No True Way (24 page)

Liana found herself falling into her old routine, automatically following orders, her mind gone numb and uncaring while her body did what was needed. She carried water from a well behind the cabin, lit a fire, made a poultice from some herbs in the kit, and tended the Herald's wounds. As far as she could tell, his injuries weren't all that severe. Probably just suffering from a hard bash on the head.

After she'd seen to the Herald, she'd filled the bed frame with soft grass and covered the grass with blankets that had somehow managed to stay free of mice. She'd even made a bed for herself.

And she'd done it all before the sun disappeared for the night.

Now all she had to do was get the unconscious man inside.

Liana positioned herself behind the Herald and reached down to grab his shoulders. She'd have to drag him . . .

:You've done your part, and done it well
,: the Companion said.
:Now I'll do mine
.:

She straightened with a groan and stepped aside, wondering how such a big animal thought he was going to fit through a door meant for a man.

Evidently, the Companion had a different plan. The huge white horse stood still, staring at the Herald, blue eyes so intent they glowed. The world seemed to hold its breath. Even the gnats that had been buzzing around Liana's head grew quiet.

The Herald groaned.

The Companion stepped closer and nuzzled the man,
softly at first, then more insistently. To Liana's surprise, the Herald reached up and scratched the horse's nose, muttering something in a language she couldn't understand. Then the Herald opened his eyes and looked at her. Liana stood, transfixed by the emerald gaze, a gaze more intense than the Companion's.

“Bolan says I'm supposed to thank you for taking care of me,” the Herald said in Karsite.

“'E's the one you should be thankin'—”

A shrill cry split the air, and the raven sailed over Liana's head so close she could feel the breeze tickle her hair as he passed. The raven cried again. A squirrel took up the alarm from somewhere high in the trees behind the cabin.

:Get inside.:

Liana helped the Herald to his feet, pulled him into the cabin, and sat him down on the bed. She turned to bolt the door, catching a glimpse of white as the Companion spun on his haunches. Beyond the white horse, a horde of mercenaries flooded into the clearing, their swords gleaming in the fading light.

Liana pressed the back of her hand against her mouth and tried not to scream, fighting against the urge to tear the door open and run for her life.

Before she'd been taken, she used to be one of the fastest runners in her village, delighting in racing around town, her red hair blowing about so freely her mother likened her to a wild flame.

A sob choked her throat. She leaned the top of her head against the door and wrapped her arms around her stomach. Her mother was dead, burned alive after her father's throat had been slashed.
She
was the mother now, a girl barely old enough to be called woman.

She
could
run, though she wouldn't be as swift as she used to be. While the Tedrels were distracted by the Companion, she could slip out the door and around the side of the cabin, disappear among the trees.

“It's okay if you want to go.”

Liana's heart skipped a beat, and her face grew hot. Could the Herald read her mind?

“Bolan can handle these thugs, and I'll be all right now that I've got my head back on straight.”

Liana stared at him. “Yer still not right in the noggin, suggestin' I leave ye here ta fight with nothing but a horse and an itty-bitty knife.”

The Herald's laugh made her feel as though she'd said something foolish. Liana glared over her shoulder at the man sitting on the bed she'd so carefully prepared. He jerked his chin at the door. “Take a look.”

Only a fool would open the door with a battle going on outside, and she never had been a fool. Innocent, yes, but never a fool.

The Herald's face went blank for a second, then he gave her a lopsided grin. “Go ahead and take a look.”

Liana frowned as she opened the door just enough to peer out. She blinked, trying to understand what she was seeing.

Over a dozen men surrounded the Companion near the center of the clearing. As she watched, one flew through the air as if he'd been thrown. Another went down as though he'd been struck by a falling boulder.

The legends are right
, she realized. The Companion was a whirling, biting, kicking
demon
, head snaking out to bite as his hooves slashed through the air, catching one attacker in the chest, another in the head, then
spinning impossibly fast to catch the other attackers before they could reach him with their swords.

Hope surged through her, so hot and sweet her eyes began to burn, a feeling she hadn't felt in way too long. She turned back to the Herald, then stopped as she saw a new group of Tedrels pour into the clearing.

The hope melted away, replaced by an anger so fierce Liana felt as if she'd turned into a different person. “Ain't fair,” she growled, glaring out the door at the newcomers. There had to be something she could do.

The Herald stood up, all traces of laughter gone from his face. He grabbed the hunting knife and headed toward her.

As if answering her anger, pain grabbed Liana in its fierce grip, doubling her over. The room spun and memories flashed through her mind—visions of a laughing child she almost didn't recognize as herself, playing with the forest animals and never getting lost or being scared.

Understanding stabbed her mind as the pain deepened. She pictured the raven who'd led her away from the camp and sent out a wordless plea.

The image faded along with the memories, leaving her alone with the pain.

“Maybe you should sit down,” the Herald said. Liana looked down at his hand on her arm. She took a deep breath and straightened.

“I'll be okay. I still got a month ta go.”

He gave a quick nod, his grim face pale as his Companion's hide. “Move aside. Bolan needs me.”

Liana shifted her weight and moved away from the door. The Herald cracked it open and uttered a cry.

Screams came through the open door, sounds of
terror and pain. Human sounds mingled with sounds she couldn't quite identify. Liana tried to see around the Herald, but the man wasn't moving. She finally reached around him and pulled the door open wider.

A cloud of black feathers, sharp beaks, and sharper claws had descended on the newcomers. Liana stared in astonishment as the birds—blackbirds, ravens and crows—chased one screaming man from the clearing, then another, in a violent dance that ended almost as abruptly as it had started.

She slipped outside before the Herald could stop her and instinctively held out her arm.

Feathers whispered in the air, and the raven landed, gently gripping her arm with bloodied claws. He tilted his head and peered at Liana with first one eye and then the other.

Liana tilted her head, mimicking his movement. “Thank ye,” she whispered. The raven bobbed his head, then took flight, circling once before flying off into the trees.

The rest of the birds followed.

Even in the growing dark, the clearing looked and smelled like a battlefield, with bodies scattered throughout the trampled grass, the scent of fresh blood lingering in the air. Bolan trotted to them, his tail raised like a proud flag. Scarlet blood striped his white coat in several places, but the Herald reported that all the Companion's wounds were superficial.

Liana stared at the blood, memories flashing through her mind once again—gaping wounds, pools of darkened blood, the gagging stench of burning flesh . . . memories that had haunted her for almost a year. She gasped and bent over as pain burned through her belly, pressing
both hands tight to her ribs. Out of the corner of her eye she could see alarm spread over the Herald's face.

“Is it time?” he asked, his voice slightly shaky.

Liana shook her head, trying to steady her breathing and failing. It felt as though someone had filled a kirtle with coals, wrapped it around her belly, and yanked hard on the laces. Panic grabbed her throat, threatening to strangle her.

It couldn't be her time. Not yet. She still had a month to go. Besides, she needed a midwife to attend her. A priest to bear witness. Otherwise she would die.

The pain eased, allowing Liana to stand straight. She tried to smile. “Too much . . .”

Another pain knifed through her belly and she gasped, unable to hold back a small cry. Warmth flooded down her legs. She stared at the puddle growing on the floor, then looked up at the Herald in confusion. “I think . . .”

The world faded to a single point of pure white agony, unlike any pain she'd ever felt before, and suddenly, Liana wasn't in the tiny cabin, she was back in her village . . .

. . . Gleaming swords streaked with scarlet . . .

. . . Her uncle sprawled in the dirt next to her father . . .

. . . Hands—her hands—coated in the blood flowing from Father's throat . . .

Someone screamed in the distance as Liana watched the puddle surrounding her feet spread across the stone floor. Another scream grew louder and louder until she realized that she was the one screaming. Panic flared in her chest.

She was dying.

The monster that'd been growing inside her for eight months was eating her from the inside out. Liana tore at
her shift with broken fingernails, trying to loosen the pressure that stole the very breath from her body.

She'd seen a girl not much older than she was die in childbirth two months ago, a girl who'd been raped and beaten until she moved around camp like a scared dog, never looking anyone in the eye, never smiling.

Liana had been raped and beaten the way that girl had been, and now she would die the way that girl had died, bloody and alone.

A hand fell on her arm, and she screamed again, shoving away from the man looming in front of her. His mouth moved, but she couldn't hear his words, just the noise pouring from her own mouth, mingling with her fear, her horror. She tasted the blood in her mouth, smelled Death hiding close by . . .

:Stop.:

The command jolted through her body, staying Liana's hand and silencing her screams. She blinked, clearing her eyes as if wakening from sleep.

“It's going to be all right,” the Herald said.

She glanced around, confused to find herself in a small cabin . . .

:A Waystation.:

. . . with a strange man . . .

:Herald Reneth. You need to walk.:

Liana frowned down at her hands and slowly let go of her shift.

The Herald smiled at her, his emerald eyes gleaming. “If Bolan says you should walk, you should probably walk.”

Walk?
“Tell
Bolan
, that 'e can go—” Again, pain grabbed Liana in its white-hot grip, crushing her belly into a boulder. Pressure mounted between her legs, and she found herself squatting in the middle of the room.

“It's killing me . . .” she gasped. Not only was she giving birth to a monster, her own body had turned traitor. Too much more of this, and her guts would be joining the wet puddle on the floor.

Suddenly she had an insane vision of Grunt as tall as the trees, reaching down through the roof of the cabin, grabbing her around the belly, and squeezing the life out of her.

The beast had killed a chicken in front of her. Picked the poor bird up in one hand and squeezed its neck until its wings stopped flapping and its feet stopped kicking and the bird dangled lifelessly in his hand.

Then he'd carelessly tossed it in her lap and left . . .

Liana's throat closed. She took a great, shuddering breath and almost choked on her own stench—the stink of sweat mingled with a terror she could barely contain. Her hands tingled, and she couldn't catch her breath, and suddenly she was living the nightmare she'd had ever since the baby's first kick—giving birth to a monster that looked like Grunt, only it had two heads and a forked tail, a monster that would follow in the footsteps of its father, growing up to pillage villages, raping children and devouring babies . . .

:You worry for naught,:
the voice said.
:I would teach you to let go of your fear, but there is no time. I will help—if you'll let me.:

A knot untied somewhere inside her, and Liana felt herself drifting. A soft blanket draped down over the nightmare, blotting out the terror and wrapping her in warmth.

And through the warmth she felt a presence . . . innocent and scared. And behind that presence was another, also innocent and scared.

:Not a two-headed monster. Twins.:

Twins?

Time melted into a blur of muted pain, interspersed with flashes of Herald Reneth bending over her. The voice kept her calm and somehow helped with the pain.

When she heard the first weak cry, Liana mumbled something about not being able to do it again, and once again everything blurred.

She'd almost given up hope when she finally heard the second cry.

Then the crying stopped.

Liana fought to clear the fog from her mind, frantic to find—to hold—her babies.

A warm bundle slipped into her arms, then another.

She
felt
the innocence deep in her bones.

Looked into one wrinkled red face, then the other.

And slipped into a deep, peaceful sleep.

Rosemary Edghill and
Rebecca Fox

The western heights of Karse were poor and windy. Fields were small, their yields meager. The few scattered villages of the district eked out their livings through the sheep and goats they herded, and the Sunpriests who lived among them lived as simply as they.

Save for the Hierophant. The Hierophant Virtulias' Palace was an enormous manor house, and the attached Chapel of the Sun had a roof covered in pure gold. And yet, for all the pomp and glory of the Hierophant's Palace, all Virtulias' flock knew that a bowl of bread and milk would be readily given to any who asked at the kitchen door, and his household was filled with foundlings he had rescued.

He did it because he was a good man, even though he was a Priest-Mage. He did it because he believed that the Writ and the Rule were simple truth. He did it for love of Vkandis Sunlord. And he would never know that in saving one child, he had saved not only all of Karse but perhaps all of Velgarth as well . . .

*   *   *

It was early on a midsummer's morning when word reached Hierophant Virtulias that Artiolarces, Son of the
Sun, lay dying. The message summoned Virtulias to Sunhame at once, for the Conclave must gather to choose Artiolarces' successor.

The messenger had come to the refectory, where Virtulias was presiding over the household's morning meal: priests and servants and novices and postulants and acolytes. In the evening, Virtulias dined off linen and gold, as custom said a Sunpriest was entitled to. In the mornings, he ate from wood and pewter and looked happier.

When Virtulias dismissed the messenger to his rest and his household to their daily tasks, three souls remained: his housekeeper, Hettes, and the two youngest novices under his care. Every Sunpriest had a responsibility to gather up the promising young boys in their domain to train them up as the next generation of Vkandis' priesthood—Virtulias (said his colleagues) took the responsibility of training new Sunpriests to unreasonable extremes. Virtulias simply smiled and went on sheltering the weak and the helpless.

“Is it true we're all going to Sunhame?” Solaris asked eagerly. Even though she was a girl, not a boy, somehow no one spoke out against Solaris being taught among—and
as
—one of the novices.

“Not all of us,” Virtulias said with a fond smile.

“But—”
Solaris protested.

“
But,
” Virtulias went on, “I see no reason why you and Karchanek should not come with us. It will teach the acolytes humility, if nothing else. Now off with the both of you, before Father Aetius takes a switch to you for dallying when you should be at your lessons.”

*   *   *

Hettes gave Virtulias a long look when they were alone. She had been the first of his foundlings. Decades ago, a
very young Sunpriest had saved an even younger orphan girl from the Fires; he had sworn (regardless of whether it was true or not) that Hettes had no visions and heard no voices and was merely a termagant girl.

For the gift of her life, she had rewarded him with years of loyalty and devotion. Far more than a mere housekeeper, she had agents throughout his domain and allies beyond, and there was no gossip, no bit of information Virtulias needed to hear that Hettes did not bring to him.

“I don't suppose you could just not go to Sunhame, Father,” Hettes offered. “I'm sure the Conclave wouldn't miss you.”

Virtulias chuckled softly and shook his head, a sad smile creasing his weathered face. His brown eyes were filled with kindness. He patted the bench beside him, just as he had when Hettes was a little girl. She sat down carefully and looked up at him, wondering when he—when
they
—had gotten old.

“It will make no difference, in the end, if I stay home,” Virtulias said gently. “If Lastern or Siralchant or Lumillian takes the Sun Throne, I will be summoned to Sunhame to face charges of heresy. Vkandis Sunlord may call Priest-Mages to his service, but the Solarium as a whole trusts us even less than we trust each other.”

“Not that Lastern or Siralchant or Lumillian—or for that matter, half the Solarium Excelsis—aren't black-robes as well,” Hettes grumbled.

But there was a deeper reason Virtulias meant to go to the Conclave in Sunhame, for they both knew charges of heresy could be bribed away—if one knew whom to bribe. Virtulias' presence certainly wasn't wanted in Sunhame, for he'd been a thorn in the Solarium's side for
decades now, quietly but firmly holding to the Writ and the Rule. For that reason, the hopeful, the naive, and the desperate among the ranks of the Sunpriests and their adherents now hoped to see him chosen as Son of the Sun—and it was for that reason Virtulias intended to go. The rot among the priesthood had been growing for generations, deafening both red-robes and black-robes to Vkandis' whispered words. Only the Son of the Sun—
a
Son of the Sun—could have the power and authority to sweep it all away.

“All the more reason for me to go,” Virtulias said brightly, patting her knee. “And who knows? By Vkandis' grace, I might be the next ruler of the Solarium.”

“Just as you say, of course, Father,” Hettes said sourly.
By Vkandis' grace? It will take all His grace to let us survive the election, let alone win it!

*   *   *

Sunhame was exactly as it was described in the scrolls Karchanek had read and nothing at all like he expected.

Even from a distance, Karchanek could see the great Temple of the Sun rising like some vast gold-gleaming Presence over the city. Upon closer approach, the broad, marble-paved avenue leading to the Hierophant's Palace in which Virtulias and his party were to be lodged (one of twelve, all identically broad and fine) did indeed radiate out from the Temple like a ray of the Sun in Glory. The air was filled with spices and incense, and the avenue was indeed lined with the great, gleaming bronze statues.

Karchanek gawked at all of it, until Father Aetius frowned terrifyingly and the acolytes riding in the cart with them snickered and nudged each other. But somehow, it was still a disappointment. Whenever Father
Virtulias spoke of Vkandis, Karchanek always imagined the Sunlord—and Sunhame—filled and surrounded by the same sort of warm, golden light that softened the wheat fields in the fall just before the harvest. (Maybe, he'd once whispered to Solaris while they sat sleepily waiting for the dawn service to begin, Vkandis
was
light.) But the light that filled Sunhame wasn't like that at all.

This light was cold.

Unsettled, Karchanek looked over at Solaris. Her eyes were hooded, and she was frowning. It was one of those weirdly grown-up looks she sometimes got. In spite of the heat of the day, his arms prickled with gooseflesh.

“‘And lo, I was a stranger, and in a strange realm, and no man knew me,'” Solaris murmured softly.

“It'll be different when Vkandis makes Father Virtulias Son of the Sun,” Karchanek said loyally. “You'll see.”

“Little Novice Karchanek thinks Vkandis picks the Son of the Sun.” Acolyte Tobias smirked. “Boy, does he ever have a lot to learn!”

Even the younger Sunpriests riding with them looked amused, and Karchanek glanced at Solaris in surprise.

She looked sad.

*   *   *

The Hierophant's Palace is very grand,
Hettes thought,
but like any place with no master, what belongs to many is the responsibility of none.
She had barely terrorized the kitchens into some semblance of order when word came that Virtulias was entertaining an important visitor and had called for refreshment.

Not trusting any of the Palace staff, Hettes took charge of the matter personally.

She would have anyway.

*   *   *

“How good it is that you have come back to Sunhame in our hour of greatest need, Father,” Lumillian said smoothly.

Hettes fought back a smile as she cleared away the delicate glassware. Lumillian's annoyance hung between the two men like a cloud of smoke. He'd been a thin-skinned, sour-faced child in the days when he served Virtulias as an acolyte, and he hadn't changed much since.

“It is the duty of whole of the Solarium Excelsis to attend the Conclave,” Father Virtulias said after taking a sip of his tea, “and to act in Vkandis' name to choose a new Son of the Sun.”

“Ah,” Lumillian said, “but with the right backing, you know, you might become Son of the Sun. These are dark times in Karse. Holy war looms over us. We are in grave need of good men to lead us. Good men like you, Father.”

Hettes had heard whispers that Karse meant to declare a holy war upon neighboring Valdemar and take its lands for her own (all in the name of Vkandis, Prince of Peace, of course). It was disturbing to hear Lumillian speak of it so openly.

“Eh,” Virtulias said with a phlegmatic shrug, “with the right backing, the village priest's goat could become Son of the Sun.”

“I come offering the hand of friendship to my old teacher, yet he mocks me.” Lumillian's tone was light, but there was a dark undertone to his voice. “Who else can lead us with the consent of all? Siralchant is ambitious, but he's young—who wants a Son of the Sun barely out of priests' robes? Cronturin is greedy and hasn't the brains Vkandis gave a sheep—you know as well as I do
he's nothing but a puppet of the old men who pretend to advise him. And Lastern . . . well. The streets of Sunhame would be crawling with demons inside of a year. Our true choices are few.”

“Hm,” Virtulias said noncommittally. “And what would the Solarium Excelsis see in an old man from the country—one who is widely thought to be entirely too traditional for his own well-being?”

Lumillian sighed softly. “I'm only trying to help you help us all, Father. Out of respect.”

It was a lovely show, but that was all it was. Outwardly, the priesthood bewailed their God's long absence: they declared fasts, made sacrifices, demanded penance from the people. But no
Good
power would ever intrude where it wasn't asked and wanted, and it had been a very long time since the Sunlord had appeared to his people. Hettes was sure that if Lumillian got his way, the wait would be longer still.

“You've always been a good boy,” Virtulias said in the same gentle voice he used on particularly difficult children and frightened animals. “And certainly you've given me much to think about.”

“If you change your mind, you know where to find me,” Lumillian said in clipped tones.

Hettes waited until the sharp report of his footsteps had faded before she dared to look up. There were lines of worry in Virtulias' face, but he found a small smile for her when she met his eyes.

“Lumillian never did like being told he couldn't have what he wanted,” he said gently. “What did you think of his offer?”

Hettes raised her eyebrows. “That depends, Father. Would you prefer the politic answer or the honest
one?” she asked, settling the tiny glass plates on a silver tray.

Virtulias laughed. “Always so careful, is my Firecat. If I wanted the politic answer, I could ask almost anyone here. I'm asking you.”

“I wish you wouldn't call me that,” Hettes said without rancor. It had been a very long time indeed since a true Firecat had walked the streets of Sunhame. She spared a moment to wish they still did; Father Virtulias could certainly use the help right now. But there were ways, Hettes supposed, that she could be of more use to Father Virtulias than a Firecat might have been.

“There are forty-eight Hierophants of the Solarium Excelsis, and according to the Writ, any one of you might become the next Son of the Sun,” she said, seemingly at random.

“The Writ teaches that such decisions are in the hands of the Sunlord,” Virtulias answered placidly.

Hettes couldn't help but snort softly. “In reality, only five Hierophants have any chance at all of getting enough backing, and that includes you. I think that worries Lumillian a great deal. He was a lying weasel as a child, and he's a lying weasel still. He'd make you into another Cronturin, only instead of being the voice of many, you'd be the voice of . . . Lumillian.”

“I did not come to Sunhame to speak the words of another,” Virtulias said simply.

*   *   *

As a girl, she'd dreamed endlessly about coming to Sunhame, about seeing the gleaming Palace of the Sun, about standing in the ancient temple where Vkandis Sunlord's voice had once echoed. Now that she was here, all Hettes wanted was to go back to bleating goats and
grazing sheep and fields of wheat waving in the endless west wind.

Virtulias still had not returned from the Conclave. It was late enough—well past the end of the midnight service—that Hettes had dismissed the acolytes who served him as well as the other servants. She was starting to worry that the Conclave would run all night when at last the door opened and Father Virtulias appeared. The lines around his mouth looked deeper than they had even a sennight ago.

“There's tea ready,” she said, taking his heavy embroidered mantle, “and bread and fruit and cheese. You should eat.”

His smile was both tender and rueful. “Ah, my little Firecat. I'm not entirely sure how I'd survive without you to look after me.”

“You'd have to rely on novices to bring your supper and fetch your slippers,” she said dryly, pouring two cups of tea. “Certainly you'd either die of starvation or exposure before the year was out.”

That at least drew a weak chuckle from him. “Perhaps I was too hasty in dismissing Lumillian's offer.” He picked up a piece of bread and was regarding it as if he weren't sure what to do with it. “If nothing happens to break this deadlock, we'll be here another six months, and there will still be no Son of the Sun.”

“Perhaps then the Sunlord will grow tired of waiting and simply choose someone Himself.” Hettes took the bread from Virtulias' hand, spread it with soft cheese, and handed it back. “Eat.”