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

Eirnan’s smile was razor-sharp. “And now you stand alone
among a multitude of my peers who will never know. What does it matter? My
misdeeds will never be of consequence so long as I bear my shame alone.”

Lethari wasn’t sure what to think. For a long time, he had
doubted his father’s polished reputation. Hearing him admit to treason wasn’t
the overwhelming shock he had expected. Now he knew he’d been idolizing
something tainted—like an animal eating food off the ground without a thought
to its filth.

Lethari stood. “And you would have me resign myself to the
same fate—to one day become an old man paralyzed by his guilt, who chose family
over duty. Who spent a lifetime shattering himself to appease a woman who would
have been unhappy nevertheless.”

Eirnan looked up at him. His eyes were bloodshot, undercut
with dark circles. When Lethari met his gaze, it pierced him like a spear. “You
dare speak of your mother in such a tone—as if she were some spiteful wretch
from the pit colonies? There is more dignity in your mother’s memory than you
have earned in all your life. If I am shattered, it is because I could not
repay her even a small portion of what she gave to me. That tiny solace is
worth more than all my years in the master-king’s service.”

Lethari drew in a heaving breath. “I have never wavered in my
allegiance to Tycho Montari, nor would I entertain the thought.”

“And what about your allegiance to your family, eh? With whom
do you believe your wife’s loyalty resides? To whose side will she turn when
the rest of the world has betrayed you? Will she flee from you in your disgrace
and run to the safer course? Or do you really believe Frayla would stand with you,
knowing you have always put the king’s wishes before hers? A woman’s love must
be earned; it has no penchant for disloyalty. What I did for your mother, wiser
men have shattered themselves many times over to achieve.”

“We are not the same, my father,” Lethari said. “True loyalty
is a product of virtue. One does not breed a lasting bond through pandering and
flattery. Those are a woman’s instruments, as fickle and changeable as the
wind. Prokin will remain a great household long after you are gone, but only
because I have earned the loyalty I deserve—not stolen it with trickery.”

Eirnan was somber. “If a man could honor everyone around him
when they each want something different, there would be fewer dishonorable men
in the world. We all must do things we are not proud of to hold onto what we
love. If you have not learned that by now, my son, then you will surely learn
it someday soon. I only pray the learning goes quickly for you.”

Lethari lowered his eyes. “I leave the city in three days’
time. I pray you wish me good fortune, my father.”

Eirnan’s face hardened. “I wish you to learn true wisdom, my
son. If ill fortune is how the fates must teach it to you… then so be it. You
have made a mockery of your mother’s memory. Go, and do not return to my
household until you have resolved to give tribute to those who have gone before
you.”

Lethari bowed, then turned and left his father’s house. On
the way home, he began to wonder why he had visited in the first place. Had he
expected something different than what he always found there? What good was
counsel from a man too bitter to make sense of the world around him? Lethari
would sooner remember his father the way he had been in the days of his youth.
But the more he subjected himself to the ramblings of the pathetic shell of a
man who was left, the more distant those memories grew.

When Lethari returned home, Frayla was gone. “Where is my
wife?” he asked Oisen, his steward.

“She has taken a basket and gone for a walk, my Lord
Lethari,” Oisen said.

“Who went with her?”

“She went alone.”

“You should not have let her go without a guard.”

“She insisted, my master.”

Lethari rubbed his jaw, where a rough carpet of day-old
stubble was beginning to come through. “Send for Amhaziel Bilmadi. Find me in
my chambers when he arrives.”

“Yes, my Lord Lethari.”

“And Oisen… when Frayla returns, notify me at once.”

“Yes, my master.”

Lethari retreated to his den, a personal lair set into the
deepest hollows of his palace. The room was much like his father’s parlor, if
smaller and less opulent. He paced the floor for over an hour, unable to sit
still. By the time Oisen came to announce Amhaziel’s arrival, Lethari was
convinced he would never come to a decision without the soothsayer’s help.

“Amhaziel Bilmadi has answered your summons, my Lord
Lethari.”

“Send him in.”

The old man was thin and leathery, the onyx-black hair of his
youth gone white as a summer cloud. Oisen let him in and shut the door.

Amhaziel was muttering to himself as he shuffled across the
room. “
Oba, oba, siamach. Oba, siamach. Oba, oba…
” he said, clasping
Lethari by the hand.

When Lethari tried to pull away, the old man held on with an
iron grip, patting his knuckles and repeating the words to comfort him. “Hush,
hush, quiet. Hush, quiet. Hush, hush…”

“I must know,” Lethari said impatiently.

“
You
must find the silence in your spirit,” said
Amhaziel. He sat on the floor and brought Lethari down with him. He crossed his
bony legs and spread Lethari’s fingers so their hands were resting palm to
palm. “Calm now. Calm now, and give heed to the skeins of the fates. Close.”
Lethari closed his eyes. “My liege, my warleader, Lethari Prokin. Come, my
eminent chief, son of lords and ancestor of kings. Come, blood of the sands,
and know. Know them. See them. Yes, see them. You see beyond the limits of your
ambition, and you will see beyond, farther still, where things obscured take
form. My honored lord, heir to nations and figure of authority, see, and know.”
The soothsayer gripped Lethari’s wrists with fingers like shackles.

Lethari kept his eyes shut tight, straining to peer through
the depths, exerting himself to see beyond the place where his vision failed.
There was a flash of white lightning behind his eyelids, fleeting and gone in
an instant. That instant had been enough for him to behold what the soothsayer
had spoken of. “I must choose,” he said. “Show me the outcome of my choices.”

“There is no outcome of moments. Only the moments
themselves,” said Amhaziel, his grip tightening around Lethari’s wrists. “You
must see the moments if you wish to know how they fall.”

Lethari realized then that something was pinching him,
squeezing at the tender skin beneath the heel of his palm. He didn’t open his
eyes. He had begun to see beyond, and it would not do to break his
concentration. Sweat beaded at his brow and dripped into his eyes, but he
refused to give up. The darkness in his vision began to swirl and undulate,
waves of ink pulsing into shapes and patterns, each one appearing and fading
quicker than the last.

“Do you see them?” Amhaziel asked. “Do you know them?”

“I see them. I know them.”

“We are seeing now with one mind,” said Amhaziel. “Be still,
my liege, my warleader. Be still and listen, my eminent chief, son of lords and
ancestor of kings. Listen to the things I tell you now, blood of the sands, and
know them. I see a creature, both beast and man, walking alive with its innards
spilled out. It has given of its meat and of its blood, that you may find
glory. It will share more of itself yet; the man-beast will bring annihilation,
and you will draw to yourself a great prize, when you come to the place where
the orange light shines bolder still than the afternoon sky. And the man-beast
will rise from the dust and return to it so that you may collect its offerings.
And when lesser men learn of its sacrifice, they will envy it and resent you.
But do not be discouraged, for the children are coming. The children of the
beast and of the man. And they will become the children of the last generation,
and the children will shake the land and the seas unto the very foundations of
the world. And the pillars of the Aionach will shake with the burden of what
has yet to come. Open.”

Lethari opened his eyes. He had seen it all, just as Amhaziel
had foretold it. Now he finally knew the things he must do. He had seen them,
and he knew them. “You have given me clarity, my friend. You must grant my
flesh a new flaw to commemorate this day.”

“I will bestow upon you a powerful sigil,” said Amhaziel. “A
new sigil, which no one before you has ever borne. The fates have written it in
my mind’s sight. I have seen it, my liege, my eminent chief. I have seen it, as
the light-star shines.” Amhaziel drew his
skiand
, a small ceremonial
knife with an engraved wooden handle. A thin, curved blade, etched with sigils
of its own, flickered in the light of the oil lamps.

A candle was burning on Lethari’s sideboard. Amhaziel ran the
blade’s edge along the flame and placed his other hand on Lethari’s chest,
where there was an empty patch of skin just above the left nipple. When the old
man opened his eyes, they gleamed from lid to lash like solid black gems.
Amhaziel smiled at him through those eyes, but Lethari did not look away.
Instead he set his jaw and waited for the pain.

What a sweet, pleasing pain it will be
, thought Lethari.
When he felt the first hot touch of the soothsayer’s knife, it was all he could
do to keep silent.

CHAPTER 2

Waking the Father

“Father Soleil. Father Soleil… can you hear me? Do you
understand?” Sister Bastille spoke softly as she attempted to summon the
Order’s newest Cypriest from his medication-induced sleep.

Soleil’s eyes were open, but his gaze did not follow her when
she moved. He stared up at the ceiling with glassy indifference, blinking every
now and then.

“Let him rest a while longer,” said Brother Reynard. “He’s
had a rough time. These procedures are taxing, even when they’re performed in
non-emergency situations.”

“Right enough, kind Brother,” Bastille said. She’d had a
rough time herself. She had performed a string of surgeries on the Order’s
wounded that had kept her awake for days at a time. She was moving around the
room like a drone now, conscious thought giving way to muscle memory. She
couldn’t remember the last time she’d eaten, but she was past the point of
hunger now. She needed sleep.

Sister Gallica whisked into the recovery room to corral
Bastille as she was leaving Father Soleil’s bedside. The she-mutant was
haggard, strands of her thin brown hair hanging over the boils surrounding her
twisted mouth. “Kind Sister Bastille. The Most Highly Esteemed would like a
word, if you have a moment.”

I have more than that
, Bastille wanted to say,
though
I’ll have nightmares if your face is the last thing I see before I sleep
.
“Anything for the Most Highly Esteemed,” she said instead.

The basilica’s halls were cleaner than Sister Bastille had
ever seen them. Not only had the Mothers removed all traces of the dozens who
had bled and died there during the attack; Sister Gallica’s helpers had come
after to scrub every inch of the stone from floor to ceiling until it shone
like new. Bastille followed Gallica to the meeting chamber, where Brother Liero
and Sister Dominique sat in their ornate high-backed chairs. With Soleil having
been elevated to Cypriest, the fourth seat among the Most Highly Esteemed was
empty.

“Good afternoon, kind Sister,” said Liero.

“Kind Brother.”

“Let me begin by thanking you. You may think your activities
over the past few days have gone unnoticed, but I assure you, we could not be
more grateful for all you’ve done. This has been a trying time for all of us,
but no one has worked harder or accomplished more for the Order than you have.
You have filled Brother Soleil’s shoes admirably. He was taken to Father sooner
than any of us expected, but it’s obvious how well his teachings prepared you
for the many tasks and the great responsibilities that lay ahead of you. I see
a worthy successor in you. We all do, Sister Bastille.”

“Who will fill Brother Soleil’s place among the Most High?”
she asked.

When Gallica smiled, her face contorted into something that
looked more like a snarl. “Why, Brother Froderic, of course.”

Bastille nearly laughed. Only when she noticed the three high
priests staring at her with straight faces did she realize it wasn’t a joke.
Had she misheard? Brother Froderic was dead. She’d been there, in the labyrinth
below the basilica, when the savage they called Lethari had drawn his great
curved sword and severed Froderic’s head from his shoulders. The only other
priest present at the time had been Brother Soleil. Since he was a Father now,
that made Bastille the only remaining witness. “I’m sorry… Brother Froderic,
did you say? But he’s—”

“Due to return to us any day now,” said Gallica. “Brother
Froderic has served the Order with great fervor for many years. He is the
natural choice for elevation to the Most High.”

I imagine it will be difficult for him to serve the Order
without a head
. “Yes, of course. He is the natural choice…”

“The losses we sustained when the heathens invaded have
stretched our resources thin,” said Brother Liero. “Much will be required from
each of us in the days and weeks ahead. On that note, Sister Gallica tells us
she’s spoken with you about your own future with the Order.”

“She has,” Bastille said. When Gallica had caught her in the
Catacombs beneath the conservatory, a place she wasn’t supposed to be, the last
thing Bastille had expected was to be offered a position among the Esteemed.
But that was exactly what the high priestess had proposed.

Liero smiled his froggy smile. “Good. How long ago did you
come to us, Sister Bastille?”

“It’s been about two years now, kind Brother.”

“Two years,” he said thoughtfully. “Splendid. You’re ready.
You’ve been ready for some time now, truth be told. I want you to know that
we’ve been considering you for the Esteemed since before the attack. The
vacancies in the Order’s higher ranks have nothing to do with our decision. We
believe in your abilities; you’ve earned this on your own merit, kind Sister.
Consider this your official calling. Will you accept that calling, and choose
to become an Esteemed Priestess of the Order?”

Is refusal an option?
she wanted to ask. “With every
fiber of my being… yes.” Certainly, there were several fibers of Bastille’s
being that wanted to run. Several more had serious doubts. But expressing doubt
to the Most High was akin to facing down a stampeding herd of cattle. It was a
good way to get oneself in trouble.

“This makes my heart glad,” said Liero.

“Mine as well,” Sister Dominique chimed in.

Bastille noticed the witch-woman was looking paler than
usual.
Her aches and pains must be acting up again
, she decided. “I
anticipate my induction with a full heart and a humble spirit.”

Liero’s smile disappeared. “In the meantime, there are other
matters to discuss.”

Bastille hoped they could discuss these matters quickly, or
she was apt to fall asleep where she stood.

“A new crop of initiates will come through our gates in a few
days’ time. Brother Froderic has arranged it.”

Exhausted as she was, Bastille was beginning to doubt whether
her memory served her true.
How is it that a dead man managed to arrange the
arrival of our newest recruits?
she wondered.

“Now more than ever,” Liero continued, “the future of the
Cypriests falls upon you, Sister Bastille. You alone can harness the knowledge
Soleil gave you and pass it on to your students.”

“Were you not aware that Sister Bastille’s entire class of
acolytes has vanished?” Gallica asked him.

“I am quite aware of that,” Liero snapped. “Which is
precisely why I must emphasize the need for fast identification and acquisition
of the most promising new recruits. Sister Bastille shall have first choice of
the acolytes this time around. Kind Sister, after the initiation cycle is
complete, you may choose the three acolytes you deem most talented. Waste no
time in your lessons. Make no concessions. None of your students must fall
behind.”

“It will be done, kind Brother Liero,” she promised.

Dominique straightened in her chair, folding her white-gloved
hands on the table. “Where
did
those former pupils of yours get off to,
Sister Bastille? They’ve not been seen since the attack, and their bodies were
not found among the dead.”

“I fear I can give you no answer for that,” said Bastille.
She knew full well what had happened to Brother Mortial, Sister Adeleine, and
Sister Jeanette. They had chosen to leave the Order. The Scarred Comrades had
taken them through the labyrinth and escaped to the city north. Bastille could
never tell a soul that she had allowed them to go.

Lying to the Most High twisted her up inside, but she didn’t
feel quite so bad knowing they were lying right back to her about Brother
Froderic. Why had they chosen a dead man to take the fourth seat? She hoped
answers would be easier to come by once she was Esteemed.

“It seems we’ve managed to lose track of a frightening number
of people lately,” Dominique said. “This will not stand. Every priest and
acolyte who travels beyond our walls only heightens the risk of another attack.
And if that weren’t bad enough, the Order’s stores are at their lowest in
years. We’re running out of goods to trade with the heathens—goods which have
historically appeased them in times of stress and revolt. It seems our reserves
have been squandered. I have little doubt this is due to Brother Froderic’s
absence. I wait for his return with the sincerest hope that it’s not too late
for him to set things right again.”

Froderic was the very person responsible for the Order’s low
reserves, Bastille knew. As the priest in charge of supplies and inventories,
Froderic had enjoyed exclusive access to the storerooms. As Bastille had
discovered, Froderic had enjoyed it a little too much.
He was trading away
our stores in exchange for sex slaves. His clandestine affairs are the very
thing that killed him and impoverished us
. “I pray you have the right of
it, kind Sister. We all await Froderic’s return anxiously.”

Liero cleared his throat. “We thank you for your testimony
this morning, Sister Bastille, and we rejoice with you for having chosen the
path of the Esteemed. Sister Gallica will see to the arrangement of your
induction ceremony. Now, you’ve been standing there looking positively
exhausted. I suggest you get some rest before the welcoming this afternoon.
Your presence will of course be required when the new initiates come in. Brother
Reynard’s team is more than capable of handling things in the infirmary while
you’re away.”

“Thank you, kind Brother.” Bastille exited the meeting
chamber and trudged off toward her room, hoping to reach it without any other
postponements. The basilica’s normal schedule had suffered in the wake of the
attack—in her case especially. With no students to teach anymore, she had spent
every waking moment performing either surgery or sacrifice. There had been far
too many waking moments and far too few sleeping ones, in her opinion.

She’d made it to the dormitory hall with her bedchamber door
in sight when someone slipped into view from around the corner. Daylight shone
through the windows ahead, wreathing the figure in a bright halo. Bastille kept
her eyes on her destination, praying that a curt greeting would be enough to
get her by.

“Kind Sister Bastille,” called Brother Ephamar. The
basilica’s head librarian was a stunted, plain-looking man with an altogether
unremarkable affect. “It’s so good to see you well. All this confusion has put
me at my wit’s end. I’ve not seen you at the athenaeum in too long. You’ve been
by to see us on Sister Helliot’s watch, no doubt.”

She hadn’t. Bastille had once been a dedicated student of the
scriptures, but recent events had turned her attentions to other things. “Yes,
I’m sure that’s it,” she said.

“How have you been faring in the midst of all this dreadful
business?” he asked.

“I’ve been making new Cypriests since it happened, kind
Brother,” she said.

“You—is it you who’s been aiding Soleil and Reynard? Oh, yes
of course it is. Silly me.”

“Just Reynard, I’m afraid. Soleil is now a Father himself.”

“Oh, dear. Is he, now? I take that to mean his enhancements
were a success?”

“Too early to tell. He’s resting at the moment. He’ll need
more time to recover.”

“As you say, kind Sister.” Ephamar gave her a polite smile.

Bastille was in no mood to carry on meaningless pleasantries.
Let Ephamar get his gossip somewhere else. There were scant few hours left
before the afternoon’s events—hours during which she intended to be dead to the
world. “If you’ll excuse me.”

Ephamar nodded, looking somewhat hurt, and continued down the
hall.

Bastille locked her bedchamber door and slipped out of her
robes, letting them puddle on the floor. The sounds of shovels in hard dirt
drifted through her window as the Mothers tended to their duties in the
graveyard. She was too tired to let it bother her. She was half-asleep before
her head hit the pillow.

Bastille had been having the same dream every night since she
encountered the dark presence beneath the conservatory grotto. She was down in
the Catacombs again, standing beside those great metal machines as stacks of
paper fluttered behind her in some unseen wind, black and wet with mold. The
face was looking out at her through the porthole window, its gaze so compelling
it held her in place. Its eyes pierced her like knives, seeing through to her
most vulnerable parts. She was terrified, yet she did not want to leave. She
couldn’t break away, yet the feeling of being so exposed—so
known
—aroused
her like a drug. She looked into those eyes and couldn’t turn away. Or maybe
she didn’t want to.

She had been locked in that dream for what felt like hours
when a knock on her bedchamber door jolted her awake. When she sat up, a steel
ball rolled through her skull and crashed into her forehead. She was still so
tired it felt like she’d only managed a few moments of sleep. The headache tore
into her as she stood and shuffled to the door.

Brother Eustis’s bulbous nose and dimpled cheeks flushed when
he saw Sister Bastille in her underclothes. Her headaches made her
absent-minded sometimes, but she’d forgotten all about putting her robes on.
She shied away behind the door, grunting with embarrassment. It was as though
she’d woken from one bad dream only to find herself in another.

“Apologies, kind Sister,” said Brother Eustis, averting his
eyes. “The Fathers are preparing to escort the initiates in through the gates.
Sister Gallica asked me to come fetch you out to the west yard for the
welcoming ceremony.”

“Tell her I’ll be there shortly.” She shut the door in his
face, sat on the bed, and clutched her head in her hands. Her temples were
pounding. Sleep usually alleviated her headaches, but today her short nap had
only succeeding in bringing one on. There was no time to worry about how she
felt.

Donning her ceremonial robes, Bastille ran a brush through
her hair, tied it back, and lifted her hood. Her feet were unsteady beneath her
as she walked the empty halls, the steel ball still rolling around inside her
skull. The absence of others told her she must be very late indeed.