by Matthew Cook
"I suppose it's possible, but what you say is guesswork. We can't know; Garrett was clear that he did not want to speak more of it, and I've been dismissed."
"Oh, it's worse than that, I'm afraid. Lord Garrett is dead."
The chill in my spine deepens. I shiver. “What? When?"
"The day before yesterday,” Rath replies, the sorrow in his eyes lighting with some new emotion. Something wicked, and amused. “You didn't hear the news?"
"I ... I do not care about the doings of the court,” I whisper. I think of Captain Garrett, of the madness and pain carved into his stolid face, and even still I cannot feel that his passing is a good thing. I look up, into Rath's smiling eyes. He is enjoying my reaction. The sight infuriates me, and I feel the blood magic twitch in response to my anger.
"Spare me your games and tell me what happened,” I demand, willing it to be still.
Rath shrugs. “As you wish. The way I've heard it told, on the day you were dismissed, the Mor attack continued on, well into the night. The geomancers were able to stabilize the wall, but at the same time that attack was occurring, a second, larger force attacked the Lion's Mouth. The pyromancers defending the main entrance were unable to leave their post and reinforce your unit. Arrows alone are not sufficient to stop the Mor, you know this. Lord Garrett's only choice—"
"Was to send out a sortie,” I finish. “To send out a cavalry charge, like the defenders did on the night we arrived. Break up their numbers and scatter them; relieve the pressure on the wall and its defenders."
"Yes,” Rath agrees, dropping his eyes as if he regrets the word, but I can still see the dark amusement sparkling within. “Lord Garrett insisted on leading the charge himself. I heard he rode right into them, screaming. Took down at least three of the beasts, including one of their gods-damned shamans, before they pulled him from his horse. They ripped his limbs—"
"I know very well what the Mor do to men when they kill them,” I whisper. Visions of Jazen Tor, screaming as his life blood flowed across the Mor's glowing knife and boiled into pink steam; of countless settlements, burned and littered with dismembered arms and legs, flit across my mind's eye. I try to push the visions away. Jazen's death was not my fault. I thought I had come to terms with it months ago.
Yet, I still feel the burning of tears in my eyes as the memory sears across my mind. Inside, I hear the faint echo of my own unvoiced grief. With a grimace, I push the sorrow aside. I will not show such weakness in front of this man.
"He was a brave man,” I finally say.
"He wanted to die,” Rath replies simply. “Everyone knew he was not the same after ... well..."
"After I used my evil, wicked power on him, you mean. After I saved his life."
Rath holds up his hands. “Peace, Kirin, peace. I merely repeat what I have heard. You saw him, there at the end. What do you think?"
"I think...” I begin, then shake my head. “I think all of this makes no difference. Lord Garrett died a hero's death, defending us all from the Mor, and nothing you or anyone else says will change that. The fact remains that we know nothing of the enemy save your theories."
He shakes his head. “Not theories. Facts."
I sigh and take a drink of wine and attempt to hold my temper. I do not ask again how he knows; he will tell me when he is ready. Rath, for his part, seems to relish the moment.
"I know it is true, Kirin, for one simple reason,” Rath continues after a time. He leans forward, as if he is worried he will be overheard, and I feel myself responding, involuntarily moving forward to hear him better.
"I know because I can hear them, too."
* * * *
I sit in the darkened drawing room. An untouched glass of wine is at my elbow. I took it for courtesy's sake, not because I wanted it. Having it close to me is a temptation I do not need.
Thoughts spiral through my mind, chasing one another. Somewhere above, I hear footfalls. Rath, tending to Napaula. He will prepare her for our next examination; little good it will do her. I have seen enough to know all that I do not know. I am convinced I will learn nothing more about her slumbering babe, but I will try again nonetheless. Just in case.
I should be reviewing the old woman's anatomy in my mind, recalling the mnemonics my mistress taught me so many years ago, but Rath's revelation about the Mor, and the surprising conclusions he has drawn from it, dominate my thoughts. Every time I try to steer my thoughts in Napaula's direction, some new consideration, or consequence of what he has told me, pushes them aside.
I rise with a frustrated sigh. I had hoped a few moments alone would grant me the clarity to organize my thoughts, but it appears as if this is not to be. Rath has done an admirable job at distracting me. He could not have been more disruptive if he had tried.
Maybe that was his plan. The man's true motives are as opaque to me as the dark shroud draped over Napaula's baby. But why would he want to make me uneasy? What benefit does he gain from keeping me worried and distracted?
I shrug and move to the stairs. It does not matter; all that does is Napaula. Whatever it takes, I will free the old woman from her unnatural pregnancy, and bring her babe into the world. I do not know if it will survive, or even if it is truly alive at all, but Napaula has told me that she believes it wants this, and is ready to finally come out into the world. I must have faith in her.
I do not believe Rath's devotion to the old woman is what it seems. He must have some ulterior motive, a belief that he will gain from all of this, but I cannot fathom it. All I know is that if he tries to harm her, or the baby, then I pity him, sweetlings or no.
I walk down the hallway to her room, then knock on the open door softly. “Come,” Rath replies.
Napaula is sitting up on the tall bed, her wispy, silver hair down on her shoulders. Rath sits next to her, holding her pale hand, speaking to her softly of her bravery and strength.
A bed pan sits on the floor in the corner and I look within, reflexively. The urine inside is dark and evil-smelling. Often with the elderly it is like this, as the body's organs begin to succumb to sickness or simple old age. The everyday poisons generated by the acts of breathing and eating fail to be properly removed, concentrating in the urine, until it is dark, like strong tea.
I do not know how much longer it will be until Napaula's extraordinary strength fails. When she will succumb to the spreading disease which even now continues to grow in her bones and flesh.
"May I have a word before we begin?” I ask Rath.
"Of course. If you will excuse me, milady?” he asks the old woman. She nods as he rises and bows, waiting placidly as we move to the corner of the bedroom.
I gesture towards the bed pan. “Her body is beginning to fail."
"But, she seems so strong. So alert and happy. Shouldn't she be more frail, if she is so close to the end?” Rath asks.
I shrug. “Her endurance is remarkable, but the signs cannot be denied. I saw it when I looked within her the last time as well: the cancers are everywhere, stealing away her very blood. They are like a rushalka, feeding on her blood and life, growing stronger without giving her anything in return. It is a struggle she must eventually lose."
"How long?” he asks, his eyes wide and worried.
"If she were a normal woman I'd say all we could do is make her comfortable for the next few days. To help ease her passing. But it is different with her. She should be barely conscious at this phase in her disease, barely aware of us. Some force aids her; gives her strength."
"The child,” he says. It is not a question, but I answer anyway.
"I think so. Perhaps the babe does desire to be born. It is certainly doing everything it can to keep its mother alive."
"Then we should start immediately. You said yourself you weren't sure how much else you could learn about her through examinations. We should perform the operation now. Tonight."
I put my hand on his shoulder, stopping him. “Not tonight. There are still some things I need to try and see
first. If I do not visualize all of the blood vessels properly, then we still have a very good chance of killing her with the first incision."
The lie slides off my lips effortlessly, and for just a moment the warm glow of a task well performed suffuses me. Inside, I hear the faint echo of what sounds like a coo of pleasure, there and then gone in an instant.
I know where all of Napaula's vessels are. The blood magic allows me to see them any time I desire; that's not the issue. Truthfully, I do not know if it is simple fear which makes me hesitate, or something else. Dread sits in my belly, a bitter, weighty stone.
Rath opens his mouth, possibly to protest, then a moment later his face falls. He drops his eyes and nods acceptance. “If you think it best, Kirin, then of course this is how we will proceed."
He moves to return to her side, but I stop him. He looks down at my hand on his arm, then back into my face.
"One other thing, before we begin."
"Anything, milady,” he replies, a note of annoyance creeping into his silken courtier's voice.
"What you said before, about hearing the Mor,” I begin. He nods, waiting.
"You said that you believe the sweetlings are somehow tied to the ability. How?"
Rath cocks his head and a smile plays across his lips. The expression, smug assertion that he has knowledge I lack, grates me. “When your mistress would summon back the souls of the recently departed, what would happen?” he asks in response.
"I watched her with my secret eye while she did so. The souls obeyed the power of command in her voice and went back into their former flesh."
"And?” Rath prompts.
"And the flesh awoke."
"But what were they like?"
I shake my head, frustrated by his line of questioning. “You know both our mistresses’ creations were slow, but whole. The entire body would rise, but it was dim-witted and feeble, barely able to do simple chores and tasks."
"Different than the minions we summon,” Rath says. “Ours are fast and powerful. Lethal. But not whole. They tear themselves from their former flesh, twisted and horned, as if they take just what they need and nothing more."
"Need for what?” I ask.
"To be a weapon,” he replies. His voice is flat and certain, brooking no denial. Still, I shake my head.
"A weapon? I don't understand. I didn't mean for my creations to be ... as they are. It just happened, the first time I called someone back."
I remember that fateful day as if it were yesterday. It was after I killed Marcus and ran away. I was sheltering in a cave. They found me there, while I slept. Highwaymen: Barrett, Mick and Tendy. And Karl, lovely Karl, little more than a boy. Karl, who said he did not want to obey Barrett, but who I know would have raped me on his orders. Karl, whom I killed, with the rest of them, and then brought back using the power in my secret eye.
But what rose was not what I expected; was not one of my mistress's slow, stately companions but rather was small and raw-boned, wearing only half its former flesh, studded with spurs and wicked bone blades. Karl came back as a sweetling, as have all of my attempts at re-creation.
"Let me ask you one further question,” Rath demands. I nod. “When your mistress commanded her minions, how did she do so?"
"She spoke, and they obeyed."
"And do you need to speak to your sweetlings to express your wishes?"
I frown. “No. The first time, with Karl, I was hungry. Half-starved, to tell the truth. We were out walking and I heard an animal in the forest: a boar or a deer. I imagined eating it, and Karl went and killed it for me."
"And can you always command them with just a thought?"
"Yes,” I reply. “Always. Sometimes I don't even need to be specific; all I need do is want something, as with Karl, and they move to obey."
Rath nods, and takes my hand in his. He squeezes it, as if trying to convince me of his sincerity through the pressure of his touch. “Kirin, think about it: who else do you know who speaks silently to one another? Who converse not in words, but in emotions?"
His words dredge a chill from the depths of my body, an icy shiver which lodges in my spine. I feel the hairs on the back of my neck rising as my scalp tightens in reflexive horror.
He is right. Somehow, Rath and I share the Mor's ability to commune without words, and it is this power that allows us to command our warrior children. It is easy to believe this ability also affects the process of reanimation, turning our creations into the stunted, terrible avatars of destruction they are.
I pull my hand from his with a shudder of revulsion. No. Not our children. His. Not mine, never again.
I have felt what it is to bring life into the world. Not the twisted parody the sweetlings represent, but actual, true life. Life, which breathes and loves. That shines like starlight in the dark, and that shares its light with others.
The sweetlings are not my children. They are hunger, and darkness. They are pain made flesh, an abomination. I must not ... I will not ... ever forget that essential truth.
Rath sighs and turns away. Perhaps he has seen the determination in my eyes. Perhaps I have disappointed him. I shake my head, forcing the loathing aside. I do not care if he is disappointed; all that matters now is Napaula.
"We're wasting the afternoon, and we've work to do,” I say, turning back to where Napaula awaits her latest round of indignities. Her eyes blaze with the love only a mother can feel. Silently, I breathe across the tendrils of crimson magic and they wake, sliding and unfurling inside of me.
"Kirin,” he says, before I can return to her side. “Think on this: if our children are indeed weapons that can be used against the Mor—were perhaps even created in the past by knowledge lost to us—then wouldn't that explain their actions? We can turn their own dead against them with just a thought. Men have gone to war for much less; why should the Mor be any different?"
I favor him with a long, lingering stare, forcing him to look into my blackened eyes until he turns away. “If you're right,” I say softly, “then you bear as much blame for starting this as I."
"Aye,” I hear him whisper, before he moves away. “Perhaps I do. But maybe I can do something to finish it."
Together, we return to Napaula's bedside. One way or another, her baby will be born very soon. I just pray when it happens it is everything she has wished for.
[Back to Table of Contents]
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
The scream floats through the air, a blade of sound slicing through the room's hush. I gasp as my concentration wavers, and feel the blood magic surge against my control. On the bed, Napaula moans as it pulses inside her flesh.
I bear down, hard, and struggle to withdraw the power from her aged body, a part of me still alert to the outside world, still listening for another scream. My divided focus makes controlling the ravening tentacles difficult, and Napaula moans again as I pull with undue force. The power finally relents and allows itself to be returned to my body.
I open my eyes and see the old woman's face, slicked with blood. Twin streams of crimson flow from her nose; I must have ruptured some of her delicate vessels when I pulled too hard, too fast. I open my secret eye and look at her, then sigh when I see her lifeglow is even and steady.
Whoever screamed, it was not Napaula. I only hurt her after the sound distracted me.
I open my mortal eyes and turn to Rath. He is already up, standing at the room's single window. He parts the heavy drapes and peers out into the night. His body is tense, and alert.
"What is it?” I fumble on the bedside table for a clean cloth. As soon as I have it, I wipe at the blood, still oozing over Napaula's withered lips.
"The lads seem to have caught someone out in the courtyard,” he replies. His tone is calm, almost amused, but I can sense the undercurrent of anxiety beneath it.
"Send Eddard to—"
"He is already there."
Faintly, I hear Eddard shout. Rath flinches, then pulls the curtain wider, craning forward.
/>
"What is it?” I almost shout. Napaula protests as I wipe her face too hard, accidentally hurting her again.
"Someone else is out there,” he says, dropping the curtain and moving towards the door. A moment later he is out of the room, his booted feet echoing down the hall.
"I'm sorry for hurting you,” I tell the old women quickly. “I must see what's happening, but I'll be right back. Stay here."
Napaula nods, pulling the covers over herself. Her eyes are wide, not with fear but with curiosity. I rise and stride out into the hall, closing the door behind me. By the time I reach the stairs, Rath is already outside. His sword's empty scabbard lies on the floor just inside the open front door.
I am still descending, hurrying towards the door when the rasp of steel reaches me. A man shouts, the voice, and language, unfamiliar to me. I dash down the remaining steps, drawing the Ulean steel knife from my boot. The shout changes into a scream, a long, piercing shriek of agony.
I feel my red magic shifting, reacting to the sounds of combat and pain, readying itself. I dash out into the early evening gloom.
The only light comes from the last rays of the setting sun, barely a reflection of red from the clouds overhead. In the courtyard's shadows, I see shapes moving: Rath's sweetlings, moving from their places of concealment. Dark shapes lie unmoving on the paving stones. Bodies. Two. No, three. Dressed in dark garments of leather and cloth, hoods drawn up over their heads. Masks conceal their lower faces, showing only their eyes.
The sound of steel slithering against steel draws my attention to the gates. I see Rath, and Eddard, standing against four men. Rath's slender dueling blade flickers in a tight figure-eight, moving to slash across his opponent's belly. Black cloth parts with a whisper, but the man must wear leather underneath for he does not stop fighting. Eddard stands beside Rath, his cudgel upraised like a shield, furiously parrying his own foe's short sword.
Rath's creatures surge forward, skittering across the cobblestones like monstrous spiders, claws and bone spurs clicking against the icy ground. The mysterious attackers see them, and call to one another in the same unfamiliar language I heard a moment before.