Sweep in Peace

Chapter Thirteen

I woke up because the nameless cat was staring at me. His big round eyes shone like two moons, catching the morning light slipping through the curtains.

I raised my hand. He pondered it for a few seconds, then slowly moved forward and rubbed his soft head against my palm. For some inexplicable reason, it made me feel better. The cat rubbed against me again and settled on the bed to knead the blankets. I read on the Internet that some people called it making muffins. It seemed oddly appropriate. Judging by his diligence, he would totally bake me muffins if he could.

I slid down to the floor.

“Beast?”

The little dog shot out from under the bed and jumped on me, licking my face. I hugged her. “Who’s a good doggie? Beast is a good doggie!”

At least Beast loved me. No matter what I did, Beast thought I was the greatest owner in the history of the universe. Sadly, I couldn’t just stay up here and play with her all day.

I got up, brushed my teeth, took a shower, and got dressed in my innkeeper garb, complete with the blue robe, accomplishing the tasks on autopilot. Sleep had helped my body, but not the rest of me. I felt exhausted, emotionally and mentally wrung out.

“Main ballroom, please.”

A screen offered me the view of the main ballroom. The Battle Chaplain and the shaman sat on the floor with about fifteen feet of space between them. They were talking. Their facial expressions didn’t seem hostile. The bodies of the three vampires had been placed into stasis chambers that looked a lot like coffins and had given rise to many Earth vampire legends. The body of Ruah had been wrapped in layers of cloth with ritualistic runes on it.

I made my way downstairs. Both of the religious representatives had decided to ship the corpses offworld. Ruga, the shaman, wanted Ruah to be buried with his family. Odalon had written a communique to House Meer. He read it to me as we walked through the orchard, the pallet with the dead trailing behind us.

“It is with great regret that I must inform you that Lord Beneger and Knights Uriel and Korsarad have fallen victim to Turan Adin, having attacked him as he entered the dining hall during dinner.”

“Like cowards,” Ruga added on my left.

“Fallen victim?” Vampires saw themselves as predators, not prey. That was a scathing insult.

“Indeed,” Odalon smiled, baring his fangs. “Their resistance lasted but a few breaths, and despite our most valiant efforts, they couldn’t be saved.”

The laughter burst out so fast I had to clamp my hand over my mouth before I snorted.

“Even the intervention of an otrokar swordsman failed to make a difference as they were dead within moments of their ill-fated charge.”

I glanced at Ruga.

The shaman shrugged. “It’s not my communique.”

Odalon grinned. “I have performed the rights of Absolution and Passing through the Veil and have stood vigil for the required hours. I can only hope that my years of serving the Most Holy through thought and action and the blood of my body and that of my enemies spilled onto the fertile battlefields in the name of the Holy Anocracy are sufficient to recommend the souls of your knights to Paradise. You will find the recording of the incident with Lord Beneger.”

I chuckled. “So how hard did you beg the Most Holy to allow them to enter Paradise?”

“Only as hard as my integrity required.” Odalon smiled. “What do you think?”

“That is the nicest ‘Here are your dishonored dead, piss off and don’t come back’ letter I have ever heard,” I told him.

“I helped him with it,” Ruga said.

I felt someone’s gaze on me. To our left, Turan Adin stood on the balcony. When I designed everyone else’s quarters, I made sure they all saw the orchard but jumping into it from their balconies would’ve landed them in different spots in it. Since Turan Adin made everyone lose their mind by his mere presence, his balcony actually opened here, near the landing field. He wore his armor and tabard. His hood was up, but he was looking at us.

Ruga growled quietly. Odalon glanced at Turan Adin, and for a moment the otrokar and the vampire wore identical expressions.

“That creature disturbs me,” Ruga said.

“You are not alone in that,” Odalon told him.

“Because of how he kills?” I guessed.

“No.” Ruga grimaced. “Because he is desperate.”

“We are all desperate,” Odalon said. “Nobody wants to go back to Nexus.”

“Yes, we are desperate, yet we still have hope the fight will end.”

“True,” Odalon said. “There is darkness there.”

I glanced at him.

“A true spiritual advisor is more than a priest,” Odalon said. “We are the link between human and holy. We devote ourselves to service, and that includes not just the spiritual but also the emotional needs of our congregation. We were chosen and drawn to our vocation because of our empathy.”

“We are similar,” Ruga said. “We seek to peer into the soul of the person and heal the frayed edges.”

That explained why the two of them had hit it off. Put two empaths into the same room for a few hours, and sooner or later they would naturally try to reach out to each other in an effort to understand how the other person feels.

“When I look into his soul,” Ruga said, glancing back over his shoulder at Turan Adin, “I see conflict.”

“Desperation is a catalyst that forces us to act,” Odalon said. “It summons the last reserves we possess in an effort to extricate us from danger. This is why we are here at this summit. We are so desperate we are willing to negotiate with our sworn enemy. It pushes us to limits we normally cannot reach.”

“Desperation is a fire,” Ruga added. “It burns bright but it must have a chimney, an outlet.”

“A chimney?” Odalon’s eyebrows crept up.

The shaman rolled his eyes. “Fine. Desperation, as exhibited by that creature, is basically a prolonged lower state of fight-or-flight response. Where the fight-or-flight shot of adrenaline is a reaction to the actual manifestation of danger, desperation is the result of a perceived future danger. It primes the organism, forcing it to actively seek an avenue of escape before the danger actually manifests, resulting in a complicated cascade of hormonal interactions. You get higher metabolic rate, an entire slew of glands functioning at a greater output, obsessive thoughts, and so on.”

I stopped and pinched myself.

“I know,” Odalon told me. “When I discovered he has an advanced degree in microbiology, it was quite a shock to me as well.”

“It’s not a healthy state of being,” Ruga continued. “You are not designed to function in a state of desperation for a prolonged period of time.”

“It’s a short-term metabolic burst,” Odalon added. “The body will seek to vent some of that built-up potential. If you are under a great amount of stress, you might have a panic attack, for example.”

“Turan Adin is desperate, but he is also trapped,” Ruga said. “It rolls off him. To go back to my earlier metaphor, if desperation is a fire, his fire is raging inside a stone bunker. I don’t know what is keeping him where he is—if he is indebted, if he is disciplined, if he feels he is there for the right cause—but whatever it is, it has created a deep-seated conflict within his psyche.”

“He won’t be able to sustain that kind of pressure,” Odalon said. “His body and his soul desperately want to escape, but his mind is keeping him trapped. He is tired and he’s subconsciously looking for an escape. When he realizes that there is only one escape route available to him, he’ll take it. He’ll kill himself in six months.”

“I would go as far as eight, but yes,” Ruga said.

“It makes him incredibly dangerous,” Odalon said, “because he doesn’t care. He has no thought of self-preservation beyond the basic instincts of his body.”

“He will never take his own life. He will try to die in battle,” the shaman added. “And I do not want to be on the battlefield when he decides that it is his last day.”

“That’s horrible,” I said.

“War is horrible,” Odalon said. “It ruins people.”

“War on Nexus is especially horrible,” Ruga said.

“Why?” I asked.

“Modern war is, in an odd way, merciful,” Odalon said. “Our technology permits us to precision-bomb strategic targets. When casualties occur, they are typically swift.”

“Death from high-density beam bombardment takes point three seconds,” Ruga said. “It is a loss of life, irreversible and irreplaceable, but it is a death without suffering. Advanced weaponry doesn’t function correctly on Nexus. Orbital bombardment is out of the question because environmental anomalies prevent accurate targeting. Trying to pound your enemy with artillery is pointless as well.”

“We’ve had weapons explode,” Odalon said. “There is a record of a concentrated artillery assault in the first year of the war. The projectiles disappeared and thirty minutes later materialized above the House that fired them.”

“I remember reading about that.” Ruga smirked.

“It is an up close and personal war, fought with savage weapons,” Odalon said. “At first when you’re young and dumb and you hear about it, you think it will be glorious. That you will be like the hero of old, ripping through the ranks of your enemy. Then you find out what six hours of fighting with your sword is really like. The first hour, if you survive, is exciting. The scent of blood is intoxicating. The second hour, you are injured but you keep going. The third hour, you realize you’ve had your fill of blood. You want to be done. You want off the battlefield. In the fourth, you notice the faces of people you kill. You hear their screams as you hack off their limbs. It is no longer an abstract enemy. It is a living being that you are ripping apart. It is dying by your hand, right there in front of you. In the fifth, you bleed and vomit, and still you push forward, punishing your body and soul. In the sixth, you collapse finally, grateful that you survived or simply numb. Everything smells like blood and the smell of it makes you ill. You’re hurting and you try to keep your eyes open, because if you close them, you might see the faces of those you killed, so you look upon the battlefield and you see that nothing was gained and, as the medic is patching you up, you realize you must do it again tomorrow.”

It sounded like hell.

“That was good,” Ruga said.

“Thank you,” Odalon said.

“We’ve become hopelessly civilized,” Ruga said. “We are not suited for that kind of war. I don’t think our ancestors were even suited for it. They died much easier than we do, so a single long battle could decide the course of a war. It takes a lot more damage to kill one of us now, so every evening all those who are still breathing end up in recuperative tanks, and a few days later, they are back out again. Endless battle. Endless war.”

“Endless suffering.” Now I understood why Arland’s face had changed when he mentioned it.

“Yes,” Ruga said. “And now there is no hope for peace.”

“I wouldn’t say no hope,” Odalon said. “That is rather bleak.”

“Your people attacked the Merchants and my people attacked the Arbitrator.” Ruga sighed. “Mark my words: this is the beginning of the end.”

We were walking back from the landing field when Turan Adin jumped off his balcony. He did it very casually, as if clearing the thirty-foot drop was like stepping down the stairs. The vampire and the otrokar at my side went for their weapons.

“May I walk with you?” he asked me in his quiet, snarl-tinted voice.

“Of course.” I looked at the two clergymen. “Please excuse us.”

Odalon and Ruga hesitated for a long moment. “As you wish,” Odalon said finally. “We will go on ahead.”

They walked on. I waited until they were a short distance ahead and turned to Turan Adin. “Was there something specific you wanted to discuss?”

“No.”

Maybe he just wanted some company. “I was going to take a few minutes and sit in my favorite spot to collect myself. Would you like to join me?”

He nodded.

I led him to the left, past the apple trees to an old overgrown hedge. I made my way through a narrow gap and waited for him. A small pond sat in the horseshoe clearing, bordered by the hedge. Lily pads floated on the surface, and two large koi, one orange, one white with red spots, gently moved through the shallow water. A small wooden bench waited by the pond. I sat on one end. He sat on the other.

We sat quietly and watched the koi.

“Did you make this?” he asked.

“Yes. When I was growing up, my job was to tend the gardens. It’s harder here, in Texas, because of the water restrictions, but the inn collects rainwater.”

“It’s nice,” he said.

“Thank you. I’m hoping to work on this more in the summer. Make it a little bigger. Maybe plant some flowers over there and put a hammock up so I can come here with my book and read…”

He jumped off the bench and left. One moment he was there, and the next I was alone. I felt him moving back to the inn, inhumanly fast. He had jumped up, scaled the wall, gotten up to his balcony and disappeared into his rooms.

What did I say?

I sat by myself for another minute or two. The serenity I was looking for refused to come.

The inn chimed. The otrokars were trying to get my attention from their quarters and something was happening in the stables.

I sighed, got up, and headed for the stables. Inside, Nuan Sama, Nuan Cee’s niece who had helped Hardwir repair Officer Marais’s car, crouched by one of the donkey-camel beasts. Jack sat on the bench, watching her. At Nuan Cee’s request, I had given her clearance to come to the stables every day to tend to the animals. Usually either Jack or Gaston escorted her.

“What is it?” I asked her.

She brushed at her blue and-cream-fur with her paw. “Tan-tan is feeling poorly.”

The donkey-camel looked at her with big dark eyes.

“Is she sick?”

“No. She is just old.” Nuan Sama sighed. “This is her last trip I think. I come and visit her when I can, but she is… Sometimes creatures just get old.”

“Is there anything I can do to make it easier on her?”

“Could you increase the oxygen in the stables?” Nuan Sama looked up at me.

I couldn’t fix anything else, but at the very least I could fix that. “Would twenty-three percent do?”

“That would be perfect. Thank you! It will let her breathe easier.”

“Done.” I made someone’s day better. Today wasn’t a complete loss.

The inn chimed again. The otrokars were really persistent. I called up a screen in the nearest wall. Dagorkun’s face filled it.

“The Khanum asks you to share her morning tea.”

I didn’t want to share tea. I didn’t want to play politics or be smart. I just wanted to go to the kitchen and get a cup of coffee. I would need backup. “Thank you. I will be right up.”

I waved at the screen, calling up the covered balcony where Caldenia liked to have her breakfast. Her Grace was in her favorite chair, impeccably dressed in a complicated cobalt hybrid of a dress and a kimono embroidered with gold and red flowers.

“Good morning, Your Grace. Would you mind accompanying me to Khanum’s morning tea?”

“Of course not. I will be right down.”

I dismissed the screen and left the stables to meet Caldenia by the stairs.

The otrokars’ quarters were unusually quiet. A somber-faced Dagorkun led Caldenia and me to the balcony once again and stood behind his mother, who sat in her robe on the bright pillows. This time a flame burned in the circular fire pit, sending up a cloud of spicy smoke. I recognized the scent—jeva grass. The otrokars burned it for good luck before a long journey. The Khanum stared into the flames, her eyebrows furrowed. She didn’t acknowledge Caldenia’s presence.

I took a seat on the circular couch. “Are you leaving?”

“Tomorrow evening,”

“Why?”

“The peace negotiations have failed.” The Khanum narrowed her eyes. “There can be no peace now.”

“I don’t understand,” I said gently. “What changed?”

“We were embarrassed and humiliated.”

So were the vampires, but pointing it out in quite those words wouldn’t be the best strategy. “The Holy Anocracy struck the first blow.”

The Khanum sighed. “Yes, but now we are both in a position of weakness. We are here.” She raised her hand, holding her palm parallel to the ground. “The Merchants are here.” She raised her other palm a few inches higher.

“The Merchants want peace. Without peace, there is no profit.”

“It’s not that simple,” Dagorkun said.

“We are a democracy,” the Khanum said. “The men and women who are here are all distinguished warriors. They are the best seeds of the crop, and they lead specific factions within the Horde. Had the peace treaty been ratified, each otrokar would’ve added the weight and value of his or her reputation to it. It is their reputations and their honor that would’ve made our agreement binding. My people were given a simple order: to never initiate violence while they are under your roof. Ruah disobeyed it. It reflects badly on his commanding officer. On me.”

Dagorkun winced.

“I came here to negotiate, and I was unable to control the people under my command. Because of this happening, we, as a delegation, are no longer united. A decision of peace, a decision of great gravity and significance, must be unanimously approved. And now, since my honor has been tarnished, I would need that unanimous vote more than ever. Without a united vote, the treaty will hold no weight with the rest of the Horde.”

A male otrokar approached us, carrying a platter with a pot of tea and four cups. He placed it on the table, inclined his head, and left. Dagorkun poured the dark red liquid into the cups. The Khanum watched him, her face impassive. She had wanted the peace treaty to succeed so much. My heart was breaking for her.

“Is there any hope for peace? Any at all?” I asked softly.

She shook her head.

“I don’t like debts,” the Khanum stated, her voice flat. “So before we go, I would ask that you name the price of our restitution for our transgression.”

I sipped my tea.

A puff of mist erupted from the floor of the balcony and within it for a briefest of moments I saw the faint outline of the phantom thief’s body.

My muscles locked. My body turned hard, as if I’d suddenly become steel, and I crashed onto the floor. The air vanished. I struggled to inhale and couldn’t. My lungs sat in my chest like two boulders, unable to expand.

“Dina!” Caldenia lunged to me.

I couldn’t look at her. My eyes wouldn’t move.

Poison… I’ve been poisoned.

The inn screamed, its wood creaking and groaning, reaching for me. I shoved at it with my magic. No! If it touched me, the poison would spread. I couldn’t kill Gertrude Hunt.

“You poisoned her!” Caldenia snarled, her sharp teeth rending the air.

Breathe, breathe, breathe… My body refused to respond.

I’m dying…

The balcony parted under me. I fell through it, down, and landed on the table in the kitchen, right between George, Sophie, and Jack. Pain slapped my rigid back. Above me, through the hole in the fabric of existence, Caldenia screamed, “She’s been poisoned!”

“Dina!” Sophie cried out.

I saw Turan Adin. He was there and then he vanished.

I couldn’t even gasp. My mouth wouldn’t move.

George’s face, pale, his eyes wide open, swung into my view. The tip of his cane was glowing, projecting information in front of it, scrolling with dizzying speed.

Not enough air…

“Not again!” Orro howled. “No, no, no…”

“Fix this,” Sophie ground out through her teeth. “Fix it now, George. This is going too far.”

“I can’t. This wasn’t part of the plan.”

“Do something!”

“I’m trying,” George growled. “The database doesn’t know this poison.”

This is it, flashed in my head. This is how I am going to die.

The inn wavered around me, warping, its roots stretching to me.

No!

“The inn can heal,” Caldenia called out. “Let it heal her!”

“No,” George barked. “If the inn forges a connection with her, the poison can spread.”

Thank you. Thank you for looking out for Gertrude Hunt.

I sent my magic out, letting it brush the walls. I love you. You are the best. You will be okay.

Wood snapped, cracking, as if something within the inn tore itself apart.

Shhhh. It will be okay. You will be okay.

I wish I could’ve found my parents. I wish I could have seen Sean one last time…

The light was fading. I couldn’t even close my eyes. I would die with them open.

Turan Adin filled my view. Nuan Cee’s furry muzzle appeared near me.

“I have your word?” the Merchant said.

All went black.