The Past's Skybound Bane (The War Eternal's Ashes Book 2), page 7
“Go now, and be swift, chaplain.” The young man guided Melody through a kitchenette and toward the front entryway beyond it. “Send help from the Legionnaires—”
The back door of the apartment exploded inward in a cloud of debris and acrid red smoke. The reek of sulfur struck Melody like a blow to the nose, and a cold fury filled her. A Relic. This killer uses heretical magic.
The young man wrenched the front door open and pushed Melody out, then slammed it behind her.
Melody stumbled down the porch steps leading to the road. The streetlamps revealed its emptiness: there were no Legionnaires, no help to be had anywhere nearby. Behind the door at the top of the steps, there was a loud thud, and a woman’s scream.
Melody looked out over the deserted street. “Help! Please, someone help them! Please…”
There was no one there. Melody knew she should keep running: who knew how many lives depended on her reaching the Palace? The teachings of the Church were clear on this: all flesh someday returned to Ash. An individual’s purpose was to serve a greater good, even at the cost of their own life. The young man and his wife had to have known the danger involved in obstructing an assassin. They had made their choice.
The Phoenix will judge these two kindly, and grant them rebirth into a good life, Melody reassured herself. My place is to move on, accept their decision, and finish my task to ensure their sacrifice isn’t for naught.
Why, then, did this feel so wrong? Melody’s dry eyes burned as they tried and failed to fashion tears. The wine bottle in her fist seemed heavier than the iron scales on which the Ashtender weighed the sins of the deceased.
Who am I to pass judgement on what sacrifices are permissible? I’m a priest of the blessed Phoenix and guiding Flame: a bringer of peace, of succour. Yet I would let two innocents give up their lives for me?
Melody turned and ascended the steps. There was heavy breathing and the shift of fabric through the door as two people struggled against it. Melody pulled it open, and when both men tumbled out onto the porch, she summoned all her strength and brought her bottle down on the assassin’s black-wrapped head.
With a choking gasp of pain, the killer rolled away from Melody, raising both arms about his ears as he curled up in a foetal position at one end of the narrow deck.
The young man who’d been grappling with the assassin lay still, coughing wetly. A dark stain spread across the front of his nightrobe.
“Phoenix bless you, chaplain.” The young woman rushed to kneel next to her husband, and gasped when she pulled apart the rent in the fabric and saw the wound beneath it. “Oh, Flame forfend… help him, I beg of you!”
“Is there a surgeon on this street? An apothecary?”
Trembling, the woman shook her head. “Healers live in finer places than this.”
“Then they would take too long to get here.” Melody yanked the man’s nightrobe open and pulled a roll of cotton gauze from her medicinal pouch. “The gash is shallow.”
“Chaplain, what of the—”
The young woman stiffened and opened her mouth, but only blood emerged. From her throat burst the wickedly pointed tip of a blade, and she fell face-first to the porch.
Behind her stood the assassin, breathing heavily and swaying. He took a tottering step toward Melody. His bloodshot gaze regained some of its focus, and he raised the stained dagger in her direction.
Kneeling in front of her dying protectors, Melody groped behind her for the bottle… but she had forgotten it in her haste. It had rolled down the steps and onto the cobblestone street. Terror rose like bile in Melody’s throat, and she raised one hand hopelessly between herself and the assassin, as though to stop the blade with her fingers.
The killer drew back his dagger to strike, but the movement seemed sluggish, barely a threat. Peace and invigoration together coursed in Melody’s veins.
With calm ecstasy sweeping over her, Melody closed her eyes. Ashtender, in due time all return to You. I do not pray for my survival: if this is my time, then so be it. I pray instead that it not be the final hour for these two, so young and so kind. My spirit rebels against their deaths. I beg of You: grant me not reprieve, but instead give them life.
A vast, chill presence surged through Melody, and in its wintry touch she felt a connection to the dying man and woman at her feet. Their names were Sal and Lana. Their terror raced across Melody’s mind, along with their worry for her and a thousand other, less immediate and subtler hopes, dreams, and imaginings. In that moment, she knew them better than they knew themselves. They believed that by saving the life of one with a Phoenix-sent task, they would fulfill a greater purpose than the continuation of their own lives. Melody’s eyes were dry, but had she been able, she would have wept.
Then Melody felt a third connection: with an intimacy which made her stomach turn, she experienced the self of the assassin. His name was Yoren, and his thoughts held an ever-present panic which twisted itself into new forms to fit every situation. He had suffered hunger and violence both in his youth, and had chosen to drown his memories first in ale, then in blood, seeking thrills and pain alike: anything to make his suffering grow distant for even an instant. He chased money to purchase security, as though a safe place to sleep and more food than he could eat would stave off the constant, anxious terror in which he lived.
Melody sensed the power she held over him, as though his life itself were a blood vessel pulsing defenseless under her outstretched hand. An impulse to seize it and drink deeply triggered revulsion in Melody, and she nearly recoiled from the experience.
Sal and Lana’s minds gathered around her like the arms of a friend, their auras encouraging her to stay connected. They weren’t conscious, weren’t aware of her… but she knew them, could predict what they would say if they were speaking to her now. She could sense their terror, but also their acceptance of whatever might come to pass. As long as she survived this, they would consider their lives well spent.
Melody’s heart swelled with love, and with regret at the suffering she’d brought upon them. My prayers have been answered, and I’ve been given more than I asked. I mustn’t weaken: it now falls to me to give these deserving children more than they ask.
Guided by an alien instinct, Melody reached out through her thoughts and sank deep into her connection with Yoren. His horror as he sensed the intrusion wrenched her heart as though she were feeling it herself. Still, she didn’t turn aside.
It was almost more than she could bear, but she dove further, below the surface of Yoren’s conscious thoughts and into the depths of the assassin’s lurking fears and harsh beliefs about his own worthiness of life. She felt her violation with a sickening intensity even as she perpetrated it.
Melody reached the core of Yoren, where all else gave way to a steady heartbeat mantra of I am… I am… I am…
There, she tenderly took hold of his life. It was warm, and soft, and full of goodness.
And with a twitch of her will Melody tore it out of him.
Yoren’s death surged through Melody, and she cried out. Jarred back into the waking world, she fell forward onto her hands and knees. Before her eyes, the gaping wound in the back of Lana’s neck knit itself, and the young woman drew a desperate, shuddering breath. Next to her, Sal stirred and groaned, sitting up. There was no sign of the gash across his chest and belly, save for the blood staining his nightrobe.
Yoren lay still and lifeless. His face was pale and withered underneath the black wrap, as though the blood had been drained from his body. Killing him had been easy… so easy.
Melody wrapped her arms about herself and wept. She had always judged harshly those who took a human life. Hypocrisy. I, too, was willing to kill a man if it meant living another day.
“You saved us, chaplain.” Sal’s voice was reverent, awed. Melody wished he wouldn’t express such joy at what she had done, but of course he knew not the depth of her horror.
Lana’s gaze fixed on the heavy silver phoenix medallion hanging around Melody’s neck. “Not chaplain, Sal… Priest Custodian!”
Sal lowered his gaze. “I’m so sorry. Priest Custodian. I didn’t realize.”
“We owe our lives to the miracle sent through you by the Phoenix, Flame, and Ash.” Lana bowed her head as well.
In the loudest whisper she could muster, Melody told them, “Raise your eyes, my children.” Grief surged through her, though she knew not which she mourned most: Yoren, or her own innocence. “Your lives would never have been in danger without my presence. It is I who should consider you Phoenix-sent.”
“Holy Ashen hells,” growled a familiar voice from the street below. “Ya managed not ta die after all.”
Melody tried not to lean too hard on Sal’s offered hand as she drew herself to her feet. Projecting a confidence she didn’t feel, she looked down her nose at the Fiend Hunter where he stood on the cobblestones. “I’ll thank you to keep your language civil, Ticker. We’re in polite company.”
Ticker at least had the grace to shift uncomfortably, and angled the longsword in his right hand so the blood on its blade was hidden behind him. “Aye, well… seems ya took care o’ yerself. Will wonders never cease.” He gave his weapon a violent shake, spattering the cobblestones, and sheathed it.
“Can we help in any way, Priest Custodian?” asked Lana, hesitantly meeting Melody’s eyes.
Warmth rose in Melody’s heart as a sense of connection with Lana returned, a soothing shadow of what she’d felt earlier. “Thank you, but you’ve risked enough.”
Ticker’s posture was stiff, and his gaze scanned the empty street as though waiting for another threat to present itself. “Let’s find some Legionnaires,” he suggested.
“No.” Melody met Ticker’s eyes when he turned to stare at her. “Sal and Lana should do exactly that, but Yoren— that is, the assassin— his employer promised him the First Legion’s local patrol would stay out of his way. The patrols must have been bribed: we can’t trust them.”
Ticker scowled. “I’d ask how ya made ‘im tell ya that, but what’s important is that ya might be spot on. Thought it were damned odd none o’ the shiny bastards’ve showed up.”
“What of the other Fiend Hunters? The Knights?”
“Dead.”
Melody took a steadying breath. “I need to get to the Palace. The Flame-Anointed Council and the Emperor must be warned.”
“I ain’t familiar wit’ the city.”
“I grew up here. I’ll take us through side streets and alleys to keep out of sight, in case there are more of these assassins waiting.”
Sal cleared his throat. “Good luck, Priest Custodian.”
Lana stepped down from the porch to stand next to him. “May the Phoenix’s light shine upon your road.”
“And may the Flame guide you on yours.” Melody’s smile as she gave the traditional response was only half-sincere. She had an inkling that neither Phoenix nor Flame watched over her this day.
No.. if she knew her liturgy, then hers was the Ashen road: the blood-soaked path of martyrs, which only ever led through death.
Chapter Five
In travel long, some gain their home,
At journey’s end a life’s craft find.
Yet we who live forever roam,
To transitory hearths resigned.
“You seem distracted, my love.” Alina’s tone was curious, but even to her own ears it seemed tinged with an ever-present melancholy.
“Do I?”
Despite her swift glance at the Fae, Alina didn’t cease her measured stride across the cobblestones of Pyral City’s main street, nor did she pause in scanning the nighttime crowd of mortals coming and going through the North Square ahead. A broad, squat two-storey building huddled in the middle of that square, largely ignored by passersby. “You’ve been staring into nothing. Normally all you want to do is people-watch.”
Emerald turned to regard Alina, and the cold brightness of her smile glinted in the snowfield of her eyes. “You miss nothing, Maerisrei. Something… unusual has happened. I’ll share the secret with you in due time.”
Alina raised an eyebrow. “Once I am nearly finished piecing it together on my own.” She put an arm around her wife’s waist.
“Once I fully understand it myself.” Emerald leaned in to rest her head on Alina’s shoulder.
The Dead wanderer’s mouth twitched with the shadow of a smile. “Since we began our travels, every secret you have kept from me has been a game: a challenge to be discovered. And of course, you do not lie. But if I may beg a hint from my Queen: does this new development have aught to do with our investigation?”
“I’m unsure as yet. It could… or it might be unrelated. Now allow me a question of my own: since we arrived in Pyral this afternoon, we’ve been gathering information from old acquaintances who last knew us as Pyke and Esmaralda. At this moment, though, you don’t seem to be taking us back to any of our old haunts.”
Alina allowed her gaze to settle back onto the building ahead of them. The blocky edifice’s roof bore a spire of grey stone, topped with a person-sized carving of a fire-winged bird: the more ornate version of the Church of the Phoenix’s emblem.
“We have arrived.”
Emerald flashed Alina a grin. “The bureaucratic heart of Pyral: the Church’s Hall of Archives and Ministry. If the Leash has been found, there will be a record here.”
“Perhaps.”
“But, Maerisrei. Relics are considered heretical when used by non-priests. Only a Church official could request to see such records, if they exist.“ Emerald’s snow-white eyes gleamed golden with barely-suppressed glee. “Don’t tell me you intend to dominate the minds of the clerks?”
Alina’s breathing grew controlled. “As I have told you, I intend that power to remain forbidden to all in the Liberated World, save in self-defense.” In her tone she placed equal parts caution and rebuke.
“Of course, my Curiosity.” Emerald’s snowfield eyes twinkled. “Aside from Vett and her troops in Laventon, I’ve refrained from beguilement. Besides, in recent centuries it has been beyond me to seize the thoughts of even a mortal, unless that one has accepted from me a gift.”
“I see.” Alina relaxed. “I have often wondered what you are out doing, on the nights when you vanish from our bed. Not stealing wills, then.”
“I’ve my tricks and machinations, of course, Maerisrei… but not that. I value your respect too highly.“ Emerald came to a stop at the steps leading up to the square building. “Since you don’t intend to break your word, how do you plan to gain access to their records?”
“When I said, ‘we have arrived,’ I was not referring to the Hall of Archives.” Alina allowed her lips to curve upward. “Look to our left, beloved.”
Hands on her hips, Emerald turned to regard the smaller, shabbier building across the square. Its style was that of the old Kingdom: its sharper angles and lack of curved lines marked it as one of the few buildings left in Pyral constructed over half a century ago. A cracked sign with peeling paint above the lintel proclaimed, Antiquities Guild Headquarters.
“A fine trick,” Emerald murmured, “But misdirection is the tool of lesser beings.”
“I plead innocent!” Alina cried, seizing Emerald’s hands and whirling to look up into her snow-white eyes. “What a terrible accusation! Misdirect thee? Impossible— how could I control my Queen’s very thoughts, to lead them thus astray?”
Emerald’s expression fractured into a bemused smile. “What a mood I find you in, Maerisrei! Of course you can’t be blamed for my having jumped to conclusions. Why here, then?”
“The Antiquities Guild possesses the only records of discovered Relics outside the Hall of Archives. It remains the entity responsible for transitioning objects of magic from the hands of so-called ‘heretics’ to those of the Church.”
Emerald turned a mock-doubtful eye on the office’s shabby façade. “I scarce believe we could find much of import here.”
“Appearances can be deceiving.” Alina led the way into a foyer and approached the counter, which was the only furniture aside from three rickety chairs against one wall. A small metal bell rested atop it on a stand: Alina turned a key protruding from the base with a sound of winding clockwork, and the bell began to chime quietly.
“Coming, coming!” shouted someone from a doorway behind the counter. A man in his late forties, with thinning salt-and-pepper hair and an unkempt black beard covering most of his narrow face, hurried out with a half-dozen cylindrical scroll cases in his hands, shuffling through them and blinking sleepily at the labels. He wore a ratty leather jacket buttoned shut over what might have been thin breeches or a set of nightwear.
“Welcome to the Antiquities Guild,” he muttered, dumping the thin wooden cases on the counter, which creaked under their weight. He looked up at Alina and Emerald, squinting in the dim light. “What can I do for you, my lady, and, uh… my lady?”
“I am here to ask for the public record of a Relic’s lawful transition into the hands of the proper authorities,” Alina told him formally.
The man’s brow knit. “Oh. Haven’t met a woman scholar in decades. Well, I suppose these are my duties… what’s the Relic capable of, and where was it found?”
“I am uncertain where, or even whether it was found, but I know precisely what it does. I seek…”
Alina beckoned him closer, and whispered something in his ear as he leaned over the counter. His eyebrows rose, then nearly vanished into his thin hair.
“Ashes and blood… I’ll be right back.” He whirled and vanished into the back room, and the small foyer filled with the sound of paper shuffling.
