It took a long time for the rest to file past and give what regards they cared to give. Molric tilted his head to each councilor, smiling until his cheeks ached and his teeth showed the falseness of it. Well, let them see what they wrought.
When Councilor Brannon filed past his eyes met Molric’s. Otherwise, nothing passed between them. Brannon would have the Lord Speaker’s chair for his aid.
Councilor Amberlin was near the last of the line. He nodded, smiled, and leaned forward to whisper, “Nothing is over until it is finished. I have work to complete.”
Molric nodded, smiled likewise, and replied in his ear, “Do not return home if you value your life.”
Councilor Amberlin maintained his false humor as he stepped back. Molric nodded to underline his words. Nothing must stand in his way and he had no patience for further meddling. Tomorrow the Emperor would be dead and the Corianth Empire would be his to rebuild. Nothing must stand between him and that duty.
The last dull councilors filed past, then were all returned to their seats.
Molric was now chair of the city council and chancellor of the city. He caressed the smooth wood under his hands. It was the touch of destiny — of the beginning of the salvation of humanity.
The Penitent Man
Rodrigan
Rodrigan stumbled into the nave of the First Temple. Night’s gloom filled it, and hung on his shoulders like a shroud. The huge aisles stood empty and haunted, the money lenders and merchants long since gone. The glass dome was black and a light rain pattered upon it.
He fell to his knees, and dropped his candle. It barely gave color to the patterned tiles on the floor.
He could not wash the blood from his hands. It stained his soul. He should have stopped, demanded, implored, for Molric to heal Erin. But he’d been too shocked to move with any volition. By the time any sense came to him, it had been too late. He’d struck her a mortal blow, and left her for dead.
He must be penitent for his wrong-doing, and be supplicant before God. For all his loyalty to the Order, for all his service to Pollos, he had done the unforgivable. It was sin enough to strike a Servant of Pollos, but a man who killed his own child was beyond redemption. His life was now forfeit.
It was so unfair, so ironic. So like God.
He had sworn by Omicron, Pollos, and the Light to protect Erin. The one thing he had vowed, above all, gone by his own hand.
He held that thought. And it broke him.
The candle stuttered and stilled. Rain continued to fall. The emptiness of the temple devoured his cries of grief. Yet they were not for his own life, nor even for Erin. It was because nothing of Sharaya remained in this world.
A Moment of Calm
Jerine
“She should be dead.” Margor the physician stood over Erin, gray hair falling over her gray tunic and robes. She raised a hand to the air, and repeated three times, “Begone, this illness, this wound, this swelling, this pain. I call you forth, through this spell, from these limbs and bones.” Then she placed a knucklebone amulet, inscribed with the magical word Abraxus, at Erin’s feet. Margor seated herself on a stool by the bed, and unrolled a parchment of astrology charts over her knees. She traced them with a finger. “I will calculate what I can, but without a birth date, my prognosis will be limited.”
Jerine gently sponged the dried blood from Erin’s face and neck. The skin remained swollen and bruised. Erin now breathed through a reed, instead of the tin whistle. Shortly, it would be removed.
“In three days time there is a conjunction between Aristos and Erannu. If she lives to see that, the influence will increase her vitality.”
The wound to Erin’s body was long, deep, and ugly. Jerine had washed it with boiled wine, and stitched it closed with horsehair. She had dressed it with a poultice of honey infused with larkspur and ginweed, to try and rebalance the colors — according to the proscriptions of Gallenicos. And finally, bandaged Erin with clean linen. It was all she could do.
“Hercune is in conjunction with the sun. His guardian aspect is magnified here ... ”
Jerine finished cleaning as best she could. She rinsed her hands in a basin. The boiled water turned red. It was difficult to rinse all the blood away.
“ ... Alteranin moves through Herel the Shepherd, which means that travel is auspicious. Both are in triune with Saturnyne tonight, which makes their aspects increased.”
Jerine dried herself with a hand towel, then packed away her depleted packets and jars of herbs and ointments into her satchel. Buying them today had been a clear sign of the Goddess at work. Jerine only hoped it was enough.
Margor clasped her hands. “The overall portents are surprisingly good. Even should she die, her soul will be especially purified to travel through the seven heavens. However, I should warn you that her birth date could change any aspect.”
Jerine nodded. Dangers remained. She tried to reach out for any sense of the Goddess that might reveal how Erin would fare. She sensed nothing. Did that mean no further action was required?
Margor packed her chart away. “What is that?” she asked, pointing to Ezekiel’s staff. It remained at the end of the bed.
Whatever it was, it kept Erin alive. Jerine didn’t understand how or why, only that Margor had been right — Erin should be dead. Somehow, Ezekiel had saved her. And his staff was responsible.
“A prayer staff,” Jerine said dismissively, before Ezekiel could answer.
Margor frowned. “Beware of charlatans and their alternative medicines.”
Jerine forced a smile. “I will.”
Margor stood, and placed her bag over her shoulder. “At least you did not have Hephistos here instead of me. He always confuses his sextiles with his quincunxes, and mis-prescribes. You already have my instructions for treatment. Plenty of red foods. A broth of mashed liver should do particular good. Followed by strong purgatives, to remove any poisons. If she wakes.” Margor lowered her voice. “If not, have a priest give her the Last Blessing to free her soul.”
Jerine paid for her time with a guilder.
The physician left.
Fatigue washed over Jerine. She slumped against a wall in the room and let herself slide down it. At least she could now have a moment of calm.
Ezekiel kept quiet by the bed, watching over Erin.
“You did good, Ezekiel.” Jerine yawned. “You did good.”
Tilirine walked in. “I’ve disposed of Erin’s soiled robes.” Tilirine leaned over the bed. “Erin almost died because of you.”
Jerine flushed with anger. She sat up. “How dare you accuse me of anything? After all I’ve done for her?”
“You seek a path to your own destruction, and others suffer for that.”
Jerine was stunned speechless by the remark. Finally, she collected her wits and stood. “How dare you imply that I wish harm upon anyone. How dare — ”
“You do not wish it, you demand it! Look at how you make others follow you.”
Jerine stood face to face with her sister. “They do so by choice.”
“A choice you make for them.”
“I can’t make anyone do anything!”
“No, but you can manipulate them to do what you want.” Tilirine let her voice drop low. “What happened to Erin’s purse?”
Jerine faced her directly. “I did what I thought best for the Goddess.”
“You thought only on yourself. I suggest you give a care for those around you.”
Every part of Jerine’s body seemed to tremble. She forced her voice to remain steady. “I have a patient to attend to. I suggest you leave, to avoid causing a disturbance.”
Tilirine walked out. The door remained open.
Jerine clenched her fists and stomped to the bed. It was so unfair for her sister to air such claims. She hoped others had heard, so they could agree that she’d been wronged. Especially Sirath — he’d understand.
Erin hadn’t been injured through anything Jerine had done. Erin walked her own path — sh
e hadn’t even gone to the warehouse with them. She’d been hurt after her presentation. That had nothing to do with Jerine.
She unclenched her fists and looked at her fingers. There was still blood on her hands. This hadn’t been her fault. All she could do was follow the path the Goddess gave her. And if anyone was harmed, she’d try to help them. That’s all she could ever do.
Jerine took a leaf from her pocket and chewed it. Its bitter taste failed to calm her. Becoming reunited with her sister was a dream turned nightmare. If Tilirine made one more baseless remark Jerine would go her own way — leave now, with Sirath.
If he hadn’t already fled.
A Little Temptation
Sirath
Sirath stood with the mule train. Behind him, lantern light around the Lion Inn’s stables. Before him, a gate, then a dark passageway that led out to the street. Into the city, and beyond.
He waited. He’d done so for an age.
The animals had simple leather saddles and were roped together. The only thing missing were their riders.
They didn’t come.
Sirath had no idea what to do now. But he knew that once he set out there would be no turning back. By all rights he should go — forget about the others. Everyone had their gold. He wanted to live long enough to enjoy his.
But rich and alone wasn’t a safe way to travel. And he didn’t want to leave Jerine.
A cold wind crept under his new doublet and shirt. Loose straw breezed across the ground.
This business with Erin had cut too close. They were hunted now, and staying still was the worst thing to do. You could hide in a city, lie low, remain unnoticed among so many other people. But not here. The Lion Inn no longer felt safe.
Nowhere did. Night had fallen, and danger could lurk in every shadow.
He was trapped like a rat.
He kicked the gate in frustration and cursed under his breath. If Erin hadn’t kissed a blade they’d have been away from here by now, and lodged somewhere out in the country. Instead, everyone just stayed, frightened, or confused.
Angry shouts echoed in the air. Running boots. Shrieks of pain. A gang fight, and too close.
Sirath stepped back with the lead mule and readied to flee if it came nearer. No shapes moved ahead on the road. It was probably on the main avenue, near the statues. But it could spill his way.
One of the mules brayed. That was it — a sign not to leave.
Sirath retreated with the animals into the stables, and yelled for grooms. A handful came over. He tipped them to remove the saddles, ensure the animals were cared for — and that nobody stole them.
The noise of fighting grew louder.
Sirath hurried to the rear door for the Lion Inn. He slipped inside as hand bells rang out on the street.
Laughter, talk, and music, flooded over him. The common area was so packed most people were left standing. Hot with sweat, the place stank like piss on a dog.
Before, he’d seen this place as an opportunity for thieving. Others would, too. It wasn’t somewhere to carry a purse with nearly a hundred gold crowns. He gripped it in his hand, then thrust it down his hose, holding it at his groin. He pushed through the crowds with a waddle, the purse heavy, hard, and cold against him. He put on an exaggerated leer, as if touching himself — let others look away in disgust, than imagine he hid a lifetime of wealth there.
He made it safely to the stairs, then hobbled up them. Finally, he reached the top floor, panting for breath. Only now did he dare pull his purse out. Despite the discomfort it had caused, the constant rubbing had given him a hard-on. Nervousness gave way to embarrassment, hoping that it wouldn’t show if Jerine saw him.
Where to put his gold? Not in his own room, alone, unattended. Better in Jerine’s with everyone else’s. Even if that meant going where Erin lay dying.
He stopped outside her room, not wanting to go in. Not even wanting a part of her share if she died. Not wanting Death to notice him, too.
“You didn’t go?” Ulric’s voice came from behind, across the hall.
Sirath turned, and nodded to both big men, the door to their room wide open. “Not safe to travel in the dark. But first thing in the morning I’m gone. You want to come with me?”
Ulric pointed over. “Erin’s still alive.”
Sirath shrugged, disappointed that Ulric didn’t jump at the invitation. “Just a matter of time. We all saw the injury. Not trying to be callous or nothing, but that was a killing blow.”
Ulric nodded, but said nothing more.
Sirath walked into Jerine’s room. Ezekiel stood over where Erin lay. Sirath tried not to look at the bed. Jerine smiled tiredly to him, and Sirath was grateful his ardor had gone softer.
“Still here? I’m glad.”
Sirath pocketed a handful of guilders and pennies, then handed her his purse. “Put this safe with the rest. I’m gone in the morning, though. Come with me, please?”
Jerine looked away, and he knew it was the wrong moment to ask.
He left without an answer. He stood alone in the hallway. He considered going into his room and waiting it out, but he could see Tilirine was there. She was seated against the wall, her arms out, as if in prayer. He’d only end up pacing about and annoying her. From what he’d seen of her, he wouldn’t want to do that.
He could go downstairs, back to the common area. There might be safety in a crowd. He might even look for a little temptation — he was a gentleman now, and should be able to buy easy pleasures. Anyone would do, so long as they didn’t have a beard — he hated how they pricked his cheeks.
But he was more scared than excited, and sometimes the easiest place to attack was in a crowd. He’d seen that before. Someone could just slide a knife in, then slip away without anyone seeing anything.
Sirath glanced about the doors of the hallway. He was stuck with nowhere to hide. Anxiety made his belly gurgle, and he felt his bowels begin to loosen. There was a privy between the staircases, so he walked toward that. And wrestled with the problem that if trouble came, how could he escape it?
Shadow of Death
Ulric
Ulric gazed out from their room toward Erin’s — and watched for the shadow of Death to approach. He wondered if the cold iron of his new hand-ax might harm such a spirit. He’d gladly try if he could, though it wouldn’t bring Lucira back.
His fingers brushed the weapon at his belt, its haft long, smooth, and heavy. The head was hooded in leather to keep it safe. Dalathos had suggested he buy a sword, but there’d been no point when not trained in their use. Besides, an ax should be good for chopping wood with, if nothing else.
It was useful for nothing here. And neither was Ulric.
Dalathos sat on the bed, and fiddled with his new crossbow. Ulric’s was beside that — the one Dalathos had bought for him — even though Ulric had no interest or will in using one. He doubted he ever would.
A serving girl appeared at their door. She knocked gently, then entered. She carried a small keg under an arm, and a mug of carved beech in one hand. “Michalas sends his concern for your friend. He ordered refreshment brought up, without charge.” She set the keg on the stool, and the cup beside it.
Ulric looked up. “Anyone know who attacked Erin, yet?”
She shook her head. “No. But there’s a rumor that Councilor Amberlin fled the city tonight. They say his home was destroyed by fire. Michalas thought you should know.”
Dalathos nodded, then waved her away. He put down his crossbow, then poured a drink. “Not good news.”
Ulric shrugged. His concern was only for Erin. Dalathos handed him the cup. Ulric took it, his movements stiff and unfamiliar in his new armour. His mail shirt snagged his beard. Ulric rubbed his chin.
“Still catching? Your mail will protect you better than your beard, that I can promise you.”
Ulric drank lightly. After a few sips he handed Dalathos the cup. Ulric moved his free arm about, testing the weight of mail on it — watching the way the lampl
ight fell on the metal links.
“You’ll get used to it,” Dalathos said, watching. “It’ll wear in well.”
Ulric wasn’t convinced, but didn’t argue the point. It wasn’t as uncomfortable as the thick tunic of layered linen he’d tried on first. That had been far too unwieldy, and had been difficult to get on and off by himself. Eventually they’d found a gambeson of supple black leather, laced at the sides, that had fitted perfectly over his woolen undershirt, and didn’t restrict his movement too much. A long-sleeved mail shirt had been added — though it had taken a couple of tries to find one not too tight at the arms — and thick leather gloves to protect his hands. Knee-high boots with thick leather soles replaced his old fur wraps. After Tilirine had haggled for prices, and abacus beads had clacked, Ulric had left wearing his new things. Dalathos had paid for a new tinderbox, knife, and the two crossbows and quivers of bolts.
Tilirine had bought herself nothing.
Dalathos had assured Ulric that no outlaw should dare challenge him now, when dressed in mail, with an ax and crossbow at his side. Ulric only wished that could have been enough to help Erin. He barely knew her, but he’d offered her hospitality in the cave. That still gave him a duty of care toward her. His new armour and weapons should have been good for protecting other people, not just himself.
He’d failed, again.
Ulric looked again to Erin’s room. It was the waiting that was hardest. The not knowing, feeling useless, as Death stalked about. He could only pray. He touched the charm at his belt and closed his eyes.
Gathering (Chronicles of Empire 1) Page 23