Children of the Wastes

By J.C. Staudt

The Aionach is in the grip of bitter turmoil. The death of one man has triggered a chain of events that will precipitate the bloody culmination of centuries of hatred.

Lokes and Weaver, deadeye and sand-sorceress, have discovered an ancient key that will lead them on a search for truth, while the order of cultists protecting that truth sees their long-preserved code begin to come apart at the seams.

Among the remnants of the vast desert city of Belmond, Pilot Wax and his Scarred Comrades still hold sway over the north. But a young exile with an astounding gift gathers influence in the south, and the days of peace are numbered.

Master-king Tycho Montari and his thriving nation of nomad slavers are fighting a war on two fronts: one versus the trade empire which has defiled the lands of their ancestors; the other to enslave the scuttling murrhods who dwell beneath the planet's surface.

Children of the Wastes is the second volume in The Aionach Saga, a dark, epic tale of wasteland adventure set in a desolate fantasy world.

• Language: English
• Publisher: J.C. Staudt
• Release date: Jul 23, 2016
• ISBN: 9781310693137

J.C. Staudt

J.C. Staudt was born in Oceanside, New York, and moved to Virginia at the age of four, where he has lived ever since. He is a graduate of George Mason University, with a B.A. in Integrative Multimedia Studies, and he works for an Engineering and Consulting firm as a New Media Designer. He lives with his beautiful wife in a house lacking pets and children in Manassas, Virginia.

Book preview

Children of the Wastes

Book Two of

The Aionach Saga

J.C. Staudt

Children of the Wastes is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2016 J.C. Staudt

All rights reserved.

Edition 1.0

This one’s for Dad, my example of dedication, consummate pursuer of passions.

Contents

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Map

1. Seer

2. Waking the Father

3. Trace

4. Battle of the Brinescales

5. Bargain

6. The Goatskin Record

7. The Waiting

8. Esteemed

9. Conscription

10. Warleader

11. Den

12. Sand and Sky

13. Burdens and Benefits

14. Brood-Father

15. The Blackhand’s Return

16. The Healer's Son

17. Home to Rest

18. The Fates

19. A Revenge Sewn

20. Stirrings in Molehind

21. Squandered Stores

22. Angels in the Wasteland

23. Dark Horse

24. The Open Wastes

25. Pupil

26. Farstrander’s Gambit

27. Solution

28. Brother

29. For the Greater Good

30. The Pale-Skin Ransom

31. Closing In

32. Revolution’s Harvest

33. Shelter From the Storm

34. Discount Sale

35. A Slave Among Brothers

36. The Marauder’s Sister

37. Commune

38. Bolt

39. Dereliction

40. Her Children

41. Undercurrents

42. Showdown

43. Through the Breach

44. Savannah

45. Whelm

46. Regime

47. Secrets of the Child

48. Judge and Betrayer

49. The Unraveling

50. The Deepness Stirs

51. Descent

Epilogue

Afterword

Appendix: Dramatis Personae

CHAPTER 1

Seer

Lethari Prokin was home. He’d been away for a long time, and for the last few horizons of his journey he’d thought of nothing else than being with his wife. But instead of returning to Frayla’s open arms, Lethari had come home to find a man dying in the front bedchamber of his house. Now the man was dead, and the thought of love had become the furthest thing from his mind.

Daxin Glaive had not been one of the calgoarethi, but a pale-skin; a lathcu mongrel of the southlands. Lethari had always considered Daxin a sand-brother nonetheless. For as every calgoareth knew, sand was the only bond thicker than blood. The sand drinks the blood, and so holds power over it. The sand was there when the flesh of the calgoarethi sprang from its depths, and the sand shall remain until after the ending of all things.

Frayla Prokin did not seem to mind the dead man. She collapsed onto the cushions beneath her husband, her legs wrapped around his waist like a belt. She searched his eyes, longing to find the proof of his pleasure, matching his every ragged breath with her own.

Tired though he was, Lethari did not stop until he had spent the last of his desire. He felt the stresses of his long odyssey lift from his shoulders like a cloud. Frayla shuddered as he withdrew, a deep breath and a rush of air. When he pulled away, the soft green fabric of her dress was bunched around her midriff, stained with his sweat. Her eyes never left him as he crossed the room to dry himself with a roughspun towel. He knew her desire was only beginning to bloom. But now that his had passed, there was too much else on his mind to bother with such things.

Lethari and his wife spoke at length about the business of their household, the details of their servants, slaves, and incomes; of the tradesmen who had visited while he was away, and of the arrival of Maigh Glaive a week prior. Frayla recounted the story of how Daxin had left their household several days before and ventured into the city. Neacal Griogan’s herdsmen had brought him back two days later with deep, fatal wounds in his flesh.

When Lethari summoned Ceallach Golandi to examine the body, the shaman confirmed that someone had cut Daxin open and stitched him shut again. It is a dreadful business, the shaman said. "This is the work of the muirrhadi, I have no doubt."

Lethari was no stranger to carnage, but the slaughter of a thousand foes could never shake him like the death of a friend. When the shaman was gone, Lethari took out the goatskin scroll on which he had written Daxin Glaive’s every word in the moments before his death: the locations, times, and places where he might find every pale-skin trade caravan across the Inner East for the next several months.

"You see the great gift Maigh Glaive has given you," said Frayla, pointing at the goatskin.

It is a great gift, Lethari agreed. A gift I will bring to the master-king at once.

Must you?

Lethari gave her a puzzled look. I know of no other way to handle such a boon.

Could you not keep it for yourself?

I would bring disgrace upon our household if I were to deny the master-king his due.

Daxin Glaive gave this gift to you. If you tell the master-king, he will divide it between his warleaders, just as he has always done before. If you keep the goatskin for yourself, the glory and the spoils will be yours alone. You will have success in battle beyond measure. Then everyone will commend your skill and good fortune. They will say you are the greatest warleader who has ever ridden the sands. Think of it, my love…

This is folly, Frayla. Daxin Glaive did not die to make liars of us. I would give the scroll to Tycho Montari and request a sabbatical, that I may return Daxin to his homeland to be buried.

Why not bury him here, in the sky? Frayla said. A sky burial would be a fine honor for him.

He does not belong in the sky. Sand-brother though he was, he belongs with his own people. He has a daughter and a brother, and they must know of his fate.

Frayla’s voice grew stiff. "Send a rider to bring the news on your behalf. Or bring word yourself, while you are there laying waste to the lathcu traders."

Lethari raised his voice. The master-king will not send me to raid the caravans. He has other plans for me. He will give the goatskin record to his other warleaders, and I will receive nothing.

What other plans? asked Frayla.

The People of the Hidden Sands are here, in Sai Calgoar.

The men who create light and fire with their hands? Where?

"In the household of Sigrede Balbaressi. They wait on the master-king’s retainers. He wishes to travel to their home, and he has commanded me to lead the feiach."

Frayla sat up, intrigued. The hidden people will show Tycho Montari their place of hiding?

Lethari shrugged. This is what they have vowed.

And what would the master-king do there? What does he want from them?

He believes he can consume their souls. He wishes to become one of them.

Frayla laughed. Her mouth tightened into a mocking smile. Then he is as much a fool as I have always believed. And you are not the man I thought you were. If you follow him, you are no more than his puppet.

Rage boiled inside him. He was glad it was his decision and not hers. She must know by now that the high households who oppose the master-king’s wishes never escape his wrath. Tycho Montari need only speak the words, and we will be cast into disgrace like dust from a beaten rug.

For a brief moment, Lethari found himself wanting to strike his wife; to break her insolence. He had to remind himself he was no longer on the warpath—no longer in the dominion of his enemies, where fear and violence threatened to take hold at every turn. He was at home, where honor was earned with tact, not cruelty.

Frayla pulled up her dress to cover her nakedness, then turned to face the wall with a sigh. Do what you must.

Lethari sat on the edge of the bed and began putting on his clothes. The silence stretched out. He stood, tucked the goatskin record into his satchel, and started toward the bedroom door. He was halfway there when she spoke again.

So you will do it, then, she said.

Lethari stopped, but didn’t turn around. First I will go to my father’s house to pay my respects. Then I will decide.

You will not speak to your father of this, she said.

Lethari sensed the note of worry in her voice. He cleared his throat, then thought better of replying. Instead, he left the room. By the time he reached the front entrance, he could already hear Frayla screaming at whichever servant had been unlucky enough to have crossed her path first. With her shouts echoing over the sandstone, Lethari stopped in the doorway and took a deep breath before pushing himself out into the daylight.

Lethari’s father lived in a palace on the heights, one of the venerable places far above the city. The arched entrance was several times his height, with domed sandstone towers that rose even higher from its flanks. Guards stood in the open doorway and in the turrets above. These were the trappings of an established family who had served the master-king faithfully for many years.

The guards knew Lethari well; they gave him neither greeting nor obstruction as he entered the palace fully armed. The servants bowed and the slaves pressed their palms together, offering him the sign of submission.

I am pleased to see you have made a safe return to the city, my Lord Lethari, said Tierlach, the thin, tidy man who served as Eirnan Prokin’s head steward.

Tell me, Tierlach, Lethari said. Where is my father?

Lord Eirnan is in his parlor, my liege.

Lethari marched onward into the depths of the house. He ignored the lavish rooms along the way, with their familiar tapestries, carved sandstone pillars, tilework, and brightly-colored cushions. He found his father in the midst of deep meditation, so he stood at the room’s threshold and waited. Wisps of smoke were trailing up from a dish on the side table, filling the air with a sweet fragrance.

Why do you stand there as though you have forgotten how to speak, my son? asked Eirnan Prokin, without opening his eyes.

I… did not want to interrupt, said Lethari.

Everything is an interruption of something else.

And when have you ever given me your leave to bear that charge?

It is many years now since you were a boy. You have borne heavier burdens than to worry yourself over the irritations of an old man.

I am here to give you my respect as your son, not to speak of bygone grief.

Eirnan opened his eyes and stared at the wall as if in a trance. Old grief is like an old wound. Hard to carry; harder still to hide from the eyes of the watchful.

I have borne grief of my own, Lethari wanted to say. But I did not let it cripple me, as you have. I have only returned to the city for a short time, he said. I would have your counsel while I am here.

Very well. Sit. Sit, and listen. Eirnan gestured toward an open space on the rug next to him, though the room contained many chairs and cushions. My counsel is this: count your days as you would the fingers of your hands. For though it may seem to you that they are as numerous as the sands, or as plentiful as the rain, you will deceive yourself to believe it. You have realized success in this life, my son. You have seen happiness. But when the joys of your life have waned like the ebbing tide—when the triumphs of your youth are past, and you can see only the darkness ahead—you will know you were a fool to believe yourself invincible. Heartbreak can slay a man the same as a blade.

Sitting beside his father, Lethari was at once disturbed and angered. This was not the man he remembered. Eirnan had been a great warleader once, just as Lethari was now. He had won many victories for the master-king. It was in his father’s company that Lethari had come of age. He had slain his first man and had his first woman while he was a young warrior in his father’s feiach.

The man seated beside him now was no conqueror; no champion to be revered. Though Eirnan Prokin’s reputation was one of awe and acclaim, he was a failed and broken man in his own mind. Lethari had long since stopped trying to bring his father to reason. Eirnan was living as though already dead, trapped in a prison of his own making.

I have come to ask your counsel in a different matter, Lethari said. I have been given an object of great value. I believe it is my duty to offer this object to the master-king as a sign of my fealty… but I have been advised not to.

Who gave you this thing? Eirnan asked.

You remember Daxin Glaive.

The son of Lyle Glaive, with whom we rode the sands in friendship for many years.

Yes. He has given me another record of the pale-skin caravans. Now he is dead, and so this is the last record I may ever lay claim to.

The corner of Eirnan’s mouth drew upward. Frayla does not wish you to surrender this thing to Tycho Montari.

Lethari did not understand how his father could’ve known—unless it was so easy for the man to read him with barely a look. My mother never asked you to betray the master-king, did she?

Your mother asked me to do a great many things, Eirnan said.

How often did you do what she wished of you?

Eirnan was smiling now, wide and full. Without fail. And more than that I would’ve done, had she only asked…

Lethari couldn’t remember when last he had seen his father smile that way. Eirnan’s face was clear and alive, like a weathered carving suddenly wiped clean. The smile faded as quickly as it had come.

I should betray the master-king, then, said Lethari.

"Tycho Montari will gain as much from your silence as he would from your admission. You will slaughter the same lathcui and deliver him the same spoils, whether he knows how you came by them or not."

The truth is no less important than the spoils. He deserves both. Without the master-king, I am nothing.

You are the man you are—with him, or without. Never let yourself believe you are the king’s property. You are no slave, my son.

The master-king honors me with plenty. He gives me everything I have, and eases my way with his bounty.

That is what he would have you believe.

Lethari spread his hands to indicate the decadence around them. What is all this, if not the master-king’s blessing?

This is an empty reward, well-earned through blood and toil. And yet a thousand palaces like mine will never restore the days that have come to pass, or revive the sweetness of a time I once knew.

Then I should do as Frayla asks, to please her.

You should decide where your loyalties lie. Then, ask yourself if that is where they belong. Tycho Montari does not warm your bed at night. No, thank the fates. Tycho Montari does not share your household, and it is not he you think of while you range far from home across the desert. It will not be the master-king who bears your children, or whom you serve when you are old and frail… Eirnan’s voice broke off. He blinked, then shut his eyes.

My father, you betray your king even now…

Many are the faces of betrayal, but there is none so seductive as that which turns a man against his own household.

You broke your vow to the king and endangered the honor of our household over the ill-conceived yearnings of a woman. And you think this vague discourse does not make it plain. Though you do not confess it directly, I now know it to be true. You gave him your allegiance, and you deceived him… for my mother. It is not only her memory that grieves you, but the weight of your shame.

Eirnan’s smile was razor-sharp. And now you stand alone among a multitude of my peers who will never know. What does it matter? My misdeeds will never be of consequence so long as I bear my shame alone.

Lethari wasn’t sure what to think. For a long time, he had doubted his father’s polished reputation. Hearing him admit to treason wasn’t the overwhelming shock he had expected. Now he knew he’d been idolizing something tainted—like an animal eating food off the ground without a thought to its filth.

Lethari stood. And you would have me resign myself to the same fate—to one day become an old man paralyzed by his guilt, who chose family over duty. Who spent a lifetime shattering himself to appease a woman who would have been unhappy nevertheless.

Eirnan looked up at him. His eyes were bloodshot, undercut with dark circles. When Lethari met his gaze, it pierced him like a spear. You dare speak of your mother in such a tone—as if she were some spiteful wretch from the pit colonies? There is more dignity in your mother’s memory than you have earned in all your life. If I am shattered, it is because I could not repay her even a small portion of what she gave to me. That tiny solace is worth more than all my years in the master-king’s service.

Lethari drew in a heaving breath. I have never wavered in my allegiance to Tycho Montari, nor would I entertain the thought.

And what about your allegiance to your family, eh? With whom do you believe your wife’s loyalty resides? To whose side will she turn when the rest of the world has betrayed you? Will she flee from you in your disgrace and run to the safer course? Or do you really believe Frayla would stand with you, knowing you have always put the king’s wishes before hers? A woman’s love must be earned; it has no penchant for disloyalty. What I did for your mother, wiser men have shattered themselves many times over to achieve.

We are not the same, my father, Lethari said. True loyalty is a product of virtue. One does not breed a lasting bond through pandering and flattery. Those are a woman’s instruments, as fickle and changeable as the wind. Prokin will remain a great household long after you are gone, but only because I have earned the loyalty I deserve—not stolen it with trickery.

Eirnan was somber. If a man could honor everyone around him when they each want something different, there would be fewer dishonorable men in the world. We all must do things we are not proud of to hold onto what we love. If you have not learned that by now, my son, then you will surely learn it someday soon. I only pray the learning goes quickly for you.

Lethari lowered his eyes. I leave the city in three days’ time. I pray you wish me good fortune, my father.

Eirnan’s face hardened. I wish you to learn true wisdom, my son. If ill fortune is how the fates must teach it to you… then so be it. You have made a mockery of your mother’s memory. Go, and do not return to my household until you have resolved to give tribute to those who have gone before you.

Lethari bowed, then turned and left his father’s house. On the way home, he began to wonder why he had visited in the first place. Had he expected something different than what he always found there? What good was counsel from a man too bitter to make sense of the world around him? Lethari would sooner remember his father the way he had been in the days of his youth. But the more he subjected himself to the ramblings of the pathetic shell of a man who was left, the more distant those memories grew.

When Lethari returned home, Frayla was gone. Where is my wife? he asked Oisen, his steward.

She has taken a basket and gone for a walk, my Lord Lethari, Oisen said.

Who went with her?

She went alone.

You should not have let her go without a guard.

She insisted, my master.

Lethari rubbed his jaw, where a rough carpet of day-old stubble was beginning to come through. Send for Amhaziel Bilmadi. Find me in my chambers when he arrives.

Yes, my Lord Lethari.

And Oisen… when Frayla returns, notify me at once.

Yes, my master.

Lethari retreated to his den, a personal lair set into the deepest hollows of his palace. The room was much like his father’s parlor, if smaller and less opulent. He paced the floor for over an hour, unable to sit still. By the time Oisen came to announce Amhaziel’s arrival, Lethari was convinced he would never come to a decision without the soothsayer’s help.

Amhaziel Bilmadi has answered your summons, my Lord Lethari.

Send him in.

The old man was thin and leathery, the onyx-black hair of his youth gone white as a summer cloud. Oisen let him in and shut the door.

Amhaziel was muttering to himself as he shuffled across the room. "Oba, oba, siamach. Oba, siamach. Oba, oba…" he said, clasping Lethari by the hand.

When Lethari tried to pull away, the old man held on with an iron grip, patting his knuckles and repeating the words to comfort him. Hush, hush, quiet. Hush, quiet. Hush, hush…

I must know, Lethari said impatiently.

"You must find the silence in your spirit, said Amhaziel. He sat on the floor and brought Lethari down with him. He crossed his bony legs and spread Lethari’s fingers so their hands were resting palm to palm. Calm now. Calm now, and give heed to the skeins of the fates. Close. Lethari closed his eyes. My liege, my warleader, Lethari Prokin. Come, my eminent chief, son of lords and ancestor of kings. Come, blood of the sands, and know. Know them. See them. Yes, see them. You see beyond the limits of your ambition, and you will see beyond, farther still, where things obscured take form. My honored lord, heir to nations and figure of authority, see, and know." The soothsayer gripped Lethari’s wrists with fingers like shackles.

Lethari kept his eyes shut tight, straining to peer through the depths, exerting himself to see beyond the place where his vision failed. There was a flash of white lightning behind his eyelids, fleeting and gone in an instant. That instant had been enough for him to behold what the soothsayer had spoken of. I must choose, he said. Show me the outcome of my choices.

There is no outcome of moments. Only the moments themselves, said Amhaziel, his grip tightening around Lethari’s wrists. You must see the moments if you wish to know how they fall.

Lethari realized then that something was pinching him, squeezing at the tender skin beneath the heel of his palm. He didn’t open his eyes. He had begun to see beyond, and it would not do to break his concentration. Sweat beaded at his brow and dripped into his eyes, but he refused to give up. The darkness in his vision began to swirl and undulate, waves of ink pulsing into shapes and patterns, each one appearing and fading quicker than the last.

Do you see them? Amhaziel asked. Do you know them?

I see them. I know them.

We are seeing now with one mind, said Amhaziel. Be still, my liege, my warleader. Be still and listen, my eminent chief, son of lords and ancestor of kings. Listen to the things I tell you now, blood of the sands, and know them. I see a creature, both beast and man, walking alive with its innards spilled out. It has given of its meat and of its blood, that you may find glory. It will share more of itself yet; the man-beast will bring annihilation, and you will draw to yourself a great prize, when you come to the place where the orange light shines bolder still than the afternoon sky. And the man-beast will rise from the dust and return to it so that you may collect its offerings. And when lesser men learn of its sacrifice, they will envy it and resent you. But do not be discouraged, for the children are coming. The children of the beast and of the man. And they will become the children of the last generation, and the children will shake the land and the seas unto the very foundations of the world. And the pillars of the Aionach will shake with the burden of what has yet to come. Open.

Lethari opened his eyes. He had seen it all, just as Amhaziel had foretold it. Now he finally knew the things he must do. He had seen them, and he knew them. You have given me clarity, my friend. You must grant my flesh a new flaw to commemorate this day.

I will bestow upon you a powerful sigil, said Amhaziel. A new sigil, which no one before you has ever borne. The fates have written it in my mind’s sight. I have seen it, my liege, my eminent chief. I have seen it, as the light-star shines. Amhaziel drew his skiand, a small ceremonial knife with an engraved wooden handle. A thin, curved blade, etched with sigils of its own, flickered in the light of the oil lamps.

A candle was burning on Lethari’s sideboard. Amhaziel ran the blade’s edge along the flame and placed his other hand on Lethari’s chest, where there was an empty patch of skin just above the left nipple. When the old man opened his eyes, they gleamed from lid to lash like solid black gems. Amhaziel smiled at him through those eyes, but Lethari did not look away. Instead he set his jaw and waited for the pain.

What a sweet, pleasing pain it will be, thought Lethari. When he felt the first hot touch of the soothsayer’s knife, it was all he could do to keep silent.

CHAPTER 2

Waking the Father

Father Soleil. Father Soleil… can you hear me? Do you understand? Sister Bastille spoke softly as she attempted to summon the Order’s newest Cypriest from his medication-induced sleep.

Soleil’s eyes were open, but his gaze did not follow her when she moved. He stared up at the ceiling with glassy indifference, blinking every now and then.

Let him rest a while longer, said Brother Reynard. He’s had a rough time. These procedures are taxing, even when they’re performed in non-emergency situations.

Right enough, kind Brother, Bastille said. She’d had a rough time herself. She had performed a string of surgeries on the Order’s wounded that had kept her awake for days at a time. She was moving around the room like a drone now, conscious thought giving way to muscle memory. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d eaten, but she was past the point of hunger now. She needed sleep.

Sister Gallica whisked into the recovery room to corral Bastille as she was leaving Father Soleil’s bedside. The she-mutant was haggard, strands of her thin brown hair hanging over the boils surrounding her twisted mouth. Kind Sister Bastille. The Most Highly Esteemed would like a word, if you have a moment.

I have more than that, Bastille wanted to say, though I’ll have nightmares if your face is the last thing I see before I sleep. Anything for the Most Highly Esteemed, she said instead.

The basilica’s halls were cleaner than Sister Bastille had ever seen them. Not only had the Mothers removed all traces of the dozens who had bled and died there during the attack; Sister Gallica’s helpers had come after to scrub every inch of the stone from floor to ceiling until it shone like new. Bastille followed Gallica to the meeting chamber, where Brother Liero and Sister Dominique sat in their ornate high-backed chairs. With Soleil having been elevated to Cypriest, the fourth seat among the Most Highly Esteemed was empty.

Good afternoon, kind Sister, said Liero.

Kind Brother.

Let me begin by thanking you. You may think your activities over the past few days have gone unnoticed, but I assure you, we could not be more grateful for all you’ve done. This has been a trying time for all of us, but no one has worked harder or accomplished more for the Order than you have. You have filled Brother Soleil’s shoes admirably. He was taken to Father sooner than any of us expected, but it’s obvious how well his teachings prepared you for the many tasks and the great responsibilities that lay ahead of you. I see a worthy successor in you. We all do, Sister Bastille.

Who will fill Brother Soleil’s place among the Most High? she asked.

When Gallica smiled, her face contorted into something that looked more like a snarl. Why, Brother Froderic, of course.

Bastille nearly laughed. Only when she noticed the three high priests staring at her with straight faces did she realize it wasn’t a joke. Had she misheard? Brother Froderic was dead. She’d been there, in the labyrinth below the basilica, when the savage they called Lethari had drawn his great curved sword and severed Froderic’s head from his shoulders. The only other priest present at the time had been Brother Soleil. Since he was a Father now, that made Bastille the only remaining witness. I’m sorry… Brother Froderic, did you say? But he’s—

Due to return to us any day now, said Gallica. Brother Froderic has served the Order with great fervor for many years. He is the natural choice for elevation to the Most High.

I imagine it will be difficult for him to serve the Order without a head. Yes, of course. He is the natural choice…

The losses we sustained when the heathens invaded have stretched our resources thin, said Brother Liero. Much will be required from each of us in the days and weeks ahead. On that note, Sister Gallica tells us she’s spoken with you about your own future with the Order.

She has, Bastille said. When Gallica had caught her in the Catacombs beneath the conservatory, a place she wasn’t supposed to be, the last thing Bastille had expected was to be offered a position among the Esteemed. But that was exactly what the high priestess had proposed.

Liero smiled his froggy smile. Good. How long ago did you come to us, Sister Bastille?

It’s been about two years now, kind Brother.

Two years, he said thoughtfully. Splendid. You’re ready. You’ve been ready for some time now, truth be told. I want you to know that we’ve been considering you for the Esteemed since before the attack. The vacancies in the Order’s higher ranks have nothing to do with our decision. We believe in your abilities; you’ve earned this on your own merit, kind Sister. Consider this your official calling. Will you accept that calling, and choose to become an Esteemed Priestess of the Order?

Is refusal an option? she wanted to ask. With every fiber of my being… yes. Certainly, there were several fibers of Bastille’s being that wanted to run. Several more had serious doubts. But expressing doubt to the Most High was akin to facing down a stampeding herd of cattle. It was a good way to get oneself in trouble.

This makes my heart glad, said Liero.

Mine as well, Sister Dominique chimed in.

Bastille noticed the witch-woman was looking paler than usual. Her aches and pains must be acting up again, she decided. I anticipate my induction with a full heart and a humble spirit.

Liero’s smile disappeared. In the meantime, there are other matters to discuss.

Bastille hoped they could discuss these matters quickly, or she was apt to fall asleep where she stood.

A new crop of initiates will come through our gates in a few days’ time. Brother Froderic has arranged it.

Exhausted as she was, Bastille was beginning to doubt whether her memory served her true. How is it that a dead man managed to arrange the arrival of our newest recruits? she wondered.

Now more than ever, Liero continued, the future of the Cypriests falls upon you, Sister Bastille. You alone can harness the knowledge Soleil gave you and pass it on to your students.

Were you not aware that Sister Bastille’s entire class of acolytes has vanished? Gallica asked him.

I am quite aware of that, Liero snapped. Which is precisely why I must emphasize the need for fast identification and acquisition of the most promising new recruits. Sister Bastille shall have first choice of the acolytes this time around. Kind Sister, after the initiation cycle is complete, you may choose the three acolytes you deem most talented. Waste no time in your lessons. Make no concessions. None of your students must fall behind.

It will be done, kind Brother Liero, she promised.

Dominique straightened in her chair, folding her white-gloved hands on the table. "Where did those former pupils of yours get off to, Sister Bastille? They’ve not been seen since the attack, and their bodies were not found among the dead."

I fear I can give you no answer for that, said Bastille. She knew full well what had happened to Brother Mortial, Sister Adeleine, and Sister Jeanette. They had chosen to leave the Order. The Scarred Comrades had taken them through the labyrinth and escaped to the city north. Bastille could never tell a soul that she had allowed them to go.

Lying to the Most High twisted her up inside, but she didn’t feel quite so bad knowing they were lying right back to her about Brother Froderic. Why had they chosen a dead man to take the fourth seat? She hoped answers would be easier to come by once she was Esteemed.

It seems we’ve managed to lose track of a frightening number of people lately, Dominique said. This will not stand. Every priest and acolyte who travels beyond our walls only heightens the risk of another attack. And if that weren’t bad enough, the Order’s stores are at their lowest in years. We’re running out of goods to trade with the heathens—goods which have historically appeased them in times of stress and revolt. It seems our reserves have been squandered. I have little doubt this is due to Brother Froderic’s absence. I wait for his return with the sincerest hope that it’s not too late for him to set things right again.

Froderic was the very person responsible for the Order’s low reserves, Bastille knew. As the priest in charge of supplies and inventories, Froderic had enjoyed exclusive access to the storerooms. As Bastille had discovered, Froderic had enjoyed it a little too much. He was trading away our stores in exchange for sex slaves. His clandestine affairs are the very thing that killed him and impoverished us. I pray you have the right of it, kind Sister. We all await Froderic’s return anxiously.

Liero cleared his throat. We thank you for your testimony this morning, Sister Bastille, and we rejoice with you for having chosen the path of the Esteemed. Sister Gallica will see to the arrangement of your induction ceremony. Now, you’ve been standing there looking positively exhausted. I suggest you get some rest before the welcoming this afternoon. Your presence will of course be required when the new initiates come in. Brother Reynard’s team is more than capable of handling things in the infirmary while you’re away.

Thank you, kind Brother. Bastille exited the meeting chamber and trudged off toward her room, hoping to reach it without any other postponements. The basilica’s normal schedule had suffered in the wake of the attack—in her case especially. With no students to teach anymore, she had spent every waking moment performing either surgery or sacrifice. There had been far too many waking moments and far too few sleeping ones, in her opinion.

She’d made it to the dormitory hall with her bedchamber door in sight when someone slipped into view from around the corner. Daylight shone through the windows ahead, wreathing the figure in a bright halo. Bastille kept her eyes on her destination, praying that a curt greeting would be enough to get her by.

Kind Sister Bastille, called Brother Ephamar. The basilica’s head librarian was a stunted, plain-looking man with an altogether unremarkable affect. It’s so good to see you well. All this confusion has put me at my wit’s end. I’ve not seen you at the athenaeum in too long. You’ve been by to see us on Sister Helliot’s watch, no doubt.

She hadn’t. Bastille had once been a dedicated student of the scriptures, but recent events had turned her attentions to other things. Yes, I’m sure that’s it, she said.

How have you been faring in the midst of all this dreadful business? he asked.

I’ve been making new Cypriests since it happened, kind Brother, she said.

You—is it you who’s been aiding Soleil and Reynard? Oh, yes of course it is. Silly me.

Just Reynard, I’m afraid. Soleil is now a Father himself.

Oh, dear. Is he, now? I take that to mean his enhancements were a success?

Too early to tell. He’s resting at the moment. He’ll need more time to recover.

As you say, kind Sister. Ephamar gave her a polite smile.

Bastille was in no mood to carry on meaningless pleasantries. Let Ephamar get his gossip somewhere else. There were scant few hours left before the afternoon’s events—hours during which she intended to be dead to the world. If you’ll excuse me.

Ephamar nodded, looking somewhat hurt, and continued down the hall.

Bastille locked her bedchamber door and slipped out of her robes, letting them puddle on the floor. The sounds of shovels in hard dirt drifted through her window as the Mothers tended to their duties in the graveyard. She was too tired to let it bother her. She was half-asleep before her head hit the pillow.

Bastille had been having the same dream every night since she encountered the dark presence beneath the conservatory grotto. She was down in the Catacombs again, standing beside those great metal machines as stacks of paper fluttered behind her in some unseen wind, black and wet with mold. The face was looking out at her through the porthole window, its gaze so compelling it held her in place. Its eyes pierced her like knives, seeing through to her most vulnerable parts. She was terrified, yet she did not want to leave. She couldn’t break away, yet the feeling of being so exposed—so known—aroused her like a drug. She looked into those eyes and couldn’t turn away. Or maybe she didn’t want to.

She had been locked in that dream for what felt like hours when a knock on her bedchamber door jolted her awake. When she sat up, a steel ball rolled through her skull and crashed into her forehead. She was still so tired it felt like she’d only managed a few moments of sleep. The headache tore into her as she stood and shuffled to the door.

Brother Eustis’s bulbous nose and dimpled cheeks flushed when he saw Sister Bastille in her underclothes. Her headaches made her absent-minded sometimes, but she’d forgotten all about putting her robes on. She shied away behind the door, grunting with embarrassment. It was as though she’d woken from one bad dream only to find herself in another.

Apologies, kind Sister, said Brother Eustis, averting his eyes. The Fathers are preparing to escort the initiates in through the gates. Sister Gallica asked me to come fetch you out to the west yard for the welcoming ceremony.

Tell her I’ll be there shortly. She shut the door in his face, sat on the bed, and clutched her head in her hands. Her temples were pounding. Sleep usually alleviated her headaches, but today her short nap had only succeeding in bringing one on. There was no time to worry about how she felt.

Donning her ceremonial robes, Bastille ran a brush through her hair, tied it back, and lifted her hood. Her feet were unsteady beneath her as she walked the empty halls, the steel ball still rolling around inside her skull. The absence of others told her she must be very late indeed.

By the time she exited the basilica through its stained-glass front doors, the gates were open. Priests and acolytes lined the west yard, clustered beneath the building’s shadow in robes of purple velvet. Sister Larue was leading the new initiates through the gates. They passed between two opposite-facing rows of Cypriests standing at attention and halted before the Most High.

The initiates were as lean and unwashed as any group Bastille had ever seen. While most of the Order’s recruits were from South Belmond, the basilica saw the occasional arrival from some remote corner of the Aionach. That seemed to be the case today; one of the young men had the look of the eastern port cities, and Bastille immediately picked him out as a Farstrander. He strutted in like a spring rooster, wearing netted cloth and rope jewelry infused with beads and seashells. His eyes were wild and fierce, and his hair hung about his shoulders in thick tangled knots. Bastille guessed him from Yellow Harbor or Cowl’s Pier, a former ship’s hand or beachcomber searching for something more.

They’re all searching for something more, aren’t they? she thought bitterly, her head throbbing like a bruise. How many will be fortunate enough to discover that there is nothing more?

The gates were banded with new metalwork where Brother Jaquar and his artificers had reforged them. The hinges creaked as the Cypriests guided them to a close. Bastille remembered the day when she’d stood where these newcomers were standing now, watching the gates shut out the world behind them. Brother Froderic had given them a short speech as they waited in the old bus station down the street.

The Most High Order of the Infernal Mouth takes no hostages, Brother Froderic had said. There are no prisoners within our walls—only those who have chosen to be there. Choose now the way you will go. Leave here and walk in freedom… or follow the Mouth and walk in service for the rest of your days. The Mouth is the perfect enemy of all living things, and there is no mystery of life it cannot unravel. The Mouth blesses those who serve it and devours all else. If you enter our gates today, you will leave again only by the Order’s authority.

Bastille could still remember the long walk from the bus station to the basilica’s gates with piercing clarity. As they drew near, those high walls had risen like an omen, heightening her fear with every step. Bastille—then Lakalie Hestenblach—had reconsidered her decision several times during that walk. I could fall toward the back of the group and slip away into an alley or a side street, she remembered thinking. But she had come too far and endured too much to give up the dream she’d been holding onto for so long. On top of that, she’d had nowhere else to go.

After her father’s death, Bastille’s stepmother Carudith had redoubled her efforts to drive her away. Carudith had conceived three times during her marriage to Bastille’s father. Those pregnancies had ended in two stillbirths and an early miscarriage. As a result, there seemed to be no end to the resentment she bore toward her late husband’s daughter. Carudith would never let her return to Wynesring now. Never again would she behold the dusty rancher’s town beneath the shadow of those dark northern foothills. The basilica was her home now, for better or worse.

Even as she reminisced about her own uncertainty, Sister Bastille felt no pity for the initiates who stood before her now. Those who wished to pledge service to the Order must face the same trials as everyone before them.

The initiates formed a loose crowd in the center of the yard, rows of priests before them and Cypriests behind. Sister Larue whispered something to Brother Liero, who stepped forward to address them. His lavish purple robes were lined with gold embroidery and black velvet panels that swished when he moved. A deep pointed hood veiled his face in shadow.

Welcome all, said the high priest. You are here because you have chosen to dedicate your lives to the Most High Infernal Mouth. Doing so will require a great deal more than words, however. You will now confirm your belief in the Mouth and your devotion to our Order through the performance of the sacred rites. The initiation to follow will be a test of your obedience. Know that those who stand before you once stood in your place. They have earned their colors. Your path toward that prestige begins now. Brother Lambret, if you please.

Oh no. Bastille realized then what Brother Liero had meant when he said her presence was required for the welcoming. She’d been so tired she’d forgotten about the devouring ritual. Brother Soleil had always handled the necessary arrangements before. Bastille hadn’t accounted for all the responsibility Soleil had carried around here.

As Brother Lambret brought forth the items for the death ritual, Bastille slipped away and tiptoed along the basilica’s outer wall. Brother Liero raised his voice to pierce the yard’s quiet. Bastille froze, thinking he’d caught her out. When he began the ritual instead, she sighed and slipped around the corner. She could still hear him chanting as she snatched up her robes and darted through the south courtyards.

The steel ball crashed from side to side as she sped through the conservatory, bounded down the hallway, and rounded the cloister. Since there was no one around to question her propriety, she took the basement stairs three at a time. When she arrived in the silence of her preparation rooms, she realized there were no prosaic robes to change into. No matter, she told herself. I’ll be careful.

There wasn’t time to disrobe anyway, so she pushed up her pointed sleeves and began to work. The flesh was raw and recent, the blood profuse with every cut. How many initiates were there? she tried to remember. Eight? Nine? Her headache had been so severe she hadn’t noticed. She carved out ten strips of flesh, just to be safe. Her sleeves insisted on sliding down every time she moved, forcing her to push them up with her forearms. In the end, she wasn’t careful enough.

When she had laid the last strip of flesh onto its tray, she looked down at herself and was horrified at what she saw. Spatters of blood covered the front of her robes. The point of her left sleeve had somehow come to rest in the drainage trough and was drenched in crimson. What was more, her hands were sticky with blood and there was no water in the washbasin.

The Mouth, she breathed. What have I done?

Sweat was soaking through her robes by the time she rounded the basilica’s southwestern corner. She caught a few disapproving glances from her fellow priests as she slipped back into line. The initiates were scattered around the yard now, hard at work on the death ritual. A few had completed the task and were holding the broken bodies of the mice Brother Lambret had given them. Others were still working up the nerve, hands trembling. One girl had been clumsy enough to drop her prey and was chasing the tiny gray rodent across the yard.

Bastille was having trouble with her balance. She held the steel tray at waist level and tried to blink away the pounding behind her eyes. The mixture of blood and sweat on her palms was making the handles slippery. Blood trickled from the fresh cutlets and pooled at the tray’s edges, threatening to drip over the side.

It wasn’t until the last few initiates finished the ritual and resumed their places that Bastille realized she’d made a terrible mistake. There weren’t eight new initiates. There weren’t even nine or ten. There were eleven. She counted again. Eleven. How could I have miscounted? There were ten portions on the tray. Only ten.

In death, all life is hallowed, said Brother Liero.

In death, all life is hallowed, the members of the Order repeated.

Now, as the Mouth devours, so must you also. Sister Bastille… if you would.

Bastille shut her eyes. She could feel their scrutiny, imagine their stares settling on her bloodstained robes. I’ll be a laughing stock, she told herself. My first impression to the initiates will be as an incompetent.

Kind Sister, Liero repeated. If you would.

She came forward, praying her ten pieces of flesh might miraculously multiply. She received no such aid from the almighty Mouth. Each initiate took a chunk of meat between thumb and forefinger and peeled it from the tray as Bastille worked her way down the line.

When she came to the end, the haggard blonde woman waiting there lifted a hand. She gave Bastille a curious look when she saw there was nothing there for her to take. Thin rivulets of reddish fluid glistened on the bare metal. Bastille’s heart was pounding as hard as her head now. What a stupid fool you are, she scolded herself. Of all the days to slip up…

There was nothing to be done. Bastille gave the initiate a hard look, as though it was her fault for being the eleventh person in line. Blood dripped from the tray when she lowered it in one hand and retreated to stand with the other priests. When she turned around, the initiate had picked up her mouse and was waiting for Brother Liero to begin the devouring ritual. Liero gave the woman a strange glance before he continued.

Most High Infernal Mouth, by whom all is devoured, Liero began. We now consume these morsels as a token of homage. Leave us undevoured, we pray. He looked at the initiates. At his nod, they began to eat.

The mouse’s tiny bones made an audible crunch when the blonde woman bit into it. Bastille swore she saw a few of the priests shudder at the sound. The blonde woman was staring at her from across the yard as she chewed, a look that chilled Bastille to the core. I may never hear another word of this incident as long as I live, Bastille thought, but I’ll see it in their faces every time they look at me. My esteem will be forever marred by it. That is, if the Most High don’t rescind their offer and decide I’m not worthy to be esteemed after all.

Bastille didn’t think they would go that far. As long as she was the only living person who could perform the Enhancements, the Most High had it in their best interests to value her highly. What will they do after I’ve passed my knowledge on to someone else? she wondered. Gallica knows I was there when Froderic died. She knows how many of the Order’s secrets I’ve learned. If she can make Froderic disappear, she can do the same to me.

CHAPTER 3

Trace

The shepherd lay supine on the desert’s soft bed, the ground beside him stained scarlet, his breaths coming in shallow gasps. Grains of sand crawled along his body, marching like tiny yellow ants into the pair of bloody bullet holes in his clothes. The cipher was keeping him alive, but the cipher wouldn’t last much longer.

Jallika Weaver stared at him through the dusk as the light-star shrank to a shimmering red bead on the horizon. The shepherd would be dead before nightfall, she knew with certainty. She had slowed the deaths of many with her ciphers, but she had never garnered the power to stop them altogether. That was work for those who possessed different talents; the Bonemen in the far northern reaches, or the warlocks of the Clay Nomads in the western coastlands.

Willis Lokes stood on a nearby outcropping, his wide-brimmed hat in his hands, keeping watch over the desert—as if Weaver needed the help. Lokes turned when he felt her looking at him, gave her half a smirk, and resumed his vigil.

There was no one around for at least a horizon in every direction; Weaver could feel it in the sands. Thus, there was no need for Lokes to keep watch. But she let him do it all the same. He had better vision than anyone she’d ever met, so he might as well put it to good use. Besides, it made him feel useful, and feeling useful always seemed to keep him in a level mood.

He gonna make it? Lokes asked without looking over.

‘Course he ain’t, she said. You poked him too good for that. Better just hope he lives long enough to tell us where this Toler fella went.

You said that. Don’t gotta be reminded twelve different ways about one mistake.

Is that what you call a mistake? Them revolvers just… pull themselves out and do the killing for you?

Lokes’s face reddened. Yep. And they might just do it again, you don’t shut your mouth about it.

Weaver ignored the affront. The cipher’s taking. He’s breathing better. Might be he can talk now. Come here and help me with him, will you?

Together they propped the shepherd into a seated position against a slanted rock. He groaned when they moved him, but Weaver wasn’t too worried about aggravating his wounds. The cipher would hold. She stood up and looked him over.

The shepherd was thin and crooked. His hair fell past his ears in thick waves the color of damp oatmeal. His eyes were a dull green, his skin pale from blood loss. He sure don’t look like no shepherd, Weaver observed. Ain’t never seen one so scrawny.

Alright, Shep, said Lokes, still on his haunches beside the man. Time for words. You know where this Toler dway might ‘a gone off to, you said?

The shepherd opened his mouth to speak, but his face tightened into a grimace.

Lokes tried to coax him along. Whoops—there, there, now, Shep. Don’t choke on your tongue. That’s good. Fight through it. Say, you know what you remind me of? A duck. You ever seen a duck? Talk to me, ducky. Don’t let me think I done shot you for nothin’.

The shepherd squinted as though struggling to form a thought. He gave Lokes a hollow stare and spoke in a dry whisper. Unterberg.

Hah. One word’s all it took. He’s all yours, darlin’.

Ain’t you forgetting something? Weaver touched her chest and nodded toward the strange iron star hanging from Lokes’s neck.

Lokes looked down and smiled. Out of sight, out of mind, you know? He pulled it off and dangled it in front of the shepherd’s face. This looks like something important. What’s it all about, ducky? Hey… pay attention. Lokes slapped him, waking him from the alluring charms of sleep and death.

The shepherd blinked in shock, eyes rolling in his head. It was a moment before he focused on the three-pointed iron star, and another before recognition set in. It’s a key, he said.

Key to what?

Catacombs.

Ain’t never heard of no catty-cooms. What’s that?

Hidden places. Across the Inner East. Riches beyond count. Evils… beyond measure.

Evil riches? Lokes gave Weaver a mirthful glance. Hmm. Sounds like that ought to be worth a look-see. Where they at?

I only know… of one. In Belmond.

Lokes drew a revolver, lightning-quick. He pressed the barrel to the man’s forehead, where the luster of sweat announced the arrival of a fever. Specifics, if you’d be so kind.

Nothing in that one, choked the shepherd. Checked it myself. All… worthless.

I’ll be the judge of that. Lokes pointed the revolver at the man’s knee. We can make this as long-winded as we got to, ducky. Tell us your secrets.

A church. City south. Across from Union Park. The old fountain.

Ah. I know it, said Lokes. Crazy ol’ kooks in purple robes. High walls, old-fashioned weapons. Yeah, I know the place.

The shepherd nodded.

Weaver knew the place, too. Nobody who knew that place ever went near it. They said the men who guarded those soaring stone parapets were super-human somehow. They carried only crossbows, but they never missed. The cultists did emerge from time to time, but only to trade or gather new recruits. Weaver had heard other stories about them, too. Disturbing stories about human sacrifice. Cannibalism. Torture. Whatever went on inside those walls, she wanted no part of it, whether or not there were riches involved. She and Lokes’s money problems were their own fault, and they could solve them without taking risks that big.

Lokes seemed to share Weaver’s sentiment. He shook his head. That place is full-on spooky. Dangerous too, I heard. How’s a fella like you wind up in a nuthouse like that?

The shepherd smiled—with pain or humor, Weaver couldn’t tell. I… joined the Order.

Lokes guffawed. You’re kidding me. You ain’t no shepherd, you just a daggum fool who runs around with the crazies. You can’t pull one over on ol’ Lokes, now. Where them other catty-cooms at?

I was… looking. For the others.

That makes me innerested. Where was you fixin’ to look?

North, first.

Lokes brushed away the idea with a hand. Bah. Ain’t shit up north. Been there a hundred times. No riches or catty-cooms I ever seen. I reckon you’d ‘a been wasting your time.

The shepherd gave him a weak smile. Hidden things… no one has seen… since… before.

Since before what?

The shepherd’s eyes went cold. He let out a final breath and died.

What the—hey. Lokes slapped him again. Hey. Mister. Hello. Hello? He turned to Weaver. He done croaked already? Thought you said he weren’t gonna do that yet.

Weaver crossed her arms and thrust out a hip. That was before you done slapped him to death.

That cipher was supposed to close him up. Used to be you could do a better job in half the time. I reckon you’re slipping. He tapped his temple and gave her a condescending stare. He was provoking her, and she knew it. He knew just what to say to get under her skin.

I ain’t never promised you he was gonna live or he wasn’t. You shot him the way you shot him. Innards gonna do what they do. You puttin’ words in my mouth.

You keep running that mouth of yours…

Excuse me?

You heard me, he mumbled.

Anger boiled inside her. How many times I gotta tell you? I ain’t no doctor. I told you you’d better hope he lived. That weren’t no joke.

Lokes spat. He stood and kicked the shepherd’s body. Dumb coffing luck. I oughta quit being such a good shot. He gave her a cocky smile.

Weaver was in no mood to placate him. She turned away, evading his bid for attention. Sometimes she had trouble remembering why she had taken up with Lokes to begin with. The man who was now her lover and constant companion had been facing the hangman’s noose the day she found him, up for some string of petty crimes throughout the