City of Keys, page 52
“It can’t be removed.” Malach glanced at Falke. “Just as my daughter cannot be rid of the Raven he gave her.”
“That was to protect her,” Falke said.
“At least Bryce consented to it,” Malach shot back. “We struck a bargain. One of a voluntary nature. When he tried to kill me, I turned the Mark in self-defense. Don’t you remember?”
Falke flushed and fell silent. He knew what role he’d played. Falke was as much to blame as Malach—more so even. But the others didn’t seem to notice his discomfort.
“The Mark is no longer inverted,” Lezarius said. “But Mikhail wishes to be rid of it.”
“I propose that we set the matter of both Marks aside for the purposes of this council,” Malach said. “There might be a way to appease all parties, but I’m not at liberty to discuss it here.”
“When?” Lezarius demanded.
“Tomorrow,” Malach said. “I promise.”
The pontifex gave him a hard look, then nodded. “Tomorrow,” he agreed. “As to the disposition of Bal Kirith, I would support a return to mage control under certain conditions.”
Malach folded his hands. This was the meat of it. “What are they?”
Lezarius held up a finger. “No slavery.”
“Done,” Malach said immediately.
“No indentured servitude.”
“Agreed.”
“No child labor. No forced conscription into military service. Freedom of movement for all citizens. A code of civil rights and rule of law.”
“Who devises the code? We will not be a satellite state of the Via Sancta.”
“This is ridiculous,” Falke muttered. “They will sink into anarchy within days—”
“Reverend Father,” Bishop Ziegler said in her clipped accent. “You agreed to be bound by the decision reached by this council. I would ask that you refrain from interruptions with no substantive value to the negotiations.”
Falke’s eyes narrowed. Malach suppressed a grin.
“Would you prefer that the mages return to Bal Agnar and take up arms against us?” Lezarius asked quietly. “What of all your talk about the Last War, Dmitry? Or are you so hungry for retribution that you would throw the rest of your knights into the meat grinder?”
Falke drew a deep breath. To Malach’s amazement, he looked chastened. “No, I do not want that,” he said. “And I am willing to concede the city if acceptable terms are reached.”
A knot between Malach’s shoulders he’d been unaware of loosened. “Then let us put it all in writing. I have no objection to the points raised by Lezarius. But here are my terms. No military presence within a hundred kilometers of the city. Free trade with the Curia. We will need supplies to rebuild. Engineers and equipment to restore the power grid. A return of the objects looted from the Arx—”
“Can you prove the provenance?” Falke asked shrewdly.
“You know what you took,” Malach replied. “And Beleth kept extensive lists. If you haven’t destroyed them, they provide a good starting point.”
The cardinal from Nantwich spoke up. “I have always felt uneasy about the plundering,” she said, pushing horn-rimmed spectacles up on her long nose. “The Praefators would not have approved. There are many priceless artifacts in our museums that belong to the mages. Here in the Arx, as well. If it would bring peace, I think they should be given back.”
“I second that,” Lucie Moss said. “And the chars know where they are.”
Falke drummed gloved fingers on the table. “The relics were merely taken for safekeeping,” he said. “Please record my objection to the terms loot and plunder.”
“Duly noted,” Morvana said dryly.
Lezarius cocked a shaggy white brow. “Jalghuth stole nothing, but I support a full inventory of ill-gotten gains by the other cities.”
It was an odd thing to find the man who’d made the Void taking Malach’s side, but when Lezarius was joined by Bishop Ziegler and the two Nants, Falke sourly agreed to it.
The astronomical value of the looted items made Malach’s dream seem possible. Artwork, gold, tapestries, furnishings. With luck, the museums might buy some of it. Then he could use the money to get the city up and running again.
The question of Bal Agnar was complex. Malach argued that the knights there were the Curia’s problem. They composed the majority of the force in the city. With Balaur dead, it was unclear what they might do. Everyone’s fear was that they’d end up with hundreds of crazed Perditae roaming the Morho.
“All I can do is offer a beacon of stability to the younger mages,” Malach said, addressing Falke. “You never understood the differences among us, but there’s a whole generation who grew up in the Void. Stateless and fending for themselves. They’ve never known safety and they’re hardened for it. But they are not their parents. They sold Perditae to the witches because it was the only currency they had, but they follow the Via Libertas in name only. Most barely know what it stood for, nor do they care. They just want a roof over their heads and food in their bellies.”
“How will you draw them out?” Bishop Ziegler wondered.
“I’ll send two of my cousins. They would be welcomed into the Arx. Obviously, they will say nothing of who killed Balaur, only that he is dead. Those who wish to leave can depart the city for Bal Kirith.” Malach leaned back. “Then you can shell the living shit out of it if you want. I don’t care. Just let me get my people out first.”
Falke gazed into the middle distance, a thoughtful expression on his face. No doubt planning his next campaign. Even the mild-mannered cardinal from Nantwich was nodding. But Bishop Ziegler and Lezarius looked alarmed.
“I cannot approve wholesale slaughter,” Ziegler said firmly.
“Nor I,” Lezarius said.
“Of course,” Falke said smoothly. “But as the mage said, that is a question for the Curia to decide among ourselves. I have no objection to an emissary as long as I’m informed when the evacuation is complete.”
“Done,” Malach said.
By the time he inked the final treaty, he was bleary with exhaustion. But he thought his cousins would be pleased with the outcome.
“There is one last matter to discuss,” he said.
Ziegler frowned. “We have already signed, Cardinal.”
“It’s not to do with the treaty.” He looked at Falke. “Someone must examine your Marks.”
“What? Is this some kind of joke?”
“Not at all. You were alone with Balaur for an untold amount of time. Luk managed to revive a member of the Order of the Black Sun who was most definitely deceased. From what I understand, it involved extraction of the consciousness from the body. If it can be taken out, it can be put back in. To someone else, perhaps.”
Outrage mottled Falke’s features. “This is ridiculous!”
Malach turned to Morvana Ziegler. “Am I correct?”
“Yes.” A glance at Lezarius. “You have seen the children.”
He nodded. “They are a force for good. But some occupy bodies that have no pulse. So I cannot comment on the boundaries of alchemical magic.”
“Magic!” Falke threw his hands up. “You’re all mad.”
Ziegler’s brows lowered. “So you refuse?”
“Malach was in the room, too,” Falke protested. “In fact, it was he who was touched by the dark ley.”
“And I am more than willing to bare all.” He smiled. “I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.”
“How do you know,” Falke said tightly, “that Marks are involved? I thought we speak of alchemy.”
“I don’t know. And I could be wrong. But the Order all had them. We would be remiss not to look, don’t you think?”
There was a lengthy pause. Lucie Moss and Cardinal Gerrault stared at them both with new apprehension.
“Not in front of him,” Falke said, gaze flicking to Lezarius. “Or the ladies.”
“Just you and me,” Malach said cheerfully. “Right now.”
“Fine. Let us put this absurdity to rest.”
Morvana shuffled her papers together and stood. The others rose as well.
“We will wait in the hall,” she said. “Is ten minutes adequate?”
A surly nod from Falke.
“And if one of them is not who they claim to be?” Lucie Moss wondered. “What then?”
“You’ll hear a kerfuffle,” Malach replied. “Feel free to storm the chamber with armed knights.”
“Er, yes,” Ziegler said. “I will take precautions for that eventuality.”
She strode from the room with brisk Kven efficiency, followed by Lezarius and the others.
Malach and Falke faced each other across the table.
“You know I’m not Balaur,” Falke said. “The very notion is ludicrous.”
Malach stood and tugged the robe over his head. He started on the buttons of his trousers.
“I mean to go through with it,” he said. “Though I’m sure the sight will scar me for life.”
He sat down again to kick his boots off. Falke rose and shed his own garment. Purple, since pontifical robes didn’t exactly grow on trees. He wore silk boxer shorts beneath, also purple.
In short order, they were both naked. Malach squinted at the Marks on Falke’s chest and thighs.
“By the devil, you’re hairy,” he said. “What is that? A milkmaid?”
“A Praefator,” Falke responded stonily. He pointed. “What’s that? Some dominatrix?”
“The Lady of Masks.”
Falke laughed. “You’ve named them?”
“You don’t name yours?”
His gaze slid to Malach’s thigh. “No, I go by number. Saints, your mind is twisted. What is that creature?”
Malach glanced down. “The Red Warden.” He turned around. “Summoning the Storm. That’s just above my spectacular ass.” He flexed his cheeks for emphasis. “Today for Tomorrow, right shoulder blade. Dark Mirror, lower back. Tiger in a Cage—”
An exasperated sigh. “They’re all demented! How could I possibly tell if Balaur gave you one?”
“Hmmm. I suppose you can’t.” He strode a brief circle around Falke. “Yours are all boring enough.”
Falke snatched his robe from the back of the chair. “Are we done?”
“Socks,” Malach said, staring at his feet.
Falke briefly closed his eyes. He peeled his black socks off, revealing bony ankles that were bare of Marks.
“You’re pretty fit for an old rook,” Malach said as they got dressed. “I won’t deny it.”
Falke made no reply. He slammed the door on the way out.
Malach grinned. This day just kept getting better.
Chapter Forty-Seven
Nikola tossed scraps of bread to the family of ducks paddling past the Wayfarer. Four little yellow ducklings followed the parents, bobbing like toy boats on the ripples. The ship had moved from its hidden cove to the harbor, where it sat at anchor in the shallows.
She looked over as Heshima joined her at the rail.
“They’re coming up,” the witch said.
For the last day, since Nikola had returned bearing the news of Balaur’s death, the Mahadeva Sahevis had retired in contemplation, refusing food or drink. They’d said nothing about her disobedience in going to the Arx alone. She had the strong feeling they had known it would happen and done nothing to prevent it. That her actions were part of the divination, not in defiance of it.
Nikola still didn’t understand what exactly they had foreseen. How the ley interacted with free will remained a mystery. But the stones had settled down and Nikola felt hopeful that the meeting to come would open a door for better relations between Dur-Athaara and the continent.
“Will you return with us?” Heshima asked. “After it is done?”
Nikola met her eye. “I am laoch now,” she said. “My loyalty is to the sisterhood of the Deir Fiuracha.”
Heshima smiled. “I am glad.”
She hadn’t told Malach yet, but she sensed he already knew. It wasn’t an easy decision. She still loved him—madly, passionately. But no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t picture herself living at Bal Kirith. The Mahadeva had said they were not meant for each other. If he took Rachel back to the creche . . . . But no, Malach would never want that now. Not when he had his own city to rebuild.
She was glad for him, but it was still a bitter pill.
Nikola pushed her heartache aside as the Maid scampered up and leaned over the rail. The Mother was not far behind, supporting the Crone on one arm. The three of them stood in silence for a moment, gazing at the harbor. A breeze caught the Crone’s long white hair, lifting it from her shoulders. They wore simple gowns of forest green, embroidered at the hems in silver thread.
“It is a beautiful morning,” the Maid said, tipping her head back to the sun.
Something in her voice made Nikola frown. “Are you well, Mother?”
“We are well,” she replied. “We will remove the Mark and the kaldurite. It is Valmitra’s will.”
“I still don’t like the idea of you entering the Arx,” Heshima said. “The Via Sancta—”
“Is an enemy no longer, sister,” the Crone replied. “This must be done. The aingeal will not come to us, so we will go to him. It is time we meet the child ourselves.”
“At least allow us to escort you,” Heshima said. “I would bring Torvelle and Bethen. She has made much progress on the journey.”
Torvelle nodded approval. Bethen flushed and gave a shy smile.
“Yer not goin’ without me,” Paarjini said.
“Very well,” the Crone said. “You four and Nikola, of course.”
Cairness had been listening with her usual expression of irritation. “Bethen? She has no experience—”
“You are needed here,” the Crone said firmly. “It is decided.”
Nikola turned away to cover a scowl. She tugged Heshima aside. “Really?” she demanded. “After you assaulted his kin?”
“Only when they were about to assault us,” Heshima replied. “But I will only use lithomancy again in defense of the Mahadeva. You have my word. So if you truly believe his intentions are honorable, you have nothing to fear from me.” She glanced at Cairness and arched a brow. “Unless you prefer her? Because if I do not go, she will surely be named in my place.”
It was no secret how much Cairness hated the “aingeals.” Bringing her would spell certain disaster.
“Fine,” she muttered. “But remember your oath. I cannot imagine he’d be so stupid as to provoke you. Not when he needs the Mahadeva so badly.” Nikola sighed. “Of course, it is Malach we’re talking about. He’s not always a master of diplomacy.”
“’Tis not him that concerns me,” Paarjini said, wandering over. “The girl is more fearsome by far.”
“She’s just a kid,” Nikola said. “She barely knows what she’s doing.”
“And tha’s what concerns me,” Paarjini murmured.
They all shut up as the Mahadeva beckoned them over. The three women were holding each other’s hands. Spring, summer, autumn. Crescent moon, full moon, dark moon. Nikola read the rhythm of the seasons in their faces, the movement of the tides in their bodies.
A cloud covered the sun. The wind had a bitter edge. She pulled her cloak tighter, remembering the coils of a great serpent. The hissed command.
Free me, daughter.
Then the moment passed. The sun came out again, silvering their irises like polished scales.
“It has been more than three thousand years since a Mahadeva Sahevis stepped foot on the soil of the continent,” the Crone said.
“We are the first,” said the Mother.
The ducks reappeared at that moment, quacking just below. Hoping for more bread, no doubt. The Maid laughed in delight, darting off to follow their slow progress alongside the bow. She whispered something to herself, so soft only Nikola heard it. But the words would come back to her much later as the Wayfarer set sail from Nantwich harbor.
The Maid said, “And the last.”
“I met Dantarion, you know.”
Malach had just popped a grape into his mouth. He coughed violently. It shot past Lezarius’s ear and landed on the carpet. Rachel crawled over and polished it on a sleeve. She held it up.
“You dropped your grape.”
Malach smiled, slipping it into his pocket when she wasn’t looking. How had he forgotten? It seemed so long ago now, but he’d been at Bal Kirith when a messenger arrived with the news that Lezarius was in Dantarion’s custody.
“Er . . . how was that?” he asked, leaning forward to light Lezarius’s cigarette with a taper.
They sat in matching wing chairs before the fireplace in Malach’s room, a black telephone on the table between them.
Lezarius exhaled a stream of smoke. He looked pensive. “Very unpleasant at first.”
Malach turned to his daughter, who was building a fort with the couch cushions. “There’s more pillows in the linen closet down the hall. And a sheet you can use for the roof.”
“Okay!” She darted out the door.
“Did my cousin torture you?” Malach asked. “If so, I apologize.”
“Only if you call debating her convoluted logic torture,” Lezarius replied. “No, she laid not a finger on me.” His face darkened. “In fact, she saved me from Falke’s knights. They had my death warrant.”
“Because you were Invertido.”
“Falke feared I would break the Void in my madness. He sent priests to kill me at the Batavia Institute, too.” Lezarius gestured with the cigarette. “That’s where I picked up this bad habit. If not for Mikhail Bryce, they would have succeeded.”
“I will do what I can for Bryce,” Malach said. “You have my word.”
A log shifted in the fire, sending a burst of embers up the chimney. The weather had turned overnight. Dead leaves skittered past the window and a fierce autumn wind bent the trees in the plaza.
“As for Dantarion,” Lezarius continued, “we travelled north through the Void together to Jalghuth. She told me she carried your child.” Lezarius shook his head. “But that was later. I didn’t know she was pregnant when I pulled her from Lake Khotang. The ice was thinner than we realized.”
