Fairfax shook her head, almost sadly.
“I had hoped to find more wisdom in you, Brother Demir,” she said. “And above all, a greater understanding of things. What good will the strength of ten men do you, Brother, if you never lift anything heavier than a book?”
With that, Fairfax spun the halberd in her hands and plunged its spear point into Demir’s stomach. Demir screamed in pain, and his screams only intensified as Fairfax twisted her weapon in a circle to increase the trauma of the wound. As she pulled the spear out, Demir collapsed to his knees.
From her place of hiding, Ekaterine covered her mouth with her hands to keep from crying out. She had seen horrible violence in her lifetime—even done horrible violence, mostly in France and England during her travels with Varanus—but nothing to compare to this and never done by a Shashavani against a Shashavani.
Amid cries of shock and horror from the prisoners, Fairfax placed her boot against Demir’s shoulder and pushed him until he fell back onto the ground. Demir shouted in anger and began to rise again; even in the face of such pain and trauma, the resilience of the Living was inhuman. But Fairfax was not finished. She plunged the spear into Demir again, pinning him against the floor.
“Will you yield, Brother Demir?” Fairfax asked. “Renounce the Law of Shashava and beg my mercy, and you shall have it...for I am under orders to dispense it in favor of death.”
“I will do neither,” Demir answered. “Kill me, if you will, but I will die with my honor intact.”
Fairfax smiled. “As you wish, Brother Demir.”
She pulled her halberd free of Demir’s chest and took a step back. Realizing what was to come, some of the prisoners began to make movements to intervene, though Ekaterine could not imagine what they thought they could accomplish against armed men. And it made little difference, for Fairfax’s soldiers kept their swords pointed at the prisoners and held them back. As scholars no longer used to violence, if it had ever been familiar to them, the prisoners lost their fire and drew back.
Fairfax raised her halberd and brought it down on Demir’s neck, severing his head in a single, brutal blow. Ekaterine clenched her eyes shut at the sight, and she heard the cries of the scholars before either discipline or fear silenced them.
“Now,” Fairfax said, reaching down and picking up Demir’s head with her free hand, “all of you look and mark this well.” She held the head out to them. “This is the price of disloyalty. Shashava is gone, the Companions are gone, and now Sophio, the eldest who remains, has left us as well. None will return to us. Now we owe our lives and allegiance to the Winter King. We owe our lives and allegiance to the new Eristavi. All who pledge their loyalty will live. Those who refuse will die like Brother Demir. Mark it well,” she repeated.
Dear God, what is happening? Ekaterine thought.
“Orders, My Lady?” Jan asked Fairfax.
“Bring the prisoners to the Great Hall,” Fairfax said. “If they go willingly, leave them unharmed, for they are our brothers and our sisters. Any who refuse...kill.”
Jan bowed his head. “As you command.” He paused and looked toward Ekaterine and the stairs. Ekaterine quickly drew back just in case, but Jan did not seem to have seen her. “What about the archives?”
“Those bookworms will remain in their caves until Judgment Day,” Fairfax answered. “Place some soldiers on guard here. We will scour the archives once we return from escorting the prisoners.”
“Yes, My Lady.”
As Fairfax’s soldiers marched the prisoners out of the library, Ekaterine withdrew to the stairs and rushed back into the archives. She had to warn the others. She did not know what was happening, but it was something and it was monstrous.
* * * *
“What you are talking about is madness!” cried Brother Petre, glaring at Ekaterine.
“If you don’t believe me, walk up those stairs and look,” Ekaterine replied, pointing toward the entrance. “Though you’ll want to be subtle about it. They have soldiers on guard in the library.”
“I don’t believe a word of this,” said one of the other archivists. “It’s a trick. She’s playing a joke on us.”
Alda shook her head and stood firmly at Ekaterine’s side.
“No, I believe her,” she said. “Sister Ekaterine does not make up stories.” She glanced at Ekaterine and amended, “Well, not stories like this.”
“Your confidence is overwhelming,” Ekaterine said, but it did give her the glimmer of a smile. That smile quickly faded. “Once they have taken their prisoners to the Great Hall, they will return, and they will take us as well. We must flee at once while there is still time.”
“And where shall we flee to?” demanded another archivist. “If Ekaterine speaks true, the library is a trap!”
“There are other ways,” Alda said. As the others looked at her curiously, she quickly added, “Other libraries that the archives connect to.”
“They will be watched as well,” said Petre. He seemed to slowly be coming to accept that Ekaterine may have been telling the truth. “If there is even any danger.”
“They may not be,” Ekaterine said. “And still, we must try. We have to escape if we can.”
The archivists looked at one another, most of them still astonished at Ekaterine’s story.
“What is happening?” asked Petre.
“I do not know,” Ekaterine said, “but there are soldiers taking the scholars and librarians prisoner. And until we know what is happening, I would rather be out of the castle and safely in the countryside where we can hide. Wouldn’t you?”
“This is all unthinkable!” Petre insisted.
“Unthinkable does not mean impossible,” Ekaterine reminded him. “I know what I saw and I am leaving. And I hope that you will all have the sense to follow.”
There was a lengthy silence as the archivists exchanged looks with one another.
“Which library should we use?” asked a third archivist, his voice betraying the growing panic that all of them seemed to feel.
“Not the main one, clearly,” Ekaterine said, perhaps more flippantly than she ought. More gravely, she said, “I think perhaps we should split up. We’ll go in groups, each one to a different exit. If we find one way barred, we’ll try another, but that will give each group a chance to escape.”
There was another pause. Finally Petre sighed and shook his head.
“Sister Ekaterine, if this is some elaborate trick....”
“It’s not, I promise you,” she said.
Petre nodded. Presently, he replied, “Then I will take one group myself, and I pray to God that you and yours are delivered into safety.”
* * * *
In the end, some of the archivists refused to leave, insisting that the texts could not be abandoned. Ekaterine tried to explain otherwise: the traitors, whoever they were, remained Shashavani. They would respect the sanctity of the texts even if they had no regard for the lives of those who tended them. But there were many among the archivists who simply could not imagine abandoning the books to other hands.
Ekaterine chose to depart through the cartographic library, reasoning that as it was relatively unused—expect at times of war or when a historian was curious as to a question of geography—it would be one of the last places Fairfax’s soldiers would search. To her great relief, the room was empty, save for a few cartographers who quickly joined the band when alerted to the danger.
Uncertain of the extent of the threat and understanding that her followers were largely incapable of combat, Ekaterine led them away from the main rooms in the castle. She could not risk taking them through the surface gates or even the usual escape passages. Those would be known to the conspirators, and there was every possibility that they would be watched.
Instead, Ekaterine led her people downward, into the lower levels and toward the cisterns that kep
t the castle watered even in times of drought. There was a hidden spring there, kept safe in case of siege—though thankfully no enemy had ever breached the sanctity of the valley. As Ekaterine led her party toward one of the lesser staircases, she heard the sounds of heavy footsteps behind her. She quickened her pace until a voice called out to her:
“Sister Ekaterine! Stop!”
Ekaterine halted and looked back. She saw Jan the Hollander and a small party of soldiers hurrying in her direction. Ekaterine’s followers outnumbered them, but Jan’s people we armed and Ekaterine’s were not.
“Brother Jan!” Ekaterine exclaimed, trying as hard as she could to sound pleased. “What are you doing here?”
Jan’s hand was on his sword. Ekaterine took note of that. And his three soldiers carried muskets.
“Sister Ekaterine,” Jan said to her, “I must ask you: whom do you serve?”
Oh!” Ekaterine exclaimed. She looked at Jan very seriously and repeated the words she had heard in the library: “I serve the Winter King.”
At this, Jan relaxed and he smiled in surprised delight. The sight of it turned Ekaterine’s stomach.
“I did not realize that you were one of us,” Jan exclaimed. “This is good news.” He pointed to the archivists. “And them? Shall we relieve you of their burden?”
“No!” Ekaterine exclaimed. She quickly amended, “They are with us, Brother. I have explained to them the wisdom of our cause, and they have sworn their loyalty.”
Jan’s eyes narrowed in disbelief. “Truly?”
“I have not explained everything, of course,” Ekaterine said. “They will learn that in the Great Hall when the time comes. But they have seen wisdom in obedience, and I have found a use for them.”
“Oh?”
“We go to root out anyone who may be hiding in the catacombs,” Ekaterine explained.
“But you are unarmed,” Jan said, frowning.
“We certainly don’t plan to attack them down there,” Ekaterine said quickly. “We will lure them to the main floor and let your soldiers capture them. But they will be more inclined to trust us if we approach them without weapons.”
“Ah, sensible.” Jan nodded.
Ekaterine motioned for Alda and the other archivists to continue onward, desperate to get them away from Jan and the soldiers without arising suspicions. But as she turned to join them, Jan caught her by the arm.
“Who authorized you to do this?” Jan asked. “By whose authority?”
Ekaterine thought for a moment, searching for someone she could name. Lady Fairfax was known to Jan, and he would doubtless know everyone who served her directly. And then Ekaterine thought of the secret meeting she had witnessed between Philippa and Zawditu. There had been evidence of conspiracy. It was the most logical thing she could put her mind to.
“We are acting under the orders of Sister Philippa,” she replied.
Jan’s face fell, and in that instant Ekaterine knew that she had spoken wrongly.
“Sister Philippa is not one of us,” Jan said.
And Ekaterine knew that all pretense had ended.
“Run!” she shouted to Alda and the archivists.
“Stop them!” Jan ordered his soldiers.
Unable to pull away from Jan’s grasp, Ekaterine grabbed the knife at Jan’s belt and thrust it into his side. Jan grunted in pain and his grip slackened, but he did not let go. As Ekaterine struggled to break away, she twisted the knife and drove it in deeper. Snarling with anger, Jan struck his forehead against Ekaterine’s, and Ekaterine’s vision exploded into white light.
She came to moments later as she lay on the ground, dazed from the blow. Jan was next to her, bleeding as he struggled to draw the knife from his side. Dizzy, Ekaterine sat up as Jan’s soldiers ran past her, shouldering their muskets. She grabbed for Jan’s knife and yanked it out of him. Jan reached for her arm to stop her, but Ekaterine shoved him away and drew the weapon. Rolling over, she drove the knife into the leg of one of the soldiers as he ran past her. The man cried out and stumbled, and Ekaterine dragged him to the floor.
What followed was confusion. Amid screams and gunfire, Ekaterine stumbled to her feet and ran for the nearest soldier. She drove her knife into the woman’s throat and tore the musket from her hands. Turning in place, Ekaterine shot the remaining soldier through the chest.
Breathing heavily, Ekaterine watched as the archivists fled for the nearest staircase, following the route she had laid out for them. Some part of her said that she should run to join them, but the confusion of the moment kept her in place, unable to move.
“Ekaterine!” Alda shouted, waving toward her. “Hurry!”
Shaking herself, Ekaterine broke through the confusion that clouded her mind. She had to keep moving. Jan and his soldiers were wounded, but they were not finished. And as a sudden reminder of this, Ekaterine heard a gunshot and felt warm pain in her side. She looked down and saw blood beginning to stain her dress. Stunned, Ekaterine looked back and saw Jan holding a revolver in one hand as he clutched his side.
He had shot her!
Suddenly more furious than pained, Ekaterine threw the empty musket at Jan, striking him in the head with it. Then, her good sense returning to her, she ran for the stairs and prayed silently that she would not be shot a second time.
Chapter Fifteen
•
In her cell, Varnaus gazed at the ceiling and sighed, feeling her will to live slipping away a fragment at a time. She had never before known such utter boredom. Even the social engagements that she had been forced to endure in her youth and during her recent visit to England had been positively fascinating by comparison.
“Do not be sad, liebchen,” Korbinian murmured to her, stroking her hair with gentle fingers. “Only a few more months and you shall be free again.”
“I am not sad,” Varanus corrected. “I am despondent from inactivity.”
“Oh, liebchen, it is agony to see you in such a state.”
Varanus frowned at Korbinian sympathetically. “You could close your eyes, my love. Then you would not have to witness my pain.”
“Nonsense,” Korbinian said, kissing her gently. “What man could ever turn his gaze away from you?”
“Mmm.” Varanus sighed again and touched Korbinian’s face with her fingertips. “I sometimes think you are the only thing keeping me sane, my darling. What am I to do with such inactivity? They could have at least given me some books!”
“I could read to you from Shelley,” Korbinian offered, producing a small book from somewhere.
“My darling Korbinian,” Varanus said, staring at the ceiling again, “I think that in these past weeks you have read to me every last word that Shelley has ever written.”
“Goethe, then?” Korbinian dabbed at his lips with a handkerchief to wipe away the blood that trickled from the corner of his mouth. “I do so enjoy Goethe.”
“Or a pen and some paper,” Varanus mused, returning to the matter of her boredom. “Imagine how much work I could be doing if they had only left me with some paper.”
“My kingdom for some paper?” Korbinian asked.
“You haven’t got a kingdom,” Varanus reminded him. “And what’s more—”
Korbinian suddenly held a finger to his lips to silence her.
“Do you hear something, liebchen?”
Varanus tilted her head and listened carefully. The cell walls were thick and solid, as much to keep out noise as to keep the penitents in. After all, the Shashavani so confined were there for “meditation” and “quiet introspection”, Iosef had insisted, not for penal incarceration; though in truth, Varanus found the one to be much the same as the other. But despite the thickness of the walls and the door, she did seem to hear the very faint sounds of voices speaking and footfalls approaching her cell.
A moment later she heard a muffled screa
m from the corridor before it was almost as quickly silenced. This made her sit up in alarm, and Korbinian placed a hand on her shoulder to comfort her—though in truth, as blood trickled from the corners of his eyes and mouth, he was perhaps less comforting than he intended.
“What is going on?” Varanus wondered aloud.
“Who can say?” Korbinian replied. “But if I were to place a wager, I would say we are about to have company.” He quickly wiped the blood from his face to make himself more presentable.
“That is not at all reassuring,” Varanus told him.
“I am doing my best, liebchen, under rather trying circumstances.”
“Of course.”
Varanus crossed the room and place her ear against the door in the hopes of hearing what was happening.
“Listening at keyholes are we?” Korbinian asked from the opposite corner. Varanus had not seen him cross the room, but such a thing was hardly unusual for him.
“Hush.”
At first Varanus could hear nothing. It seemed that the earlier commotion had ended, but this only made Varanus nervous. Screams followed by silence were never a good thing. But a few moments later, she heard the footsteps again, this time approaching her cell. And she also heard two voices speaking:
“—convert this one as well?” asked the first voice, which was gravelly and rough.
“I think not,” replied a second. After a few moments, Varanus recognized it as belonging to Brother Teimuraz, lately returned from his sojourn in Turkestan. “She is a child, not even past her century. She is not worth the trouble.”
Varanus froze as the voices reached her cell, and she heard the bolt being turned back.
“Besides, she is of Iosef and Iosef is of Sophio. We can neither use her nor trust her. Better to dispose of the unwanted now when it will be easier to manage.”
The Ouroboros Cycle, Book Three: A Long-Awaited Treachery Page 14