Children of the Wastes (The Aionach Saga Book 2) (15 page)

And so, after losing men to both supply crews and battle
injury, the
feiach
shrank in number to a fraction of its original size.
By the time the twisted dead trees of the Standing Bones came within sight,
Lethari and his captains were heavy-laden with the spoils of war, no longer
interested in what slaves or killing or plunder the pale-skin caravans had to
offer.

What Lethari
was
interested in was the location of the
hidden village Daxin Glaive had told him about. A cave beneath a large, flat
stone, carved into the landscape beside a deep ravine.
Dryhollow Split
,
he had called it. That was where those who had run from Vantanible’s Black City
were hiding.

Lethari was determined to find the village, though it might
take his trackers days to do so. It had been Daxin’s dying wish, and Lethari
wanted to honor that. Scouts had found several old traps, triggered but long
neglected, as they moved through the forest. With good fortune, they would
encounter further signs of life before long.

As the remains of his
feiach
spread out to make camp
across the Skeletonwood, Lethari summoned Amhaziel Bilmadi to his tent. High on
the success of his recent conquests, he expected to receive only good words
from this consultation. But when they ushered the white-haired elder through
the door flap, Lethari could feel him coming like a cold, bitter wind.
Amhaziel’s face was set in a deep frown, his black eyes damp and heavy as if on
the verge of sleep, like slivers of dark opal beneath sheets of glass.

“We have achieved much,” Lethari said to him. “Great
victories, many slaves, and much plunder. But the
feiach
grows restless
in the dead forest. The spirits of our ancestors haunt these lands. There is
nothing for them here but to wait in fear while the trackers make their search.
I would know what lies ahead. You will see, and know, and tell me when we will
find this hidden village and move on from this place.”

“You have gained nothing, my eminent chief, blood of the
sands,” said the old man, his voice sharp and thin. “For when the day comes
that you look for allies among those you love, you will find the fabric of your
household turned to molten fire, and the span of your wealth will be as the
space between your fingers. You are a warleader to be feared and praised. The
son of lords and the ancestor of kings, yes. But you are not without these many
flaws, borne deep in your flesh. Marks of strength, but also of torment. Remember
that.”

“I will… remember it,” said Lethari, bewildered. His destiny
had seemed so much simpler when the seer had prophesied over him at his house
in Sai Calgoar. Amhaziel’s visions had not proven untrue then, so perhaps his
words would prove just as true now. Perhaps the price of Lethari’s success was
greater than he was prepared to pay. That did not mean the fates would grant
him a reprieve from paying it.

“You must become your flaws, or you will be made to suffer
for them,” said Amhaziel. “The finding will take as long as it takes. Patience
is the habit by which you will see the moments unwasted. With my master’s
consent, I will take my leave.” With that, the soothsayer turned and padded
from the tent without waiting for the permission he had requested.

Lethari was perplexed. Of late, the old man’s moods had been
as fickle as a fat buzzard’s appetites. Amhaziel’s revelations had made him so
sure of his path; now that he had taken that path, the soothsayer’s clear skies
had darkened to a sandstorm in the blink of an eye. As long as the
feiach
lay restless amongst these decaying trees, Lethari would find no rest either,
he knew.

To clear his mind, he exited the tent and took a walk through
the camp. Stars punctured the darkening sky beyond a wall of low-hanging clouds
while the smells of roasted mutton and seared broadroot wafted from nearby
cookfires. There was a murmur about the camp; not the easy revelry of the open
wasteland, but a sense of agitation that had permeated the hearts of even his
fiercest warriors.

When Lethari rounded a group of horses and corsils grazing in
a thicket of tall dry grass, he found his captains at the slave cages. Women
were cowering in the corners as warriors dragged them out to clap them in
irons. The captains straightened when they saw Lethari, as if caught doing
something they shouldn’t have. Lethari knew what they were doing, and he had no
desire to interrupt them. It seemed they had other ideas.

“We yield to you, master,” said Dyovan Angeides, a slender,
sharp-faced man whose piercing eyes reminded Lethari of a bird of prey. “It is
your right to choose any slave woman you desire—even one of ours.”

Lethari studied his captains. The only one absent was Sigrede
Balbaressi. These were men of great talent and repute, whom he had chosen by
hand to lead his warriors. They had done nothing wrong, it was true. What they
were about to do was their privilege, and Lethari Prokin would never punish a
man for acting upon his given right. “What do you call that one, there?” he
asked, pointing to a slender woman with an unkempt tangle of blonde hair.

“She is mine, my Lord Lethari,” said Cean Eldreni. “She is
called Maraine.”

“Have her brought to my tent.” Before he turned away, Lethari
saw Dyovan and Cean share a look. It was playful, but there was a measure of
jealousy in it, too. “See that the watch is set. I will not return tonight.”

“It will be done, my master.”

Lethari did not hurry back to his tent. By the time he
returned, two of Cean’s warriors had brought the girl inside and chained her to
the center pole. Thick manacles girded her neck and ankles. The guards stood
flanking her; Lethari could see the red marks on their arms and chests where
she’d struggled against them.

“Leave us,” Lethari said. “Tell Koiras and Frathair they may
retire for the night.”

The warriors handed him the keys to the woman’s manacles,
then sent away the guards outside Lethari’s door before taking their leave.

“Sit down,” Lethari told the woman.

“I can’t,” she said. “My feet are chained to the post. I can
only stand or lie down.”

“Lie down, then.”

The woman did not move.

“Maraine is your name. Is that right?”

She nodded.

“I am not going to bring you harm, so long as you do as I
ask.”

A brief suspicion passed over her face, but she obeyed,
sinking to her knees, then crawling forward onto her belly, grimacing at the
pinch of the manacles. She was thin and underfed, her flesh a blaze of
light-burned brown everywhere except at the edges of her ragged cloth. Her hair
was coarse and stringy, a pale shade of yellow that reminded him of sweet corn
at the start of the long year. “I feel silly, lying this way,” she said.

“This will only take a moment,” Lethari said, using the key
to unlock the string of chain holding her to the post. When she was free, he
put a hand on her back. “You may rise. But if you try to run, I will return you
to the cages. My captains will not be as kind to you.”

When he took his hand away, she climbed to her hands and
knees, then sat up on her haunches, chains jangling down her back. She did not
look up at him, though he felt her wanting to. “Why did you choose me?” she
asked.

Lethari gave her a long look. “The first woman I ever had was
a pale-skin, like you. I had just come of age, and the older warriors of the
feiach
thought it was time they opened my eyes. They watched while I bent her over,
laughing and joking as I blundered through it. I did not know back then what to
do; I was half a boy. They embarrassed me—shamed me. And so, to prove myself, I
took many more women as I grew older. But you—you remind me of the first.”

“So that’s it. I look like her.”

“No. That is not
it
. You will be a slave in one of the
great households, or perhaps traded to another man, or loaned away for hard
labor, or shipped across the Underground Sea to serve in some other place. I
would not put you with child for all the master-king’s wealth, nor would I have
my bloodline spoiled by breeding with a mongrel dog. The time for such things
has passed. I have a wife, who will bear my son in the short year. My sons and
daughters will be as pure as the sands. I would sooner bear no offspring at all
than fill the lands from here to the Northern Barrens with half-bred children.”

The woman considered this. “There aren’t many of us left who
can make children, you know.”

“And so I long for the day when the world rids itself of the
plague of your kind. I will not risk putting that day further ahead than it
lies already.”

Maraine smirked. “Your men don’t seem to feel the same as
you.”

“They are the young ones, the carefree, the unmindful. They
treat the slave women like toys, thinking only of the now. They have not yet
come to realize the responsibility they carry.”

“If you’re so concerned with the well-being of the women, why
don’t you command your men to treat them better?”

“I have no concern for pale-skin women, least of all you. I
have concern for the future of the
calgoarethi
. The more these young
fools breed, the thinner our blood runs. What one man owns, another man must
not come between. I could not keep every one of you from my captains’ beds. I
dare not, or my warriors would raise a complaint with the king. I have the
right to choose one, for a night, and so I chose you. That was the only choice
within my power to make.”

“For the leader of an army, you don’t have much control over your
men.”

“What would you know of control? The caravan you traveled
with was like a flock of pigeons in the scrub. Your kind has neither honor nor
fealty beyond the point of a spear. I do not fault you for being a stranger to
our ways, given the simplicity of yours. Your fault is your lack of conviction,
and the filth in your veins you call blood.”

“You’re a touchy dway, ain’t you? I think it’s been too long
since you got laid. I think you’d like to touch me.”

Lethari was beginning to regret his decision. Cean Eldreni
was the wildest and most impulsive of his captains; he would not have spared
Maraine his passions, as Lethari was sure he would not spare any of the other
slave women warming his bed tonight. Perhaps it would’ve been better to leave
the woman victim than to give her false hope. “If your aim is to provoke me to
violence or lust, your energies are better spent elsewhere,” said Lethari,
crossing the room toward his bed.

She moved to block his path, craning her neck to look up at
him. “You didn’t bring me here to keep your captains from me. You picked me
because I remind you of her. You want me for yourself, don’t you? Isn’t this
what you want?” She lay her hands against his stomach, letting them slide from
his navel to the waistline of his trousers.

Lethari swept them away. He could see the tips of her small
breasts jutting from beneath her frayed tunic. When she tried to press her body
against his, he took her by the shoulders and moved her aside.

She followed him.

“I did not ask for this,” he said.

“I’m giving it to you,” she whispered, pushing him toward the
bed.

“Lie down,” he told her, pointing.

She flung herself onto the soft cushion and rolled onto her
back. “These cuffs are uncomfortable,” she said. “Take them off and let me open
my legs for you…”

Lethari knelt, producing the key and grabbing hold of the
length of chain between her ankles.

“Take them off,” she repeated, writhing. “Take them off. I’ll
spread my legs and let you have me.”

Lethari stopped, scrutinizing her.

She was breathing hard, her face flushed and her eyes locked
on his, waiting.

Lethari gripped the chain tight. “I like them where they
are.”

He dragged her off the mat and across the sandy floor. She
began to scream and claw at the ground for traction, but he was far too strong.
When he reached the center pole, Lethari lashed the chain through her manacles
and fastened the lock.

He ducked aside as she leapt for him, raking the air with
fingers like claws. The chains went taut, throwing her face first into the
sand. She spat and raged, then spent several minutes trying to free herself,
yanking at her chains, leaning against the pole, rocking back and forth to
wrench it free of the sand. It was no use.

After a time, she calmed down. She tried to seduce him again.
She even went so far as to expose herself, telling him how much she wanted him,
how much she knew he wanted her. Lethari knew better. When it came time for the
changing of the guards, he summoned four men to return her to the cages—two
fresh from sleep and two just ending their watch.

“This slave belongs to Cean Eldreni,” he told his men. “Tell
him I am giving her back. Tell him… she did not please me.”

CHAPTER 13

Burdens and Benefits

“Perhaps I wasn’t clear the last time we spoke, kind
Sister. You now hold what is literally the most important position in the
Order.”

Then why don’t I also hold the highest rank in the Order,
as Brother Soleil did?
Bastille might’ve said.
Oh, yes… because instead
of giving it to me, you gave it to a dead man
. “The thing you must
understand,” she said, choosing her words carefully, “is that my father taught
me how to dismantle a carcass when I was still half a child. By the time I came
to the Order, I’d slaughtered hundreds of animals. That is why I took so
quickly to my work under Brother Soleil. Anyone can cut up a body if they have
the stomach for it. But the sacrificial rites and the Enhancements both require
years of study to get the hang of. What took me a few short months will not be
so simple for my new students. Be prepared for that. Give me time. I will not
fail you.”

“We know you won’t,” said Dominique. “However, kind Brother
Liero has the right of it; the future of our Order rests squarely on your
shoulders. Reynard is no surgeon, yet he possesses the knowledge of the
physical and the psychological… could he not be trained in your ways?”

Bastille thought for a moment. Her head had been hammering
ponderously for the last fifteen minutes, and the high priests’ grilling hadn’t
helped. The meeting hall was stifling, though it was far past twilight. “He
could be trained. He does have that nervous condition, though. Shaky hands and
an arrhythmic heart. A surgeon needs a steady hand and nerves of iron. Brother
Reynard’s strength is in his bedside manner; in his ability to sense his
patients’ needs and tend to them accordingly.”

“As you say, kind Sister. I admit we were somewhat… surprised
in your choice of student. There are several standouts among the new
acolytes—Sister Marchand, for example. Brother Travers and Sister Severin did
not appear at first blush to be the most suitable candidates.”

No, they certainly didn’t
, Bastille agreed. “If you
doubt my choices or my judgment, perhaps you ought to have chosen my students
for me. I shall cease my lessons at once and abandon the progress we’ve made,
if that is the desired remedy. Whatever the Most High demands, I endeavor
always to fulfill.”

“No need, kind Sister. All we wanted was an explanation. What
is it you see in these two?”

“Severin is wild and willful. But she’s also capable. She has
an unbridled sort of determination. Once I’ve reined her in and found a focus
for her tenacity, I’m certain she’ll surprise us all.”

“And Brother Travers?”

“He’s a unique fellow, I’ll give him that. Slow, but
meticulous. Good with his eyes, better with his hands. He may seem a dullard at
times, but he has the pedigree to make an excellent surgeon.” Much as Bastille
hated to admit it, there was more truth to that assessment than she’d known
when she chose him.

Brother Liero stroked his clean-shaven chin and blinked his
froggy eyes. “I believe you’ve captivated us all by your insight, Sister
Bastille. If these observations of yours prove true, we’ll all be basking in
your triumph in half a year’s time.”

“My thanks, kind Brother. Any word yet on Brother Froderic’s
return?”

Sister Gallica squirmed in her chair. “Any day now, I’m
certain. Was there anything else you wished to discuss while we have you here,
Sister Bastille?”

“Nothing at all.”

“Then I think we’re done for today. Don’t let us keep you
from your work any longer.”

The high priests stood and left the chamber through a side
door. Bastille exited onto the basilica’s main hallway, a wide stone passage
which ran from the conservatory to the dormitories. When she passed the corner
across from the athenaeum, a rough hand grabbed her by the arm and spun her
around.

Sister Gallica’s face loomed close. “I warn you, kind
Sister—and I’ll only do it once. Your Esteem does not grant you license to
meddle in the affairs of the Most High.”

Bastille offered her a plastic smile.
Nor does yours give
you grounds to believe you’ll get the better of me
. She forced herself not
to cringe away from the river of boils flowing down the she-mutant’s face, some
of which had burst and were glistening with fluid. “My sincerest apologies, kind
Sister, if I’ve said anything to upset you.”

Someone was coming. Gallica released her grip and smoothed
the sleeve of Bastille’s robe. “Keep your feigned apologies to yourself. Ask
the wrong questions, and you’ll reap the consequences.” With that, Gallica
turned and shuffled off down the hallway.

Bastille watched her go. She saw her give Brother Chaimon a
friendly wave as they rounded the corner in opposite directions. When he
noticed Sister Bastille, Chaimon quickened his pace and came over.

“Kind Sister Bastille, how wonderful it is to see you on this
glorious day,” said Chaimon, clasping her hand in his own.

“Brother Chaimon,” she said with a nod.
This day is no
more glorious than my countenance is wonderful
.

“You’re just the person I came to see, as it happens.”

Bastille’s suspicions rose instantly, along with her
displeasure.
How unfortunate
. “It’s a brief matter, I hope. The Most
High have emphasized the urgency with which I am to train my new charges. I’m
afraid they’ve commissioned extra classes for me to teach in the evenings. I
was just on my way down to—”

“I’ve brought you these, fresh from the spinnery.” Brother
Chaimon produced a flat bundle tied with string and handed it to her.

“Well… this is unexpected.” Bastille stood holding the
bundle, dumbfounded.

“Aren’t you going to open it? Please, kind Sister.” Chaimon
nudged the bundle toward her as if it might help.

Bastille pulled the string and undid the knot, then spread
the folds of wrapping paper. It was a robe, gray and hooded; just like her usual
prosaics, but softer to the touch. She studied it for a moment. When she looked
up, Brother Chaimon’s fat face was lit in gleeful expectancy.

“Well? What do you think? We made it special for you. We
found your measurements in one of the old logbooks from when you first arrived
at the basilica. The inseam and sleeve length are fitted perfectly… or, as
perfectly as we could manage while keeping it a surprise. I know how you’re
always getting stains on your robes. We saved the flock’s softest wool and loomed
it with our finest machine.”

Bastille resisted the urge to roll her eyes. She was not
always
getting stains on her robes. She removed them while working in her preparation
rooms so she wouldn’t stain them. Apparently the mishap during the latest
initiation rites had earned her a new and unjust reputation.

Chaimon’s expression darkened to match Bastille’s. “You don’t
like them. I’m… so sorry. You must be perfectly satisfied with your current
prosaics. They do get a worn-in feel to them after a time. Of course. I’ll take
this out of your sight at once.” He made a grab for it, but Bastille held on
and wouldn’t let go.

“Brother Chaimon,” she said firmly, finding her voice.

He let up.

“If I might ask… what is the occasion? What is this…
for
?”

“Why… no occasion at all, kind Sister. You’ve worked hard to
get the basilica back on its feet again. We in the spinnery simply thought you
deserved something nice for your efforts. You’ve served the Mouth to the best
of your abilities and beyond. Anyone with a set of eyes can see that.”

If Bastille had possessed a higher capacity for affection,
she might’ve shed a tear. The best she could seem to muster was a rigid smile
and a polite half-bow. “I will wear it often.”

“I’m so pleased to hear it, kind Sister. I—”

Bastille was off down the hall so quickly she heard nothing
more of Brother Chaimon’s words. She locked herself in her bedchamber and laid
the robe across her bed so she could examine it more closely. It truly was a
masterpiece, if one could use such a word to describe a blob of gray wool.
I
will wear it often? The Mouth… when did I abandon my social graces for such
inarticulate bumbling? I should’ve thanked him.
No, that wouldn’t have
done, either. It wasn’t as if she’d asked for the robe in the first place. No
sense blushing and gushing over it like a schoolgirl.

Still, the robe
was
beautiful. The thinner, softer
fabric would prove more comfortable in the heat, she supposed. It was
meaningful, too, in a sense. A sign of gratitude. A show of appreciation. Proof
they had been… watching her.

This last thought came unexpectedly, and it troubled her. Not
that a person given to paranoia, as she was, might find herself suddenly
paranoid; rather, that she’d been the object of covert attention. She was one
of the Esteemed now. She was also the Order’s only member who knew the NewNexus
installation procedure. Admirers were bound to appear from the woodwork,
believing they stood to gain something by offering her gifts and special
favors.
Surely they must know it isn’t up to me to determine who receives
the Enhancements
. That decision lay with the Most High. But if the Order’s
lower echelons believed Bastille had a say in the process of inheritance, there
would be no end to their courtesies.
This is a boon I am fully prepared to
profit from
, she decided.

Bastille left the new robe in her bedchamber and went
downstairs to prepare for the evening’s classes. Sister Severin was waiting in
the preparation rooms, studying the texts Bastille had assigned her.
That’s
a good little pupil
, Bastille observed as she cleansed her hands in the
washbasin.

“Have you seen Brother Travers this evening?” Bastille asked,
drying her hands and crossing the room to her workstation.

“He was at supper,” said Severin. “Not since then.”

Bastille opened a jar and lifted a smooth white object from
the aqueous solution within. She picked up a stiff brush from among her
instruments and began to scrub, loosening grime from the object’s folds and
crevices.

Sister Severin watched. “What’s that?”

“It’s a NewPancreas. Not the most glamorous of vital organs,
certainly—but vital nonetheless.”

“What are you doing with it?”

“I’ve been soaking it in a gentle citrus solvent to remove
the residue left by its previous host. Mother Bonnaire was a diabetic before
receiving her Enhancements. This little device saved her life. It’ll need to be
cleaned and sterilized before it takes a new inheritor.”

“She’s one of the Cypriests who was retired at the ceremony
last week.”

“That’s right,” Bastille said.

“How long did she live?”

“If I were to wager a guess, I’d say a hundred and thirty
years or so.”

In the half-light, Bastille saw Sister Severin’s eyes widen.
“That’s incredible.”

“That’s on the shorter end of things, as Cypriests go.”

“Really?”

Bastille nodded. “A Cypriest’s lifespan is dependent upon
many factors. How old the host is when they receive their Nexus; pre-existing
disease and the extent thereof; number, age, and type of Enhancement required.
It’s a highly subjective process. There are Fathers walking the parapets as we
speak who’ve seen a hundred and fifty years or more, and Mothers below us just
as long-lived.”

“No wonder everyone wants to join the Order.”

Bastille flicked her eyes up at the acolyte. “Everyone?”

“Back home in Eaderlakes, lots of people say they’ll come
south and join. No one ever does, though. I’m the first one I know of who
actually did.”

“You’re from Eaderlakes,” said Bastille, impressed. “You’ve
come a long way.”

“I barely got here. Every day I thank the Mouth I made it.”

Such determination
, Bastille thought.
Here I was
thinking Wynesring was a long trek. I was right to believe Severin a capable
young woman
. “Brother Jaquar is from Celios, a world away to the west. Not
as difficult a trip, maybe, but certainly a greater distance. The Order does
draw hopefuls from all over, it seems.”

“Where are you from, Sister Bastille?”

“Oh, a little town up north called Wynesring.”

“Wynesring. I know it. It’s a big livestock town, isn’t it?”

Bastille was not enjoying this conversation. Small talk was
the antithesis of accomplishment, and there was much she wished to accomplish
tonight. Nor did she have any interest in the before-life of an acolyte whom
she had chosen specifically for her lack of notable qualities. Still, Bastille
was skilled in the art of feigning interest. Especially when she stood to gain
something by it.
Perhaps if I’m nicer to Severin than I was to Sister
Adeleine, her loyalty will last a little longer
. “That’s right, Wynesring
is rather well-known for its livestock. You know your geography. What’s the sustaining
industry in Eaderlakes? Logging, isn’t it?”

“There’s some fishing up there too, but it’s mostly a logging
town, yes,” said Sister Severin. “Most of the wood you find around here comes
from the Shaitalla. Weather isn’t as bad as it is down here, either. Not as
many deserts up that way. For a few weeks during the short year it gets cool
enough so you can stay outside at noon without burning up, thanks to the lake
breezes. You can sit in the daylight from dawn to dusk sometimes, long as
you’ve got enough good drinking water.”

Bastille had been too young when the Heat started to remember
much of what it was like before. Her father had told her about people staying
outside for hours at a time in the old days, when the weather made it enjoyable
to do so. She’d never imagined there was still a place like that in all the
world, short-lived though the season might be. “That sounds… lovely.”

“It’s alright. The downside is we have a big problem with
radiation. There’s lots buried around the lakes, they say. And in them. That’s
why everyone wants to come down here.”