The Horns of Ruin (34 page)

he guy just lay there, dead. I
usually didn't spend a lot of time with the people I killed. The advantage of a
battlefield. You charge a position, sweep through, put down whatever
resistance, and then redirect. Maybe get called back to reinforce the line, or
forward to exploit a breakdown in the enemy. And then you move on. Plenty of
time around dead bodies, of course. They were everywhere in the modern
battlefield. But which ones did you kill? Which ones died at your brother's
hand, or some other soldier's, or their own? Who could tell? Who could sort it
out?

But this guy, I had killed him, and he wasn't going away.
Cassandra's reaction had been wholly surprising to me. He had been about to
call the heat down on us. Killing him was all I had. Maybe I could have subdued
him, just knocked him out and tied him up, but it had been a split-second
decision. This is how it had ended up.

I turned him over with the toe of my boot, so I didn't have
to look at his gaping mouth and the weird way Cassandra had arranged his hands.
That would probably upset her, too, but we can't all get what we want.

Look at me. What I want is my Cult back. Barnabas alive,
the Strength intact, and a steady flow of initiates in the door. That was never
going to happen. A long time, we'd been dying, little by little. Every
potential initiate who passed us by to serve in the whiteshirt army was a
little death. When the initiates stopped coming, it was only a matter of time
before we stopped being. Just stopped. I didn't expect it to happen like this,
of course. I didn't expect the Betrayer to come back, to start killing us off.
But you can't turn back time. There wasn't going to be a Cult of Morgan, once
this was through.

Scratch that. I didn't want the Cult back. It was dead, and
had been dying for a long time. I didn't want to drag it out. What I wanted,
what I really wanted, was revenge. I wanted the damn Betrayer dead, whoever he
was. Alexander or Amon, it didn't matter to me. I wanted his towers thrown
down. I wanted his Cult scattered, his scions persecuted and killed. I wanted
to put my blade through the gut of that bastard Nathaniel. I wanted the Cult of
the Betrayer to suffer what Morgan had suffered. Wiped clean from the earth.
That would be enough for me.

And this guy. What did he want? Amon was dead. Even if the
Scholar were cleared of the murder of his brother, people would never trust
him. Never trust what they'd been taught for two hundred years to despise. And
how would the Cult of Amon react, to learn that their god had been falsely
accused? That they had lived in slavery or on the run for two hundred years to
preserve a lie, all the while ruled over by the man who had put both of our
gods to death. What measure of forgiveness would they be willing to pour out,
and what measure of wrath?

I realized then the horror of what Cassandra and I were
proposing. To expose the last god of man as a murderer. What would that do to
the city, to the Fraterdom? If the cycle were about to turn, and Alexander was
the only thing holding our divinity together, would it be worth our revenge to
throw down the godking and open the door for the ascension of the Rethari? But
what choice did we have? Bend the knee to a murderer, or lose our empire. These
were the things we must face.

That's when the door opened. I was lost in staring at the
dead guy and trying to juggle the gods of man, and didn't hear the bolts throw.
When the door began to slide open, I only had time to step behind it. Good
thing is, the Scholars were still talking, and that distracted them enough to
get inside and close the door before they saw the body. Soon as the door was
closed, I slid in front of it, right by their fancy panic button.

Two men, one old and stooped with age, the other young and
thin. They wore gray robes, similar to the two we had killed upstairs. They
wore their soul-chains openly, looped around their chest and neck, linked to
their wrists and waist. A lot more chain than what the Librarians Desolate
wore, I noted, though it seemed a much lighter weight. Almost delicate. Their
heads were close together, and they were talking.

"The duration of the interruption doesn't
matter," the old one was saying. "Any interruption is terrible.
Alexander plays with these things like they're dice, but if we build up too
much noet-"

"Yes, yes. Too much power, not enough conduit. I know,
Malcolm, but-"

And that's when they saw the body. Malcolm just stood,
staring at the twisted form, its back sticky with blood, the stink of meat and
voided gut finally cutting through the antiseptic purity of the chamber. The
other one, the young one whose name I had yet to hear, immediately turned for
the button. Turned right into my bully, in his eye.

"What have you done?" he whispered. Malcolm
turned and saw me. They both started backing up to the dome. "They'll kill
us all."

"That's what he said. I'd like to hear a little more
than that, if you don't mind."

"It's too late. You don't understand what you've done.
As soon as the Holder learns that the archive has been found ... he'll just
kill us. He'll start over with a new batch from the Library."

"They can't afford that, Daniel," Malcolm
muttered. "They can't get a new crew in here and hope to maintain the
noet. The Ruin will break open, and then where will we be?"

"You're right, old man," Daniel said.
"They'll just kill those of us responsible. Which is you, and me." He
glanced at the body. "And Jeremiah, I suppose. But that won't really
matter."

"You're assuming I'm not going to kill you
first," I said. "Can we get back to paying attention to the girl with
the bully?"

"You must be the Paladin," Daniel said. "Am
I right? The last scion of Morgan?"

"I'm your girl," I answered.

"What happened to your Cult? Why did you turn against
Alexander?"

"You're joking, right? We've been set up. The Betrayer
has been hunting us down, disguised as one of the Healer's men. Guy named
Nathaniel has a whole cadre of masked assassins skulking around. I think. .
." I went over in my mind what I thought, and found I didn't really know
yet. "I think he's part of a sect of the Healer, which has been secretly
worshipping the Betrayer all this time."

"Nathaniel Cascade? High Elector of the Cult of
Alexander?" Malcolm's face wrinkled in a deep smile. "You're accusing
him of worshipping the Betrayer. I assure you, my girl, that he is not of
Amon."

"I didn't say that. But what makes you so sure?"

They both wrinkled their foreheads. I decided not to
explain myself.

"Not of Amon. Well, no, he's obviously not. Nathaniel
Cascade is the Chief Elector of this facility, Paladin. He's the Holder of our
chains." Daniel raised his arms and displayed the links around his wrists.
"When we say that they'll kill us all, we mean that he will kill us
all."

"And smile through the whole butchery," Malcolm
said.

"What is this place?" I asked.

"The hidden house of Alexander. He has gathered here
all the stories of the forgotten gods, the mythos of the Feyr, even artifacts
from the age of the Titans." Daniel raised his hands and presented his
palms to me. "And the untold stories of the new gods, as well."

"What are you doing?" Malcolm asked. He had a
bony hand around Daniel's elbow.

"New gods?" I asked.

"Yes. Do you think only the Brothers have ascended?
That there is but one god by accident? Alexander has culled the harvest, my
dear Paladin, and this is where he hides the chaff and stores the wheat."

"Stores the wheat," I said, mostly to myself,
mostly to be heard. "Like that damned Feyr said. The Ruin could be used to
swallow noetic divinity. Alexander must be doing that!"

"Has been doing it for two hundred years, little
girl," the Amonite said.

"Why in hell did you tell her that?" Malcolm
shrieked. "Do you want to implicate us in the murder of a thousand gods,
boy? We'll be lucky if they only kill us, rather than-" He glanced back at
me. "Rather than other things."

"You're saying that Alexander has been ... has been hunting
gods?"

"Young gods. New gods. Gods before they are truly
divine. We can sense them with the Ruin, sense them as they draw power off.
Only the ordained scions of the three Cults are allowed to survive, since their
development can be monitored and controlled." He turned to Malcolm and
smiled. "It's okay, old man. I told her because he's already forgiven us.
I told her because he already knows."

"What?" I barked.

"He monitors the chains," Daniel said, and raised
his arms again. "Not always, and not all the time. But I sense his eyes
upon me. His eyes upon you."

I skipped forward, drawing the sword as I moved and
bringing it down in a long, sweeping arc. The blade parted Daniel's skull and
exited at his hip. The boy slid apart. Malcolm was howling.

"You can't leave me to face him!" he yelled.
"You can't give Daniel a quick peace and leave me to answer to that
man!" He threw himself to his knees, his hands at my waist. "Please,
for the love of mercy!"

"Mercy is in short supply," I said. I drove the
sword down his chest and twisted. The blade became entangled in his chains, and
when I twisted the links popped like glass. The whole length of it slithered to
the floor. Malcolm fell back on his butt, his eyes wide with shock. He looked
like he was having trouble breathing. I saw that where the metal had slid
across his body as it came free, there were angry welts. I bent to him, and
helped him to his feet.

"Last ... push. He gave one last push, as the chain
came loose." He held his hand to his chest and breathed in shuddering
gasps. "How did you do that?"

"I'm not sure. The Fratriarch did it for Cassandra. I
thought it was worth a try."

"You don't understand. Those links went into my soul.
You severed them cleanly, like they were mere steel."

"Steel doesn't cut that easily, but yes. You are
free."

He stood at my side, wavering on his feet. His hand was on
my shoulder.

"Good to ... good to breathe once more, my own breath.
Even if it is at the end, even if we don't have much time. Even if he's already
on his way here."

"You have to help me, then. There's little enough time
without-"

The door began to unlatch. I threw myself against it.
Whoever was on the other side began hammering at the metal.

"Help me, old man! Don't stand by and watch it end
this way!"

"It's already ended, woman. You cannot stand against
Nathaniel. I don't care what tricks they taught you in that monastery. Blades
are blades. He will cut you down."

"It's no damn wonder they've been able to keep you
people-" I grunted as a great deal of force was applied to the door. I
staggered back, then threw myself against it again. Planting my sword, I
invoked the Stones of Averon and set my shoulder against the steel. Malcolm was
still watching me.

"No damn wonder they've been able to keep you on the
leash for so long," I said through gritted teeth. "You give up before
the fight is started."

"Not so," he said. "The fight has been over
for a long time. Amon's Betrayal doomed us. We have been working to preserve
the memory of the man, while shunning his darkness ever since. Any death is
good for us."

"I would love to discuss theology, honest to Brothers
I would." Another hammer into the door, another twisting of power against
my shield. "But I think you're telling the wrong story."

"You would have us deny the Scholar, I know. The Cult
of Morgan would like to line up all the scions of Amon and cut us down, but we
are trying to make good on-"

"That's not what I meant." I nodded to the
archive that Cassandra had dropped when she changed into the bodysuit.
"That's an archive of Amon. Came into the hands of my Cult just-" I
lost my breath and something nearly forced the door. "Just fucking look at
it. Cassandra highlighted the important stuff."