White Heart of Justice (16 page)

“Nightshade wasn't interested in my old gardening tools,” she said, winking at Night. “I dug them up from the back garden before I came down. These tools are
naturally
imbued with perennial magic. I would only use them in the direst of circumstances though,” she warned and then added: “It's the only thing I had that might be of any use to you where you're going.”

For years, I'd known that the blackened garden outside of my bedroom window had mysterious magic in it, but I'd never known what kind until now. In light of what I knew about perennial magic and my mother's blackened garden, it now made perfect sense. I smiled and squeezed her back, whispering fiercely into her ear:

“It's not the only thing. I don't think I'll ever forget yesterday's swim—or the fiery frogs you coaxed me into offering.”

We parted with tremulous smiles. I was determined not to cry.
Of course, I would see them all again!

My father was less demonstrative with his good-bye, but it was more heartfelt than any farewell I'd yet received from him.

“Keep your signature open, Nouiomo.
Abundans cautio non nocet.
”
Abundant caution does no harm.
It was probably the closest Karanos had ever come to saying,
be careful
.

Ever the stickler for rules, Karanos consulted his pocket watch to make sure we weren't setting off prior to the designated start time. When the minute hand met the hour hand at the top of the watch face, we heard a faint boom from the direction of New Babylon. The waning magic version of a starting gun.

The day was so beautiful and clear, it was easy to pretend that Rafe and I were really just headed out for an overnight hunting trip. That we'd be back tomorrow—two days, tops. With sunny skies, a loaded sledge, fast, fearless beasts to pull it, and our own formidable magic and not insubstantial skills, it didn't seem as if what we were attempting was that impossible. Rafe and I climbed on the sledge and yelled
hike!
to Telesto and Brisaya and off we went.

Who said the road to Hell was paved with good intentions?

It isn't paved at all. It's a sunny, snowy, southern trail through wintery woods, with wagging tails at your front, waving hands at your back, wind in your hair, and naive optimism in the grin of the Guardian sitting beside you.

Chapter 14

I
had slept beside Rafe countless times in the field. All previous times, I'd given it little thought. Last semester, I'd been with Ari. Madly, head over heels in love with Ari. I wouldn't have noticed if a tiger had slept next to me (and of course, one had). And then in Maize, when I was recovering from the arrow shot, I was unconscious. Once I'd woken, and Rafe had declared his interest—made it clear his wish to kiss my gap-toothed smile was not just some silly joke he'd casually made at Kalisto's Crystal Palace—he'd ceased sleeping in the armchair next to my bed. So our first night together in a tent off the Old Trail felt strained and uneasy, at least it did to me. Maybe it
was
just me. Rafe, damn the man, never seemed uneasy about anything.

After making sure the barghests were squared away and the rest of the gear on the sledge was secure, we crawled gratefully into our two-man tent. The weather that first day had stayed crisp, clear, and blindingly bright. We'd worn dark spectacles to shade our eyes from the sun's snowy glare. Later that night, those spectacles were the easiest piece of our gear to remove. Shucking the rest took a lot longer. We each had fur-lined leather leggings that seemed to be glued to our skin, wool sweaters with long necks that required endless tugging to get them off our heads, down-filled vests with what seemed like dozens of toggles, hats with knotted chin straps, not to mention the heavy, hooded cloaks we'd draped over it all. The boots were the worst though. Their laces were frozen solid under an inch-thick crust of snow and ice. Even though we'd kept our hands warm with magic and mittens, untying them was a major pain. I hadn't realized, until I sat cross-legged on the floor of the tent undressing with my back to Rafe's, how exhausted I was. It felt as if
I'd
pulled the sledge all day. I positively
ached
. Every motion was slow and clumsy.

That was, until Rafe took off his sweat soaked tunic to change into a dry one at the same moment I did. Instantly, I became acutely aware of his naked back against mine. I tensed and in the darkness, my other senses sharpened. I heard the whistle of the wind, the flapping of the tent walls. I smelled the clean scent of moisture-laden air and the slightly more pungent scent of sleeping beasts and one very awake man. I felt biting cold on the tip of my nose and in my fingertips. And I felt the smoothness of Rafe's back pressing against mine. For one wild second, I wanted to turn around. To wrap my arms around him. I wanted him to wrap his arms around me. I wanted him to massage the ache out of my tired, sore muscles. To possibly do more than that.

For the span of a few heartbeats, I wondered what it would be like to share the warmth of my body with Raphael Sinclair. He was someone I cared about. Someone I'd laughed with, shed tears in front of, and nearly died with. Many times. But I didn't love him and I didn't want to ruin what we had by leading us down an emotional road that would be more treacherous than the Old Trail we were already traveling.

Rafe felt me tense. He also stilled. Waiting. When I slowly straightened my back so that we were no longer touching, he suddenly,
thankfully
, scooted away and crawled into his bedroll. “'Night, Noon,” he said in a soft singsongy voice. I couldn't tell if his jesting tone was to let me know his pun was intentional or if he was teasing me for feeling the way I did and not having the guts to do anything about it.

A moment later, his steady, quiet breathing told me he was asleep. Part of me wanted to poke him in the shoulder and demand that he cast Good Night's Sleep over me (
how was I supposed to sleep now?
), but the other part of me knew that waking him would be a mistake. That it would lead to actions I didn't yet want to take. So I slipped into my own bedroll and curled up beside him. Next to him, but not touching him. To help me sleep, I pulled out Kaspar Bialas' first letter.

2nd day of Ghrun, 991 AA
Requiem

To my successor—

The Mederies of Gaia supplied me with a fresh mount at Farro, but instead of the monarch's destrier, I am saddled on a mule. It is not vanity that causes me to resent it, but practicality. I ride with none other than the mighty Ophanim at my heels.

Metatron died a fortnight ago. Some say of angina, some say of a broken heart. Within the week, the Divinity seized all of his goods and chattel, including his oxcart and the carved statue of Justica. What they most wanted, however, they did not find:
Album Cor Iustitiae.

I swore an oath to hide it from the Divinity. The Ophanim knights are honorable, but the clandestine Amanita's motives are suspect. They have infiltrated the ranks of the Divinity. No one is certain of who they are or what their plans may be.

I write in the hope that my words survive me. And that whomever should come to read this will want to keep the sword safe and in a suspended position.

Who still remembers the ancient, pre-Apocalyptic Sword of Damocles? The sword that hung over a lord's throne by a single horse hair? All else about that story has been lost, but Metatron believed—as do I—that the throne beneath it was empty. And that the people ruled and judged themselves, without blindfolds, based on their deeds, not their blood, beliefs, or birth affiliations.

So I ride for Tartarus, Halja's southernmost fortress, to bargain with Orcus, the Patron Demon of the Verge, to secure safe refuge for the White Heart.

KB

*   *   *

A
s we had last semester when we'd worked together during our first field assignment, Rafe and I quickly established a routine. We rose before dawn, roused the barghests and let them hunt for food. Sometimes they brought back freshly killed herons and hares, other times a mouthful of maggots (those days, I was even more insistent about my “no licking” policy; barghest breath was bad enough, saliva laced with chewed up bits of grubs was
not
to be borne). Around sunrise, Rafe and I would heat water for tea and washing up. After breakfast, we'd pack up our tent, poles, pots, pans, and plates, douse the fire, and harness the beasts. From then on, it would usually take us all day to travel just ten miles because all manner of mundane things seemed to impede us: rocks, stumps, and other debris getting caught on the sledge's runners, ice forming between the pads of Brisaya's or Telesto's paws, as well as soft patches of snow or crackling ice that had to be given a wide berth. Yet . . . despite the body-numbing coldness of the environment and the mind-numbing banality of the everyday hazards, those early barghest sledging days were almost fun.

Sure, we knew that greater dangers lay ahead. We'd only been warned a half dozen times or more about them. (Heck, I'd already survived one possible attempt on my life.) But last semester's assignment had taught us how short life could be. How one moment a person on your team could be alive and the next moment . . . not be. So we weren't going to waste a single second of the time we weren't under attack—from demons, beasts, the weather, our opponents, or Luck himself if he thought to end our lives earlier than we wanted him to—on feelings of fear, dread, or anxiety.
Carpe viam! Seize the road!
became our motto and our mantra. We headed for Corterra with near reckless abandon.

*   *   *

O
ur second night out, I pulled out my race file, Bialas' journal, and the tin box of letters that Joy had given me. Sitting cross-legged across from Rafe inside the tent with my cloak draped around my shoulders, I thumbed through the journal, ignoring the route notes since Joy had said that Bialas intentionally fabricated them to mislead future White Heart hunters. Which really meant the only information of value in the journal was the detailed description of how the Sanguine Scales worked. From a historical perspective, the account was fascinating. From a judicial perspective, horrifying.

I snapped the journal shut, shoved it back in my bag, and reached for the race file. I spread the map of Halja's southern Verge out in front of us. Immediately I spotted Corterra, which was smack-dab in the middle of everything. Directly to the north was Maize, where we'd come from. Around us, in a rough ellipse, were the remains of the former outposts. A few miles west of here was Briery Vale, where traces of gold had been found. And almost directly to the south was Mount Iron. In between here and Mount Iron, however, was a smaller mountain called Septembhel—the seventh bell. The map had a skull-and-crossbones symbol at Septembhel and another at Mount Iron. The one at Mount Iron had an “M+” after it.

Rafe peered at the map's legend, clearly looking for the skull-and-crossbones symbol.

“Mortem animae?”
he asked, looking perplexed. “I thought our biggest concerns would be yetis, ice basilisks, and possibly a berserker or two. What are the
mortem animae
and why are there more than a thousand of them where we're headed?”

I told him about the
mortem animae
, watching his expression change from interested to wary. He stopped short of looking mutinous though. I gathered, from the resolute look that finally settled on his face, that it would take more than the threat of a perennial curse to keep him from racing alongside me.

“I've never worked with perennial magic before,” he said, his tone telling me he didn't like the idea.

“What about all those hand-cast spells? Those aren't a trick your mother taught you?”

His look hardened. “No. Those are faith-based spells, same as the rest of the spells I cast.”

I frowned.

“Then how come all Angels don't cast spells using their hands?”

Rafe shrugged. “Why can't all waning magic users shape their magic into fiery doves?”

We stared at each other across the map of the land we might never return from. Underneath the paper, our knees touched.
All it would take is for me to lean forward . . .

“I'm not sure,” I said softly.

“You'll figure it out,” he said in a voice as soft as mine. I had a feeling we weren't talking about magic anymore. But a few minutes later Rafe crawled into his bedroll leaving me with only Bialas' letters as company. I pulled out the second one and began to read:

7th day of Ghrun, 991 AA
Corterra

To my successor—

Corterra . . . The heartland. How appropriate. After a week on the Old Trail, sleeping in ditches with only my mule for company, I start to understand what is really meant by “heartland.” No place could more test a man's heart, or commitment, than this one. The grasping ice, the starless skies, the hard ground. Nothing provides any comfort, security, or assurance that one's goal is the right one.

The only way to survive is to press on, push on, keep going, because what is the alternative? I must remember the reason I gave Metatron my oath if I am to accomplish such an impossible task. I didn't do it out of duty. I did it out of love. I have a wife and a young son back in New Babylon.

Will I see them again? Only Luck knows. Or Micah. Or possibly both and neither, which is why I ride . . . I ride . . . I ride . . .

I want my children and my children's children to rule themselves. And if that is a sin I will willingly burn for committing it.

Besides, any fire at this point would be welcome.

Forgive me . . . It is only the cold and hunger setting in. My mule and I ride for Septembhel in the morning.

KB

*   *   *

W
e reached Corterra's bailey gaol on our fifth day out.

I knew about bailey gaols from all the bailiff cases and commentaries I'd read earlier this semester. The Old Trail we were traveling on had been part of the Old Justice Circuit that Metatron had traveled. It was hard to imagine an Angel traveling through this area in an oxcart with a stone statue of Justica in the back. But in the early middle ages, the Old Trail wasn't half as inhospitable as it is now. The permafrost hadn't crept this far north yet, nor had the
rogare
demons. Everyone was still finding their place in the postwar world. My understanding was that things were very catch-as-catch-can in those days, with everyone—man, demons, and even the ice—gearing up to stake their claim. Seven outposts were built in southern Halja from the first century through the turn of the first millennium. And each of those outposts had erected a bailey gaol.

Made of stone and petrified wood, they served as a courthouse, post office, library, and gaol. In Metatron's day, he likely would have wheeled his oxcart right into the bailey, unveiled Justica's statue, and declared himself open for business. But when Metatron died (and his oxcart and statue went to the Divinity), the bailey gaols continued. And for the next three hundred years justice was meted out at them by a set of always-available, though deplorable Sanguine Scales and the more upstanding, but infrequently seen Maegesters who rode the Old Justice Circuit. At least until that fateful day in 1305 when the last group of traveling Maegesters were killed by
rogares
and the Old Justice Circuit was abolished. By then there were only a few outposts left anyway and by the fifteen hundreds those were gone too. Over the next few hundred years, the snow crept north and buried the outposts. Now, the exact locations of their other buildings, inhabitants, and individual histories have been all but forgotten.