Like Fire Through Bone (9 page)

“So for how long have you known General Markos?” he asked Ilkay.

“Oh, ages and ages.” Ilkay smiled over the rim of his teacup. “He was an up-and-coming officer when we first met at court. That was long ago, before he’d married his first wife.”

Markos smiled. “Ilkay was the gossip of the court, at the time, for being outrageously outspoken.”

“People never stopped gossiping about me because of that,” Ilkay pointed out smiling, voice rich with dry humor.

“And I met Theofilos after he came to court and was kept on by the late Emperor,” Markos told Vasilios.

Across the garden, Phyllis swung open the gate and came down the path toward them. “Theofilos Yalim, a boy just came with a message for you,” she said, holding out a folded piece of paper.

Theofilos stood, took the paper and read it, then turned to Markos. “I’m sorry to say that Ilkay and I need to depart,” he said. “Something’s come up.”

Markos stood, as did Ilkay, who came around the table and pulled his scarf up to cover his head. Vasilios quickly stood as well and stayed next to the table, unsure whether he should kneel or not.

“I will speak with you both again later,” Markos said, and Theofilos nodded, expression serious, before turning to Vasilios.

“It was a pleasure meeting you, Vasilios Eleni,” Theofilos said, voice grave, looking up at him. “I hope we will speak again soon. Until then, God’s blessings on your house.”

“And on yours.” Vasilios bowed deeply to him.

“I am very glad to have met you, Vasilios.” Ilkay gave him a long, calculating look Vasilios couldn’t quite read, and then he smiled at Vasilios and bowed low, much to Vasilios’s mortification.

“No, the honor was all mine.” Vasilios bowed in return. “And God’s blessing on your house.”

“And yours.” Ilkay turned away with a faint smile and linked his arm in Theofilos’s as the two crossed the garden and went into the house.

“I should be going as well. Unless there was something else you wished for me to do?” Vasilios asked Markos, keeping his eyes on the ground. He heard Markos sigh.

“No, I…. No. I hope to speak with you soon as well,” he said, his expression troubled, and Vasilios bit down hard on the inside of his cheek to keep from asking what was wrong. Instead, he bowed deeply to Markos.

“God’s blessings be on your house, my lord General Markos.”

“And on you, Vasilios Eleni,” Markos said, and when Vasilios glanced up at him, Markos still looked troubled and sad.

On a complete and sudden impulse, Vasilios reached out and lightly touched the back of Markos’s hand. “Be well,” he said, voice soft, and then he jerked his hand back, absolutely appalled. He bolted for the doorway back into the house as fast as he could without actually running. Phyllis was working in the kitchen but came out when she saw him and escorted him back through the house and out the front door.

“God’s blessing on your house,” he told her, before turning and heading for the street, cursing silently.

He chastised himself all the way back to Panagiotis’s house.

T
HE
dream came two nights later. It felt like drowning, like he was being held underwater with a pressure on his chest pushing him down. He struggled, vaguely aware that he was asleep and not actually drowning, and he tried to wake. Then there was the sound of a baby crying, and he
knew
. The building, an old abandoned church, had rusted metal grates over the windows with plants goring and twisting around them. Other plants grew through the cracks in the mosaic floor and choked out the tiles so he could no longer tell what it had once depicted. A large stone basin for baptism sat near the altar, and a figure stood next to it, holding a naked baby in its arms, as if about to actually baptize the child.

There was water in the basin, rainwater with fallen leaves floating in it that looked black in the darkness. It had to be night outside, Vasilios thought, where he stood frozen in the main body of the chapel, right below the steps to the altar.

Slowly, oh so slowly, he forced his head up and back to look at the domed roof that now had large holes where part of it had fallen away. He could see the moon and stars through a particularly large gap. Shreds of gray cloud floated across the moon as he watched. A cool breeze picked up, blowing through the abandoned church, and the child cried again, a long, terrified wail. Vasilios tried to move his hands and make his feet work. The child was going to die. He needed to do something, save the baby, but first he needed to
move
.

The pressure on his chest increased, and Vasilios gasped for air, struggling to flex his fingers, get control over his legs, even turn his head. He could hear his own heart beating wildly in his chest, and the baby’s cries grew louder and more urgent. Vasilios redoubled his efforts and pushed against whatever held him. His muscles ached and screamed, and everything felt too real to possibly be a dream. Vasilios threw himself frantically toward the baby, wanting to scream, but not able to even move his mouth. Then there was the feeling of something breaking, much like a time when he’d been young and he had gotten tangled in a fine linen curtain and torn the whole thing down with him.

His knees hit the tiled floor with a sickening crack, and his hands scraped across hard stone. He gasped for breath. On the altar, the child gave one more long wail and then went silent. Vasilios pressed his eyes closed and felt himself fall.

He woke, tangled in his bedsheets, weeping and breathing hard, harsh pants of breath that made him light-headed. Almost falling out of bed, he didn’t quite make it to the basin before he threw up violently, over and over again, until he had nothing left in him. He lay on the floor, looked up at the ceiling, and tried not to think or feel.

Finally, when he felt like he could move without retching, he got up, stripped out of his sleeping clothes, and pulled on the first long tunic he found in his clothes chest. The servants were all asleep, so Vasilios fetched a bucket of water and a cloth to clean up his own mess. After that was done, he put on a pair of slippers and pulled a scarf over his head. He fetched a lamp and headed for the main gate.

Eòran was speaking to the young guard at the front gate when Vasilios approached them.

“Vasilios.” The young man turned, sounding surprised. “What are you doing here at this time of night?”

Vasilios froze, totally unsure of what to say, and Eòran put a hand on the young man’s arm. “Let him through,” he said, voice calm but commanding. The young guard glanced between the two of them and then obeyed.

“Thank you,” Vasilios said, voice low as he passed by Eòran.

“The Fates gave you a gift.” Eòran shrugged as if it was that simple. “You do as you need to.”

Vasilios nodded and stepped out into the street.

It had been eerie traveling through the nearly deserted streets the last time a dream had forced Vasilios to pay Markos a visit. Tonight, though, there was no one out but him. The lamp he carried did not light more than a small space of the road in front of him, and Vasilios began to think this had not been a wise move. Here, this close to the Emperor’s palace, the streets were relatively safe. Still, Vasilios knew he made a far too tempting target in his fine clothes and the headscarf that clearly marked him as a eunuch and, therefore, unarmed.

He quickened his pace, keeping his eyes firmly fixed on the road ahead until he saw the gate to Markos’s house. Almost running the last couple of paces, he pressed against the gate and got a confused look from the soldier on the other side.

“I must speak with General Markos,” he said to the soldier. “It is of the utmost urgency.”

For a moment, he thought he was going to be turned away, but then the soldier nodded and headed for the house.

A few minutes later, he came back and opened the gate for Vasilios, then ushered him through. Instead of Phyllis meeting him at the door, the guard opened that too.

“General Markos says to meet him in the receiving room you’ve been in before,” the soldier told him. “He said you’d know the way.”

Vasilios nodded, blowing out his lamp as he stepped into the house. “Thank you.”

He headed down the hall, stopped at the door to the receiving room, and pushed it open.

Markos stood from where he’d been sitting on the couch, looking tired and rumpled enough to make Vasilios wonder if he’d gone to bed at all that night. He was fully dressed in Northern-style trousers and short tunic. His hair stood on end, like he’d been running his fingers through it again without noticing.

“What happened?” Markos asked before Vasilios could bow or kneel or even pull off the scarf still covering his head.

“I had another dream,” Vasilios said. “Another baby died. We were in a church this time, an old abandoned one, overgrown by weeds and with holes in the ceiling. There was a large stone basin built into the front by the altar, for baptism, I think.”

“All right, let me write this down. I need to send a message off to Ilkay and the Bishop.” Markos moved to his desk and sat. He pulled a fresh sheet of parchment toward him. “Could you tell where this church was?”

Vasilios thought about it. “Not in the desert. There were too many plants growing for that. And I couldn’t smell the river, although since it was a dream, that might mean nothing. There was some kind of mosaic on the floor, I think, although almost completely destroyed. I think the roof may have been made out of common clay tile, not gold leafed.”

Markos nodded and wrote.

“It was small,” Vasilios continued. “There was no furniture left inside. Also, we must have been someplace where no one would respond to the sound of a child crying.”

“Anything else?” Markos looked grim, and Vasilios shook his head.

“Not that I can remember right now.”

Markos nodded and wrote a few more lines before starting to copy the whole thing over on another piece of parchment.

“Stay here,” he said, finally standing and turning toward Vasilios and the door. “And for God’s sake, sit.”

Vasilios nodded and sank onto the couch while Markos passed him and stepped out into the hall.

Time passed, Vasilios wasn’t sure how long, although it was long enough for him to start nodding off. Then the door pushed open, and Markos came back into the room.

“What do we do now?” Vasilios asked.

“We wait.” Markos walked over to his writing desk and sank down onto the chair. “I’m expecting a message from the Bishop, then… we’ll see.”

Vasilios nodded, clenching and unclenching his hands in his lap, feeling a mixture of exhaustion, nerves, and confusion twisting at the bottom of his stomach.

A knock came at the door, and Markos went over and opened it. He took the note handed to him by a young soldier in full uniform.

“Is it from the Bishop?” Vasilios asked, standing, his hands clenched tightly together.

“Yes.” Markos nodded. He read it through and then put it on the desk. “I need to leave. We think we know where the demon is hiding, and he is planning on casting it out tonight.”

“Oh, yes, of course.” Vasilios didn’t quite know what to do.

“I’m going to have a soldier walk you home,” Markos told him, then stopped, hand on the door handle, and gave Vasilios a rather tired smile. “Try and get some rest, and hopefully this will all be over soon.”

Vasilios didn’t have time to answer before Markos was gone. After a moment, he too went to the door, pushed it open, and walked out into the hall. The young soldier who’d given Markos the note was standing there.

“Are you Vasilios Eleni?” he asked, and when Vasilios nodded, he smiled, making dimples appear in both his cheeks. “General Markos said I am to escort you home.”

Vasilios considered rejecting the offer, then remembered what it had been like to walk alone in the dark. “Thank you,” he said finally, relighting his lamp, which was sitting on a small table by the door. Then he pulled his scarf over his head.

The young soldier walked beside him back to Panagiotis’s house, which felt strange, since Vasilios was used to walking a few paces behind whoever he was with.

“So how long have you known the General?” the soldier asked, and Vasilios looked up at him in surprise.

“Oh, a few years.”

“He must think very highly of you,” the young man said, “to see you like that in the middle of the night and then act on your say.”

Vasilios looked away, biting his lip a little. “I don’t know what he thinks of me,” he said finally, voice soft. “He is a kind and generous man, but I think in this instance, it was my information, more than who that information came from, which swayed him.”

They came to Panagiotis’s sprawling villa complex, and the guard at the gate saluted the young soldier before letting Vasilios back in.

“Thank you.” Once in the courtyard, Vasilios turned to the soldier still standing on the street.

The young soldier shook his head. “It was nothing. May God’s blessing be on your house.”

“And yours.” Vasilios watched him walk back down the street, and then he turned and headed into the villa.

He spent the rest of the night worrying and pacing back and forth across his room. Finally as the sun began to turn the sky an early- morning pale blue with hints of gray, Vasilios washed his face and tried to make himself presentable to start the day.

When he could hide no longer and could hear servants moving through the house, he left his room. He headed down to the kitchens to oversee preparations for the morning meal.

H
E
AND
two of the other servants were inventorying the grain supplies that afternoon, when the serving boy came looking for him.

“Master wants to speak with you, Vasilios,” the boy said, slightly out of breath, and bowed deeply.

Vasilios frowned a little and then set aside the tablet he’d been making notes on. “Where is our master?”

“In the blue receiving room,” the boy said, and Vasilios turned back to the other servants.

“Continue with the inventory, and make a mark on the tablet here for every full storage bin we have, and a mark here for every partly filled one, and one here for the empty ones. Then bring it to our mistress.”