Requiem (26 page)

The slightest chirping sound brought his attention back to the present, and he watched as a moon swallow settled onto Renard’s shoulder, its message a burst of whistled notes. The Waste guide pulled up and shifted the long rod he held across his knees. “We’re getting close,” he said over his shoulder.

Charles drew up alongside of the man. “And what if he doesn’t wish to come with us?”

Renard scanned the forest around them. “I don’t think we can force it.”

No.
They certainly couldn’t. He’d seen the Watcher in action—its speed and strength were unparalleled. And if they were wrong about its motives and intentions—if somehow this was an elaborate Y’Zirite ruse—they would know soon enough. But Y’Zirite scouts had been attacked last night, left with their legs broken cleanly, and he suspected the mechoservitor was responsible. “I’ll go ahead on foot from here,” he said.

Bracing his aching muscles, he slid from the saddle and grunted when his booted feet hit the ground. Beside his mare, he dug into the saddlebags and drew out a folded robe. Then, he looked up and over his shoulder to Winters.

The girl had ridden in silence, but now their eyes met and he could see a calm acceptance there that he wished for his own. Of course, she’d had a lifetime of living by faith, and her faith, so far, had been proved if what Hebda said was true: Neb and Petronus were on the moon, seeking to gain entrance to a structure he’d seen on its surface with telescopes all his life and wondered about. Her faith in her Book of Dreaming Kings—and Isaak’s faith in his metal dream—had found legs that had carried men farther than they’d been carried in thousands of years.

“Good luck,” Winters said, her voice low, as she inclined her head.

He returned the gesture, then turned away from them and moved off into the snow-drifted trees. He walked quickly at first, until he’d gone deep enough into the forest to carry him out of sight; then he slowed. The air was cold to his lungs and touched with the slightest scent of pine, but even now, it was warmer than it had been just days ago. Winter would turn from snow to rain soon enough before heralding the return of spring. If reports were true, spring would find the Named Lands firmly occupied under its new empress.

He shuddered at the thought—or perhaps the cold—and pushed ahead. Suddenly, just ahead of him, he heard a thrashing in the underbrush and a loud grunt followed by what sounded like a branch breaking. He picked up his pace, uncertain of what was happening until it happened again—this time off to his left.

He is disabling the magicked scouts.

“Hold,” Charles said. “They will not harm you.” He spun, following the sound of movement, and caught sight of something silver moving fast.

“Don’t worry,” a girl’s voice said nearby. “He won’t kill them.” He looked to the left and right for some sign of the speaker, and then, at her chuckle, he looked up. She was tucked safely away on the high limb of a nearby evergreen. Her face peeked out, partially hidden by a ratty wool knit cap. “You’re very old for a soldier.”

He heard more thrashing and turned in its direction. “Stop,” he said. “They mean no harm—they’re for my protection.”

The thrashing stopped, and a new voice spoke—one he recognized from his dreams and from his brief time in the north. “What is your designation and your destination?”

“I am Charles,” he said. “And
you
are my destination.”

He heard the slightest of hums and watched as the mechoservitor brushed branches aside to stand before him. It regarded him through jeweled eyes that burned red, and in that moment, Charles knew it was not the Watcher that regarded him. The girl cleared her voice, and the metal man turned and reached up to easily pluck her from the pine tree and place her on the ground.

“I’m Martyna,” she said. “Marta for short. I’m glad to meet you, Charles.”

She was ten, maybe eleven, and dressed in a tattered winter coat stained with mud and grime. She held a sling in her hand. He nodded to the weapon. “I don’t think you’ll need that. I’m glad to meet you, too, Marta.”

Then, he turned back to the metal man. It stood taller than the ones he’d made, though not by much, and it was more slender in design, with joints that were less obvious and a metal skin that rippled and moved with it. And that skin was nothing like the Watcher’s dark and pitted skin—this shone so silver that it reflected back the surroundings.

“Why do you seek me?” the metal man asked.

“I do not know,” Charles replied. “But it seems we seek each other.”

“Our dreams,” the mechoservitor said slowly, “compel us.”

“Yes.”

It looked away, scanning the forest. “There are others with you.”

Charles nodded. “A woman named Winters and a man named Renard. And some scouts.”

“Renard, son of Remus,” it intoned, “and Winteria the Younger, former Queen of the Machtvolk.”

Charles blinked. “You know them?”

“I do not remember if I know them.”

“But you know their names?”

It nodded. “I do.”

“And what about your name?” Charles paused, reframing the question. “What is your designation?”

“I am told that I am designated the Watcher and that I am the property of the Empire of Y’Zir.”

Charles felt his brow furrow. “And do you believe this to be true?”

The mechoservitor paused, its eyes brightening and then dimming. “I do not know. It is possible.”

He chose his next question with care, guarding his heart against the answer he dared not hope for. “Do you know who I am?”

“You have said that you are Charles.”

He nodded. “Yes.”

It paused. “I do not know you,” it said. And even as he said it, even as Charles’s heart sank into his stomach, a shudder worked its way over the mechanical. “But I do know that you are who I seek.”

“Then come with me,” Charles said. “We will go someplace safe and talk more about our dreams.” He remembered the robe now and held it out before him. “I brought you this.”

It took the robe and considered it. “My body has no need for protection from the elements.”

“You are correct,” Charles said. “But it may also help conceal you.”

The metal man shrugged and then pulled on the robe. It was too short and gave it a comical look that stabbed at Charles with a knife forged of grief.
You dress him in a robe and hope to see your son.

Only, he didn’t. What stood before him looked nothing like Isaak, and though it knew the others, it did not know him. “We should go,” he said. “Our proximity to Windwir does not bode well.”

The girl stepped close to the metal man, her small hand reaching out to take its large metal hand. He wasn’t sure what to do with her other than bring her along, and he suspected that no other answer would be sufficient for the mechoservitor that had brought her this far.

He turned and saw the others approaching slowly, leading the horses. “We should have brought more horses,” he said.

“It is more expedient for me to run.”

Charles nodded. When they arrived, he climbed back up into his saddle and pulled the girl up behind him. Then, they turned south, and just as the mechoservitor lurched into an awkward, loping run, he thought he saw, for just an instant, what appeared to be a limp.

It was enough of a foothold for his heart, and Charles blessed it even as he doubted what it meant. Hope, he decided, hangs on with its fingernails to whatever purchase it can find in its slow climb out of loss.

Vlad Li Tam

A new officer came for him during his second day on the barge, and Vlad went with him, the girl trailing behind. The officer led them out of their quarters and into the hall, climbing the narrow ladder above deck.

Overhead, the sky was a piercing blue, and around them, heat radiated off the rock cliffs and made the trees along the canal’s lower shore shimmer. He brought them to a table on the aft deck beneath silk canopies that rustled with the wind as they moved downstream. Sister-Mother Drusilla waited for them there, as did a table spread with various fruits, breads, and cheeses. Vlad waited for his companion to sit and then settled into his own cushion, hooking his leg around the staff as he rested the length of it in his lap.

The officer sat last. Once he was seated, he looked to the priestess and then met Vlad’s eyes. “Thank you for joining us. I hoped that we could eat together and perhaps you could answer some questions.”

This one’s uniform was different than the others he’d seen, but it wasn’t the uniform as much as the man’s bearing that told Vlad what he needed to know.
He works in intelligence. Probably at a high level.

Vlad sniffed the food, feeling the staff twitch as he used it. He knew the smell instantly and saw which plates reeked of it. “You should know,” he said with a smile, “that cannimn powder won’t work on me.”

The officer leaned forward to pluck a fig from a silver bowl. “Noted.” Then, he returned the smile. “Please eat.”

Vlad took a plate and handed it to the girl. Then he took one for himself and helped himself to a few bits of cheese, a slice of raisin walnut bread smeared in butter, and three slices of a type of fruit he’d not seen before. While they served themselves, the officer poured them glasses of a chilled mint tea.

Vlad tried the fruit first—a sweet and sour plum-like something that he chased with a bit of the cheese and a sip of the tea.

“Sister-Mother Drusilla has briefed me on your encounter with her, and I spent this morning reading Sister Agnes’s report,” the officer said. Then, his brow furrowed. “Forgive me. Introductions should come first. My name is Tarviz. I am a colonel attached to the imperial regent’s office. The regent himself assigned me to you and bids you welcome to the lands of Y’Zir.”

Vlad inclined his head. “Thank you, Colonel Tarviz.”

The colonel returned the gesture. “And you are…?”

He sipped more tea and replaced his glass before answering. Then, he met the man’s blue eyes with his own.
What do I tell him?
He took the first words that came to mind. “I am a voice from the wilderness.”

The man looked bemused, and Vlad glanced to the Daughter of Ahm. She sat, her face a placid mask. The officer continued. “You told Sister-Mother Drusilla that you came by the staff by love and murder … that you were seeking the Barrens of Espira?”

Vlad nodded. “I did and I was. But it seems what I seek has changed.”

Tarviz’s eyes narrowed. “The barrens are forbidden. Even the unscarred avoid them. Is Espira where you acquired the staff?”

He shook his head. “I brought it with me from the sea.”

The man sat back, and Vlad had no difficulty reading the emotions upon his face. Curiosity and exasperation vied for control, though he was an obvious expert at keeping his emotions tucked safely away from view. “And you interfered with the Vessel of Grace’s saving work because ‘she was suffering and I could’?”

Vlad reached over a hand and touched the girl’s shoulder briefly. She looked at him and smiled, but he saw anger in her eyes. “Yes. Exactly.”

“That alone,” the man said, “is a serious offense in our faith.”

“Then it is good that I do not share your faith,” Vlad answered. “I will not submit to any doctrine that believes the suffering of this woman or anyone else—and the shedding of the blood and the scarring of the flesh—is somehow pleasing to a god or useful for any purpose upon this earth.”

Now Drusilla spoke, and he could hear the hate in her voice, though he knew beneath that hate was something far more damning for her—fear. “Your submission to what is right and good is not required for you to be held accountable.”

Vlad touched the staff. “In this case, I think it is.”

The officer shot her a withering look, then smiled at Vlad. “Certainly we’re not interested in any unnecessary confrontation. You’ve already shown us what this artifact is capable of.” He looked back to the sister-mother. “I don’t think we need to see more.”

She lowered her eyes, and Vlad studied the dynamic between the two. It was obvious that though she held high station, the colonel was the decision-maker at this table. “I’m afraid my answers will not be satisfactory for you,” he said. “But perhaps you would be willing to answer some of mine?”

The man’s eyes told him that he certainly wasn’t, but Vlad was unconcerned. He brushed the staff and felt its warm hum beneath his hand. “What can I
really
expect upon my arrival at Ahm’s Glory?”

Tarviz opened his mouth and started to speak, but his words wouldn’t come. His lips twisted around them, and his eyes went wide. He stammered for a few moments; then his shoulders slumped. “A military force has gathered at the docks. They will separate you from the staff and take you into custody. The Daughters’ best kin-healers have been secured to assist in your interrogation, and the magisters intend to verify if the staff is what they think it is. If so, it will be placed in the regent’s care.”

Vlad smiled at the man’s contorted face. “What do they think it is?”

“The staff of Y’Zir. They’ve sought it for some time.”

His eyes narrowed. “Do they know who I am?”

“They believe you are Vlad Li Tam.”

He studied the colonel’s face for another minute, then turned to the Daughter of Ahm. “Who do you believe that I am?”

She turned her face away, pursing her lips. A fine sheen of sweat coated her forehead. “I think the magisters’ theory is sound if indeed you bear the staff. And your body bears the marks of an unfinished kin-healing.”

He nodded, remembering those knives. “It does. But your knives have cut all they will cut from me.” He leaned forward, his eyes still meeting the sister-mother’s. “Tell me,” he said, “about the spider demon in the Beneath Places—the one you gave this woman over to? Have you any idea what your so-called Vessel of Grace experienced during the fortnight you left her with it?”

The woman started to shake her head, and Vlad felt the slightest twitch of anger stirring to life in him. He closed his eyes for a moment, conjuring up the nightmare and shoving it into her. Her eyes bulged, and she would have screamed if he’d not leaned close to her. “You will bear it in silence,” he whispered.