Crimson Valley

by Hausladen, Blake;

  “Has anything changed?” she asked Emilia. We’d been discussing the threads of the city’s people since Emilia was first able see the city. The notes included upon the fresh-drawn map in her case were many.

  “No. Evand’s uncle Phost is still anxious to meet us. The rest remain disinterested or divided against us. The note you sent ahead about Rahan’s victory against Yarik’s fleet has not moved them.”

  “Which of them are the Corneth?” Liv asked.

  “The six really old ones left of center,” Emilia said. “The man in front is the one we are after.”

  He was a priest adorned in a golden dalmatic and a red hat banded with six white stripes that marked him as the city’s senior prelate and archivist. His long white beard was immaculate and his wooden shoes were as etched as Hessier plate. The lesser priests and Sermod lined to his left were as dour and manicured as their superior.

  “Did your father ever visit Alsonelm this way?” Liv asked as we started down the last section of pier.

  “Never. The closest he ever got to the river was to take a piss in it. He would have travelled here in a gilded carriage, and the Corneth would have had every soul in the city lining the road with their foreheads pressed into the cobblestones.”

  A blast of horns from the trumpeters upon the wall startled us. The fanfare had a light melody but pricked at our ears, and was repeated as though they were calling us to hurry forward. By the end of the third play through, it became clear that that was exactly what it was meant to encourage.

  Liv brought us to a halt. “No point hurrying now.”

  “How do you mean?” I asked, as she pointed west up the long slope of the city’s hill at the massive archive building at the center of the city and then at the Corneth keep behind it as though we were planning an assault.

  “If they mean to be rude, there is no reward for us to allow it,” she said.

  Then she kissed me, and a proper kiss it was. I gathered her in and our metal skins clanged together as her feathered hat shaded our lips. Her mouth opened as her hands stroked my neck and cheek.

  It was not clear to me how many times the trumpeters had repeated the fanfare when the first of them began to falter. And thus encouraged, we kept at it until the last of them surrendered with a gargled bleat.

  Liv let me go, Emilia stepped in beside her, and they crossed toward our hosts, leaving Ellyon and me behind.

  Rahan and every Yentif before him would have been aghast, but he’d left the impossible task of securing the archives to me, so I’d not give their notions of decorum another thought. We also had a chest full of gold and another of legal documents along, but I counted neither as assets. A season of Rahan’s bribes and Avin’s arguments had done nothing to move the Corneth.

  Emi’s map and understanding of the city’s people were our weapons, and we’d had ample time to practice this first encounter.

  Emilia and my wild-eyes Ludoq Queen came to a halt and bowed to our hosts. The archivist peered around Liv at me, and gestured for me to approach.

  My heart skipped a beat. Had I been a fool? Where had it ever happened that a woman walked into a place and took charge?

  Dia in Enhedu.

  Soma in Bessradi.

  Liv in Havish.

  Emilia in the Warrens.

  I tried not to smile. We had a plan, and my part was to attend.

  Liv said to him, “Evand is but another noble Grano now and you will address him as such. The Goddess Emilia is senior amongst us. You will address yourself to her alone.”

  Then Liv stepped back, leaving the shocked prelate to face Emilia.

  “This is her? Rahan’s dream witch?” he said as she stepped toward him. “Don’t come any closer. What do you wish of me?”

  I eyed the Hemari upon the wall above, fearful of an archer, but they did nothing, rendered helpless by generations of Conservancy abuse and tales of witches and magical beasts. It was the first time I could recall being glad for how the red hats and Hessier had treated us.

  “I would visit your archives,” Emilia said, “If you would be kind enough to give me a tour.”

  The shocked crowd hushed, and the cry of river birds was the only sound as Emilia offered him her hand. He folded onto his knees. The rest, save the Corneth men, followed him down. She touched his cheek, and he all but laid himself down upon the dusty cobblestone as though she were my father.

  “Don’t burn me, little Goddess,” he whispered. “I beg you.”

  Emilia turned toward the reluctant Corneth while the priest cried at her feet, and as she frowned at them, my skin scorched as if lit by a blazing summer sun. The Corneth yelped, dived to the ground, and pressed their foreheads into the stone.

  Using her magic was not part of our plan, nor had she practiced it during the voyage. I was perfectly terrified until she turned and looked back at me with the same calm I’d seen during all her days of letters and etchings.

  Liv hefted up the languishing archivist by the arm and Emilia took hold of his hand.

  “Shall we take that tour?” Emilia asked and led him toward the gates.

  “You’re coming, too,” Liv said to the Corneth. They rose, reluctant as the rest, but did not resist. All of them were touching their necks and forearms as the heat subsided.

  The gates opened for the archivist and Emilia chatted with him as she led him into the city. The well-groomed boulevard Emilia turned us onto moved through a second larger gate and curved up the south side of city’s slow hill through a collection of forested estates tucked between the city’s walls. The route through the secluded neighborhood was not meant for visitors, and all along it, groups of stone-faced people watched us march up toward the city’s core. My unease grew as their eyes tracked us.

  Emilia held the archivist’s hand the entire way, and Liv kept the Corneth close with the occasional glance. We reached the inner wall and a gate garrisoned by church soldiers that opened onto a massive circular plaza and the monstrous archive building. It was the largest structure in the city—the largest in Zoviya—a cone of masonry encircled by several dozen flying buttresses. Like the fallen Tanayon it had supplanted, every dark gray surface was covered in jagged sculptures. Its countless windows were stained dark purple and red. Its reaching spires leapt up from the white granite plaza like a splash of black water frozen in time.

  The wooden shoes of the priests clopped in a halting rhythm that betrayed their panic as we crossed the plaza. The sound summoned many guards and citizens. They engulfed us with a forest of pikes and confused chatter.

  I’d not expected us to get so close to our goal, and the wall of guards made it clear that we had come far enough. On Emilia marched, though, hand in hand with the archivist. The unsure soldiers stepped out of their way.

  The move into the archives wide foyer was as jarring to the senses as the move into my father’s throne room had been. The ancient mahogany of its walls, ceiling, and furniture stunned the eyes, a floor covered in thick burgundy carpets ate up all the sounds outside, and the scents of so much vellum and lacquered wood filled the nose. The red and purple of the stained-glass half dome that covered the foyer added odd color to every surface, face, and speck of dust that drifted that through the colored beams. A long desk faced us, and behind it, hallways extended deep into places unknown.

  The archivist managed to let go of Emilia’s hand and step away from her. His wives did not make the same escape, standing as flatfooted as the rest of us. They had never seen it either.

  “Here we are,” he said to us just above a whisper, “the foyer of the grand archive. Shall we withdraw to a place more suitable?”

  Behind his fear the man’s unbridled pride revealed itself in a broad smile. He loved the look of awe upon our faces. He loved his work. Emilia did not miss it. Our plans had not included the archives themselves, our first goal to get close to the archivist and stay there. Emi needed no encouragement to press her advantage.

  “Marvelous,” she said. “I’d not gotte
n a chance to see the galleries of the Tanayon before it fell, but this must eclipse it in every way.”

  “Most assuredly. The masons and artisans who built it have continued through the generations to refine and perfect its patterns. I’ve had a hand myself in the work done on the stained glass.”

  “Does it keep the vellum in better condition?” she asked.

  “Why yes, yes it does. The direct sunlight is very harmful. How did you come to know of such things?”

  “I grew up a weaver’s patternmaker in Bessradi. The yarns and pattern tiles were kept in the shade as much as possible for the same reason. What are these hallways?”

  “The outer rings are lined with private carols—studies for returning archivists and domos to reside in while they make their submissions to the collection. The inner circles are for the writing rooms and studies of those who author histories. The galleries below are for those who have successfully petitioned to review a document in the collection. The tiers of treasuries above house the collection, organized by topic and year. Not even Minister Sikhek has seen those spaces.”

  “Well, he was a villain and a Hessier. You were right to keep him out of such a saintly space. Surely you can make an exception for a young god?”

  Again, my skin warmed and the many people in attendance squirmed from the sudden and inescapable grip of her magic.

  The archivist stood his ground despite the heat. He was searched for words. He was about to tell her no.

  “Oh, very well,” Emilia said and took fresh hold of his hand as the heat subsided. “Which of the studies is empty?”

  “You have an archivist in your company?” he asked with great alarm, “What history would he deliver?”

  “Well, mine of course. We have no archivist, but perhaps you could assign someone suitable? That is, if the archives would like to include the story of my magic?”

  He looked straight at me then—the glare of a politician who’d survived may challenges. All he had to do was throw us out. Emilia’s physical threat has won us a glimpse of the place, but it would get us no farther without bloodshed. The promise of being the first to hear Emilia’s history held him in check.

  “Perhaps you could author her history?” I said.

  “We’re not equipped to host women and children.”

  “A goddess and queen,” Liv said.

  “Quite,” he said while folding and unfolding his hands. Then he ushered us around the desk and down a hallway lined with latticed doors. The space behind each was a diminutive closet with a thin desk, chair, and bed. It was lunch time, their small boards including rough hunks of cheese, dry bread, and water. They were in proper priest’s robes.

  Here was Bayen’s last stronghold.

  “These will do,” the senior man said and opened the doors to two studies. “Two will suffice, I assume.”

  Liv and Emilia entered the first, leaving the man to face me.

  Uncle Phost and the two Corneth men that had followed us this far had exhausted their courage and were looking for the exit.

  “Uncle,” I said. “Emilia wishes that you remain with us.”

  “You mean to stay here?” he asked.

  “For some time, yes.”

  “Won’t she set fire to the place?”

  Archivists peered out at us from a dozen studies. I could hear others collection up their things. The first emerged and hurried away, while the senior archivist struggled to decide what to do.

  “This is not what I had in mind. We are not equipped this.”

  “You’ll manage. Lord Rahan shared a tower with Emilia for an entire season. The fires she started were never so severe that the keep was in danger. Well, there was that one time.”

  Emilia popped her head out of the small room. “Evand, we should start with a study of Sikhek.”

  Her quick thought spun my head and tried to get hold of the larger struggle around us without losing my grip on the man in front of me.

  “A fantastic thought, Emilia,” I said and asked the archivist. “Who should we speak to in order to get access to the collections record regarding Minister Sikhek?”

  “I—beg pardon, sir? What does the former minister have to do with this?”

  “Lower your voice,” I said and hunched down as if expecting magical fire from Emilia. “Harsh words can set her off by accident. We don’t want a fire in here her first day.”

  Panic nearly took him as more of priests abandoned their studies. A group of clerks emerged up a nearby stairway and joined the exodus. The senior archivist was left alone and shifted his weight from one foot to the other.

  “Can you help with my request?” I whispered.

  It took him a moment to recall what I’d asked for, and a curiosity dislodged his fear. “I’ll see what I can find,” he said and hurried away.

  The Corneth men used the opportunity to flee. Uncle Phost would have done the same, but Ellyon had him by the arm.

  He hissed at his, “You expect me to bow to this terror?”

  “When was the last time a Grano was the most powerful person in Zoviya?” I asked.

  “You can stow all your prepared speeches, Yentif. I’ll not be as easily scared or outwitted as these cretins. You can put away your Yentif smile, too. I may be your mother’s brother, but it will be a hot day in Bayen’s imaginary hell before I call you Grano and back you for the throne.”

  I put on my captain’s face and changed tactics. “Would a chest full of Rahan’s gold convince you to listen to what we have to say?”

  This froze him in place. He looked up and down the hallway and Ellyon checked that the nearby studies and carols were empty.

  “How much?” Phost asked.

  “Enough to cover your debts,” Ellyon said.

  “Where is it?”

  “Aboard our galley. It is yours if you’ll stay for a time.”

  He pursed his lips, shook his head, and looked ready to spit at me.

  “I was taken from your sister when I was five,” I said. “The Yentif who murdered her are the same Yentif who wish everything to go back to the way it was.”

  “You are no different. Rahan’s man.”

  “I am not,” I said. “I’ve broken from him, as have the Ludoq, and our Goddess. I mean to claim this city and make it the capital of Zoviya, ruled by the Grano, not the Yentif.”

  “You great fool. You will not displace the Corneth. Vall failed. Yarik failed. Rahan failed. Who the fuck are you?”

  “Uncle, we have already won. The archive belongs to Emilia now. She would name you the Lord of the Archives if you can call on the Grano to replace the soldiers who have fled. The city’s heart is in our hands.”

  He studied Ellyon’s face. “They actually mean it to do? You’ve a plan to take the city?”

  “We know every family here,” I said, “and where their loyalties lie. I will be King Grano of Zoviya by season’s end. Are you with me?”

  “King not Exaltier?”

  “There will be no more Swords or Mouths of Bayen. The church has failed Zoviya. I will not.”

  He rubbed his hands together and checked the hallway one more time. “I’ll see that gold.”

  “Ellyon will take you to it. Gather the Grano and bring them here in force.”

  “I only have—”

  “We know how many men you have. Bring them all. They will be enough to hold the plaza.”

  He continued rubbing his hands together for a long moment before he led them away at a trot. I stood watch in the hallway for the returning archivist while Liv and Emilia spent some quiet moments in their study. I let them be, rather than presume they needed my assistance. There was no judging how hard an episode it has been for Emilia.

  When Liv opened the door and stepped out, she was smiling. “Asleep,” she whispered and pulled me up the hallway a few paces. “She gave herself a headache turning the heat on and off. She’s was terrified that she’d killed a few people and needed to count everyone in the city four times to be sure. Poor
girl. Thank you for leaving her alone. The quiet does her good. It sounded like it went will with Phost?”

  “So far. Emi was right that he is more in love with his money lenders than his wife. We’ve done more today than I could have hoped, but I’d be happier if our plan extended beyond the securing of the archives and plaza. I told Phost we had a plan for taking city, so we better come up with one. The locals might react quickly once word gets out that we have occupied the archives.”

  “She will be very reluctant to burn anyone, should it come to blood.”

  “As she should be.”

  “We’ve been over this, love. One victory at a time. The pot has been stirred and we are in the position we desired. As the situation changes, we will adjust. The only thing we are missing now is our daughter and our people aboard the galley.”

  I nearly apologized for the necessity of leaving them behind but bit it back before I got myself into trouble.

  “Here comes the archivist,” she said, I spotted the man and the load of books and journals he carried. He stopped twenty paces away, and I had to cross to him.

  “She is calm?” he asked.

  “Yes. Enough to find some sleep. It would be best though if you could get everyone clear of the building, in case she has bad dreams.”

  His ashen expression lengthened, and he hurried to hand over the stack of materials. The weight of the collection was astonishing.

  “All on Sikhek?”

  “Only a primer. There is an entire section of histories dedicated to his centuries,” he said and his curiosity trumped his concerns for his health once again. “What are you after?”

  “We would know expose our true enemy. Sikhek has some connection to a family in the east. They are not what they seem, and I mean to uncover them.”

  “That would be the Savdi-Nuar, a vile collection of warlock and witches Sikhek had coddled for generations. He deeded them the Crimson Valley in Aneth many centuries ago, and they have remained loyal to him throughout.”

  “So these are the wrong books.”