so many years.

  “Movement along the back fence!” one of the Mierantai shouted. “Hard to see how many. Muskets for certain.”

  “More on the left!”

  “Moving on the right!”

  “Patriot Guard coming up the drive!” another man shouted. Marcus looked out the window, with Raesinia beside him, and saw that it was true. A big four-wheeled carriage had parked at the bottom of the drive, and at least a dozen men were waiting behind it while a party of four made their way up toward the house. All wore the sashes of Patriot Guards, and one had shoulder decorations suggesting he was an officer.

  From the outside, Marcus imagined, the house must look quiet. The riflemen had drawn most of the curtains to slits, and the cart they’d arrived on stood with its traces empty just in front of the side door. The Patriot Guard officer held up a hand to his men, then came up to the front door alone and slammed on the knocker.

  “Open the door!” he said in a voice that betrayed only a little bit of fear. “In the name of the Directory for the National Defense!”

  “What does the Directory want here?” a muffled voice answered. It was Giforte, Marcus thought.

  “We’ve received information suggesting there may be contraband on the premises. We’ll need to search the house. Cooperate, and no one will be harmed.”

  “That’s not going to be possible. My master instructed me to allow no one inside.”

  The Guard officer frowned. “I don’t give a damn what your master said. Open this door or we’ll have you on the Spike!”

  “I suggest you leave the premises at once. And tell your men to withdraw.”

  The officer spun on his heel and stalked back to his three men. “Break the door down!”

  The trio, obviously unaware of how many weapons were trained on them, moved up to the front door. They all carried heavy axes, which Marcus recognized from his brief time in the Armsmen as weapons designed for exactly this situation. A few well-aimed blows would open most stubborn portals, but in this case he doubted they’d get the chance to even wind up. It was hard to watch anyone, even the enemy—how did they become the enemy?—walk into certain death. Go back, you stupid bastards . . .

  The Patriot Guards raised their axes, the officer watching from a few yards back.

  “That’s it,” Giforte shouted. “Fire!”

  The crunch of breaking glass came from all over the house, as one Mierantai in the pair at each window slammed his rifle butt against the windowpane. His companion leveled his rifle through the gap in the curtains, took aim for a moment, then fired. A staccato series of cracks echoed weirdly through Willowbrook’s rooms.

  The three men at the door, who’d lowered their axes at the sound of breaking glass, collapsed instantly. Behind them, the officer’s head snapped back, spraying blood and brains, and he took a single involuntary step before collapsing nervelessly to the gravel. More balls raised splinters from the wagon, and at least one found one of the horses, who started to rear and thrash desperately in its harness. Shouts from the sides and rear of the house indicated the volley was having an effect there, too.

  “Fire! Fire!” someone outside screamed as the rifle shots died away. The Patriot Guards obeyed, sliding their muskets out from behind the wagons and blazing away at the house. Balls pattered and thocked into the facade, like hail falling into stiff mud. As they loaded, the second man in each pair of Mierantai leaned out and fired, and Marcus saw several men fall drunkenly away from the wagon and sprawl in the street. Smoke boiled from most of the windows of the house and around the hedgerows that surrounded it.

  It was a patently unequal contest, Marcus could see at once. It was hard to see how many Patriot Guards there were, but he doubted it was as many as a hundred, spread around the house on four sides. Giforte had nearly that many Mierantai, and they held a much stronger position. Further, the grounds of the house offered little cover—given how long the Mierantai had been here, Marcus doubted this was an accident—so the Patriot Guards were firing from the edges of the property, fifty or seventy-five yards away. At that range, their smoothbore muskets were a d
istinct disadvantage against the long Mierantai rifles; while the larger weapons were clumsy and awkward to reload, they were much more accurate over any distance, a fact that the Mierantai were proving with deadly efficiency.

  “I don’t see the old woman,” Raesinia said.

  “Or Ionkovo.” A thought occurred belatedly to Marcus. “Damn, he could be inside the house. He can turn invisible and walk through walls, or something like that. I have to warn Giforte.”

  Raesinia nodded, and they left the window and hurried together down the main stairs. Feor was just emerging from the basement, with her students in tow: Auriana, white-haired and limping, and the young man she’d called Justin.

  “Giforte!” Marcus called. “I thought of something. You remember Ionkovo?”

  When Giforte nodded, Marcus explained about his second encounter with the Penitent Damned.

  “I’d keep a few men back to watch out for surprises,” Marcus concluded.

  Giforte nodded. “Good plan.” He looked at Feor and Raesinia, then pulled Marcus aside and spoke quietly. “We’re going to have to try a breakout.”

  Marcus grimaced. “You seem to be holding them.”

  “There’s too many for us to pick off from here, though. And you can bet they sent a runner screaming for help. This place isn’t a fortress—if they get any kind of gun up here, they’ll bring it down around our ears.”

  Marcus pictured cannonballs tearing through wood-and-plaster walls and nodded. “What about the Names?”

  “I don’t think we have any choice but to leave them.” Giforte shook his head. “You know all this nonsense better than I do, and you know Janus. Are a bunch of Khandarai artifacts that critical?”

  “I think so,” Marcus said thoughtfully. “But we’re not going to be able to get them out with us, and you’re right, we can’t just stay here. I think we may have to count on coming back for them.”

  “That sounds more possible,” Giforte said, brightening. “We can keep an eye on the place and jump the Patriots if they try to move them.”

  “Which way are we breaking out?”