Children of the Wastes (The Aionach Saga Book 2) (22 page)

Savannah nodded. When she took his plate away, Lethari
noticed thin red furrows around her fingernails. He studied them as she scraped
her own plate into the scrap bucket, though it was still full of uneaten food.

“You must not let him do this,” Lethari said. “Those crates
must not go to the
lathcu
merchants.”

“I can’t stop him,” she said. “The estate is his, not mine.
Even if he doesn’t live here.”

“By what law? You pale-skins have no king to dictate to you
what is just and fair. You take from one another like animals, and yet you call
us
savages.” He laughed. “That is a funny thing.”

“We still follow the old laws, wherever people are civilized
enough to respect them.”

“Those places are few… and the people who respect them, fewer
still.”

“Yes. But you know us Glaives—we’re set in our ways.”

Half a smile was all Lethari could manage, concerned as he
was with the possibility that the trading company might have their supplies
replenished. He had gone to too great an effort in decimating their flatbeds to
see replacements brought in.
Something must be done to prevent this
, he
decided. What, he did not yet know, so he set the thought aside for the moment.

“You are stubborn people,” he agreed. “But who among us is
compliant when his beliefs are threatened?”

“Some people hold stronger to their beliefs than others,” she
said.

“And that is no flaw. Your father was a private person with a
will like iron. His pride was brittle, but it made him strong as well.”

“How did he die, Lethari? I want to know.”

Lethari would sooner forego the grisly details of Daxin’s
death, so he said, “I returned from the steel city to find him in my household.
He was close to death, even then. He could hardly speak. He had only time
enough to tell me his final wishes.”

Savannah grimaced as if in pain. “And what were those?”

“When last he left home, he came upon a group of exiles
living in a hidden cave.”

“Exiles from where?”

“The Black City. Your father desired these exiles to be
protected. But when I found the cave, all inside had perished. The only item of
note I came across was this.” Lethari drew the cutlass from his pack and set it
on the table, tossing aside the folds of cloth which had concealed it.

Savannah studied the sword for a moment, but she gave no hint
of recognition. “Some people came through town on their way to New Kettering
recently. They looked thin. Scared. They had no money, and they wouldn’t speak
to anyone except to beg for food and water. We let them fill their skins and
drink from our spring, but they didn’t stay long enough for us to find out who
they were.”

“These must have been the people your father spoke of. Their
home was called Dryhollow Split. They are bound for New Kettering, you say. How
many were there? How long ago did they pass this way?”

“Only a handful. It was weeks ago now.”

Weeks
, thought Lethari, despairing. If these had been
the survivors from Dryhollow Split, they were likely making a new life for
themselves in New Kettering by now, or they were in some condition beyond his
aid.
They could be anywhere. Wandering the Horned Cape, or dead, or lost in
New Kettering
.

He had missed his chance; there was little he could do to
help them, aside from dragging his entire
feiach
south to sweep through
the cape toward the port city. That would take him weeks out of his way. He
would have to leave that part of Daxin’s dying wish in the hands of the fates.
I
have delivered his soul home. Another destiny awaits me
, he decided, laying
a hand on the pack in the chair beside him. “It is my hope that they have been
welcomed by the Emperor of New Kettering and have found peace from their
troubles there.”

“Mine too,” Savannah agreed with a sad smile.

“And now I will take my leave of you. I thank you for your
kindness. It is many long years since my father and your grandfather rode the
sands together, but to the Glaives of Bradsleigh, I will always be a friend.”

Savannah started to speak, but her lips pursed shut and tears
welled in her eyes. It felt wrong, somehow, to leave her alone so early in her
grief. Perhaps she wanted to be alone, but that did not mean it was best for
her.

“Is there anyone in this village you wish to be with? I will
summon them before I go.”

Savannah broke down then, collapsing to her chair in sobs. “I
just don’t know what to do, Lethari. I’m all alone now. I don’t know how to run
things—how to do everything Dad used to do. Toler won’t come back to help me
with anything. Someone could take it all away, and I wouldn’t be able to stop
them.” She pressed her palms into her eyes and wailed, her shoulders heaving,
her lips wet with tears.

Lethari’s heart broke for the girl. He circled the table and
raised a hand to comfort her, but left it hovering above her shoulder. Her
tears subsided after a time, and he sat in the chair beside her. “I have known
you since you were small. My visits have been few, and I have seen you grow
into the woman you are through a few blinks in time. I would not speak of your
mother in a moment like this, except to tell you how proud I know she would be
to see you now. Victaria was brave. The bravest I have ever known. I see that
same bravery in you. You are fierce, like she was. You have her fire inside
you.”

“If she was so brave, then why did she run away?”

Lethari did not know how to answer that. “Your mother would
never go away from you without good reason. I know your father said this to
you, and he was right.”

“She never told us she was going. She never told us why, or
where.” New tears fell from Savannah’s eyes; bitter tears, free of the sobs
that had shook her before.

Seeing her pain made Lethari miss Frayla.
My bold,
passionate Frayla; my warrior queen. You would never leave me, though you’ve
had to watch me go so many times
. He wished he had some answer to give the
young girl beside him; some explanation, or a word of wisdom to soothe her
fears and sorrows. But none came.

After bidding Savannah farewell, Lethari went to the old
shipping yard and stood by the fence for a time, staring at the crates that
would one day undo so much of the damage he and his
feiach
had wrought.
It was too bad the steel would not burn, or he would set a band of his warriors
loose with torches to lay it waste. If only he could find some other way to
keep such valuable treasures out of Vantanible’s hands…

He spent the walk back to his tent that night deep in
thought. Now that he had laid Daxin to rest and seen to his final wishes, there
were new strategies to be devised. His conquests had seen overwhelming success
thus far, but his work was far from done. The goatskin record had its truths
yet to tell him.

Koiras and Frathair were sitting on stools outside Lethari’s
tent flap when he arrived. They stood and snapped to attention when they saw
him coming. He gave them a dismissive wave, but they did not sit down again as
he went inside.

Taking the goatskin from his bag, he rolled it out on his
table and sat down to study it for perhaps the hundredth time. It was not long
before he heard the voice of Sigrede Balbaressi outside. He was speaking to the
guards, requesting entry. With little time and nowhere else to put it, Lethari
flipped the goatskin over and laid it face down across his lap. Koiras
announced Sig’s arrival, and Lethari bade him enter. “Why have you come to
disturb me at this hour?”

Sig bowed. “My regrets, Lethari. I know it is late. I saw you
return and wished to know how you fared in the pale-skin village.”

“I fared well,” Lethari snapped. “Could this not wait for the
morning?”

“I also came to receive your orders, my master. To learn how
we will be moving on from here.”

“When have you ever come to receive my orders before? If I
had orders, I would have summoned you.” Lethari lifted his chair and scooted
further under the table to hide the skin across his lap.

“What is it you have there, my master?”

“You have said it yourself: I am your master, just as the
light-star is master of the sand. Does the light-star answer to the sand?
Nothing I possess is subject to your judgment, Sigrede.”

“You are not the light-star, Lethari. Nor am I the sand. We
are men, and all men are subject to the will of the master-king.” Sig crossed
the tent and shoved the table away. He saw the goatskin and reached for it.

Lethari caught him by the wrist. “Do not do this, Sigrede. I
warn you, do not.”

Sig set his jaw, fingers inches from the folded goatskin. “Do
you warn me, my lord? Or do you beg?”

“I command. Do not forget it.”

“I will not.” Sig wrenched free of Lethari’s grip, snatched
up the goatskin, and tossed it face up onto the table.

“You had no right,” Lethari shouted, standing.

Sig blanched when he saw the markings on the skin, the inked
lines crisscrossing the sketched map; the scrawlings which gave away its
purpose. “Do my eyes deceive me? Is this not what I believe it to be?”

Lethari had no words. He reached for the skin, but the
strength left him.

“The master-king would have given me my own
feiach
,”
Sig said. “He would have made us all warleaders—Cean, Diarmid, Dyovan—all of
us. You said to Tycho Montari that you did not have this. He asked, and you
deceived him. I remember it now. Yes, you… of all the master-king’s captains… I
never thought you would be the one to betray him.”

“I have betrayed no one,” said Lethari, anger flaring. “I
have wronged no one by keeping what belongs to me. Do you truly believe me
capable of stealing from the master-king?” He wanted to tell Sigrede about
Amhaziel’s vision; that he was meant to use the record to do great deeds. But
the soothsayer had not been bringing him the same tidings of late. If Sig
wanted proof, the black-eyed elder might never give it to him.

“No,” Sig said, “I do not think you chose this on your own.
Was it Frayla, then, who persuaded you?”

Lethari’s anger flashed anew. “Do not speak her name. Not
about this. The choice was mine. If you believe I have done wrong—that I have
taken more for myself than I have earned—then inspect my spoils and have your
choice of them. After that, if you still feel I have cheated you, I will make
you the head of all my captains and see that your household is given the
greatest share of the wealth we gain from tomorrow onward. Take what you will
from me, but do not accuse my wife of treachery.”

Sig straightened. He lifted his chin. “So you wish to buy my
allegiance. You have opened my eyes, Lethari. I had hoped you would treat me as
a sand-brother, but it seems I am merely a servant to you.”

“A sand-brother would have loved me, where you instead have
shown your hatred.”

Sig took a step back. “The man who loves his brother does not
only praise his virtues, but finds his faults. Or so I believed.” He paused.
“With my master’s consent, I will take my leave. Send word if you have need of
me.”

The tent flap caught a warm midnight breeze and fluttered to
a close behind Sig. Lethari collapsed into his chair. Would Sigrede tell the
other captains about this? What would they do when they returned to Sai
Calgoar? Would Sig tell the master-king himself about what he had discovered?

Lethari did not think so, but it was too great a risk to let
this dark horse run untamed.
Yes
, he decided.
Something will have to
be done about Sigrede Balbaressi
.

CHAPTER 18

The Fates

The athenaeum’s stacks were filled with secrets. Sister
Bastille’s elevation ceremony should have given her access to those secrets,
but she’d found little free time to pursue such things of late. Weeks had
passed since her elevation to the Esteemed, yet her other duties had kept her
schedule fuller than ever. The other high priests had given her few of the
answers she craved, so it seemed she’d have to search for them herself.

Brother Ephamar was seated at the athenaeum’s front desk,
both he and his current choice of literature banded in rays of morning light.
He glanced up apathetically as Bastille entered, greeting her with more warmth
than his expression betrayed. “A lovely morning, this one. Isn’t it, kind
Sister Bastille?”

Hardly
. “Certainly, kind Brother.” Bastille did not
bother to attempt a smile; such efforts were wasted on the inattentive. She
knew how to get Ephamar’s attention. The trouble lay in getting rid of it when
she was done. She’d just come from her morning chores, and while her new robes
had provided a modicum of increased comfort, the heat had put her in no mood
for conversation. Not that she could avoid it—if she went through with saying
what she was about to say, that is.

“Which scriptural reference will you be checking out today,
kind Sister?” asked Ephamar, still looking down.

“I’m… not here for the scriptures today, kind Brother. I’d
like to do some research.”

“Is there any specific text or subject matter I can guide you
towards?”

The Mouth sustain me
, Bastille consoled herself. “Yes.
Anything that pertains to… the history of the Aionach.”

Bastille knew in the sudden jerk of the head—the way Ephamar
let the book close on his thumb and reached for the tasseled bookmark on the
rear shelf—the extent of the trap she’d allowed herself to walk into.

“I happen to know quite a lot about the histories, as a
matter of fact,” Ephamar said. “I consider myself something of an expert in
that regard.”

So have I gathered during my many, many trips to this
athenaeum
, Bastille might’ve said. In truth, she was there to study the
histories of both the Order and the Aionach. When it came to the history of the
Order in particular, Bastille knew she must tread delicately, since Brother
Ephamar was not one of the Esteemed. “Are you, now? How fortunate for me.”

“Yes, well, I’ve studied at length the pre-Heat period, with
my main focus being on the years leading up to the first flares. There are few
records which chronicle the years since, as I’m sure you can imagine.”

“It’s been more than half a century,” Bastille said.

“Fifty years is enough for most people to forget their own
names,” said Ephamar. “Without a concise written record to be found elsewhere,
the Order’s is the most complete—and thus, the rarest—available. There’s a
wealth of information at our fingertips, if one only takes the time to read it.
So few do, nowadays. No one cares about history anymore. At least, not about
what happened before the Heat. It’s irrelevant in the minds of most. After all,
what does a past so different from our present matter to one struggling to
survive? There really is a wealth to be learned. Strange, isn’t it? Funny,
even, that there’s so much knowledge here, yet so little interest in it.”

Bastille had no love of history or abstract science. She knew
flesh and blood and the systems of the body. Things she could touch and study
and examine. She did not understand the theories of the stars or care about the
deeds of men who lived long ago, and as far as she was concerned, she would
never find any use for them again after today. “Indeed it is, kind Brother.”

“Let me show you something I think may help,” Ephamar said.
“The perfect place to start. Follow me.”

He led her deep into the stacks, where the scent of age-dried
pages hung as thick as the dust in the air. There were scrolls, encased and laminated,
beside tomes both printed and hand-written. Bastille saw titles on every
subject imaginable:
A Comprehensive Guide to Taxidermy
;
Manual of
Ministerial Law, Volumes I-III
;
A Layman’s Evaluation of Quantum Theory
;
History of Seismology in the Aionach
;
Collected Knowledge of Languages,
Runes and Symbolism
. Ephamar took down a sizeable volume with a matte blue
cover and leafed through the pages, landing somewhere in the middle. The
author’s name at the top of the right-hand page was Harold T. Beige.

“This is a report produced by an enclave of Ministry
scientists. It was published decades before the Heat began. If you start
reading here, it talks about the ionosphere, a layer of the world’s atmosphere
which protects us from the light-star’s radiation. It’s like an amphibian’s
skin, or the membrane around an embryo; it lets light in, but dampens heat and
blocks certain particles from reaching the surface.

“This report says the ionosphere began to weaken at an
alarming rate during the decades preceding the Heat. Around this same period of
time, the light-star began to flare more often and more violently than ever
before. Whether these phenomena were related is unknown.

“Each time the light-star flares, a burst of charged
particles shoot toward our atmosphere, causing an event known as a geomagnetic
storm. You probably know these storms by their more common name: the
starwinds.”

Bastille gave a comprehending nod.

“With the ionosphere deteriorating, there remains little to
protect us from the light-star. Infernal is literally baking us alive.”

“So the Aionach truly is dying.”

“I cannot say how quickly death will come to this world. But
it will come, as surely as the light-star shines.”

Bastille’s entire being seemed to shake then. Panic stampeded
through her chest. Her consciousness swelled, and she saw the Aionach spread
out before her, lands and seas and the hollows beneath. She was a passenger on
this mass of incalculable size; an organism as immovable as time, yet as
fragile as life itself. And there was nothing beyond it—no High Infernal Mouth
to which she might dedicate her existence; no
after
beyond the last
breath she would ever claim.

“Are you alright, kind Sister?”

“Yes,” Bastille said hotly. “Yes, I’m fine. Just a little
faint, that’s all. I must’ve overdone it with my chores this morning.”

“Would you like to take a seat? Is there anything I can get
you? A drink of water, perhaps?”

“I’m fine, thank you. If you’ll excuse me, I’d like to be
alone right now. In silence, preferably. My head is absolutely pounding.”

“Certainly. I’ll be at the front desk if you need anything.
Anything at all.” Brother Ephamar set the open book on a table and left.

Bastille sat and tried to read the passage he’d pointed out
to her, but the throbbing in her head intensified. A sudden sharp pain ran
along her temples and set her ears to ringing. She shut her eyes. When she
opened them again, the words on the page blurred like mud on wet pavement.

She sat in agony for a time, head resting in her hands. She
could feel the iron star at the end of its leather thong, balancing on the
table’s edge. Now that she’d been given the right to wear it, she had no desire
to. The weight, the temptation, the responsibility of knowing—she wanted none
of it.
To return to our delusions; therein lies serenity
.

The chair fell over when Bastille slid back and stood. She
left the book where it lay and blundered through the stacks, knocking books
askew. When she passed the front desk, the hall beyond was a dark blot slashed
in blinding swathes of window light.

Brother Ephamar stood and called out to her. “Is everything
alright, Sister Bastille? Are you feeling quite well? Sister Bastille?”

The echoes of his voice faded behind her.

The smell of breakfast was beginning to flood the
conservatory as Bastille burst through the double doors and stumbled into the
gardens. She didn’t stop to determine whether anyone had seen her pass by. Just
now, she didn’t much care.

The greenery was quiet, but the pounding in her head took
away any sense of foreboding. At the garden grotto, she slid the manhole aside
and lowered herself down, replacing it above her head. Water rushed through the
catchpipe in the tunnel beneath, drowning out all sounds from the outside.
Bastille pulled the Arcadian Star from her robes and slid it onto the locking
mechanism.

Suction breathed from within, and she entered the Catacomb
full of damp stacks of paper and metal machinery. Key in hand, she closed the
door behind her, heard it click, and felt the pressure seal in her eardrums.
There would be no unexpected interruptions this time.

At the back of the room, the circular window in the heavy
metal door was dark, empty of the terrifying face she had seen weeks earlier.
She moved closer and felt the sharp throb in her head begin to dull. Another
step, her eyes never leaving the window.

The face emerged from the gloom, gray and chisel-hard, eyes
coldest black. The sudden sight of him was enough to throw Bastille off her
balance. His eyes cut through her as diamond blades through putty. He spoke his
dark words into her mind like drops of ink in a clear pool. “You are defect.
Your body is a shell; your life, a speck. Let me out, and I will give you what
you deserve. Let me out, weakness, and know strength.”

Bastille could not resist him. She cast her thoughts toward
him in answer, struggling against the force of his mind’s grasp. It was his
dark power, she knew, that made it possible for them to talk without speaking.
As she pushed into him, a stamp in setting concrete, he became as her very
soul, aware of every part of her. And she felt none of the reticence of
speaking to a stranger. He was an intimate friend from whom she bore no
secrets. There was nowhere to hide from his intimacy.

“You are the pinnacle of my disappointment,” she told him.
“You’re the answer for which I never asked. I wanted everything to be simple; a
clear path from my humanness to the liberation of long, artificial life. I
wanted the Mouth to be the world’s salvation. Instead, there’s you. A nightmare
in living flesh, my betrayal, and my curse.”

“Let me out. Let me out, and I will show you my endlessness.
Free me, and you will be as an echo. I will renew my destined purpose and begin
again.”

Bastille felt her hand twitching toward her key, toward the
Arcadian Star that would unlock the door of his prison. It was her hand that
was moving—not by his influence, but by her own free will. The seed he had
planted in her mind was ripening, and the despair of living every day in the
truth had made her weak. To free him was to free paradise into the world, a
warm sleepless death like sap overrunning an anthill, magma slithering through
cities, to the sweet destruction of all.

“Stop this at once, kind Sister!”

Bastille hadn’t heard the door open. For the second time, the
trance had consumed her senses. Footsteps shuffled behind her. As if from far
away, she saw herself slide the key into the locking mechanism on the heavy
door before her. A cold and unyielding force buffeted her from behind, icy
tendrils snaking through her like the touch of a frigid spring. Someone pulled
her back from the door. She clawed for her key, lost her grip, and watched it
hang from the lock as she was dragged away.

It was Sister Dominique, her slender hands no longer sheathed
beneath her customary elbow-length white gloves. Bastille had never seen her
without those gloves. What she saw beneath them astonished her.
Those hands
…

Dominique laid Bastille on the floor while Sister Gallica
strode to the door and yanked the key free of the mechanism. The being within
gave a silent scream, contorting in a rictus of frustration and rage. Gallica
backed away, shielding herself from his gaze.

Bastille gasped when Sister Dominique’s fingers brushed her
skin. It was the briefest touch, yet she felt it in the depths of her spirit,
an ecstasy too pure to believe.

Dominique rose and went to the door. She placed both hands
against it as though she meant to push it open. Instead her fingertips began to
glow a warm orange. Pulses of red lightning discharged through the metal. The
being inside cringed away from the window, and for a moment his face vanished
in the darkness.

Bastille heard the thing speak again. He was speaking in
silence to Sister Dominique, yet Bastille could hear the words like a
conversation overheard across a room. “You will not keep me, fiend of the
light. You have tried, but you will not keep me. I am my own, and time belongs
to me. Your failure will come as inexorably as the fire. All will begin again.”

“Your power is sundered,” said Dominique. “You hold no sway
in this place.”

“I am newness. I am void. I am truth, and I will unmake you.”

“Be silent.” Dominique extended her hands once more. The
lightning blitzed from her fingertips with a violent shriek. It struck the door
and lit the thing’s face in a ghastly glow.

Next Bastille knew, Gallica was gathering her up by the arms
and dragging her toward the exit. Dominique came after, shutting the heavy
hatch and engaging the seal. She whirled to face Bastille, pallid skin drawn in
anger across her cheekbones. Her words, however, were gravely calm. “You are
never to enter that room again. Do you understand me, Sister Bastille? Being
the only priestess trained to perform the Enhancements will not save your life
if you ever set foot beyond this door. I will end you myself, if he doesn’t do
it first.”

“I only wanted to know him.”

Dominique sighed heavily. There was something tired in it,
like the groan of an old tree before it falls. “You could’ve come to us for
that. Maybe it was a mistake on our part to let you remain in the dark for so
long. The basilica has been a frenetic place lately. If anyone knows that, it’s
you, kind Sister. We should’ve made time.”