Children of the Wastes (The Aionach Saga Book 2) (38 page)

Lethari tried to give a command, but his throat was on fire,
and the words came out like crumbling parchment. “Spare him,” he said.
“Restrain the
lathcu
, but spare his life.”

No one heard. The tumult continued, a crowd of fearsome
warriors pressed into the tiny room, feet scuffing the floors as the young
shepherd whirled and feinted and lashed out. Toler was the first to draw blood.
He cut a slash across Armaen Yeilada’s chest, then whirled to open a red gash
in Bael Verendi’s throat. Lethari coughed, trying to find his voice.

As if to find it for him, Diarmid Kailendi’s deep bellow rang
out. “Enough!” The word managed to find an echo, even in so small a room.

The warriors eased, but Toler Glaive remained as fierce as
ever.

Diarmid drew his matched blades, the long, curved Fairnang
and its shorter sibling, Danaich. “Leave the pale-skinned mongrel to me.”

The others backed away, leaving Toler to fend for himself. He
lifted his hands to fight, knife in one, the other a fist. A cool smirk spread
over his face. “Come to pay for all the innocent blood you’ve shed, you coffing
savage? I’ll bleed you all.”

“Stop,” Lethari rasped.

Diarmid glanced over his shoulder. “My master, I—”

Toler saw his opportunity and lunged. Diarmid was not so
foolish as to have let his guard down, however. Toler’s blade whispered through
the air. Diarmid shifted, and the swing whispered past his throat. He replied
with a low cut, which opened Toler’s pant leg and sent him to one knee.

Toler brought the knife up, meaning to plunge it between
Diarmid’s ribs. Lethari winced, expecting the next sound he heard to be the
slip of blade through flesh. Diarmid turned the blow aside with the shorter of
his two swords. The longer flicked out. The flat of the blade met Toler’s head
with a smack, knocking him to the floor.

“Restrain him,” Diarmid commanded.

The men piled on while Toler continued to struggle against
them, shouting and clawing and screaming for blood. He was out of breath and
beaten bloody by the time they rolled him over and lifted him to his feet. His
eyes still spoke of murder, and he spat blood when Lethari came toward him.

Lethari wiped the blood away and spoke, his voice a rough
fragment. “When I look at you, I am reminded of the fear of your people. I have
seen it in their eyes when death comes close. I have shown it to them myself,
as I will show it to you. You fight as they do, burning and dying for a thing
that has never been yours. Yet you cling to it like mollusks on the seaside
cliffs. You seek revenge for the lives I have taken, and for the life my
Clay-brothers destroyed. But I tell you this: these lives are mine. The life of
every
lathcu
whose feet have soiled my homeland belongs to me. It
belongs to my captains, and to my warriors, and to my king. You draw breath
only by my mercy. You take nourishment only with my leave. And when at last I
have driven out the last of your kind—the last of those whose blood is not of
the sands alone—only then will I rest.”

Toler’s lips curled into a bloody sneer. “That day will never
come.”

Lethari backhanded him across the face. “I loved your
brother, and your father before him. But you are your own man, Toler Glaive.
The same man as my enemy, and I bear no love for you.
Tilier dueieh
.”

The men grabbed Toler and followed Lethari out of the office,
along the catwalk, and down the stairs. The loading bay doors were open, the
asphalt courtyard outside a mud puddle beneath the pounding rains. A cool draft
floated in, but it was too little to soothe Lethari’s skin from the rains’ irritation.

Toler shook himself free and stood on his own, wrists and
ankles straining against the ropes. He said nothing and looked ready for
anything, but Lethari could smell his fear all the same. Those on the factory
floor quieted, gathering round to watch.

“I saw your brother’s daughter in Bradsleigh,” Lethari told
him. “The household is yours now,
Maigh
Glaive. You are free to take
your inheritance.”

Toler gave him a blank look.

“That is what you will do when you leave here. Savannah has
no one left to her now. You must see her cared for.”

Toler’s brow furrowed. “You’re letting me go?”

“With two promises. The first, that you will not leave your
brother’s daughter alone in this world. The second, that you will tell your
master… Vantanible… tell him his people will die by my hand so long as they
continue to cross our sands. The master-king will have his due. Our soothsayers
have seen your demise and have shown us the paths your caravans travel. No
matter which trail you ride through the wastes, we will find you. And when we
do, your lives and your riches are forfeit.”

“You’re lying,” Toler said. “Your soothsayers can’t see shit.
My brother didn’t travel all the way from Bradsleigh to Sai Calgoar just to say
hello. He brought you a map of our movements. A map he stole from me.”

Lethari struck him again. “Silence, mongrel. I am the one who
speaks truth, and you the lie. Deliver my words to your master. Then decide how
you will take your inheritance. Bring your family’s cargo vessels to
Vantanible, and you will die with them.”

A murmur spread through the crowd. Lethari could hear
scattered words among them, words of mistrust and speculation. So Toler Glaive
knew about the goatskin record.
Perhaps I should silence him before my
people start to believe what he says
. But no, he did not think Toler meant
to uncover his falsehood. The pale-skin didn’t know Lethari had kept the record
secret. Sending him to Vantanible armed with a threat would serve the
calgoarethi
far better than killing him now. Besides that, Savannah needed someone. Surely
her uncle would not abandon her altogether.

“Vantanible isn’t going away, Lethari. Your attacks are
nothing but a minor setback. Daxin is dead now, and that means all we have to
do is change the routes and you’ll never get a leg up on us again. We’re coming
back, and stronger than ever. As for my family, haven’t you done enough damage
already? How about you stay out of my personal business and I’ll stay out of
yours?”

Lethari grunted. “So be it. If ever you find yourself in need
of my favor again, I will remember this.”

“You don’t get it, do you? Without trade, people across the
Inner East are going to starve. Some will go thirsty for lack of clean water.
Others will succumb to injury and disease without the right medication. You
don’t own this land just because you were here first. Every person in the
Aionach has to share this shithole of a planet. We all deserve a chance to
survive. We might not all get there, but we all deserve a chance.”

Lethari pointed out into the rain. “There lies yours.” He
uttered a command to his men, who brought Toler’s horse around and let him
mount. Then they untied him and handed him his effects.

“Go,” Lethari told him. “You have much to achieve for foe and
family. Come again if death is what you desire. My
feiach
craves after
the blood of your people. You are strangers in our home, and a stranger who
enters another man’s household as a thief does not deserve his mercy. Ride the
wastes with your trade, and we will cut you down like grass until you learn the
true might of the
calgoarethi
.”

Lethari slapped Seurag on the hindquarters to send him
bolting into the downpour. Toler snapped the reins and ascended the rise,
fading into the haze beyond blinding sheets of rain.

“Watch him,” Lethari said. “Be sure he leaves. Do not allow
him back inside. And someone bring me the cloth I asked for.”

The crowds dispersed and returned to their activities,
lugging supplies, tending to the herds, guarding the slaves, preparing food,
and sharing news between camp and caravan. Lethari trudged up the catwalk
stairs, rubbing his throat and looking for a reflective surface in which to
assess the damage.

Diarmid Kailendi raced up after him and came alongside, hands
on hilts. “My lord, you should not have let the
lathcu
go free,” he said,
his tone sharper than was appropriate.

“I owe you and your men a debt,” Lethari said, ignoring the
challenge. “The pale-skin would have killed me.”

Diarmid shook his head. “My master summoned me, and I came.
That is all. It was a cruel stroke of fate that I did not arrive sooner.”

“Set your humility aside, Diarmid. I have no need of it. The
men you lead have no desire to see meekness in you.”

“And what did you show them by giving the pale-skin your
mercy? The
feiach
will think you have lost your taste for blood.”

“My taste for blood has never been stronger. Look to the
wagons if you doubt me. Our horses strain beneath the weight of the pale-skins’
treasures.”

“If you did not wish to kill him, you should have taken him
to slave. His life is of no greater worth than that of any other mongrel.”

“That is where you are wrong, Diarmid. He is a Glaive, an
ancestor of a great household. He wields influence over the affairs of the
Black City and its traders. You will see, my captain. He has a purpose yet to
fulfill.”

In the office, Lethari’s chair lay on its side and the floor
was smeared with blood. Men had already come to clear away Bael Verendi’s body.
Armaen Yeilada would be no worse for wear once the warlocks bound his wound.
The cloth Lethari had asked for was sitting on the desk beside his pack. His
skin was dry by now, and reddened with irritation, but he wiped himself off
anyway.

“Is it true, what the pale-skin said?” Diarmid wanted to
know. “Did his mongrel brother bring you foresight of the Black City’s caravans?
Is that why your wagons are so heavy?”

Lethari’s throat burned when he swallowed. He did not let his
eyes wander to his pack on the desk, from which the goatskin still protruded.
He kept his gaze on Diarmid and tried to overcome the dry rasp in his voice.
“Toler Glaive did not lie. He only mistook the truth. His brother gave me many
insights. These I surrendered to the master-king, who dispersed them amongst
his warleaders. He gave some of them to you, did he not?”

Diarmid nodded. “That was a long time ago, though.”

“Toler Glaive is a dangerous man who would stop at nothing to
see the
calgoarethi
destroyed. When he heard his brother had been
helping us, he turned against him. Daxin Glaive fled to Sai Calgoar in fear,
seeking safety in my household. The same man who tried to take my life today
did the same to his own brother.”

Anger descended onto Diarmid’s face. “Then why did you let
him go?”

“Because the first thing he will do is return to the Black
City and provoke the
lathcui
to come against us.”

“That would be a poor thing for us, my master.”

“A war with the
lathcu
would be a fine thing. My
feiach
has crippled them. They are vulnerable. Their pride will blind them to their
own weakness. And in their weakness, they will find only defeat.”

“How can you be sure?”

“Amhaziel has foreseen it. He has demonstrated to me the
certainty of our triumph. See the flaw he has given me…” Lethari fingered his
newest scars, the grisly chest tattoo now healed.

“What is it?”

“A creature, both beast and man.”

“What does it mean?”

“That, I have yet to see. But the fates have demanded it, and
I have no doubt I soon will.”

CHAPTER 31

Closing In

After the sand came the earthquakes. The basilica’s
foundations, rooted deep in the earth, did not falter, even as Belmond’s distant
skyscrapers shifted and crumbled. When the earthquakes subsided, the rains
came. And the rains were the worst of all.

Dark storm clouds doused the basilica in gloom for days,
sickness and malaise spreading with the eerie glow of the starwinds. Schedules
relaxed due to illness; progress faltered; and the planned trading excursions
with the heathens of the city south were postponed. Brother Belgard would be
forced to come clean about the empty storerooms any day now.

Bastille had been looking for an opportunity to speak with
Brother Lambret in private ever since she’d found Froderic’s urn in the Hall of
Ancients. She couldn’t just stroll casually into his office, due to its
proximity to Sister Gallica’s in the administration section. Then one day, she
got her chance.

Lambret was leaving the sanctuary after morning services,
which had been sparsely attended all week. Bastille fell in beside him while he
was on his way down the aisle.

“Hello, kind Sister Bastille,” Lambret said.

“Brother Lambret, you’re just the person I’ve been meaning to
speak with,” she said.

“How can I help?”

“There’s a problem in the conservatory. Do you have a moment
to join me for a look?”

“Certainly. What seems to be the issue?”

They exited the sanctuary and turned right toward the gardens,
instead of left toward the dormitory hallway as Lambret had probably intended.
Bastille’s heart pounded with the thought of Gallica spotting them together.
She glanced around, hoping Brother Lambret wouldn’t catch on to her paranoia.
“I was making my rounds this early morn when I noticed the corn patch beginning
to wilt.”

“A lack of daylight such as we’ve had lately is apt to cause
the crops a certain amount of stress,” he said, slowing his pace. “The short
year is not far off, though. I’m sure the gardens will recover nicely once the
starwinds pass.”

Lambret stopped walking, convinced he had provided an ample
solution. The conservatory doors were a ways off, and Bastille didn’t feel safe
broaching her true topic until they were within the thick of the garden
greenery.

“Humor me, kind Brother,” she said, taking a step and
gesturing toward the doors.

“Must I?” he sighed. “I’m very busy, you know.”

“Yes, Brother Lambret. I know. You and Sister Gallica both.
Everyone is frightfully busy these days, but there is an important matter I
must discuss with you in private, if you wouldn’t mind.”

Lambret’s eyes glazed over. “Lead on, Sister.”

“There are things you may not enjoy hearing,” Bastille said.

“That would be nothing new…”

A moment later, they were deep in the gardens alone. Sister
Usara and her minions had not yet resumed the day’s tending, so Bastille was
reasonably sure they’d made it into the foliage unnoticed. “Brother Lambret,
I’m afraid the situation has become quite dire.”

“How so?”

“I came to you because I didn’t know where else to turn. It’s
Sister Gallica, you see… I believe she may be next in line to inherit. If she
receives her Enhancements, that would leave you in charge of the entire
basilica. You’d be responsible for everything. You may even be elevated to the
Most High.”

Suddenly Lambret was far more interested in the conversation.
“I wouldn’t mind that so much,” he said wistfully.

Bastille did believe Sister Gallica was next in line to
inherit. She could not say which Cypriest would be next to retire, or when. Nor
did she know for certain that Brother Lambret would be elevated, as she
claimed. But there wasn’t much time to uncover Gallica’s schemes, and she
needed Brother Lambret’s help. “You don’t know what you’re saying,” she told
him.

“Should I be concerned? Is there something you aren’t telling
me?”

Bastille gave a bashful shrug. “You’ve seen right through me,
I’m afraid.”

“What is it? Please, kind Sister. You can tell me.”

“Can I? I think not.”

“You can. You can, Sister Bastille. Let me assure you, I—”

“How do I know you won’t turn around and make me regret it?”

“I give you my word. I promise.”

And thus, I set a trap of my own
. “I have reason to
believe Brother Froderic has been sneaking into our storerooms at night and
smuggling supplies out to the heathens. He grows wealthy off the fruit of our
toils. That is why he hasn’t returned in so long.”

Lambret frowned. “That cannot be.”

“Oh no?”

“No, Sister. Brother Froderic is dead.”

That was easier than I expected. Finally, someone who
knows what’s really going on
. Bastille feigned surprise. “What? How?”

“He was killed. Murdered by savages, I hear.”

“Where did you hear that?”

“From Sister Gallica.”

“Gallica herself? Then answer me this, kind Brother. If
Froderic is dead, and Gallica knows it, why have the Most High elevated him?”

“As a matter of fact, I asked her that very question. She
dismissed me—told me there was a good reason, and that I should trust she had
everything in hand and say nothing more about it to anyone. I feel bad now,
having told you. I’m sure you’ve begun to learn by now what being one of the
Esteemed is like… there are secrets everywhere, most of which we must keep to
ourselves indefinitely. But what’s all this about Froderic stealing from our
stores?”

“Well,” Bastille said, balking, “I didn’t know it was him for
a fact. He has always been the one in charge of our stores, so naturally I
assumed it must be him. There are only four people in the whole basilica who
have keys to the storeroom. Froderic, Belgard, Gallica… and you.”

“Well, I can tell you it hasn’t been me or Gallica stealing
from the rooms. Our oversight does not involve micro-managing the individual
segments of the basilica’s day-to-day operations. A representative from each
vocation reports to us once a week, and we commission the work that needs doing
based on their reports. I don’t believe we’ve had reason to check the
storerooms in months.”

“I would consider doing so, if I were you.”

Brother Lambret turned hostile. “How do you know all this,
Sister Bastille? The keys, the storerooms, the crops… none of these fall in
line with your responsibilities.”

“I have always prided myself on knowing more than I should,”
she said. “I often find myself having to shore up where others are lacking, so
the knowledge comes in handy. You’ve made me reconsider.”

“I confess, you’ve made me do the same. This business with
the storeroom… how did you find out someone’s been stealing?”

“Why, from Brother Belgard, of course. Surely you can’t
believe he’s the one behind all this…”

“I don’t see who else it could be.”

“Perhaps Froderic’s key was misplaced, or it fell into the
wrong hands. Is there any chance someone else got hold of it?”

Lambret looked around to make sure they were still alone. “We
have Froderic’s keys. Are you suggesting an outsider might be stealing from
us?”

“Not at all,” Bastille said. “An outsider would need both the
storeroom key and one of the Arcadian Stars to get into the basilica. Not to
mention they would’ve needed to avoid being noticed time and again. I think
that’s highly unlikely.”

“As do I,” said Lambret. “But we dare not accuse Brother
Belgard of theft without just cause.”

“No, I agree. It is possible that Froderic was the thief, and
that the thefts have stopped now that he is dead.”

“I should hope no further theft will take place,” Lambret
said.

“The real question is why the Most High elevated Froderic to
the fourth seat even though they knew he’d been murdered. Any chance you could
do a little more digging?”

“Are you asking me to spy on Sister Gallica?”

“I’m asking you to use your intuition, Brother Lambret. Pick
up whatever clues you can without behaving conspicuously. Now that you know the
Order is on the brink of a food shortage, promise me you’ll do what you can to
prevent it. Brother Froderic’s elevation is related to this shortage, I have no
doubt. Find out how, and we may save everyone in the basilica from starvation.”

“Why are you doing this, Sister?”

“Because our vow is to preserve the Order against all
threats. Even those from within. We must stick together in times like these.
Our mission is not to undermine the leadership, but to ensure the Order’s
future.”

Lambret straightened, nodding. “We’ll meet again in a week’s
time. I’ll share anything new I’ve learned in the interim.”

“I shall do the same, kind Brother.” She took his hand.
“Should you rise to take Sister Gallica’s place among the Most High, I shall
not forget your dedication to the Order.”

“You are too kind,” he said. “Shall we?”

“You go ahead. I think I’ll walk in the gardens for a while.”
This only gets easier with practice
, she thought as she watched him
disappear through the undergrowth.

When she was alone, the stream carried her to the grotto as
if she hadn’t the will to stop it. She stood there looking at it for a time,
letting it tempt her. The texts in the hidden library had not given her the
answers she’d been hoping for. The desire within her was still strong. If the
fates revealed themselves through communication with mortals, surely there was
more yet to be learned. If she could only talk to him again; look into his
face. Know what he knew.

She remembered what Sister Dominique had told her.
The
moment you looked into his eyes, his will took root inside you. That’s why you
were tempted to come to him again
. Was that what had happened this time?
Had she led Brother Lambret here with the intention of visiting the monster
below, not realizing she had done so until now?

If she descended into the grotto and was interrupted by the
high priestesses again, it would be the last time.
Gallica and Dominique
can’t be watching me every second of every day, surely. And none of Usara’s
underlings saw me enter here
.

The idea was tantalizing, but in the end the risk was too
great. Who knew what sorts of powers Dominique possessed. Maybe she was
listening in on Bastille’s thoughts even now. Maybe she knew her plans, her
schemes. No, the very idea was absurd. Bastille pushed it aside and left the
conservatory.

In the classroom, things were proceeding just as Bastille had
imagined: a touch of firsthand experience for her students here and there had
been sufficient to keep them at bay. By harping on Sister Severin’s ‘
intellect
’
and Brother Travers’s ‘
natural talent
,’ each when the other was not
present, she had created an atmosphere where neither student felt pressured to
excel, thereby curtailing the pace at which she taught without making them
dissatisfied. At the same time, she was able to provide favorable reports
whenever the Most High called upon her to share her progress.

Half a year’s time was the interval Brother Liero had thrown
out as an off-hand comment during that first meeting. Somehow the oblivious
estimate had stuck, and the Most High seemed to think Sister Bastille could
have both her students fully trained in six months. She was convinced it would
take far less time to uncover the mystery behind Froderic’s elevation, however.
Whether she would still have to cater to their every whim by that time remained
to be seen.

As the starwinds took their toll on the basilica’s faithful,
Sister Severin began to fall ill more and more often. That left Brother Travers
to assume the mantle of disciplined education—a responsibility for which he was
predictably ill-suited. His air of easygoing levity bothered Sister Bastille at
times. He talked too much and listened too little. He was unfocused, and he
seldom heeded Bastille’s warning or instruction before plowing ahead on his
own.

Perhaps the most aggravating thing of all was that Brother
Travers appeared wholly unaffected by the starwinds. While others were seesawing
in and out of bed rest due to long periods of fever, dizzy spells, nausea, and
mental fog, Travers strolled the basilica’s halls as if he hadn’t a care. That
made him the banner-carrier in Bastille’s classroom during that span of weeks;
the default pupil when it came to helping her with the rites.

Bastille was disinclined to allow Travers a leading role, as
yet. She accepted his assistance and used each procedure as a teaching
opportunity. The rites were not so delicate as the Enhancements, which came about
less often anyway. Travers would finish flushed and out of breath, symptoms
Bastille had witnessed in prior students and had always chalked up to
discomfort. Somehow Travers did not strike her as uncomfortable, however; he
seemed almost happy—if human dissection could elicit such a mood.

Then one night, everything changed.

Bastille was performing the disembowelment phase of the
rites. Brother Travers stood beside her. The corpse was that of a middle-aged
man, the last dead heathen the Cypriests had dragged through the gates before
the storms began. She could hear Travers’s heavy breathing, feel his wind on
the back of her arm.

A headache exploded through her so strong and sudden it made
Bastille drop her scalpel into the corpse’s abdominal cavity and reel backward,
bumping the wall behind. She let out a groan and sank to her knees, prompting
Brother Travers to crouch beside her and ask what the matter was.

“Get help,” she said. “Brother Reynard, in the hospital.”

“Sure,” he said.

Bastille felt him hop over her, heard his sandals beating a
hasty retreat down the corridor. She managed a glance up at the coat hooks, saw
his prosaics still hanging next to hers.
The Mouth-forsaken fool is running
through the halls in his underclothes
, she thought, just before a new
series of sharp pangs wracked her.