The Ouroboros Cycle, Book Three: A Long-Awaited Treachery

by G. D. Falksen

  Upon a small hill overlooking the river, Varanus turned and saw a group of villagers watching them. After a moment’s panic at the thought that they might be servants of Margaret fomenting revolution, Varanus calmed herself and realized that they were simply travelers on their way into town: likely farmers going to buy some needed goods to finish out the winter or perhaps to sell an overabundant surplus now that the worst of the season had passed.

  “Do you think they will ever trust us again?” Varanus asked Ekaterine.

  Ekaterine looked toward the villagers and waved. The villagers, perhaps not expecting this response, turned away quickly and continued on their way. Ekaterine’s face fell a little.

  “I suppose they have little reason to,” she said. “I don’t know how many of the servants Margaret bled and feasted upon, but the number is not insubstantial. That is clear enough from the empty kitchens and servant’s hall. Not one of them remembers the dark times under Basileios, when such slaughter was commonplace, but surely stories have been passed down to them.”

  “I fear they believe we are the same,” Varanus said. “That we have become monsters in their eyes.”

  “To some, perhaps,” Ekaterine agreed. “But most will understand what was done, and they will know that those who now rule fought to protect them against the tyrant. And that is something.”

  “Mmm,” Varanus answered, not entirely convinced.

  “Besides,” Ekaterine said, “of course they will trust us again in time. We are their sole protection, the guardians of their way of life. They have no choice.”

  Varanus nodded, agreeing with Ekaterine’s assessment, though at the same time it saddened her to contemplate it. Trust was not trust when it came born of necessity.

  “Do you think it was right,” Varanus asked, “to pardon so many?”

  Almost all the scholars who had sworn allegiance to Margaret had been pardoned and so had far too many of the surviving soldiers. Varanus would have hanged them all for what they did, but there were few enough Shashavani as it was. Perhaps the Council balked at the thought of losing any more of their brethren.

  “I think it was necessary,” Ekaterine replied. “Fratricide is such a horrid thing. It is the sort of thing done by Basilisks, not by Shashavani.”

  “I suppose so,” Varanus said, not quite agreeing. There was a pause, and then she asked, “How is Luka, by the way? Still cross with me?”

  “Indeed he is, and you know why,” Ekaterine answered, though she sounded amused at it.

  Luka had not taken well to the news that Varanus had entered his rooms and pillaged his private armory, and he still refused to speak to her until she apologized for it—which, of course, Varanus had no intention of doing.

  “Still,” Ekaterine added, “he is rather proud of what you accomplished during the siege. I heard him just the other day bragging to some of the soldiers that he was the one who trained you.”

  “Hmph,” Varanus replied, but she smiled all the same. It was true: Luka had been the one who had trained her in the arts of war when she had first been inducted into the House of Shashava, and she now understood the reason for it. She had allowed her lessons to slip a bit in recent years; she would not make that mistake again.

  She flexed her hand, feeling a little stiffness lingering in her fingers and wrist. It had regrown, of course, though it had taken a few days. But while it was effectively the same hand she had lost, it still felt odd. Perhaps she would get used to it in time: it was only the first time she had lost a limb.

  “How is the hand?” Ekaterine asked.

  “Well enough,” Varanus replied. “A little stiff, but I suppose that is to be expected.”

  “Well, you have only been using it for a couple of months,” Ekaterine said, her tone joking. “The last one you’d used for fifty years. One doesn’t become accustomed to a new pair of shoes overnight.”

  “This is my hand,” Varanus protested, “not a pair of shoes!”

  “Would a glove analogy be more appropriate?”

  Varanus chuckled softly and shook her head at Ekaterine. Then she frowned and gazed off toward the mountains.

  “I almost died that night, didn’t I?” she mused aloud.

  Ekaterine’s expression fell at the question, and she said, “Yes, very nearly. When I found you....” She looked away, troubled by the thought.

  “Starvation is a cruel mistress,” Varanus said. “In fact, I am amazed that I survived at all. I don’t remember being given any blood until I awoke a few days later. And lacking fresh blood, I should not have survived.”

  Ekaterine shifted in the saddle, suddenly uncomfortable. Varanus looked at her, an idea beginning to form in her mind.

  “You know,” Varanus added softly, “if I were to guess, I would say that someone gave me blood around the time I collapsed. It seems the only way I could have recovered.”

  “Yes, but who could possibly have given you blood?” Ekaterine asked cautiously. “I was the first person to find you, and I never left your side until you woke. It’s simply...impossible.”

  Varanus smiled and took her friend’s hand.

  “If...hypothetically...someone had given me her blood when she found me, she would surely have saved my life, and I am...would be eternally grateful to her.”

  Ekaterine returned the smile and said, “I am certain that such a person would be relieved beyond describing simply because you are alive.” Then she quickly added, “But it’s simply not possible. I found you, and you were always among Shashavani. And Shashavani do not drink the blood of Shashavani. It is forbidden.”

  “Of course,” Varanus agreed. “Such a silly thought. Still, only the blood of the Living is poisonous. One still in the Shadow could have given me blood, and that could have been the thing that saved my life. And I would be so thankful for it, beyond measure. But, as you say, Shashavani do not drink of other Shashavani, so of course it didn’t happen.”

  “It certainly did not,” Ekaterine agreed, giving Varanus’s hand a squeeze.

  A flicker of movement at the edge of Varanus’s vision distracted her, and she looked toward it. She saw a dark shape approaching them from across the snow-filled valley. It was a figure dressed in worn and dirty robes, hunched over from pain or exhaustion and leaning on a staff as it came. For a moment Varanus thought it might be Iosef and Sophio, but there was only the one figure. Then she realized what that meant, and she kicked her horse into a run and rode to meet the wanderer, desperately praying that it was not Sophio bringing news of Iosef’s misfortune.

  Reaching the figure, Varanus swung down from her horse and rushed forward to look beneath the cowl.

  Let it not be Sophio, she pleaded silently. Let it not be Sophio.

  And indeed it was not. At the sight of Varanus, the figure fell to its knees, unable to go on. Beneath the cowl, Varanus saw the face of death, withered and desiccated. It was man, but he was barely recognizable as such. He was gaunt, and the skin was pulled tight around his bones. His eyes were hollow. But for all that, Varanus recognized him almost immediately, and her heart clenched at the sight.

  It was Iosef, so worn from starvation, cold, and the road that he was all but a walking corpse.

  “My Lord?” Varanus asked, holding him by his shoulders to keep him from falling. “My Lord, what has happened to you?”

  Iosef opened his mouth and through parched lips whispered:

  “Basileios lives.”

  * * * *

  Some hours later, Iosef lay half conscious in a warm bath, devouring a plate full of roast meat in those scattered moments when he found himself awake enough to do it. He had also been given a chalice of fresh blood, but he had consumed that immediately. It was probably the only reason he was conscious at all. And now with fresh water, blood, and meat in him, Iosef began to feel more like himself, more alive. At least, he felt alive in body. Hi
s soul was another matter.

  He had been left to rest and recover in his own rooms, which had likely been intended as a mercy, but in fact it was not. Everything he saw there, from the walls, to the curtains, to the painted ceiling reminded him of Sophio.

  Presently, he heard the door to the main chamber open. It was unusual to have someone intrude upon the private rooms of the Eristavi, but he suspected that having arrived alone and incoherent, he was now more or less in custody until the Council could sort out what had transpired during the sojourn. He was effectively a prisoner, though of course no one would speak of it as such.

  Iosef sat up as Philippa of Nicaea entered the room, her hands folded in front of her. He bowed his head to her and began to rise, looking about for a cloth to dry himself.

  “My Lady,” he began, about to beg pardon for the state of his arrival.

  “Please, remain as you are Brother Iosef,” Philippa said, raising a hand to stop him. She took a chair from by the wall and placed it at the foot of the bath where she sat and smiled at him. “I hope that you feel recovered from your ordeal.”

  Iosef sank back into the water and nodded. “Indeed. Or rather, as recovered as I may be in such a state.”

  “Perhaps you were too young to walk such a hard road,” Philippa said, “but you returned to us all the same.” She paused. “However....”

  “Sophio did not return with me,” Iosef finished. It was the inevitable question. There was no point in avoiding it.

  “Can you tell me why?” Philippa asked.

  “Because she is dead,” Iosef replied, his tone flat and emotionless. It was the only way he could say the words.

  Philippa nodded. Clearly this answer did not surprise her, though it did seem to trouble her. Iosef was suddenly put in mind of Basileios’s words regarding hidden spies. Then again, Philippa’s distress at the news seemed real enough, if subdued by her great age. And, Iosef recalled, she had spoken against Sophio venturing out, while others had encouraged it.

  How easy the temptation of paranoia, Iosef thought.

  “How did she come to die, Iosef?” Philippa asked softly.

  “She was lured there to be ambushed and killed,” Iosef said. He sat up again and reached for Philippa’s arm. “Sister Philippa, you must arrest Brother Teimuraz at once!”

  “Brother Teimuraz?” Philippa raised an eyebrow.

  “There was a Basilisk lurking there, at the tomb of Arslan Khan,” Iosef explained. “He claimed to have sent agents here to draw Sophio out and bring her to him. Teimuraz was the one who brought word of the tomb. He must be one of the ones in league with our enemy!”

  “Who was the Basilisk, Iosef?” Philippa asked.

  Iosef hesitated. He knew that the true answer would be met with astonishment and disbelief. It would sound more fanciful than a lie, and it might further turn suspicion against him. But then again, it was his duty to warn them.

  “It was Basileios,” he said. “The Basileios. I do not know how he survived, but I swear to you it was he. Sophio recognized him before....”

  He fell silent again and looked away.

  “Well...” Philippa mused. “Ordinarily, I doubt I would believe you. But we have ourselves suffered certain peculiarities.”

  “Peculiarities?” Iosef asked.

  “A conspiracy of Basilisks lurking in our midst attempted to usurp the throne in Sophio’s absence,” Philippa said. “They demanded mass conversions, rejection of Shashava’s laws, and allegiance to a ‘Winter King’. Teimuraz was one of them.” She paused a moment. “They were led by Margaret of the Hebrides, who you may recall—”

  “Encouraged Sophio to go,” Iosef said.

  Philippa nodded. She folded her hands in her lap and said, “Recount to me your travels, Brother Iosef. Tell me what happened. Tell me how you come to be alive.”

  Iosef relayed the story as clearly as he could remember, passing rapidly over matters of no importance without omitting them. He hesitated a moment when he came to Olga, trying to judge whether he should break her confidence or lie to Philippa. It was only a moment of hesitation, but it was a moment too long. As he resumed his tale without mention of Olga, he saw a glint of suspicion in Philippa’s eyes. But Philippa said nothing, and Iosef continued on as if nothing had happened.

  “When we opened the tomb and ventured in,” Iosef concluded, “Basileios was there waiting for us. He followed us inside, and Sophio confronted him. I was...injured—” He touched his chest where the spear had penetrated him, the memory returning to him clearly despite the absence of a wound. “—and in the end Basileios overpowered Sophio and burned her to ashes.”

  “He burned her?” Philippa asked.

  “He...” Iosef stammered. He could think of no way to explain it that did not sound far-fetched. “He burned her with fire from his hands. I do know how to describe it other than that. His hands took flame, and when he touched her with them, she burned as well. I realize that it sounds impossible, but—”

  Philippa closed her eyes in thought and held up a hand.

  “No,” she said softly, “I have heard of this. It is said that Jelena of Raska knew this technique. I have not seen it myself, but I accept that it may be true.” Then Philippa looked intently at Iosef and asked, “And what of you, Iosef? How did you survive?”

  And there it was, Iosef thought. The fundamental danger in his position, for truly there was no way the he could have lived without the intervention of one far older than he was. But to mention a rescuer would prove all the more problematic.

  “As I said, My Lady, I was gravely injured. Seeing that I was no threat to him, Basileios left me to be taken by the sun.”

  “No, he did not,” Philippa said.

  “My Lady?” Iosef asked, for a brief instant entertaining thoughts of fear.

  “Basileios did not leave you to die,” Philippa said matter-of-factly. “You are Sophio’s only student, the continuation of her intellectual lineage. Basileios would want to obliterate you along with her, as punishment for her beheading him and overthrowing his tyrant kingdom. He would not have left your death to chance.”

  Iosef took a breath and exhaled. He did not know what to say.

  “However,” Philippa continued, “I am confident that you are not in league with him. You would certainly not conspire to murder Sophio. I have seen how you look...looked at her when you thought you were not observed. I may have forgotten what it is to feel such devotion, but I have not forgotten how it looks in others.”

  “Indeed, My Lady,” Iosef said.

  “The only explanation I can fathom is that you were saved by the intervention of another,” Philippa said. “Someone very old indeed. And that being the case, I wish to know who it was.”

  “She swore me not to divulge her name,” Iosef replied.

  “Oh...” Philippa sighed. “What a pity.” Then she fixed Iosef with a hard look. “It seems that you will have to break a sworn oath. But under the circumstances, I am certain that both she and God will forgive you. Give me the name.”

  Iosef hesitated again and looked away.

  “Valdemar the Rus,” he said. “I do not expect you to believe it, but it was so.”

  Philippa thought about it for a few moments and replied, “I do not disbelieve it. All of the Companions sojourn. We might meet them upon the road and never know it. Though again, it may have been a student of Valdemar assuming the name. There are many in the world nearly as powerful as the Companions. But let us return to that later. Whoever your liberator was, why did he not return with you?”

  “Because it was Valdemar,” Iosef replied, “and she said that she had no wish to rejoin the House of Shashava without the other Companions, lest it sway the Order to reject other schools of thought in favor of her philosophies.”

  “I suppose that is...plausible,” Philippa said, a little reluctantly.


  Iosef leaned forward and added in Greek to emphasize the pronoun, “She said it. She.”

  Philippa frowned for a moment and slowly closed her eyes as if trying to summon up a long forgotten memory. Presently, she opened them again and said, a little surprised, “I think I almost remember that.... She....” Then Philippa shook her head. “Ah, but it is gone. Still, that point is immaterial. Man or woman is irrelevant. What matters is that Basileios walks the world and that he sent his agents to work evil among us. Vigilance will be necessary. The Council knows that.”

  She meant that they would be suspicious of him.

  “I understand,” Iosef said.

  “Good,” Philippa replied. She stood and smiled. “Rest yourself, Brother Iosef. I need you well when I bring you before the Council next week.”

  “Before the Council?” Iosef asked. “Am I to be examined?”

  “In a way,” Philippa said. “In a way.”

  * * * *

  Iosef’s return had taken Varanus by surprise, and much as it relieved her to find him still alive, the state of his arrival equally alarmed her. She had never before seen Iosef so fragile. Her mentor’s strength had always been a source of reassurance to her. Seeing him in a state of walking death was terrifying. Varanus always worried about Iosef’s well-being, but for the first time she actually contemplated the possibility of him dying, and it was not a prospect she liked.

  Once she heard that Iosef was on his feet again, Varanus went to see him immediately, bringing Ekaterine with her for good measure. There might still be spies about waiting for a moment of weakness to strike, and Varanus was not about to lose either her friend or her mentor to an assassin’s blade. Ekaterine told her that she was being silly, that the conspiracy had been rooted out and there was no longer any need to fear, but Varanus could not bring herself to share Ekaterine’s optimism.

  There were soldiers on guard outside Iosef’s door, which surprised Varanus. As a reflex, she placed her hand behind her back and reached for the pistol she had hidden beneath her coat. But she had no reason to believe the soldiers hostile, and she did not draw.