The Horns Of Ruin Part 9

"It is," he said.

"Why is this in the Strength, then? It is the engine of a heretic. It should be taken to the Cult of the Healer and destroyed."

"Yes," Isabel said darkly. "It should."

"It should, but was not," Tomas answered, testily. "On the word of the Fratriarch."

"And what came of that?" Isabel asked. They were starting their argument again, as if forgetting I was in the room. "You fought him, Tomas. It was your vote that we destroy it. Immediately."

"Yes, it was. But the vote still stands."

"What vote?" I asked. "What the h.e.l.l are you people talking about?"

Tomas and Isabel stared at each other, lost in old conversations. When they broke their stare, the tension in the room snapped.

"There was a great deal of discussion on this subject. The Council voted." Tomas circled the cylinder, then placed a hand on its cap, running a finger around the Betrayer's runes. "And that vote still stands."

"For now," Isabel answered. "But Elias is dead, and Barnabas, most likely. The Council needs to be re-formed, a new Fratriarch ascended, a new vote- "Whoa, whoa, hang on. Barnabas isn't dead, not yet. Unless you've got his body in some chandelier or stuffed behind your wardrobe, he's still the Fratriarch. And I'm still his Paladin. Whatever the old man decided still stands." I looked angrily down at the cylinder. "Even if we don't like it."

"We will see. This is a time of emergency, Eva." Isabel placed a hand on my shoulder. "We must take extraordinary measures in times such as these."

"Or we could stand by our vows, and serve the Fratriarch." I fixed Tomas with my gaze. "As we swore."

"Yes, yes. As we swore. Either way, you won't get a vote, Paladin. This is a matter for the Elders. And this," he said, motioning to the device, "is the heart of it."

"This is what got Elias killed? Do we even know what it is?"

"Not really. As you surmised, it is an Amonite artifact. Some kind of storage device, perhaps, or a map." Tomas took a step away from the thing and clasped his hands behind his back. "Amon was always fond of keeping knowledge in machines. But really, we don't know what it is, or where it came from."

"And you didn't turn it over to the Alexians because ... ?"

"Because we did not know where it came from. It was given to us, to the Cult of Morgan. Not Alexander."

"So this is some kind of p.i.s.sing match, Elder?"

"Alexander abuses the knowledge of the Scholars, Eva," Isabel said, stepping into our conversation from where she had been observing from the side. "He keeps them as pets, milking them for whatever benefit he can manage. Whatever will further his power."

"Are you feeling empathy for the Librarians Desolate, Lady Elder?" I asked, smirking. "Doesn't sound like you."

"Not empathy. I don't think they should be kept at all. Alexander allows the worship of Amon, Morgan's murderer, to further his own needs. He speaks to us of justice, but only as far as is convenient for him. He promises us revenge, and then allows the scions of Amon to live in captivity, so that they might build him weapons, and grow him armies of peasants."

"Weapons that have contributed to the downfall of our Cult, Elder? Is that your concern?"

She stepped close to me, her breath a mix of spice and sweat. Her finger hammered into my chest, inches from Barnabas's pendant.

"My concern is that the servants of the Betrayer are allowed to live, when our G.o.d Morgan lies dead."

"Regardless of fault," Tomas said, "we do not wish to further Alexander's knowledge of the ways of Amon. Whatever knowledge this archive contains, it is for us, not him."

"And that's why we were fetching the girl," I said. "In the hope that she would be able to decipher the device, and further the cause of Morgan."

"That was the Fratriarch's hope," Tomas answered. "We were opposed to it, but ... he's the Fratriarch."

"Was," Isabel said. I rounded on her, but she held up her hands in peace. "And shall always be. Settle, girl."

"So why are you showing me this?"

"You should know what caused all of this. Barnabas's kidnapping, the murder of our brother Elias. Whatever is to come. We all felt that you should be aware of the cause."

I nodded to myself. That was the reason they were willing to tell me, at least. I suspected there was more going on, more that I wasn't being told. I would speak to Simeon, later, and get his side of their disagreement.

"And why was Elias killed?" I asked. "Did he have some secret knowledge of this device, or something?"

"We don't know," Tomas answered, shaking his head slowly. "Someone is warring against us. We a.s.sume they are aligned with the Betrayer. Perhaps trying to recover this device, or destroy it."

"They're welcome to destroy it," Isabel spat. "I don't want this Scholar filth in my monastery."

"If the Betrayer wants it destroyed, then isn't that reason enough to preserve it?" Tomas asked. Isabel took a step back, looking at him with confusion. He nodded at the question in her eyes. "This is not as simple a question as I would like to believe, Isabel. The more troubles develop, the more questions I have. The less sure I am of my earlier vote."

Isabel grimaced, then hefted the device with her still-invoked strength and placed it back on the platform. Without a signal that I saw, the platform folded intricately back into the floor. When it was smoothed away, Isabel turned to Tomas, fire in her eyes.

"Do not speak to me of complicated answers, Tomas. This course will see us all killed. Alexander fails us. Amon will lie to us. It is only in Morgan we can trust."

"Morgan is dead, love," Tomas answered, quietly. Isabel spat, then whirled and marched out of the room.

Tomas watched her go with sad eyes, then put a hand on my shoulder.

"How will we stand, if not together?" His voice was very quiet. "We must speak of your duties, Paladin."

"What would you have of me, Elder?"

He turned to me, his clear blue eyes wet and bright.

"The girl is in the hands of the Chanters," he said, very carefully. "What does she know?"

"She can chant a h.e.l.l of an Unmaking, Elder. Beyond that," I shrugged, "that's what the Chanters are for, aren't they?"

"It matters to us, Eva. It is important. We cannot go back to the Library Desolate and simply withdraw another. Besides," he drew close to me, "this girl, she was with the Fratriarch when he was taken. Might have been involved in it."

"Yes. I hope she can lead us to him."

"Lead us? Perhaps. But we must know how it happened. Who is responsible. And worse, Eva ... what did he say, there at the end? What if she escaped, ignored by whoever it was that took Barnabas. What does she know of why we summoned her? She surrendered to you, did she not? Why would she do that?"

"To preserve her fellow scions, I think. It isn't unreasonable."

"That is not the action of a Scholar. Of a Betrayer. She must know something of the archive, something of Barnabas's reason for visiting the Library."

"And if she does?" I asked.

"The Chanters will know. And then Alexander will know."

I crossed my arms.

"Is it that important, Elder? That we endanger the search for the Fratriarch, perhaps cost him his life, to keep this thing hidden from Alexander? He is our G.o.d's brother, after all."

"As was Amon." He pulled away from me, shuffling slowly to the center of the floor, his head down. He traced a pattern in the dust with the toe of his old boot. "It is important, Eva. It was the Fratriarch's will. He knew the danger, when he went to the Library alone, with only you as his guard. He knew, and accepted it."

"What are you asking of me, Elder?"

"To do the Fratriarch's will. To obey him, as you swore to obey him." He stopped his scuffling and looked up at me. His eyes were sad. "Alexander has the girl. Bring her to us."

It didn't really matter what I thought. The Elders were going to do what they were going to do. I had never understood Cult politics, the secrets we kept, the secrets the Healers kept from us. Never understood why either of the Cults put up with the b.l.o.o.d.y Amonites, either. There must be other ways to keep the city running, besides the Betrayer's slick invokations. Again, not my decision. Not my business. The Elders were going to do what they were going to do. And I was going to do what I was going to do.

I stopped in my rooms only long enough to shed the stiff ceremonial gear for a pair of jeans and a cotton T-shirt, boots for a loose pair of meditation slippers, then set out to roam the higher halls of the monastery. I was bone-tired, having been up all night searching the city for signs of the coldmen, then much of today standing watching over the dead body of Elias. But I couldn't sleep. Too much on my mind, and more on my heart.

My feet shushed along the cold slate floors of the monastery. The corridors were spottily lit, and the rooms were quiet. The monastery had been built to house two strong Arms of Paladins of the Champion, five hundred men, plus four times that number of support staff and lesser initiate warriors. Add in the Father Elders, the Fraternal leadership, the holy seers and anointed champions ... nearly three thousand souls had called the monastery home, in comfort. Not a barracks, nor a mendicant's hovel, the monastery was the height of the holy order of Morgan's warrior church. Had been, and still was, though the Cult was dwindling.

There were fifty of us left. And most of that corps were aging Elders and middle-aged initiates who had never achieved the status of the blade. There were warriors among them, brothers- and sisters-atarms who were fit to guard the doors and march in the hallways, maybe even carry a charge in the field. But of the Paladins there was one. Me.

The corridors of the monastery twisted up, narrower and higher, the living chambers occasionally interrupted by empty defensive towers and unlit muster stations. The weapon racks were left empty. I wandered until my feet took me to the highest part of the egglike monastery. I went outside to stand on the Dominant, the narrow platform atop the egg that, in time of war, would serve as the Fratriarch's station.

The Dominant was a smooth plane of stone, about fifteen feet in diameter. The edge was sheer, without even a low wall to protect its occupants from tumbling off. The platform was a fixture on all Morganite strongholds across the peninsula, most of which now stood empty or in ruin. From this place, the master of the stronghold would direct the defenses when the enemies of Morgan and the Fraterdom laid siege. Open to the field of battle, and with a perfect view of the armies below, the master would stand in clear sight of the enemy. The only things protecting him were the hard invokations of Morgan, incanted by his personal guard of Paladins. Such was their power that their words could turn away bullistic shot, clouds of arrows, even the early cannonades that were just seeing use near the end of Morgan's life.

I sat on the edge of the platform and dangled my legs over, resting my heels against the smooth curve of the stone wall as it arched away. So easy to slide off. Slide off and down, to fly into the city without a sound. I leaned back on my palms and let the cold of the stone leech into my blood. The Strength of Morgan, safe in the city of Ash, had never seen siege. Probably never would. But the view from the Dominant was still spectacular.

The monastery sloped out and away like a black moon. Few of the windows were lit, fewer of the chimneys curled smoke. The monastery sat like an eclipse in the middle of a city of light. All around, bright towers of gla.s.s reached starward, their surfaces shot through with the witchlight of the Amonites. Even at this hour the streets were alive with traffic. The golden rails of the mono shimmered as the trains sped by. Crowds moved below in silence, too far away to hear. Life went on. The city of Ash went on.

I stood and stretched, pacing silently through the five stances of the Brother Betrayed. Circling the Dominant, the forms flowing through my arms like shadows flickering on a stage. I kept my eyes closed, my fists open, my breath coming in long, deep cycles. Muscles relaxed into the comfortable ritual of the forms.

"You should be sleeping," a voice said from the center of the Dominant.

My empty hands stopped inches from his throat, the strike rising up from my heels and through twisting hips, automatically snapping out what would have been a killing blow had my mind not recognized the voice.

"Elder Simeon," I said, finally opening my eyes and looking at the old man over the stiff splay of my palm. I relaxed and stepped back. The Elder remained standing and still, as though he had never been in danger. As perhaps he hadn't. The Elders spoke the deepest secrets of the Cult of the Warrior. Even infirm, they had their powers. "Forgive me."

"It is your forgiveness that must be given, Paladin. I checked your room, but you were gone. I came here to ... collect my thoughts." He stepped away from the stairs, trailing out toward the edge of the platform. "And perhaps my memories. I did not seek to disturb you."

I closed my stance and faced away from the Elder, putting some distance between us. Old men didn't climb that many stairs without a purpose. Especially this old man.

"You treat me well, Simeon. Always have." I squatted down onto my heels, resting my arms on splayed knees. "So be honest with me. What was Elias's vote?"

"His vote?" he asked. "On the archive?"

"Yeah."

"So they've told you about that, at least. What else?"

"What else should I know, Elder?"

He folded his arms into the wide sleeves of his robe and nodded toward the cityscape.

"He was with Barnabas."

"He wanted to reach out to the Amonites," I said, mostly to myself, mostly fitting the pieces together in my head. "To learn more about the device, without telling Alexander."

"Yes." He nodded. "That was his hope."

"Might not that be why he was killed?"

He became very still. "These are dangerous suggestions, Eva." He turned toward me. "The Cult has enough enemies without digging them out of the monastery."

"This is what I know, Elder. Someone delivered that artifact to the Strength. Someone kidnapped Barnabas and killed Elias. In every case, these unknown someones had pretty excellent knowledge of the business of the Strength. Who knew where the Fratriarch was going, and why? Who knew we had the artifact, or that a vote was taken to determine its fate? Who knew where those votes lay?"

Simeon did not answer me. Did not need to answer.

"And let me extend that thought. I know Tomas voted against it. Isabel made her will known. She has no tolerance for the artifacts of the Scholar. So, two against. Barnabas voted for investigating the artifact. As did Elias. Two votes to two. Leaving only you, Elder."

"Aye. I was with Barnabas."

"And now you fear for your life, as Elias should have feared for his. And now we must ask who held the knife. Who could be trusted, and now cannot?"

"Surely you do not suspect the Elders?"

"I am not threatening the Council of the Fist. I'm not accusing you, or Tomas, or Isabel, of anything. There are others in this monastery, other powers at work in the city. What I am saying, Elder, is that I will pursue this hunt wherever it takes me."

"You must be very careful, girl. We do not wish to show weakness-"

"Enough, Elder," I snapped, flushing at my own rashness. He took a step away from me. "I do not know what you are doing, but I do know that you are doing something. Tomas sent me to watch over Elias so he could talk to the other Elders. He sent you away so he could talk to me in Isabel's presence, and show me the artifact. And now you are here, to speak with me alone. Perhaps to speak against the Elders, perhaps to sway me in my decision regarding the artifact. It is a careful game, but I will not play it with you."

"Paladin ..." he hissed, then paused. Two long breaths we stood there before he gave a sharp nod, then retreated to the spiraling staircase.

When he was well and truly gone, I relaxed from the fighting stance I had unwittingly a.s.sumed, then continued with my stances of meditation. I should not have spoken out to the Elder like that. But then again, he should not be trying to play games with the hunter on her trail.

*y first glimpse of battle came on my tenth birthday. Tomas brought me to the train, and rode with me as far as it would go. We took the smaller elevated mono, in its unerring orbit, out of Ash and to the lakeside terminal. There we boarded a landlocked train, huffing and snuffling and groaning as it gained slow momentum out of the station. Tomas bought me jerrycakes and soda that the vendor mixed right at the cart, and let me sit by the window. When we were close, he helped me get into the custom-fit steam suit, the pistons and boiler huffing like the train. I didn't have the noetics yet, and I was too young to wear a man's armor.

There were ladies on the train with us, accompanied by their gentlemen. They wore silk dresses and carried picnic baskets. The Rethari Incursion was still a curiosity, like a page of history that had torn free and was rampaging among the peasants. Only we didn't really have peasants anymore. But the ladies boarded the train with their picnics, and their men carried folding chairs, and they sat in their leatherupholstered compartments and talked. Mostly they talked about me, in ways they thought I couldn't hear.

I clambered out of the train and followed Tomas down to the field, and to Barnabas. People were already saying that he'd be the next Fratriarch. He would make a good one, I thought, though he was getting a little old. Something I didn't understand-why we waited until a man was old to make him Fratriarch. Best grab them while they're young and full of fire. Old men settled into patterns. They smelled. Fratriarch Hannas smelled, at least, and his bony hands were like the gnarled roots of trees. I hoped that making Barnabas Fratriarch wouldn't do that to him. I couldn't imagine him that way.

The Rethari were gathered together, their scaly legions lined up in cohorts, their cohorts rallying to standards and champions. Just like any other army. I looked out across them and found the totem-men. Their G.o.ds. I laughed at such foolery, but Tomas hushed me. I picked out Barnabas. At the lead, of course. Without his helmet, of course. His great white mane of hair snapped in the wind, like a totem of winter snow trapped in a field of summer. His hair had always been white, long as I'd known him.

The men followed him. I understood that. I would follow him, if Tomas let me. If I could get out of this ridiculous suit and wield the blade, if I knew the rites of armor and bullet. Someday.

The Cult of Morgan carried the charge. As was our right. But we did not carry the day. It was glorious, down among the flashing swords and dancing warriors. It wasn't until later, when I stepped that dance myself, that I would learn of the grim filth of war. The death, the stink of men and women voiding themselves as blades burst guts, as bullets shattered teeth and opened skulls like ripe fruit. From here it was beautiful. Down there it was glorious too, but not in a way the ladies in their silk would understand.

We carried the charge, but did not win the battle. The Rethari were driven back, then folded around the tight knot of the Cult of Morgan like a fist. Our legions fought, but the enemy were many. Their totem-men scythed into us. Living G.o.ds, or unliving. They cut into us. I watched the scions of Morgan fall back, drawing tighter and tighter to Barnabas's standard, to his wild crown of white hair and the swirling arc of his hammers. I stepped forward, but Tomas put a hand on my shoulder.