The Hollow Queen (35 page)

At this level, gathering the offerings of the abbots was easier to do, as if they had been carefully prepared, like wheat that was lovingly threshed and cleared of all of its chaff. The song of the abbots wrapped warmly around his shoulders, invigorating the Patriarch and reinforcing his strength. For the first time since the night Sepulvarta fell, Constantin felt the underpinnings of joy, and they manifested in a small smile that spread across the dried leather of his wrinkled face.

Finally, with the abbotsong firmly in place, he opened his arms wide and raised the tone once more, his chant resounding off the walls of Abbat Mythlinis, calling for the prayers that the living benisons of the continent and those across the sea in Manosse and in small missions around the world had gathered from their faithful.

That song returned to him wholeheartedly, the singing of a glorious oratorio of millions of combined voices. It was a sound that never failed to bring the fragments of tears in the corners of his eyes to his cheeks, this man who had been raised in youth in the brutal battleground of the gladiatorial arenas of Sorbold, weeping openly as had been his custom each night when he had been serving the All-God at the altar of sacrifice in Lianta'ar.

The song settled around his neck like the stole he had worn in those days, wrapping his throat in protection and making the utterances he was singing one with it.

He was too enthralled, too transported with rapture, too wrapped in the light that had begun to shine brightly through the glass panes in the floor and from the mast above him, to hear the door of the basilica opening.

 

37

Nince and Jirunt, two members of the second landing party to deploy from Avonderre Harbor into the ruins of the city, were on the loneliest of security details, known comically as Checking on the Dead or Dead Check, which reminded the soldiers of Bed Check.

While the parts of the city of Avonderre farther away from the harbor required serious policing and virulent shows of strength against a populace that was cut off from the rest of the Alliance, whose garrison had fallen back in the rain of fire from the sky in the iacxsis attack, the landing party that was assigned to harbor detail was essentially monitoring a front in which none of the original populace was still alive.

It was considered to be a duty that could be undertaken while one was essentially asleep, and therefore assigned to men whose limited capabilities were not needed somewhere essential.

So it was surprising to Nince and Jirunt to come into what had been the harbor proper, on the street where the harbormaster's office had once stood, to see through the black rain and wind an unmissable beam of light, radiating diffusely in the storm that was raging, pointed skyward.

“What—what do you think is goin' on here?” Nince said, squinting into the gloom.

Jirunt, a man of fewer words, raised his crossbow and gave a curt nod of his head in the direction of the harborfront.

They hurried through the empty streets, giving a cursory glance in each direction, but following the beacon in the foggy air. Finally they arrived at the basilica, which was north on the beachfront outside the harbor limits.

The light was emanating from the spire of the cathedral, up through the mast on the roof.

“Should we get others?” Nince whispered nervously.

Jirunt shook his head. “Take too long,” he said curtly. “C'me.”

The two soldiers hurried to the double doors, and while Jirunt covered the entry, Nince opened one.

*   *   *

Constantin, arms still spread wide, raised his hands high in the last stage of the Chain of Prayer, offering the combined praise and entreaties into the depth of the living universe, what the people of his faith called the All-God.

The light that was beginning to form around the base of the mast solidified and descended in a gleaming column, encircling the Patriarch.

In one final step of the chant, Constantin raised the pitch and intensity one last time.

From across the continent, where the spires of the other four basilicas dedicated to the three elements that had been born in this world—earth, air, and fire—had been realigned, beams of similar radiance shot through the sky, connecting to the ray that was emanating forth from the mast atop Abbat Mythlinis.

The four rays of light converged over the central southern point of the continent, the enormous Spire that stood on the hilltop across from the basilica dedicated to the element of ether, starlight, the only element to be born before the world itself was born, according to the Creation myth of the faithful.

Too distant to see, the Patriarch could nonetheless feel and hear the song of the Spire as the piece of the star atop it joined in the chorus of praise.

Uniting the five elements from elevations across the Middle Continent.

Light of intense radiance began to pour forth from the Patriarch's eyes.

In the harbor, the sea waves roared.

The flames in the few torches that had been kept lit leapt and crackled.

The packed sand on the harbor beach trembled and split, leaving great fissures in the ground.

The winds picked up, whipping even more furiously than they had been in the course of the rainstorm.

And, for the briefest of moments, the cloud-riven sky cleared, and the stars shone down on the embattled and ash-covered land.

As the ground of each of the basilicas was resanctified, returned to its Blessed state.

From the doorway of the basilica, one of the soldiers fired a crossbow bolt into the column of light at the Patriarch.

It passed through the light and fell to the floor on the other end of the basilica, clinking impotently.

*   *   *

The Sorbold soldiers froze.

In the center of the basilica, a tall robed and hooded figure was standing astride the fountain beneath a cone of light that filled the dark, cavernous cathedral with intense blue radiance. Its robes were blowing about it in a spinning wind that was whipping down from the spire atop the building.

“Wha—what is happening in here?” Nince murmured.

Jirunt raised his crossbow and pointed. “Step out of there and get on the ground,” he demanded in the harsh Sorbold tongue.

The figure said nothing, but the light that had been shining from its eyes dimmed gradually until it winked out.

Around them, the light blazing in the long, thick blocks of glass and in through the portholes atop the walls faded as well, leaving only the pale, blue-green glow of the churning sea beyond.

The wind that had been circling in cyclonic ferocity a moment before diminished down to a gentle circling breeze beneath the mast. It flapped the robes of the figure, snapping the material of its cloak around it.

*   *   *

“
On the ground!”
Jirunt screamed.

The figure did not move.

Jirunt fired the crossbow again.

The bolt did not fall to the ground, but seemed to disappear into the figure's robes.

Jirunt drew his sword and strode up the aisle to the fountain at the center of the basilica and the figure standing behind it. Nince drew as well and trotted in step behind him.

“Orlandan scum—” the Sorbold soldier snarled as he charged.

*   *   *

When the connection to the Chain of Prayer was complete, the light diminished and winked out, leaving the Patriarch empty and bereft.

Just in time to absorb a crossbow bolt in the forearm.

The power of all of the prayers on the continent channeled up through the mast and tied to the other elemental basilicas had made him ethereal, formless while he was sending the power of the supplications up the Chain, so when the first bolt soared through him, it passed through and fell, harmless, to the ground.

The second, however, pierced his forearm.

Constantin blinked; otherwise he did not react.

But there was something about the injury, something reminiscent of his days, long ago, in the gladiatorial arenas of Sorbold, that made his blood run differently than it had since his time in the realm of the Rowans, the place where he had learned to let go of his past sins and the life he had known.

The sting of the bolt was minimal; though he had lived the equivalent of six hundred years behind the Veil of Hoen, there was enough Cymrian blood in his veins from his unknown mother to have maintained the muscle tone, the strong constitution that had been both his birthright and the result of his gladiatorial training. In his day, he had been a champion in the arena exactly for those reasons, had been able to press on when injured even to the point of death, so nothing as minuscule as the muscle damage and blood loss from a bolt injury even threw off his balance.

The sky-blue eyes narrowed.

Constantin inhaled.

The air that came into his lungs felt different from what he had been breathing in the throes of religious ecstasy a moment before: the sweet, rich air of spiritual renewal, of unconditional acceptance, not just of him, but of every one of the faithful.

This next breath of air was thinner, and had the smell of the arena in his sinuses, perhaps also in his imagination, but the next breath carried with it the smell of blood and sand, the constant scent and feel of the arena floor.

His eyes beneath his pilgrim's hood sighted keenly on the men charging down the aisle at him, armed with swords, and his muscles tensed, as they had so many times in combat.

He did not move.

The first opponent was slightly ahead and heavier, his age-old battle sense told him. The fire of anger was in the man's eyes and muscles, while the one behind him was a follower, more than a little afraid.

Constantin waited.

Then, when the two Sorbold soldiers were within two body lengths of him, the Patriarch's muscle memory of his years in the arena snapped to life.

With the graceful movement of a discus thrower, the former gladiator bent to the ground and swept up two armfuls of sand and pebbles, detritus from the fountainbed where the spewing stream of ocean water had deposited it over time. Like the sand of the arena floor, it was good material for blinding, and with a long horizontal sweep of his arm he hurled it directly into the faces of the Sorbolds, stunning them and throwing them off balance.

With molten anger rising up inside him from a place of memory he had long buried, Constantin seized the first man's sword arm that was swinging wildly in the air above him and dragged the weapon deeply across his throat, tossing his bleeding corpse to the ground like parchment paper.

The second man, having been behind a few steps, had just enough time to see the arm of the Patriarch, a crossbow bolt embedded in the forearm, cross his throat as he was seized and twisted in one flipping motion like a rag doll. He heard the crunching snap of his own neck as he fell to the floor, broken and paralyzed, choking on his own blood.

The world dimmed quickly in the darkness of the temple into the black of oblivion, leaving only one last thought in his vanishing consciousness—
what just happened?

*   *   *

Constantin stood, suddenly winded.

The rage that had caused his teeth to clench to the point of soreness drained out of him like water off a slanted roof; it ran across his burning shoulders to his arms and down off of them, rushing off his hands and dissipating into the night air of the cavernous building.

He looked around; save for the broken bodies on the floor at his feet and the sound of the churning of the waves, there was no sound or sight other than heavy darkness.

He took the shaft of the bolt in his arm in his fist and, bracing his foot against the fountain edge, pulled it from his forearm, tearing a vast hole in the muscle. Then he tossed the bolt aside and wrapped the fingers of his hand with the Ring of Wisdom around the gushing wound and willed it to heal, a test of his connection to the All-God.

The ring, its positive and negative markings within a clear stone, gleamed in the darkness of the basilica.

Beneath his fingers, the bleeding wound glowed warm, then cooled again.

Then the ring returned to its normal state.

Constantin examined his forearm; it was whole.

He exhaled deeply, then put the broken bolt in the folds of the jerkin the second man wore and hoisted both bodies over his shoulders, carrying them out into the streets of the basilica.

As he passed through the door with the dead men slung over his shoulders, he turned one last time and looked up at the mast of the basilica of Abbat Mythlinis.

Salt spray and wind were spinning down into the cathedral from the slits in the spire, just as they had been when he had entered.

But now, the ground was warm and solid, and the light of the waves of the sea battering the glass blocks gleamed blue, brightening the floor of the place.

Blessed ground.

He allowed a small smile to cross his lips, then walked steadily through the entry doors with his burden, closed them behind him, and carried the bodies to the wreckage of the manse, where he dumped them unceremoniously in the ash amid the skeletons.

Then he turned and made his way in the direction of Sepulvarta, the City of Reason, through the battering wind of the rainy night.

NAVARNE CITY

Gwydion Navarne drew his camp blanket up closer to his neck, covering his up-ear. He had spent each night since the battle's end after his return from Haguefort encamped with the soldiers of his regiment, billeting in a tent of the same modest manufacture as those his lowest-rank soldiers occupied. He was grateful for the privacy of his solitude, because the moaning and shuddering groans from the wounded that continued, unsated by day's end and uncomforted with night's arrival, left him shuddering in a most unregal manner.

Constantin had departed for Avonderre a sennight before, leaving the young duke in charge of a dying city. Or, more accurately, it was a city of dying men and women, Orlandan and Sorbold, some of Cymrian descent, more not, tended to by the injured and those that had escaped injury of the body, all of whom were moving among their suffering fellow humans, ghostlike and hollow-eyed from lack of sleep.