The Queen of Lies (18 page)

Seek your vengeance as you must, but it is here where you belong—with me, dear sister. Let Nasara have her throne of brittle coral. Let Sireen parade around in her ridiculous garb like the tiresome strumpet she is. Even my lowliest estates surpass the Coral Palace in their majesty. The sky is empty, and the sea is limitless.

Yours always,

Maelcolm, emissary to the Abyssal depths

S
ATRYN RECLINED ON
a sofa in the center of her cell, which now featured a sitting area for visitors. The Grand Invocus had been most accommodating in letting her entertain discussions with inquisitive scholars from the Lyceum. Mistrust had given way to curiosity, and she had been filling her days by granting various audiences with curious visitors.

Magus Quirrus adjusted his spectacles as he peered into his copper dish. “I must say, Lady Satryn, I’m incredibly grateful for the opportunity to study a Stormlord’s humor. Aside from the Patreans’ complete lack of arcane aptitude, it’s the only example of hereditary theurgical capability we’ve been able to discern.”

Have you also looked at Jessa’s blood? Probably not. The girl might as well be a Genatrovan but for her silver eyes.

She smiled. “In Thrycea our blood mages are priestesses of Kultea. It’s equally curious for me to meet one who learned his trade outside the teachings of our faith. What was it exactly that drew you to blood magic?”

Quirrus blushed. “I…um…I was always fascinated by blood. Even as a boy. I know that sounds odd, and perhaps it is, but I always knew this was my calling. There’s something sublime and mysterious about the humors.”

He was a handsome man but for those stooped shoulders, which bespoke of his timidity. Beneath his crimson robes she appraised him as a decent specimen of manhood, especially considering his age. But if he was aware of his attractiveness at all, it didn’t display in his nebbishy demeanor.

“I find blood quite fascinating as well,” Satryn said, “and intimate. Blood is something we aren’t supposed to see, like a bride beneath her veil. Yet when it appears, it commands our absolute attention.”

“Oh, it does!” Quirrus said excitedly as he peered at her sample in his dish. “Yours tells me so much about who you are, where you came from, your capabilities. your possibilities. I am curious, though…who was your father?”

Satryn reached for her wine. The Grand Invocus turned out to have quite the interest in vinology and had sent her a bottle of an exceptional white eclu from the Lowlands to compare tasting notes when he came for her nightly interrogation, which quickly had devolved into little more than an excuse for them to debate politics. He made formidable arguments for a man not known for speaking.

“My father was a master electrician in Thelassus, responsible for collecting lighting from the Everstorm and powering the city’s lights and telegraphs,” Satryn mused. “I suppose he’d be the equivalent of your artifact mages or guild of engineers. He wasn’t as prominent as the empress’s other consorts, but when your mother is the empress, the father’s status matters less than birth order.”

“So the empress isn’t married?” Quirrus asked.

Satryn understood his confusion. She explained, “Her husband, the imperial consort, is her cousin, Clavus. He’s the most powerful member of a separate, distantly related bloodline. But that union is purely political. He isn’t much older than I am.

“The offspring of the empress are born to different fathers, lesser consorts. This allows her to maintain a healthy line of succession and give favor to her political allies in the form of heirs. Nasara is the daughter of King Pentios of Veyal, and Sireen is the daughter of Viceroy Bu’ma ibn Atid al-Or. My twin brother and I are the only two in recent history to share both parents.”

Quirrus leaned forward. “Fascinating. And why does such a practice exist? I imagine the union of two Stormlords would produce more powerful offspring.”

“It does.” Satryn finished her wine and poured two more glasses. She handed one to Quirrus, who hadn’t finished his first. “However, I believe there’s a Genatrovan saying that states, ‘Branches that grow too close together bear odd fruit’…or something of the like. Pureblood Stormlords tend to be…
unpredictable
, to put it lightly.”

“That’s interesting, because your mother and father’s humors share the same characteristics as yours, which leads me to conclude he was a Stormlord and very closely related to your mother.”

Quirrus set his bowl down on the mahogany table. The inside of the copper dish was etched with finely detailed symbols and geometric patterns. While he was swishing it, some of her blood had collected in the grooves, forming a complex diagram. Satryn had seen similar implements used by the priestesses.

She peered into it, but of course the pattern didn’t make any sense to her. “Your inexperience has led you to a false conclusion. Children of Stormlords tend to favor that side of the family, with very little from the consort. None of us much resemble our fathers. Except Jessa, who was so much like her father that I wouldn’t have believed she was mine if I hadn’t pushed her out of me. And I’m still uncertain whether she isn’t a changeling.” Satryn laughed.

“A changeling?” Quirrus’s eyes lit up.

Satryn waved her hand dismissively. “Her great-grandfather, Raegur, was supposedly the son of the Witch Queen, according to local folklore. I had Jessa tested when she was born—the blood priestess found nothing, much to my disappointment.”

Quirrus pondered the bowl. “Perhaps I should look into this matter. It seems your priestesses missed a fairly obvious family connection. They may have overlooked it with Jessa as well.”

“No offense to your college, Magus, but blood magic in Thrycea is a far older and more established school of theurgy. As a child I had my blood read more times than I care to recall by the most senior of Kultean priestesses. And none of them brought my parentage into question.”

“With respect, we practice the
science
of blood magic, not the religion.” Quirrus finally was showing some backbone. “It can’t be any more plain to even an utter novice that you were born from the union of two Stormlords. The only reasonable question is why anyone would go through the trouble to conceal it from you.”

Satryn opened her mouth to reply, but the words died on her lips.

She breathed in sharply and set her glass down. “By Kultea’s cold tits…”

Quirrus bit the side of his finger nervously, his conviction wilting. “I didn’t mean to upset you. I was merely making an observation based on the empirical data. There are always factors that can’t be accounted for…Even in blood magic, we find that sometimes predicted outcomes don’t always match the anticipated results.”

She wasn’t paying any attention to him.
Uncle Nash always showed an unsettling interest in me. Was it him? It would explain the shark I got on my fifth birthday and the jewelry every year after.

Who else in the family knows about this? Nasara most certainly…Why else would she go to such elaborate lengths to have me sent away while that little idiot Sireen parades around court?

And my brother…sent to be the emissary to the Abyss. I thought it was their intent to separate us, but…were they secretly afraid? Two purebloods in line for the Coral Throne, though I’m older by a scant few minutes.

“Lady Satryn, are you all right?” Quirrus asked cautiously.

She smiled, breaking from her reverie. “This has been a revelation, Magus Quirrus. Though it is somewhat…embarrassing to realize one is a product of incest in the company of a respectable gentleman like yourself, it has given me great clarity regarding my current situation. The blood priestesses of Thrycea could learn a thing or two from your intellectual rigor.”

“Well, I certainly would be amenable to an exchange of knowledge. It seems wasteful that we should pursue the same discipline in parallel,” he said enthusiastically, if also unsurely.

She leaned back on her sofa and glanced back to the Invocari who guarded her cell. They had replaced the last one with a rather sour-looking woman.

“Test Jessa,” Satryn said. “Only Mother would have the authority to meddle in the results of the Red Liturgy. I ask you as a friend, out of concern for my daughter. But don’t mention what we discussed. I don’t want to upset her.”

Quirrus nodded eagerly. “I will arrange it.”

T
HE REASON
V
OLKOVIANS
are masters of necromancy lies in our cultural heritage. We survive winters that bring armies to their knees. There is a saying: “If Volkovia is invaded, wait six months.” During the entire month of Frostbane, we don’t see the sun. It’s natural that our thoughts turn to death, for it is around us always.

In Vicheryad our dead are always with us. The bones of our ancestors guard our city, clean our streets, and repair our roads. What need have the departed souls for their skeletons? Is a shoemaker buried with his hammer and shears? Any Volkovian gladly donates his flesh to the service of his family and province when he passes.

Yet necromancy is maligned at every turn by those who don’t understand our way. People will wave their hands and say, “Oh, no! Look at Pytheria—she killed all those students for her own experiments.” But meanwhile no one is claiming all seal mages are Achelon the Corruptor.

The continued sanctions against the Lyceum for opening a necromancy college are prejudicial and punitive. If every modality of theurgy were to be judged by its worst actors, then there would be no magic.

—LETTER FROM IVAN ZACHAROV, DEAN OF NECROMANCY AT THE VICHERYAD INSTITUTION OF LEARNING, TO THE COUNCIL OF DEANS

M
ADDOX FOUND HIMSELF
staring at a closed door. He was standing in what looked like an abandoned pantry. The shelves were crammed with silver dishes, ornately carved jewelry boxes, statuettes, and loose gemstones. He heard a splash of water below the floor, so he knew he was in the Backwash, and he heard voices upstairs.

He turned his head slowly to survey the room. Falco stood slightly in front of him, facing the door. He was shirtless, and his wiry back hair made his flesh look ghostly pale. The mouth on his side was gaping open and moving slightly.

“You were right. That was fucking
incredible
!” Maddox said, slapping him on the shoulder. Falco turned his head slowly, his eyes missing. The sockets had been burned out, and fine black veins spidered out from the holes.

“Guides preserve…” Maddox stepped back, tripping on a rolled-up carpet and clashing into the shelves. A jewelry box tagged him on the shoulder and burst open, spilling strings of pearls that clattered on the floor. Grabbing his shoulder, Maddox reached for the door.

Falco’s head tilted, and he emitted a gurgling, chittering noise from his throat as he sniffed at the air.
A fucking revenant.
Maddox hurled him against the opposite wall of the pantry and levitated an assortment of silver serving dishes to form a barrier. Falco thrashed at them with inhuman strength and dented the metal.

Maddox opened the door and slipped out backward as the revenant flailed against his prison. The door shut abruptly, and a chair slid under the handle, locking it in place. As Maddox was no longer able to see his plate barrier, it clanged to the floor. He heard a fervent pounding against the door that nearly took off the hinges, but it stopped abruptly.

Maddox stood in the dreary ruins of an abandoned kitchen, but the scene was familiar. He knew exactly where he was.

He felt something sharp and cold press against his throat. “Gran, if you can’t control these things I’m going to fucking kill them.” Esme’s sultry voice was unmistakable.

“Hey! It’s me,” Maddox said, grabbing her arm. As he turned to face her, her expression grew slack with shock. Her weapon nearly fell to her side.

She smiled. “Holy fucking shit! You’re really alive. Riley! Get down here!”

“Yeah. I’m immortal or something,” Maddox explained offhandedly. “Look, I need to get some more of that shit Falco had. Like a lot more.”

“Whoa there, champ!” Esme stepped back and patted his arm, still smiling playfully. “When you start chasing the dragon, you don’t stop with the tail. You were fucking dead an hour ago.”

“I figured as much—”

Maddox didn’t get another word out before Riley tore into the kitchen and embraced him in a rib-crushing bear hug. It took the better part of five minutes for them to peel Riley off and calm his exuberant blubbering into something resembling coherent speech. The other lodge members watched quietly from the kitchen door.

“I were so messed up about it,” Riley said, a catch in his throat. “Me best mate just offed himself not an hour after I got him home. I blamed meself for it. I weren’t there for you when you needed me, you know? I were so fucking pissed at Falco for messing you up like that. You was in a fragile state of mind and not in a good way…”

Maddox sighed. “I was pretty sure I’d come back. It happened once when I was pushed off the observation tower, and even fucked-up seals are usually reliable. The drugs were just the cleanest way to test my theory.”