Antiphon

Chapter 4

Petronus

Petronus raised his eyebrows and looked at the man who rocked to and fro before him. “So what you’re proposing”-he glanced to the report from Grymlis in his hands, looking for the name once more-“Geoffrus, is it?” At the man’s hurried nod, Petronus continued. “What you’re proposing is that you and your company of men supply our entire outpost with hunting, trapping and scouting services for-” He scanned the report again, but the numbers ran together into a blur. “Well,” he finally said, “for significant barter, primarily in metal goods and fabrics from the other side of the gate.”

Geoffrus nodded. “Yes, Luxpadre. I-or I should say we-are prepared to execute on a time-is-of-the-essence basis, immediately, that is, to give you and your Ash-Men the best our Madding Lands can offer.”

Petronus sat back in the wooden chair and rubbed his eyes. Here in the shade, the afternoon sun still kept the day warmer than comfortable for his tastes, accustomed more to the cool seaborne breezes on Caldus Bay than the hot wind of the Churning Wastes. Already, his robe was damp from sweat, though the man across the table from him looked dry and comfortable.

The Waster was a slight man, dressed in tattered clothing shored up with patches and bits of leather. He’d sought audience at least three times before over the past several months, and Petronus had managed to hold the meeting at bay. But finally, he’d relented and agreed to see the man when it became obvious that this Geoffrus was not going to pick up on the subtle social cue of disinterest Petronus had attempted.

Petronus offered a weak smile. “I’m certain your offer is very generous, Geoffrus.”

The man beamed, the black root stains showing on his teeth. “You will not find more generous terms and conditions, Luxpadre.”

Petronus went back to the report and found Grymlis’s scribbled note. “Yes, I’m sure of it,” he said, “but there is the matter of what game you intend to provide us? As you no doubt know, the Ninefold Forest keeps us well provisioned, to include game.”

Geoffrus nodded again, this time with added vehemence. “Yes, yes, the contract is flexible in that regard, of course, to provide you and yours with the finest selection our significant and highly desirable skills might provide. Such succulent tasties as the Rainbow-Men could not imagine.”

Petronus knew better, of course. He and Grymlis had gone over his report earlier that morning. The men he’d sent into Fargoer’s Station had gathered every bit of information they could on this part of the world, including what scraps could be found on this Geoffrus and his small band of Waste thieves. He already knew the rumors. People who trusted these particular men tended to disappear. He wondered what further information Isaak might be able to send him from the archived records of the Office of Expeditionary Unction-but also knew that that knowledge wasn’t necessarily worth the effort when he already knew his answer. “I’m certain that you are highly skilled,” he said. “Though to be perfectly honest, we do not require your services at this time.” Then, he smiled. “However, I am deeply gratified by your proposal. I recognize that you’ve gone to enormous efforts on our behalf, with nothing but our best interests in mind.”

Geoffrus grinned again. “Aye, we have. Aye, we have,” he said, repeating himself quickly.

Petronus returned the smile. “Therefore, I am pleased to offer you and yours tokens to assure you of our gratitude.” He motioned, and a young Androfrancine approached, carrying a haphazard pile of folded fabric.

As the tattered Waster took in the armful of cloth his eyes went wide along with the smile. “This is indeed most generous of you, Luxpadre.”

“Ask him about the runners in the Wastes.”

Petronus looked up at the nearby voice, recognizing it but not placing it. “I’m sorry?”

Geoffrus said nothing. Beside him, the young man with the cloth also remained silent.

Petronus looked around to see who else could have spoken, but other than these two, no one else stood close enough. Still, the voice was one he knew. When had he heard it last?

He felt the blood drain from his face when the memory found him. You heard it yesterday, old man.

Suddenly, he wanted very much to leap up from the table and flee but forced himself to stay. A new smell filled his nose, driving out the acrid scent of the hot wind and the dried sweat of the unwashed man before him. No, it was roses and lavender he smelled now, as a summer breeze caught the aroma of his gardens and wafted them into his office window, and-

Petronus blinked, forcing himself back to the conversation. “These,” he said, “are a gift. But I can offer you something even finer in exchange for a bit of information.”

Geoffrus looked to the stack of cloth and then back to Petronus. “What finer?” he asked. “What information?”

Petronus drew in his breath. “What do you know about runners in the Wastes?”

Geoffrus’s eyes narrowed. “Ash-Men do not run. Rainbow-Men run. Renard runs.” At the man’s name, he spit in the dirt. “And Geoffrus runs.” He licked his lips. “What finer for me and mine?”

Petronus closed his eyes, only for a moment, but when he opened them the world had bent and twisted away. Once more he sat in his papal office. Outside, the smell of summer was heavy from the gardens below.

He looked back to the table, and now, across from him, sat the man he’d seen the day before. He was bent over a large map that was spread out, and Petronus saw it was a map of the Churning Wastes. “Intelligence is problematic, of course,” the man said, “but we’re aware of runners here, here and here.” Each time, he pointed to a different section of the map with a chewed pencil. “They are magicked. We suspect blood magicks, though they do not appear constrained in the same way that the Marshers have been.”

Petronus blinked again and tried to recall where he’d been just now. There had been heat. And smell, though nothing quite as lovely as roses on the wind. “Who are you?” he asked.

The man looked up, his eyes hollow. “We suspect they’re looking for the same thing we are, but it could be worse than that.”

“And what are we looking for, exactly?”

The man studied Petronus before answering. “We’re looking for the mechoservitors,” he finally said.

Mechoservitors. The word held meaning for him, but in this context he could not find it. Still, something the man had said registered with him suddenly, and a new question spilled out before he could stop himself. “And if it’s worse?”

“If it is worse, then they’re looking for the Homeseeker.”

Another familiar word that he could not place, and Petronus glanced back to the map. Here, here and here. He felt something like an ocean swell pulling him back, and he closed his eyes against the sudden feeling of vertigo that seized him.

This time, when he opened them again, he was lying on his back while hands held him down and still. He struggled at first until he saw Grymlis’s worried face as he knelt over him.

Somewhere in the distance, he heard Geoffrus ranting and hooting. “Luxpadre has the madness,” he cried. “Luxpadre has the madness.”

Petronus opened his mouth to speak but found no words, but the Gray Guard captain must have read the questions in his eyes. “You’re fine now,” Grymlis said. “You fell over.” Here, his brow furrowed with worry. “You were convulsing, babbling. Nothing coherent.” His voice lowered. “I think it was glossolalia.”

Petronus winced. Ecstatic utterance. Taking a deep breath, he forced himself to lie still and recollect himself.

Where had he been? He vaguely remembered a voice and a map. Here, here and here.

He dug at the memory, pried at it, and found nothing but noise that hurt his head and made the afternoon light unbearable. One final tug and he found the recollection he sought.

“Runners in the Wastes,” he said, his tongue heavy in his mouth. He nodded to Geoffrus. “Ask him. Pay him.”

Grymlis squeezed his shoulder. The firm hand felt reassuring to Petronus. “I’ll see to it, Father. After we get you to your cot.”

Petronus wanted to protest, wanted to insist that he not be carried to bed as if he were a child. But as he opened his mouth, he suddenly felt the dampness of his robes, and the heat of shame flushed his face. His bladder had cut loose during the fit.

Hoping no one would see that he’d wet himself, the Last King of Windwir let his ragged men lift him and carry him to his cot.

Vlad Li Tam

Vlad Li Tam awoke from too little sleep and sat up in his narrow bed. The windowless room offered no light, though he blinked and rubbed his eyes as if it might if only he were patient.

When they’d returned to find the island and its Blood Temple abandoned, he’d gone through the massive building assigning quarters to his family. He was careful to be sure that this room became his once again, though he wasn’t sure exactly why. Perhaps it was an anchor to the pain of that time, something to keep the memory banked like a fire.

His recollection of those months was a blur of agony and terror. Nights spent huddled in the corner, sleeping fitfully, open-eyed with his back against the wall. And underlying those memories, Ria’s voice-filled with love and comfort-as she worked her knife or as she sat at his table and conversed with him while he lay twitching upon the floor.

Other voices joined hers. The voices of his children beneath the knives, offering up their last words to him as he watched, echoing long after their final breath as he waited here for the next day’s cutting.

My room.

He’d memorized it during his clearer moments, and that served him well now as he stood and pulled on his light cotton trousers and shirt. Barefoot, he padded to the door and let himself into the empty hallway.

He’d spent another day on the dock, fishing but not catching. At the end of the day, he’d discovered his bait had been taken at some point without his knowledge.

Still, he’d not been fishing for fish.

This afternoon, he’d force himself away and back to the paper-strewn table in his room. Back to the book his father had written and passed to Vlad’s first grandson, a secret history devised to bring down Windwir and establish a lasting Y’Zirite resurgence in the Named Lands. The plot was as carefully conceived as any Tam intrigue-perhaps even more so given that the network of conspirators stretched far beyond his family, into other families, into the Marshlands, and even into the very heart of the Androfrancine Order itself.

Vlad had spent his life weaving a web he’d thought was his own design, only to learn it was a carefully crafted manipulation by the man he’d respected, feared and loved above all others.

A man who had conceived of this plot, knowing full well that the price of it would be the near extinction of his own bloodline.

Somewhere out there, other conspirators continued this work. He’d seen their ships at harbor here-ships unfamiliar to the Named Lands’ most skilled family of shipwrights. Even now, his children scouted for them.

And yet all I can think about is the ghost.

He moved through the hallway slowly, listening to his feet as they whispered over the marble floor. When he reached the wide double doors, he pushed one open slowly to slip out into the moonlit night.

A young man separated himself from deeper shadows, silent on feet trained for scouting. “Good morning, Grandfather,” the man said.

Vlad looked at him and tried to remember his name but couldn’t. Before the cuttings, before his time here, he’d remembered every child, every grandchild and great-grandchild. Even those he lost along the way. He’d known their walk, their mannerisms, every little detail that might help him sharpen and fire them at the heart of the Named Lands as arrows for his hunting.

But since his time here, he’d found that his memory faltered. As if I don’t want to know.

“Good morning,” he answered. “How goes the watch?”

The young man shrugged and smiled. “Quietly.”

Vlad nodded. All of their watches had been quiet upon returning; still they set them. He looked down to the harbor, where one of his iron vessels sat at anchor. “I’m going fishing,” he said.

The guard inclined his head and slipped back to where he’d waited before.

Vlad looked to the moon-it was high but not full yet, though its light still cast shadows. He looked to the water below and saw its reflection dancing upon the surface.

Following the wide stone stairs down to the docks, he collected his tackle in the bait shed at the bottom and nodded to another guard.

I’ve become obsessed. The thought struck him, and Vlad felt some part of his old self stirring to life to examine this new realization. Standing apart from it, he saw clearly how unlike him this fixation was. He’d come here every day for months under the guise of fishing when he knew-and suspected his family knew, too-that he really was searching for ghosts in the water.

No, he thought, one ghost in particular. And today, after so many days of sitting and watching, it was time for a new tack.

Bucket, rod and tackle clutched tight, Vlad climbed down the wooden stairs to the lower docks and paused to take in the stillness of the predawn water. There, at the end of the lower dock, a skiff lay tied and ready. He walked to it, laid his tackle within, and climbed into the small boat.

As a boy on the Emerald Coast, he’d learned to sail at a young age. But growing up in House Li Tam left little room for those luxuries in the face of a first son’s training. In the end, he’d picked up most of his nautical experience fishing with Petronus and his father during the year he’d spent with his family in Caldus Bay. Of course, these memories lay over sixty years behind him now. Still, his feet remembered themselves, and as he found his place upon the rowing bench, his hands found the wooden oars and knew their work.

“Grandfather?”

Vlad looked up toward the whispered voice upon the dock. “Yes?”

In the dim moonlight, he saw yet another guard emerge now from shadow. “May I find someone to row you?”

Vlad smiled to himself. It was a simple inquiry, but the statement beneath it was clear to him. You are Vlad Li Tam, lord of House Li Tam. You should not be rowing about the sea alone in a tiny skiff.

“No need,” he said. He pointed to the mouth of the natural harbor. “I’ll not go far out of sight.” Still, he knew that once he put his back into the oars, a bird would flash back to their watch captain, who would in turn inform Baryk.

Protocol, of course, would be followed.

Dawn was hours away yet when the cracking of his back and shoulders joined the whisper of the oars into water and the creaking of the wooden boat. Overhead, stars throbbed heavy in a velvet sky and the slice of moon lent the faintest blue-green limn to the warm water. Careful to stay beyond eyeshot of the anchored iron ship and its own watch, Vlad took the skiff around the edge of the harbor and savored the feeling in his arms.

It wasn’t until he cleared the mouth and turned south along the shoreline that he finally paused and blinked at the empty night around him.

Why am I here? He’d started slow. First, an hour at the dock. Then eventually, half of a day. And lately, it had been the full day. Baryk and the others were handling the investigation and patrols, and Vlad knew they noted his increased withdrawal from that work. He even suspected that Baryk’s desire to leave was driven in part by Vlad’s gradual descent into this obsession.

Now, in the middle of the night, he found himself at sea. Months on the dock were no longer enough to satisfy his longing to see it again.

“Where are you?” he asked the waters in a quiet voice that frightened him.

And as if in answer, the water suddenly shimmered around him with a blue-green glow that stopped his breath.

Bringing the oars into the boat, Vlad carefully gripped the gunwale and leaned over the side. There, in the deeps, he saw it and felt the rush of joy and relief flooding him at the sight of it.

Ribbons of light twisted around an undulating, pulsing being that slowly ascended toward him. One tendril, long and slender as an arm, reached upward to float just beneath the surface, and Vlad felt the boat tip when he stretched out his own arm to let his fingers move across the water. The light withdrew, and he felt a pang of panic seize him.

Don’t go.

And even as he thought it, that older part of him stirred again. What is this that you feel? It was deeper than memory, stronger than instinct, and it pulled at him with a gravity he had not expected. Still, he set it aside for now.

He forced his arm still, the hand dipping into the gentle waves, and beneath his skiff, the ghost moved in a widening circle, rolling as it did, before it shot southeast-a streak of light within the water.

Vlad opened his mouth to speak, but his voice caught in his throat. More than that, he realized-it was more a sob than a gasp, and that knowledge rattled him.

Don’t go.

Fast as it had fled, the light returned, wavering beneath him again, and for the faintest moment, he felt the cool electric tingle as one tendril brushed his hand. It pulsated more urgently now, and a new compulsion seized him.

Hooking his foot under the rowing bench to anchor himself, Vlad stretched over the side of the boat to dip his face into the water, forcing his eyes open to take it all in.

Its song was everywhere around him, and the light drew nearer for a moment before fleeing again.

Vlad raised his head, drew in a deep lungful of air, and reimmersed himself.

He counted to five, and just as before, the ghost was back and all around him. I could give myself to it, he thought. I could let go of the bench and join it here and never leave.

But even as he thought it, he knew it was not the path for him, despite deep longing. That part of him that had ruled House Li Tam with iron resolve, making and breaking the leaders and houses of the Named Lands, knew with certainty that something suspicious and ancient and more powerful than any compulsion he’d ever known now gripped him, and rather than being satisfied by at last finding what he sought, he was instead more curious and more compelled by this longing.

Withdrawing his face from the water, Vlad watched as the ghost once again fled southeast only to return. It means me to follow.

But he knew that for now, he wouldn’t. For now, he had learned what he needed to and would return to the Blood Temple, take his breakfast, and meet with Baryk as soon as the warpriest was awake.

Tomorrow, he would return alone. He would do the same each day after. And in a week’s time, he would gather what remained of his family and would sail southeast. though it made no sense to do so.

Yet I will do this.

It broke his heart open to set himself firmly again on the rowing bench. He felt that pulsating ache moving and twisting across the deep, dark waters of his recent losses and was surprised at the tears that now coursed his cheeks.

It is as if I am in love, Vlad Li Tam thought with a rising panic that threatened to capsize his understanding.

Winters

The young Gypsy Scout stationed near the door ushered Winters into Rudolfo’s audience chamber just ahead of the prisoners, and she slid quietly into the chair provided for her in the corner of the room. Already, her stomach knotted at the thought of this afternoon’s meeting. She’d sat through hours of interrogation that morning, breaking only for lunch. Rudolfo’s questioning was skillful, even courteous, but what she heard from her people-what she saw upon their faces as they proclaimed it-chilled her.

She smoothed her plain dress and forced herself to watch when the women were brought in. Their hair was cut short, and the lines of ash and mud upon their faces were drawn in a more deliberate pattern, like the woman who claimed to be her older sister. Their feet were bare beneath the robes they wore. They walked with their heads held high and their shoulders back, and they met Rudolfo’s eyes with their own, and with the confident smile of peers. They inclined their heads slowly and sat in the chairs he waved at.

“I hope,” Rudolfo said to them, “you enjoyed your lunch.”

They nodded, and the one who had kept silent through most of the morning session spoke. Winters stretched for her name. Tamrys. “We are grateful for your hospitality, Lord Rudolfo.”

Winters watched him nod slightly, watched his eyes slide to Aedric and then glance up toward her. “I am grateful for your cooperation,” he said. “These are curious times.”

“These are the times foretold,” Tamrys assured him, and Winters heard the faith in her voice. It gave her pause.

How long had this resurgence cooked slowly among her people? How blind had she and the Council of Twelve been? Thinking of the council, she looked across the room and saw Seamus sitting quietly. When their eyes met briefly, she saw sadness in them, and she tried to find a similar sorrow within herself.

Tamrys continued. “We know that these are but the labor of a difficult birth. With the Child of Promise delivered, the road is made straight for the Age of the Crimson Empress.”

All morning, as Rudolfo gently probed them with questions, Winters had listened to fragments of gospel and references to prophecy she had not heard before. And with each spoken word, she’d heard the belief in these women’s voices and felt something stirring in her that heated her face and forced her hands into white-knuckled fists.

She forced her attention back to the conversation.

“Yes,” Rudolfo said. “You have shared that with us. And I’m certain that you believe this to be so-I can see why one might. But it remains that bringing this”-he paused, and his brow furrowed as he looked for the best word-“faith into the Ninefold Forest is unacceptable.”

Winters watched both of the women blink in surprise, then recover with knowing smiles and sly glances to one another. “It just hasn’t been revealed to you yet, Lord Rudolfo.” She heard love and conviction in their voices. “When it has, you’ll understand your great part in this gospel and the tremendous grace visited upon your son and your line.”

Rudolfo looked to her again, and Winters saw cunningness in his dark eyes. His hands moved, and she read the words quickly. Do you wish to speak to them? He’d asked during the morning, too, but she’d declined. Once more, she shook her head, and as she did, she saw Tamrys staring at her from the corner of her eye.

“You are Winteria the Younger,” she said, starting to stand. “We did not recognize you without your markings of Home-longing.” Gypsy Scouts slipped in from the edges of the room until a glance from Rudolfo and a whistle from Aedric stood them down. The other stood, too, and both bowed deeply. “We bear word to you from your sister, the Elder.”

Winters felt the blush rise to her cheeks. “I do not recognize her as my kin.”

Tamrys smiled, and it was warm, genuine even. “You do not need to as yet. These things take time.” She looked to Rudolfo. “May I approach her?”

He looked to Winters, and she wondered how wide her eyes had become even as his narrowed. He must have seen something there, because his voice was cautionary. “I’m not certain-”

Winters found her voice. “You may approach.”

Under the watchful eye of the scouts, the Machtvolk evangelist walked slowly across the room. As she did, Winters stood and faced the woman.

The woman was tall, and when she gathered Winters into her arms, Winters felt the strength of the embrace and smelled the sweat and earth and ash of the woman. She felt warm lips upon her forehead, and then the mouth moved to her ear as the voice lowered to a whisper. “Little sister,” Tamrys said, “come home to me and to joy.”

Unexpected, the words-and the love within that voice-raised goose bumps upon her skin.

Then, with the message delivered, the evangelist inclined her head and returned to her seat.

The conversation continued beyond that. Rudolfo asked questions, and the answers, circular and cryptic, followed. She heard references to schools and shrines built; to an expansion of the Machtvolk presence into what had once been Windwir; and candid discussion of evangelists moving out across the Named Lands in their robes and mud and ash, preaching their new gospel.

But gradually, the words drifted someplace out of reach to Winters. As hard as she tried to, she could not escape that whispered voice and that firm embrace.

Little sister, come home to me and to joy.

And yet, this same woman-her older sister supposedly-had sent assassins out in the night to murder Hanric, the man who had raised her. And now, this new queen and her kind transformed her people into something that frightened Winters though she did not fully grasp why.

She remembered that day in the tent at the edge of spring and felt the rage washing through her as she surged forward with upraised axe. She felt shame rise to her cheeks at the memory of being so easily restrained and subdued. And she realized suddenly that she’d spent these last six months avoiding the truth of what had happened to her and how she’d responded, hiding in the basement of the new library pretending she was only a girl. Sudden tears threatened her now, and Winters felt her face grow even hotter as she resisted.

I gave up on my people.

She remembered Tertius and the nights he often read to her. One of her favorite stories had been “Jamael and the Kin-Wolves.” He’d suggested it to her one night and had then been subjected to reading it again and again to her. And one day Jamael came home from the fields to find a kin-wolf in her sheepfold.

She looked at the two women again. The light in their eyes. The deep sense of passion in their voices. How many more were out there, even now, sharing this gospel and feeding this resurgence? They had brought down Windwir to bring this faith out of the shadows. They had butchered and resurrected Petronus to create this belief. They had cut their mark over the hearts of innocent children. And they had healed Jin Li Tam and Rudolfo’s dying son with the blood of thousands.

She knew from her talks with Rudolfo and Jin Li Tam that this resurgence had been engineered, but now, for the first time, she saw that her people were also victims of this dark movement. They were being bent and twisted into the servants of this so-called Crimson Empress, and the thought of it awoke anger in her. These people were in her care, and she could not hide here and pretend otherwise.

Wolves in the fold, Jamael cried.

“Wolves in the fold,” Winters whispered softly to herself.

And as if she heard, the evangelist Tamrys paused, turned to the girl and smiled at her.