The Horns of Ruin (18 page)

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
glass 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 assumed, 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
gods. 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 gods, 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.

"Sometimes there is loss, Eva," he whispered.
"Perhaps that is today's lesson."

But it was not. There was thunder, and the common levy
advanced. Set shoulders lofted bullistic rifles like a bristling forest of
metal and wood, which then erupted in fire and smoke. It was the greatest sound
I had ever heard. The valkynkein swept forward on iron treads, tearing into the
soft flank of the Rethari force. Thunder and lightning and the sharp stink of
cordite as the conscripted warriors of the city of Ash advanced. Warriors.
Farmers, fish sellers, tailors, beggars. But armed with the Scholar-crafted
weapons of the Royal Armory. They were unstoppable. They put fire into the
Rethari, and the scaly legions fled. Their totem-men tromped away, their heavy
feet digging into the bloody mud of the field. The battle was carried by common
men, and the weapons of Alexander and his pet Scholars.