The Gospel According to Verdu (a Steampunk Novel) (The Brofman Series) (21 page)

“Wind and sea! I did not marry the Pramuc! I married . . . her.” Fenimore’s voice trailed off to a near whisper. “I had to take the danger away. I had to protect her. The mission . . .

“No! I won’t talk about her. Won’t think about her.” He was panting with the struggle.

You can’t say her name at all, can you?

Fenimore shook his head. “No peace without her. Too painful to leave her.”

Pranav Erato threw a few lumps of orange rock and a handful of scraggly dry plants into the fire. It flared white for a moment, and a fragrant smoke rose from the flames. Fenimore’s head sank to his chest, and a few sobs escaped him. He thrashed his head back and forth, trying to fight back his emotions, with little success. The bony old man gently waved a bit of stiff cloth back and forth, wafting the smoke toward Fenimore.

I have a theory,
the pranav thought at him gently. He waved Ahy-Me to come close to Fenimore’s side.
I think that something has happened to the Pramuc’s Companions while you have all been apart. I think that without one another, your gift—your unique destiny of being anchored to the Pramuc—has gone astray. Shortly after you left, Verdu began to exhibit the extreme qualities of the Saint. He wrote with a fervor and holiness previously unseen in him. His writing was a masterpiece of devotion. But his role exceeded the necessary characteristics of the Pramuc’s Saint— the one meant to increase the faith. According to the members of the resistance serving at the imperial palace, he was determined to die for the promotion of his faith in the Pramuc, to martyr himself. Something pulled him back from the brink just in time, and I don’t know what.

You, my friend, are teetering, it seems, on the edge of a similar precipice. You are more than the Pramuc’s defender. Correct me if I am wrong, but you are using all your energy to fight off becoming a killing machine. Wouldn’t you say?

Fenimore quietly nodded. He searched the pranav’s face for hope, for release from his agony.

I suspect that dear Professor Mortimer may be being a touch overstudious right now. I have a hard time imagining what the Scholar’s excesses would be, but I never was a very good student.
He smiled reassuringly at Fenimore, who was drowning in misery.

I think it has something to do with you separating. I think that leaving Verdu behind was a mistake, or perhaps it was leaving at all that did the damage; I don’t know. But the gods assigned these roles to you, and there needs to be balance that only can come from one another.

“I . . . felt, or perhaps knew, that leaving Verdu behind was wrong. I didn’t speak up at the time. Nothing was more important than protecting . . . her. It was a little uncomfortable without Verdu, but she was there, and her touch was so . . .” He could not make more words come for a moment. “We married and lived on the
Brofman
and we did all the things we said we would: we honed her powers, we practiced, we worked with Candice to supply seeds to the resistance. We were happy together. Then the Republic wanted me back as an agent. They wanted me to come after Verdu. It was clear, the best way to protect her, to protect us, was to take the mission.” His voice filled with fervor again at the words. “It was a chance to get Verdu back.”

I want to try a little experiment, something that may make you feel better. Are you willing to try?

Fenimore looked distrustful, but nodded. Pranav Erato gestured to Ahy-Me to stand behind Fenimore.
Fenimore, I want you to sit back, cross your legs in front of you, like me.

“No one can cross their legs like you, old man. But I will try.”

The pranav grinned and thought,
I am rather one-of-a-kind. I appreciate your attempt. Now, breathe in deep and let the smoke fill your senses. We are going to try to balance your mind a bit. This may be tricky without Chenda—
Fenimore flinched again at the sound of her name—
but we will try to establish some connection to the love you share.

He lifted his finger from Fenimore’s knee, severing his connection to the troubled man, and sent his thoughts to Ahy-Me.
I am going to ask you to be Chenda for a minute.

WHAT? I can’t be his wife
or
the Pramuc! What are you playing at?

Shush, child, it will be just fine. He’s exhausted, and after I waft a little more of this smoke at him he’s going to pass out anyway. When I say, you will need to put your hands on his shoulders and just
be
there.

He better not kill me, that’s all I have to say.

That would be a shame. I do so enjoy your company. We begin.

Pranav Erato replaced his finger on Fenimore’s knee.
Close your eyes, child. I want you to think of the time after leaving Tugrulia—the point at which you left in the pickle tub. Do you remember?

Fenimore nodded. A muscle in his neck began to twitch. It was all he could manage not to jump up and run away. He was more frightened than he had ever been, and he did not understand why.

Think on the time you spent with Chenda on the airship. Can you see her?

Fenimore nodded again, his forehead wrinkled in concentration and wet with sweat. With his free hand, Pranav Erato gestured for Ahy-Me to kneel behind Fenimore.

That’s very good. You were close on the
Brofman
—an airship is close quarters, or so they tell me. I can imagine she was close to you much of the time.
He waved his hand at Ahy-Me, urging her to lean against the trembling man before her. Her eyes looked panicked, but she did as the pranav instructed. Fenimore shuddered and leaned back toward Ahy-Me; she pressed her hands onto his shoulders so as not to fall over. Tears rolled down Fenimore’s face.

I think, my boy, that you need her more than you know. I think that, even more than your love for the woman she is, you need to fulfill your role as her Soldier. You need the other Companions to bolster your strength and temper your gift. Separated from them, you are harmed. . . . Stop punishing yourself.

Fenimore reached one hand across his body, and placed it on top of Ahy-Me’s hand. “I am so lost without her, I can’t find my soul at all. I need her,” he sobbed. “Chenda.” He laced his fingers with Ahy-Me’s, then did the same with his other hand. He grasped the woman’s hands in his tightly and slid them off his shoulders and began rocking back and forth, hugging himself from the front and holding Ahy-Me to his back. Her fear turned to compassion, and she rested her head against his shoulder.

She could hear his heart and his breathing though his broad back. Not daring to speak for fear of breaking this illusion that was allowing him such release, she shushed him and rocked with him. She rubbed her thumbs on the backs of his hands, comforting and reassuring him.

She closed her eyes and thought about Verdu, how she wanted to wrap her arms around him, to comfort him, to be the woman that he would weep with in both joy and sorrow. It helped her heartache to imagine him in her arms, that there was a shred of possibility for that kind of life with him.

She listened as Fenimore’s sobbing slowed, his racing heart settled, and his body relaxed. Together, they slid onto their sides next to the fire, Fenimore’s grip on her hands unyielding. His eyes remained closed throughout, but Ahy-Me gazed into the fire, the smoke of which was wafting over her and Fenimore. She watched Pranav Erato through the smoke. He was deep in thought, but not sharing those musings with her.

What have you done, Pranav?
she thought to him.
Your face looks as grim as death.

I have used you horribly, my child. I am sorry
,
he said.
You are not some human handkerchief that I can use to mop up the spilled emotions of the chosen playthings of the gods, the ones I should have better prepared for their roles. I truly am sorry, my sweet.

Don’t be. I know who I am. My heart is strong and I can see that this has helped. A bit of cold comfort for myself is better than no comfort at all. I will be fine.
She pressed her face against Fenimore’s back and closed her eyes. He was asleep, and trapped as she was with her arms pinned around him, she decided to try her best to sleep as well. She cautioned the pranav to not comment on her imaginings of Verdu, a caution that he took to heart, and as she drifted into a wanting sleep, he quarantined his thoughts.

Pranav Erato frowned. His should have been pleased that he’d defused Fenimore’s zealous state, even temporarily, but he could not shake the feeling that he had committed a grave error, one that might destroy them all.

He wrapped his bony arms around his legs and torso and started to meditate. He slowed his breathing and his heartbeat in a way that he had not done in many years. He chanted silently in his mind, praying, seeking an audience with divinity. Pranav Erato took his body to the edge of death and looked over, searching the abyss for the faces of the gods.

Candice took care to mentally note her path. She rode lying on her side in the wagon for some time, and when it stopped, she was made to march along a hard dirt road that very quickly turned into harder paving stones beneath her feet. The noises around her became louder and more urban: a marketplace with people negotiating over the price of goods, the sounds of animals bleating and crowing, snatches of songs and children’s games, the clack of hard shoes and cart wheels scratching along down streets leading off in various directions.

After a time, the light disappeared suddenly and the city sounds fell away. Candice had been led inside. The air was cold, and her footsteps echoed as if the space she entered was vast. Her captors stopped and she heard knocking—huge knocking that boomed through the open space behind her. Then came the sound of a very large door opening, straining giant hinges.

She was shoved away from her captors and grasped by other hands and pulled into bright light as her head was finally freed from the bag. She blinked, willing her eyes to adjust. Men’s voices muttered was all around her. It became clear first that she was standing in a little box made of stone corners and ironwork on three sides. The box was at one end of a large room, with high windows that let in a maximum of natural light. The room was arranged like a circular theater: rows upon rows of seats in nested circles, each row larger and a head taller than the one in front of it. In each seat sat a Tugrulian man, and every eye was focused on Candice standing in her box. Not a single pair of eyes over the well-groomed Tugrulian beards looked in any way kind as they gazed at her. She tried to swallow back her fear, but the gag kept her tongue from working properly. She tasted blood from her chapped lips and the chafing at the corners of her mouth. She could not think of the last time she’d had any water to drink.

A voice called out in a jagged Tugrulian accent, “Professor Doctor Candice Mortimer.”

The closest man to Candice’s left was standing and was pointing at her with his whole hand. With his palm upward and his fingers flat, it looked almost as if he were introducing a magician from a sideshow at the county fair. She half expected a
ta-da!
She turned and looked at the man who had said her name, which seemed to be what he was expecting. He nodded once at her then turned his attention to the others in the room. He talked and talked, but the only words she understood were “Pramuc” and “Professor Candice Mortimer,” both of which the man said with the same tone one would use when discussing “clogged sink drains” or “insidious communicable diseases.”

It was obvious that this was a hearing of some kind, but Candice understood nothing of what was going on. She was not sure why she was present, as no one asked her anything, and, gagged as she was, there was no way she could answer if they did.

After an hour of rambling on and on, the man on her left bowed to the assembled Tugrulians and sat, looking rather smug and self-satisfied. Another man, this one to Candice’s right, stood and addressed the room. He was very old. His long beard was almost white, and had been arranged in rows of loose ringlets. His skin was faded and wrinkled, but he looked kind. He stared into Candice’s eyes while giving a deep sigh, then returned his attention to the assembly. He spoke briefly, saying her name only once, and slowly sat down.

The men glanced at one another and harrumphed. The first man to speak, on Candice’s left, stood and looked around the room. Many of the others followed his lead and stood. There was an increase in the din of muttering voices. The second, older man stood, and all of those already standing returned to their seats. A few around the room stood with the old man, but most remained seated.

Candice gathered that a vote had been taken, and by the look the old man gave her, it had not gone well.

A man directly across the room, sitting in a chair slightly higher than those surrounding it, walked to the center of the circles. He was exceptionally well groomed and dressed, tall, handsome, and as he stood, was shown respect by all of the others in the gallery.

He spoke a few words to the assembly, then walked toward Candice. He stopped and put one hand on the top rail of the iron box and looked at the professor’s eyes. “Professor Candice Mortimer,” he said calmly, “this court, seated by the spiritual leaders of the Empire of Tugrulia, the Imperial House and Line of Varinain and the City Leaders of Kotal, and I, Cutis Veritan, Prince of the Blood and Heir to the Tugrulian Throne, has found you guilty of plotting the overthrow of the emperor. For your part in this conspiracy, you will be executed by public beheading seven days from today.”

Prince Cutis sneered and returned to his seat. Hands grabbed Candice from behind and pulled her away into the darkness.

The
Tao-Tallis
was a fast ship, and judging by the number of other sailing craft that crossed routes with her, she housed a very popular crew. Chenda learned quickly that if two Mae-Lyn ships caught sight of each other, it was only polite that they should sail side by side and share news. The Mae-Lyn were nomads, but considered themselves one huge extended family, and gossip was worth more than gold.