The Serpent and the Shattered Sword, page 17
“What? I haven’t been to a party like this in a while. I might as well play the part–like you are.”
One and the same.
Though he couldn’t tell how in sync the other Fates were with their Illuri, he and Kaata shared the same mind. Though Emile could play the part of a politician, Kaata was less inclined to hear the ramblings of his subjects–often taking time to recede within his mind, recoiling from the unwanted attention of fellow humans.
As he emptied the last remnants of his wineglass, a rapping on the door startled the crystal chalice from his hand. The report, opposite the heavy wooden slab, came from the hand of Jean Delacourt, the head of Emile’s guard, stationed in plain clothes nearby.
“Sire, the band is livening, and your sister’s making her rounds. Best not delay any longer.”
Emile patted the sweat from his face and reached for the doorknob as a great clamor erupted from the balcony outside. The arm of a blue tunic reached over the rail, attempting to throw itself over, yelling at the help beneath to stand taller. His hand, which had reached for Etincelle’s grip, retracted as he made his way to the ledge. Grabbing Teora by the wrist, with the strength of Kaata, he hauled her over the balcony rail.
“Good lord, it’s about time!” Teora protested, lamenting the hole torn in her new trousers. “I’ve only been shouting out there for five minutes. Is something wrong with your hearing?”
“Nothing wrong,” Kaata replied, contained within the confines of Emile’s head. “We just like to limit our exposure to narcissistic droning.”
“Hey, be nice,” Emile said, smiling and not realizing the words escaped his thoughts.
“Oh, gee. Thanks, Kaata,” Teora said, giving a slow clap in admiration of the Illuri. “You’re pretty feisty for someone who’s only a voice in someone’s head.”
He didn’t have to look. The bright red glint that shone off the polished pewter of the bolt slinger at her hip said the Goddess was listening–even if she spared Emile from the rebuttal. “Where’s Flynn?”
She nodded over her shoulder, back down past the rail to the ground below. “We saw you in the window, and, well, one of us had to get the boost, and the other had to give it.”
“And she won out. Lucky us...”
“What’d you find?” he asked, resting his back against the wall. Arms folded, head bowed.
“Well, she a’int pretty, let me tell ya. They’re loopy for their weekly dose of bullshit, and they’ll defend it at the point of a knife,” she told him, exposing the red scarring that rested across her throat.
“I was caught in it. My sister set them up to ambush me. The same, I fear, she’s about to do again below.”
He turned the doorknob and beckoned Jean inside. With the three of them in the room together, he laid out the events of the next hour. The Fates would head for Josée’s stables and secure three horses of her House Guard. Jean was to gather the others strewn about the party and secure an exit, in the event the Périziennes wouldn’t allow them to leave.
“Wouldn’t it be easier for us to go to Vilmonde?” Teora asked. “Seeing as we’ll need to stop the bleeding at the source before the wound festers any longer.”
“There are other matters below our feet which require our attention,” he replied. “Jean, your part is crucial. Dispatch guards to Elysées and meet with my contact. We’ll need eyes and ears there. Tell Captain Faustian to sail home at once, and then travel to the High Court in Leonkreuz. Ask for the aid of Emmeline Baumann, and ride for Vilmonde. Convene the Court of Three Houses, and await me.” His eyes returned to Teora, sullen but understanding. “This is why I needed Rinley, if you ever wondered why I hurt Alira...” His fist curled tight. Jaw hardening. “But no matter. Jean, this falls to you.”
“I won’t fail you, Sire.”
“I know you won’t,” Emile told him, placing a firm hand against his shoulder. “Tell Josée I’ve taken ill, and have returned to the Dauphin. I’ll send word of my arrival once my ship’s returned home.”
“Bonne chance,” (Fre: Good luck) Jean told him, with Emile giving a parting, “et toi aussi,” (Fre: and you as well) with a wink to Teora as he slipped out the door. They made for the balcony, grabbing Flynn’s attention below with a slight whistle. From the stone built into the manor, he used Drea’s influence to withdraw bricks from within the wall and create a staircase down.
“Oh, and you couldn’t have done that the first time?” Teora asked as she was pulled back. Emile muffled her mouth as a pair of guards passed on the street down the road. Though they’d never be arrested here, it was best not to arouse suspicion as they made their escape into the night.
“Believe me,” Flynn shouted up as she slipped over top of the balcony rail, using Emile to keep her steady. “Not everyone gets to see the great Teora Waiata struggle. So, when we get the chance–”
“You don’t want to finish that sentence!”
“We take it when we can get it,” Emile added, letting go of her as she pressed against the wall. The look he received as her body froze, and she looked back to him would’ve been enough to douse Kaata’s Flame and shatter Drea’s Stone.
Only one word escaped her lips. “Men.” She slapped Flynn’s hand out of the way as she took the last step down and landed on the ground, giving him a playful shove as Emile came down behind her and separated the two.
Flynn, concealed in shadow, put the stones back within the manor wall. All three, cloaked and hooded, stepped out onto the street and disappeared into an alleyway. Strangers in the night, armed and armored, made their way to the outskirts of the city–not paid any mind by the guards on patrol, nor by drunks stumbling out of the taverns.
The silver light of the moon was high overhead as they slipped out of the south gate, keeping tight to the wall and out of sight of the guard tower. With the moonlight behind them, the trio was nothing more than shadows absorbed into the night. Because the stench filled his nose, and he alone among them knew the city, Emile guided them to the stables outside of town.
Light, alive and burning in a lantern hanging inside the stable, revealed a young farrier working late to get his mounts down for the night. Emile hailed the Radians with his raised hand, needing to approach the situation alone. To take three horses without permission of the Lady of Périzieu would amount to theft by Teora or Flynn, but wouldn’t be anything less than a regal demand from him.
He rounded the edge like a ghost, coming to steal away the boy into the night. Frightened, he backed up against the outer wall, startling a beige mount he was removing the saddle from.
“Please, take it. I haven’t a copper of Til to my name.” The boy, heaped in a pile of hay against the back wall held up his arms, shielding himself from the entity before him.
“I’m not after gold. But I wish to borrow your mount, and a further two–if it’s alright?”
Cordiality and courtly manners were Emile’s way into another’s heart. Naturally, the soothing charm of his voice disappeared when he needed to sound convincing. In his youth, it got him everything a boy could dream of getting from his father. Later, the boy became a man, and the want of material things was curtailed by intimate experiences with objects more supple and symmetrical.
Cavalier and suave.
Now, it was used for getting horses out of places he should never have been able to get them out of. He removed his hood, his face aglow in the lantern’s light hanging overhead as he kneeled. “Do you know me?” The boy shook his head. Far too young to have ever seen the Lord from Vilmonde.
“Do you know the family name of the lady of the city?”
The boy placed a hand to his chin, thinking at great length before his eyes widened. “Riennes, I believe...Sir.”
“And do you know to whom she owes her allegiance?”
“The king in the west. Her brother.”
They stood in a deadlock for a moment, before the boy shot up from the pile and came to rest on a knee before his monarch. Emile told him not to waste time with such silly formalities. In place of a court there was a stable, and no one else around to know the difference. He took the boy’s arms and helped him to his feet.
“Listen, you went to bed and left the stable door open. Your horses escaped and were gone when you came to feed them. The Crown will reimburse you for that loss.” With the boy’s assent, the King signaled the others with a soft whistle.
Teora and Flynn readied their horses, mounted and left the stable. Emile was last, helped up by the boy, and followed behind. “Milord,” the boy said. “Why do you need them?”
Emile licked the ends of his thumb and forefinger, dousing the lantern as he replaced the cloak over his head. “I have a friend who’s in trouble. As you’ve helped me, I need to help her.” He untied a small pouch of gold coins from his waist and flung it at the boy’s chest. “For your silence,” he said, nodding as he cracked the reins and rode forward to join the others.
“So, Highness, where to?” Teora asked as they stood at a crossroads. The west led to Elysées, and Vilmonde beyond it. To the south, and an old road into a dark forest. The direction he canted his horse toward.
“We ride for Chantilles. From there, the Ile.”
It’s the one place we were told never to go.
“And yet it’s the one,” Kaata told him, “we can’t avoid.”
Chapter IX
The Bleeding of Vindovia
“AND HERE’S ANOTHER one!” Daedalus boasted, riding at the head of two hundred soldiers.
Far less than Alira hoped to deploy with. It’d been a two-day march, and she’d grown sick of him within the first hour. His attempt, once again, to court her fell on deaf ears. Thus, he’d turned to trying to endear himself to her with humor. If it could be called such.
“Why is it that legionaries prefer their women to be most like their shields?” He shot a glance sideways, past Alira, to the centurion over her shoulder. Praxis’ head sank, shaking the coming nonsense from inside out–already aware of the punch line. “Because women should always be three things: well-rounded, sturdy, and able to take a good pounding.”
It garnered laughter from the soldiers behind him who were close enough to hear. They’d either seen the humor in the joke or laughed at their superior’s feeble attempt to woo a woman of the high court with insults.
“Ah,” she replied, her face emotionless. “Your humor is much like the sword tucked between your legs, then.”
“It is! The origin of many a tale!”
“No,” Alira said, pressing a hand over her mouth as she doubled over, laughing before the crux of her words even escaped her lips. “Short, dull–” more laughter, but she needed to get it out, “–and disappointing to women.”
If the laughter of the legionaries at their commander were any expression of how well the sharpness of her tongue stung him, they’d should’ve stopped the march to free a good number of them from their fit of hysterics.
Daedalus pulled a green bottle from his saddle, as he barked to those behind to keep quiet; now far more interested in downing the splash of wine within than entertaining her in conversation any further.
“Well done, Lady Verbrandt,” Praxis whispered to her. “I can’t remember the last time a lady has stood up to him and stabbed the blade of her tongue into his chest.”
“I’ve dealt with his kind before,” she said, turning her head around and batting her eyes at Tribune Ovicula–who still wouldn’t dignify her response with a look in her direction. “A false bravado, insecure, lame–”
“Listen, we’ve been set to task,” Daedalus said, injecting himself into the conversation. “I suggest you get your heads straight before we get there. Around this next copse of trees we should see Vindovia. I hope you’re ready.”
“We’ll be encountering the rebels?” Alira asked.
“I’m surprised we haven’t already,” Daedalus added. “We entered their land many hours ago. From the moment we passed the border wall, we were exposed.”
“It’s been many a year since I was south of the wall,” Praxis told her, while Daedalus continued droning on about why they’d been sent to Gaeltana. The night before, as the moon was high overhead, they’d marched through the Great Gates of the Conqueror. “A man, they say, who was the first Evenglacian to bring the barbarians in the south to heel.”
“Non-believers, all of them. Should’ve been expelled from the continent, or wiped out long ago.” Daedalus spoke with a rasp of disdain. Feeling no affection for their neighbors. “The moment our kin first found them here, they should’ve been sent back to Vockla. By sword, or by boat, I couldn’t give a shit.”
“But they’re still people!” Praxis protested.
Alira pulled back on her reins with the slightest tug, so as not to have her ears burned by the growing argument.
“Not ours.”
“Of course they’re ours,” Praxis responded, more direct to his superior than he should’ve been. “They were given a place here. They built lives and laid roots. They’ve every right to stay, and once we put down this uprising, we should embrace them as such once more.”
It’s strange, Alira admitted to herself. To watch a man argue with an Ehlferi. Daedalus: his pointed ears and broad, tall frame. Praxis: no different than I, and nothing near an Ehlf. Yet both are Evenglacian, as are the mix of legionaries behind us. Humans and Ehlves marching together.
“Focus up,” Siblina told her, freeing Alira of her reverie.
What in the creator’s name are we looking at?
Daedalus ordered the halt; hundreds of feet pounded the ground in unison. A scouting party from the fore of the cohort was dispatched into Vindovia, the smoldering ruin lying before them. Its entry gate was carved bare by errant blades, and though the entryway cast long shadows into the town beyond, the smoke rose higher, threatening to suffocate the blue sky above.
The legionaries gained entry, spreading out in the formation of an extended line as they searched the vicinity while the remainder waited for their report. Within minutes, the Tesserarius–the most junior officer in charge of the group–ran forth. He collapsed beside a hedge on the road, spewing the contents of his stomach across the dirt.
“Report,” Daedalus ordered from atop his mount.
“Tribune Ovicula... it’s–” his eyes told no lie. She didn’t need to hear everything pouring forth from his lips. Alira didn’t know a single word in the language of santospettro, but she knew the report of a massacre when she saw it.
“Cazzo...” Praxis muttered under his breath, drawing a look of ire from his commander.
“Still think they can be redeemed?” Daedalus asked Alira, the expression of arrogance having disappeared from his face. “Tesserarius. I want five centuries on guard, and the last detail to me to secure the town. Lady Verbrandt, I hope you’ve a strong stomach.”
He led the trio forward as the hollering soldiers behind them took position, surrounding all entry points into the town. The century detailed into Vindovia passed their commander in a hurried trot, fanning out inside the wall and pushing through it to the far side within minutes. As the all-clear was given, they made their way inside.
The height of her mount allowed Alira to see the entire scene. To her left was the smoldering remains of the citizens that had been tacked into a blackened, charring pile.
The longer she surveyed it, the more she noticed it wasn’t just the bodies of the men, but the women, too. And though there weren’t any smaller skeletons protruding out of the pile, around it were scattered dolls and other small toys.
Doors of homes were kicked in and smashed off their hinges. Windows of wicker, broken through. She dismounted into the cloud of dirt in the street that’d been disturbed by the kicking heels of her horse.
Amidst a circle of drying crimson stone, there was a device unlike what she’d ever seen. Rectangular in frame, side rails for the slanted block and blade waiting at the top. In its base were carved holes–two small, flanking one large. Beneath it ran an endless river of blood, terminating in a pool that wove its way through the stone.
And the facades of the town’s houses were painted on, but with neither brush nor bucket. It was an aired-out brown, collected from the ground below, and smeared by hand. Each was a call for support. A mark of the rebellion that read:
‘Your world is a lie, and its truth is buried in silence.
We seek not to build anew, but to destroy entirely.
Our fight is your fight, and you’ll bleed–for us, or against us.
Only together can we stop what hungers beyond the stars.’
The last slogan was painted in a circle on the stone surrounding the chopping device. It repeated, over and again, in spiraling madness.
‘All shall fall.’
The last three unforgettable words victims saw moments before their beheading. And it was here that she lingered, listening to the screams and protests of the populace that she’d experienced herself only a few years before. What sense was there in this violence? Why would they put their own people to the sword?
Across her feet, carried on a breeze blowing through the town’s center, was an errant page that plastered itself to her boot. Alira leaned forward to pick it up, so as not to tear the worn propaganda.
‘Let us save you,’ it began. ‘–from their deceit. The false prophet who would call himself your Receiver does nothing to prepare you for the inevitable pain that is promised. You know what is coming, and you must stand against it. The ninth cycle has failed. The tenth cannot. There are those who would see the same end as us. They who–’
Daedalus tore the paper from her hand, a quicker motion than she could anticipate. He looked it over before shredding it in his grip and letting the tattered pieces be carried away on the breeze that whipped dust between their legs. “Don’t let them deceive you. They believe themselves to be fighting for a cause greater than any of us. Yet they’re not the ones who’ve persevered. We’ve seen their kind before, and we won’t let this happen again. Centurion!” he called out, summoning a hustling Argento to his side at the order.
