Requiem (17 page)

Petronus closed his eyes and willed himself awake, but to no avail. Finally, he opened his eyes and took in his surroundings for the first time. They were in a clearing in the midst of a dying jungle. Overhead, the world hung like dead fruit in the cold of space. His nose was full of the smell of rotting fish and foliage. “I have nothing—”

A flash of light cut him off, sudden and hot.

Petronus felt his body convulse and he fought it, suddenly pinned by at least four sets of hands.

Peace. No fear. She cannot hurt you again.

He opened his eyes and gasped at the spider’s proximity. Its black eye regarded him, its fang slipping from its sheath, its very tip the size of a sewing needle. “Who is she?”

But he knew. It had to be D’Anjite’s daughter. Though she was nothing like the girl Neb had described.

The spider nodded.
Yes.

“Something is wrong with her.”

She has been broken by grief too heavy to bear. It has … damaged her. But I can make her whole.

The fang moved again, and Petronus felt it slide into his neck. “What are you doing?”

I am treating you. She will not be able to harm you again.
Something warm enfolded him, and Petronus wrestled against it. Already, the pain was leaking away and slumber was an inviting well that he teetered over, trying to keep his balance.

His voice was slowing. “She wanted to know about you. About us. About Neb.”

The spider nodded again. This time, its lips worked themselves open and a whisper leaked out. “Do not concern yourself with these matters, Petronus. You will sleep now, and you will not remember these dreams or my presence here with you. You will awaken rested. You will gather your strength for the days ahead, for surely you will need it.”

Then, the spider embraced him and settled him back into the bed, tucking the blanket beneath his chin as if he were a child.

“Yes,” Petronus whispered.

And when he slept, he dreamed of fishing with his father, and when he awakened, he had some vague memory of his mother tucking him in but shook it away as the fog of sleep faded.

Then, Petronus found steaming chai that Rafe Merrique had somehow brewed in the ship’s alien galley and watched a world rise once more over the lunar sea he sailed.

Chapter

9

Rudolfo

A cool wind blew in off the sea, and Rudolfo inhaled the salt from it as he stood at the rail. With the Delta finally behind them, he’d been allowed on deck after several days kept locked away in the galley or in his stateroom.

All he’d seen of the invasion were the swamped hulls of gutted Entrolusian ships and the glow of fires where ports burned.

It was the second fastest trip south he could remember making in his lifetime. They rode magicked horses into the ground to rendezvous with the Y’Zirite frigate at Windwir. The magicked vessel caught the last of winter’s northeastern winds, the Second River’s current adding even more speed to their journey.

He’d tried to learn what he could, but with the portholes shuttered from outside and the language of the sparse crew some guttural tongue he was unfamiliar with, Rudolfo found himself pacing his stateroom for days, coding messages he could not send or poring over a treaty he’d now memorized. On the worst days, he wondered about his son.

He had no doubt the boy was well. But over the course of this separation, Rudolfo found his mind wandering toward what he’d missed. First words and steps. That glint of intelligence in his eye when he learned a new trick. The sound of his laughter ringing down the hallways … and the sound of his tears as well.

Of course, it was a road that led him to close to despair, and on those days, his eye went to the bottle of firespice he now carried with him. Something tangible to remind him who he both was and wasn’t.

One day I may drink it,
he told himself. Just not today.

Today had not been one of those days. This was one of those days when he thought instead of what he’d left behind. He thought of Lysias in the north and the army he built. They’d discussed the likelihood of an invasion before Rudolfo had ridden south to banish Kember’s traitorous bunch and meet the Y’Zirite emissary. And Lysias was a skilled general, trained in the Academy and sharpened during the War for Windwir, though on the wrong side of that conflict as one of Sethbert’s officers. Now pledged to Rudolfo’s service, the old fox had put together an impressive first army in short order. Rudolfo had no doubt that whatever his general got up to, it would serve his Ninefold Forest well indeed.

And Philemus would as well, though his rage was apparent when Rudolfo announced his appointment as Over-sheriff of the Wood, unweaving his turban and laying it with his knives into hands that were reluctantly held open. Rudolfo leaned close and spoke in a quiet voice that betrayed none of his own anger. “These you shall hold in trust for me or my heir,” he said. “And know that on the day that he or I take them up from you, you shall owe an accounting for how you’ve sheriffed your people.” He put his hand on the man’s shoulder and pressed other words there.
Stand firm, Philemus. Protect the mechoservitors at all costs.

The man’s gray eyes bore into him, and Rudolfo met the stare and held it. “General, reconsider. At least take—”

Rudolfo interrupted him. “No, Sheriff. As you yourself told me—resources are thin. The scout ranks are already far too sparse. I’ll be well cared for by the Blood Guard.”

El Anyr had stood by, and Rudolfo remembered noting the pleased look upon his face.
Because I behaved as if I trusted him.

But he didn’t trust the man nearly as much as he trusted the man’s faith. With each of these Y’Zirites he met, he began to see the one blind spot that they all had.

“They believe these things as writ with no doubt whatsoever.” He didn’t realize he said it aloud until he heard a soft cough behind him. “I’m sorry,” he said.

He felt the hands press into his sides. They were gentle, and he did not jump.
It is because they are utterly convinced it is true, Lord.
The hands stopped but did not leave him. They waited, firm and unmoving, then started again slowly.
And they are not lacking in evidence.
They moved in and up his spine now, faster this time.
They are watching you here. Return to your stateroom; I have information for you.

The code was that of his house, but the lingering of the hands told him clearly it was not one of his men. They were hands he’d felt upon him not so long ago, and the sudden discomfort of that memory bemused him. Straightening at the rail, he moved slowly for the door, glancing one last time aft at the fires on the Delta.

He let himself in the stateroom and left the door open behind him to the count of three before closing it. He opened his mouth to speak, and an invisible hand blocked it while another pressed words into his shoulder.
Not yet.

He closed his mouth and let her lead him to the bed, tensing momentarily as she pushed him onto it, her hands on his shoulders.

He’d long ago lost count of the number of women who’d had him. There was a time when he’d even kept a few of the Forest’s prostitutes on his rotation. Yet the feeling of strange hands upon him now, guiding him to bed, left him suddenly befuddled. “This can’t—”

Her face moved in close to his, and he saw the faintest green of her eye and felt her mouth at his ear. “This is not what you presume it is, Lord.” Her voice was more breath than whisper. “You are watched by my sisters, the Blood Guard of the Crimson Empress. One in the hall outside. One on the deck. One in reserve and three others at rest.” Her hands continued.
They must not find me here.

His own hands found her shoulders.
Why
are
you here?

“For you, Lord,” she whispered. “I have pledged myself to you. I boarded when we took on the officers at Port Carnem.” Rudolfo remembered stopping, but it was before he’d been allowed access to the deck. He held his breath as her fingers pressed more words into his flesh.
We are both required at Yazmeera’s camp.

She shifted her weight, and he felt more of her pressing against him as she stretched out. Beneath his own hands he felt lithe muscles stretched over a more petite frame than her sister’s, and as much as he wished he couldn’t, he felt her small breasts pushing against his own chest. “This,” he whispered as quietly as he could, “is a most unusual conversation.” Then, with his fingers.
What information do you bring?

The Named Lands are a headless rooster on the run. Erlund is dead, assassinated by Y’Zirite intelligence. Esarov and his scattered revolutionaries have control of what little remains of the Entrolusian army.
Rudolfo felt a shudder pass through her, and she pushed her mouth into his shoulder to suppress a sudden cough that racked her body.

You are ill?

Her breath was warm on his ear. “I’ve been under the magicks for far too long, Lord.” Then, she continued.
Turam’s king is up from his sick bed and in hiding. His troops have burned their uniforms and formed insurgency pockets. The free states of the Emerald Coasts are rallying men, but Yazmeera has landed two brigades upon the inner coast, using the former House Li Tam properties as a staging area. Pylos is …

Her words stopped, and Rudolfo found his own.
I know of Pylos.
And he felt the stab of that loss. Meirov had sacrificed her own life and that of her nation’s in her rage over the assassination of her young son. She’d funded the attack upon his library, the act that had brought about his family’s need to seek sanctuary with the Machtvolk in the north, which in turn had led to their departure from the Named Lands.

“What you do not know,” she said, “is that the first ships of settlers have already arrived there to begin the clean-up.”

The word surprised him.
Settlers?

Yes. Surely you do not think this is merely a military venture?

Rudolfo wasn’t sure what he’d thought, but he also knew that the events of the last two years had kept him sufficiently off balance.
Y’Zir is bloated, and the barrens around it have lain lifeless too long. The Named Lands are rich with resources and near enough to easily supply the reclamation of the Churning Wastes.

He blinked. There had been ample references to healing the world throughout the gospel he’d read, but he’d not dared believe they were mad enough to believe life could again be brought forth from the wasteland that Xhum Y’Zir had made when he broke the back of the world in retribution for the murder of his seven sons. Questions lined up for answers behind his eyes, but he shifted topics. “What else can you tell me?”

She yawned. “Your enemy has been beaten on two fronts already.”
First,
her hands said,
the Watcher that has been so instrumental in calculating and adjusting this plot is missing and presumed destroyed. And second, the Third Desert Brigade reports that the mechoservitors and their Homeseeker were successful in their launch. The last Pope, Petronus, was believed to be with them.

Rudolfo’s eyes narrowed. He’d seen and heard nothing from Neb since he’d resigned his commission to Aedric in the Churning Wastes and left in the care of Renard the Waste Guide. But he knew the boy had been hunted in the Waste; Petronus had petitioned for scouts to aid him but had not been heard from since. “What launch?”

“The antiphon,” she said. “The dream contained the specifications for its construction and instructions for the Homeseeker’s mission.”

He brushed his fingers over a shoulder, gripping and then pressing with his fingers.
I do not understand.

“My sisters saw it launch and reported it in the aether. By now, Neb has surely reached the moon.”

The words stunned him, draining off his words like tepid bathwater. The moon? Certainly he’d grown up with the legends but had never seriously considered such a possibility. Something sparked for him now, and a piece of the puzzle made sudden sense.
The Marshfolk home.
Even as his hands made the words, he found himself doubting them. It just wasn’t possible.

Yes.
She coughed again. “And last,” she whispered, “your family should be arriving in Y’Zir within days. Lord Jakob will be safe there.”

He noted the absence of reassurance regarding Jin Li Tam; he tried to force himself to ask, but in the end, he couldn’t. There had been a great deal of anger when he’d first heard of her decision, but now that anger was hollowed out, an empty place that accepted her absence. She had told him long ago, when she’d first conceived, that she had rejected her father’s machinations in favor of a family with him, even though the very son she carried was a product of those manipulations. And he’d believed her for a time, but in the end, the script of being the forty-second daughter of Vlad Li Tam had trumped the newer script of being the Forest Queen, his bride and the mother of his heir.

He closed his eyes against the memory of her.

Ire Li Tam moved against him again, this time crawling over him to disentangle herself. In the dim light of the room, she began to take form as her magicks guttered out. He saw close-cropped red hair and a face scarred carefully with the words of Y’Zir. “I must sleep now, my lord,” she whispered.

Taking one of his blankets, she slipped to the floor and rolled beneath his narrow bed before he could say a word. Her breathing changed, still barely perceptible.

Rudolfo envied her the sleep she took, but nothing of the sort awaited him. Instead, he lay upon his back and pondered. Windwir was a grave. The Named Lands were invaded and would soon be settled by Y’Zirites. His young son was an ocean away in the care of a woman he could not possibly understand, in the possession of a faith that until recently had been thought gratefully extinct. Rudolfo himself sailed south to take the reins of chancellorship from their conqueror and forge a new life the likes of which he’d never imagined for himself or his people.