Army of the Goddess: A Bona Dea Novel (Stormflies Book 2) (24 page)

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“He's asking for you, Madam,” Healer Gage's words struck discord between her heart and her duty.

Elder Tyrane was, in her mind's eyes, the most monstrous person on the entire planet, less a man and more a creature of deceit and darkness, like Lucifer from that ancient poem.

She held no desire to see him. She would feel satisfied when he no longer existed.

Her duties compelled her to honor his dying request, for she was the highest matriarch, the supreme womanly image of compassion.

He didn't deserve her respect because of his actions, not after causing the death and destruction of hundreds of lives.

Her internal duality resolved after several quiet moments staring unseeing through the western window of her personal office. Gage waited without intervention. It was not his decision to make.

Straightening her spine resolutely and raising her chin to exhibit confidence, despite the lack thereof, she spun on the balls of her feet toward Gage. “Take me to him.”

Frankly, she was surprised to learn that the Elder was alive after the onslaught, yet here he lay on the raised cot in the Healer's temporary infirmary in the Holds below the People's Hall. All of the remaining Prophets were brought here after being apprehended by the Elite during that dark night several days ago. She believed Tyrane dead after she ripped his Stormfly from him. Somehow, he survived, though he appeared withered and frail like dry grass.

The skin of his lips peeled and cracked. His face was the texture of ancient parchment, yellowed and brittle. She did not touch him but spoke directly to his mind.

I came. What do you want to say to me?
She did not intend to be polite and was grateful no one else would hear the disdain she flung at him.

Ileane?

That is no longer my name.

Child…
he addressed. The word felt affectionate when she expected condescension.
I wanted to protect the people.

I know your claims,
she cut him short, unwilling to listen to another iteration of the falsely noble explanation.

I am sorry
, Tyrane stated.
To all of your foremothers, and especially to you and your mother.

You intended to murder me. You murdered my mother. Your apology is not accepted.

Clouded eyes sought her out from hooded lids. Likely, his vision was weak or damaged from his relationship with the Goddess. The creature had plundered the resources of his body with complete disregard for his pain. The Goddess left him as a living corpse, useless and forsaken. A pinched sound struggled from his throat. Then his voice broadcast in her head again.

She is still free.

Not for long.

Under the curious watch of Healer Gage and his assistants, Axandra Saugray, Protectress, walked away from the bedside. From their point of view, there had been no conversation, only a scorned woman glaring at a dying man. They allowed her to leave without interference and continued to tend to the handful of Prophet patients still clinging to fragments of life in this windowless, concrete room. Administering palliative doses of pain inhibitors, the staff offered comfort to those who would assuredly expire within the next few days.

Tyrane's breathing sounded ragged and forced. The protruding sternum and ribs of the emaciated chest quivered from the strain, and the ancient man's heart beat an uneven rhythm that visibly punctuated the thin tissues still intact. Perhaps the Elder would be the first to pass. Surveying the patients, Gage pursed his lips into a stern knot and refrained from making further predictions on the order of death.

8
^th
Hexember (Turnsday)

Quinn Elgar sat at an outdoor table selecting jobs and work days from the local volunteer calendar when Ty Narone landed in a second chair and plunged directly into the topic on his mind.

”Do you remember seeing any children at the Prophet Haven?” Narone asked Elgar from across the wrought iron table on the veranda protruding from the back of the People's Hall. The wide, flat raised patio overlooked the drowsy garden. As the heat or summer rose throughout the day, living things found places to hid and sleep.

The two gentlemen shared an unusual meeting, one requested by Narone. The Commander of the Elite Guard brought with him a three-page report with the intent of enlightening Elgar to its contents. Although he accepted his orders from his only superior, the Protectress, Ty had not yet come to terms with Mr. Elgar's residence within the Palace. Quinn's continued presence caused the security officer a great deal of consternation. They rarely spoke to one another and behaved guardedly in each other's presence. Ty assumed Elgar's lack of communication meant the man was hiding something. Quinn described the Commander as reticent, when asked.

Quinn took several minutes to review his memories of the Haven, having only briefly visited the forsaken mountain home of the Prophets several months ago; and much of that time, he was occupied with caring for the injured Protectress. From the moment they stepped into the split mountain beneath the Great Storm, Quinn observed every detail, every step, every face, every doorway. Of the four hundred-thirty-odd Prophets living in the stone city, not one of them appeared to be less than thirty years old. No children, and no evidence of children.

He looked Ty in the eye. “No. I sure don't. Why? What's happening?”

Ty's copper eyes looked directly into his own. “This information cannot be disseminated beyond you, your wife, and myself. These pages describe the true age of the last living Prophets, with no progeny to replace them. According to what Healer Sampson is telling me, the Prophets lost their reproductive potential centuries ago, shortly after humans arrived here. They believe that harboring the Stormflies actually robbed them of their ability to procreate as well as extended their longevity. Those people are over three hundred years old.”

“That simply isn't possible,” Quinn scoffed, shaking his head. Scowling, he considered the theory with a high degree of doubt. He could not, however, shake the possibility completely, despite the words forced from his mouth. “Simply not possible. Human beings can't live more than one hundred twenty years, and that's if they have perfect genetics for it. Most of us are lucky to reach eighty-five. Three hundred isn't a human number.”

“Not on our own, but if you are assisting a species that can apparently live a good deal longer, is it possible for that species to increase your life-span, especially if they provide you with peculiar internal organs to alter your metabolism?” Ty exhibited an array of emotion uncommon for his character, and the fact that he seemed to believe the nonsense that spewed out of his mouth caused Quinn to consider the possibility, no matter how bizarre. Ty rarely gave himself over to any new notion without thorough research and deliberation. These behaviors made him an extraordinary security officer.

Quinn gestured for the papers. After Ty slid them across the table, Quinn scanned the text, latching onto the keywords “female reproductive failure,” “fetal miscarriages,” and “extinction.” “The Healers are serious about this? They truly believe the Prophets alive today are the same individuals that arrived on Bona Dea three hundred and eight years ago?”

“They do. They have both physical evidence from exams; and, when the Prophets were interviewed, they were able to describe things from the end of the Journey,” Ty explained. “At this point, there are only seven still alive, probably the youngest of the arrivals, those that may have been youths when they landed. Tyrane was the oldest, and had the most contact with the creatures. The Healers believe he was already on death's doorstep when he came up the hill that night. He managed to survive somehow, but he's unable to speak or respond at this point.

“I thought you might wish to know, since your wife happens to be of Prophet descent. And speaking of that topic, has she been told?” Ty referred to the very secret knowledge that the last mother of the Saugray family had been handled and impregnated by a Prophet man shortly after Protectress Elora achieved her office. The Prophets committed the crime in order to breed the ultimate vessel for their master Stormfly, the creature that dwelled in each Protectress successively throughout their history, shaping her decisions and actions to manipulate the people into a form for their use. A handful knew this truth, and they kept the secret for fear of public uprising. No one would easily accept that their people had been molded into fodder for a starving race of parasites. Public knowledge of the Protectress' infestation by one of the parasites brought critical scrutiny as it was.

“That she's a Prophet by blood? I haven't told her, but she's been able to deduce as much from recent events and apparently some old memories. She assumes that Patrum was her father and has decided he left their order in an effort to cleanse his conscience. There isn't much that can be kept from her, you know,” Quinn explained, tapping his temple for emphasis. “Not with her mind-power. That makes her the only Prophet born in three hundred years, if this information is correct.”

“Incorrect. All of her mothers are the offspring of Prophets. According to new information in this report, they've been supplementing their race through her family since Amelia became the first Protectress,” Narone pointed out.

“Wouldn't that be incest?” Quinn shivered at the repulsive concept. “I suppose that would depend on how many different genetic lines exist among the Prophets, and how many volunteers committed the deed. We won't find any written evidence of that. Bloody hell! How do you explain that to someone? Especially if her life is already a wreck.” Quinn stroked a hand down his face as though to wipe off a sheen of perspiration. “It doesn't make one lick of sense, but those
bastards
…” He couldn't go on with the thought. At least the Prophets would disappear and the troubles with them would end. If only the Stormflies disappeared as easily.

“My guess is that you don't,” Ty stated flatly.

“But eventually she'll figure it out even if we don't tell her. She's curious and crafty. She'll be furious if she finds out I know something I haven't shared. Can I have this? Before I find an appropriate moment to tell her, I need to have all the facts. I wonder…” Folding the paper in hand, Quinn tapped the corner of the pages on the table in thought. Where could he dig for more information on Axandra's family? Would there be any local information recorded to prove what the Healers alleged?

“If you'll excuse me, Ty, I'm going to bother the Archivists.”

“Before you go, there is something else,” Ty hesitated, an index finger raised.

Dragging a hand down his frowning face, Quinn eased back into his chair and waited to hear something else unbelievable.

“Six of those last seven are infected,” Ty accused. “They are harboring Stormflies, and they've escaped, all except Tyrane. He isn't well enough to move. We're not certain how the others managed.”

“Unbelievable…What about the rest of the Stormflies. Do we have them under control yet?”

“The Healers are working collecting the known specimens. Workers are digging and pouring new cellars for detainment and volunteers are being gathered up for round the clock monitoring…for as far into the future as we continue to exist on Bona Dea. We cannot determine if we have all of the creatures accounted for.”

“They'll come back for her. The Goddess is holding a very deep grudge.”

“Yes, but we won't know until the worst happens. We don't have any method to find them before the come again.”

“Indeed, Commander. Indeed.”

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Prompted by the Healer Assembly's report, Quinn began inspecting the Protectresship records for miscarriages by the Saugray women. If the Prophet women were unable to carry successful pregnancies, was this inability passed on to the Protectress, subsequently leading to the trend to have but one daughter per generation? The official archives didn't hold any such records, but then again, these recordings detailed publicly known official events: birth announcements, bonding ceremonies, travel journals, and council actions. For instance, he was able to find Axandra's birth announcement on the 10th Trecember, 279, an exquisitely illuminated page in the book detailing the time, weight, and given name of the newborn female. He found himself delighted to see the information, doting that she was a wee two-and-three-quarters kilos and made her debut at near three in the morning during a blizzard.

However, the specific medical information he desired was probably only recorded in the Healer's archives, which were kept in a vault next to the Healer's Palace exam suite. Quinn would need to obtain special permission in order to inspect that information. He would have to compose a strong argument for being allowed such access without inquiring with the current Protectress. The privacy of one's personal and familial medical history was kept under strict code.

Healer Phineas Gage accepted the inquiry under the condition that the Healer himself would review the records and report any findings. What Quinn received a few days later was a report that showed each Protectress experienced at least one miscarriage, and most of them experienced several before a successful pregnancy carried to term. Several of the past Healers remarked upon the evident hereditary nature of the miscarriages, though none proposed a specific syndrome or disease that caused the reproductive failure. At least not within the notes Gage provided. The only person with the authority to read the full records was Axandra herself, since this was her family medical history.

Quinn wrestled with this knowledge for several days. He loved Axandra dearly, and he didn't wish her any more distress. Ever since the abduction, she suffered insomnia, nightmares, depression, and anxiety attacks. The latest round of Stormfly attacks, the death and destruction, only exacerbated these symptoms. Being told the side effects of her deviant origins may very well disintegrate what remained of her tenuous emotional stability.

Now that they were bonded, Axandra had already spoken about children in their future, hoping to break with the curious tradition of one daughter and raise two or three. Being told that conceiving and carrying a pregnancy through would be incredibly difficult for her, considering the family history, might break her heart even more. The remnants of the emotional organ were already few and fragile. Feeling his own disappointment sharply in his chest, he feared the damage the news would bring to his wife.

He needed time to compose the words he would say, because as soon as she started to cry, he would lose his concentration. He didn't want to hurt her anymore, but he'd rather speak the words than let anyone else do it. He would have to be comforting as well, or ready to face a fiery wrath. Still learning her moods and reactions, he didn't know which to expect first.

Sadness crept up through his lungs, interrupting his heart rate, flushing his skin with hot and cold simultaneously. He imagined his children, how they would look and what they would love. That dream faded a little around the edges. The faces were harder to see now. Perhaps one day, a child would come to them, perhaps by a pregnancy, perhaps by adoption. Even in their almost perfect world, accidents happened and children were left parentless and without other family. What an example they would set bringing one of these lost children into their family! There was no way to imagine what that child might look like.

Whatever the outcome, Quinn was determined to make sure that Axandra understood how much he loved her and that he didn't plan on going anywhere without her.

Hexember 13
^th
, 308 (Hundsday)

“I have some ideas for rebuilding the People's Hall,” Axandra stated as she sat down with Antonette Lelle and Homer Spirton, the two heading the rebuilding project. “There are a few changes I think would update the building and make it more welcoming. A complaint I've heard here and there is that the People's Hall is sullen and unfriendly.”

Homer arched his eyebrows as he stabbed his fork into lunch. “For once, we agree on something.”

“Oh, wonderful,” Axandra smirked. Homer notoriously bickered, often for the sake of bickering. It was a pastime he enjoyed in his sunset years, for he had no desire to comply with anyone's opinion but his own. “One feature I believe we should build in is a welcoming room, a place for myself, the councilors and others to sit with guests in a comfortable setting. I also believe the Residence should be expanded. There are only two bedrooms, and if I'm going to have a family, we may need one or two more.”

“A family?”

Both Homer and Annie looked surprised, as though the thought hadn't even crossed their minds.

“Well, yes. Quinn and I
might
like a few children,” she emphasized “might” with an undercurrent of doubt. “I know traditionally, the Protectress only gave birth to one per generation, but I'm going to continue to break with tradition, to keep up consistency,” she half-joked. Understanding the reasons why the Protectress only ever had one daughter, changing that “tradition” fell into a place of deep importance. These children would belong to her husband, not some Prophet seducer. “I'm not sure why that should be a surprise.”

“Well,” Homer blubbered with embarrassment. “I really didn't believe that you were interested in a family. You're already older and—”

“Homer, stop digging your hole,” Annie rolled her eyes. “Woman-to-woman, Madam, you just don't seem like the motherly type.”

“Oh,” Axandra lacked any other words in response to the negative comment. She felt her shoulders roll back, puffing her chest defensively. “What exactly does a motherly type look like?”

“It's just a feeling I get from certain people,” Annie explained. “And some women are just not suited to having children. I don't mean to offend you, Madam.”