Requiem (41 page)

Even as she nodded, he pushed the tray toward her, and she scooped the bread up with her hands. She nibbled it and watched the old man. “Will they let him go?”

He met her eyes. “Where would he go?”

She shrugged at his question. “Wherever he wants to.”

He chuckled, but it was humorless. And there was something there in his dark eyes that told her this was more than something he could not talk about. “I don’t think they could stop him.”

“No,” she said, “but I think
you
could. You’re his father, after all.”

He leaned forward. “Here you are, hidden underground with a bunch of soldiers and mechoservitors and tired old men. Could your father have stopped you from following Isaak here?”

Marta smiled. “No, he couldn’t. But he wouldn’t stop me now that I know my part.” She saw the cloud pass into curiosity, and she continued. “He’s very insistent that everyone know their part and do it. It’s the most important thing to him, I think.” She paused. “Maybe to me, too,” she said.

Charles sipped his chai. “And what is your part?”

She raised her eyebrows. “Same as you. To look after Isaak.”

“Why?”

It amazed her how slow some adults could be when it came to matters of obvious truth. “Same as you,” she said, trying not to be condescending. “Because I love him and he needs looking after.”

Charles sat back, and she saw another look pass over his face, though she did not comprehend what it meant. He watched her for a full minute until she became uncomfortable and looked away, fidgeting in her chair.

“I do love him,” Charles said.

“Of course you do.”

He looked at her. “You love him, too.”

She nodded. “Of course I do.”

He picked at his tray and finally placed his fork on the table beside it. He stared at it for a moment; then he leaned forward and his voice became a whisper. “When they take him from the room, be ready to flee this place,” he said. “I will help you if I can.”

She stared at him. “Why? What’s going to happen?”

But the old Androfrancine was already standing. “You’ll know when the dream is finished,” he said. Then, he repeated himself. “Be ready.”

Marta nodded. And after he’d left, because no one asked her to leave with him, she grabbed another tray and went back through the line again.

This time, she wolfed her food down and stuffed the extra bread into her pocket, folded into a cloth napkin. Then, Marta made her way back into the tunnels and took up her post again in the shadows near the door.

As she sat, she wondered what doing her part would ultimately mean for her. For her father, it meant raising two children—one now with her gone—without a wife or mother, keeping food on their table and a roof above their heads. For her mother, it had meant taking the produce she’d grown to Windwir like she had so many times before and then, one day, not coming back.

Still, Marta knew that the outcome did not matter. Because she’d learned the greatest secret, she suspected, of all. Knowing and doing one’s part was the most important bit. The cost was much less important.

Chapter

21

Petronus

The spider no longer visited, and Petronus no longer read. His mind reeled from the weight of a history he’d never imagined—a species that crawled out of oceans and into the stars, carrying its cycle of self-destruction and survival for millions of years. He’d read about Firsthome and how it had been lost after the Cousin Wars and then found again at the end of its star’s life.

He’d seen the end of that cycle here on Lasthome with the final war that had silenced the Continuity Engine of the Elder Gods—a war waged upon the last of the Younger Gods who hid on the moon and watched their offspring down below. Petronus experienced layer upon layer of his mythologies explained.

And it was the slightest drop in a vast ocean of knowledge that awaited within the Firsthome Temple.

He spent most of his time now pacing and thinking about that.

Petronus looked to the windows less, now, too. He’d given up on trying to somehow track the time. For a while, he measured it by the spider’s visits. But he had no other measurement without those.

Petronus.

It was a quiet whisper. An old voice. He answered it. “Yes?”

Petronus turned in the direction he thought it came from, then paused. He felt the slightest tingling in his fingers and toes. And it was moving up his body, slowly. He felt his heart rate rise, and he heard it, along with the increased intake of air.

I’m waking up.
He felt it and sensed light at his closed eyelids. He heard the distant sound of waves and the labored sound of someone else breathing nearby.

He felt his hands and feet now and moved his arms, surprised at how easily his fingers ripped into the cocoon. He could taste the dry, papery air in the cocoon now, and it choked him as he drew it in. As he pushed through, his feet found the cool surface of the ship and he stood, stretching, as he forced his eyes open.

The light hurt, and he squinted through it. Aver-Tal-Ka clung to the web, its body shriveled and gray, its eyes gray as well. “The tools of the parents are not toys for their children,” the spider whispered slowly. Then, it dropped its words into Petronus’s mind.
The blood of the earth will serve you now, but do not let it carry you—the veins are trapped. Go to the temple gate. Receive the Final Dream of Shadrus.

Petronus felt off balance, oddly lighter, and he was amazed at how crisp and clear everything in his field of vision was despite the blinding light just moments ago. And he could smell frying fish and saltwater and sweat on the air, along with the sweet smell of the dying spider. He leaned close to it now. “I don’t know how to unseal the temple,” he said. “What do I do?”

The dream will tell you. But you are far from the tower, and you do not have much time. The dream is building.

“Can I do anything for you?”

The spider said nothing; it sagged in its web, and Petronus felt a stab of sorrow he had not expected. He stood for a moment, then turned and saw Neb’s pouch where it hung on a peg by the door. The song was gone now, but he lifted the pouch by habit as he slipped through the door. He was in the hall, halfway up the stairs, when he realized he was naked.

And in the same moment, he also realized that the hair on his arms and knuckles was dark brown. He raised his hand to his head to touch the bald spot he’d carried for nearly twenty years now and found a thick tangle of hair that didn’t have the unruly nature that came with gray.

And my scar no longer itches.
He swallowed and touched his fingers to it as he had a thousand times since Ria had given it to him. Only now, his skin was unmarred, and a thick beard covered most of it.

The door to the upper deck swung open, and one of Merrique’s men jumped back when the light fell on Petronus. He whistled third alarm and Petronus found himself blushing as two Gypsy Scouts approached the hatch with knives drawn.

“Gods,” Petronus said. “Stand down. It’s me.”

He heard Rafe Merrique’s voice rise up from behind the men. “Come up here.”

Petronus sighed and shuffled forward. Then, he paused and placed a hand on the side of ship. He didn’t fully know why, but something he thought he remembered from a dream—or maybe something he’d heard Neb say—compelled him. “Clothe me,” he whispered.

The wall shuddered, and he felt it move into his fingertips and spread over his body, flowing out into loose-fitting silver robes. And with those robes, Petronus felt strength surging through him. He stepped forward and slowly climbed the ladder.

The men parted as he emerged, and Rafe Merrique regarded him. “Petronus?”

He chuckled. “Yes. Of course.”

The old pirate whistled his awe. When he saw that Petronus didn’t comprehend, he pointed to the burnished surface of one of the metal men. “Look at yourself.”

Petronus leaned in and studied his reflection in the metal. It was a face he had not seen since his thirtieth year. Maybe earlier, even. He tried to force his eyes away, but the image confirmed what he felt within his body—muscles and bones that no longer ached and eyes that no longer squinted at distances.

I am young again.
He touched the place where the scar should have been, his fingers gentle over the smooth skin.

Rafe Merrique lowered his voice. “What did it do to you?”

Petronus said nothing. Finally, he looked away from his reflection and took in the rest of his surroundings. The ship moved up a wide canal now, its wake the only disturbance on the flat surface of the water. They traveled in shade, though there were no trees within reach to provide it. The shade was cast by a large, massive column that stretched up into the sky straight off their bow.

His hand found the sleeve of his robe and he toyed with it, rubbing the smooth silver fabric between his thumb and his forefinger. As he did, he felt it undulate and tighten over his body. And with it, he felt greater strength even as his sense of smell and hearing increased. He released the sleeve and the robe loosened.

He looked from the tower to Rafe. “How far away are we?”

The pirate looked to the sun and then the tower. “Three days.”

Petronus shook his head. “Not fast enough,” he said. Then, he stretched his legs and touched the sleeve again. The robe pulled in, spreading like liquid over his body until he felt entirely encased by it. The air he breathed now tasted richer, and he felt light and strong.

Rafe and his men jumped back at the sudden change. “Gods,” the old pirate said.

Petronus ignored him and fastened his eye on the metal men. “The dream requires service of you,” he said. When their eyes came to life, their shutters opening and closing quickly, he turned to Rafe. “I need you to put us ashore. We don’t have three days.”

The old man stared at him, and Petronus wondered what he must see. Finally, he turned away and shouted orders to the sailor at the wheel.

Petronus heard something distant, and he strained out the wind and the birds to focus upon this new sound. It was familiar.

It grew more distinct. The howling of the hounds.

“You should hold back,” Petronus said, flexing his feet and feeling strength flood his legs. “I’ll send word when it’s safe to approach.”

Rafe opened his mouth to protest but then closed it as he heard the hounds.

Petronus and the metal men went ashore. He waved Rafe Merrique and the others off and then turned to the tower. “Now,” he said, “we run.”

They ran the bank of the canal, building speed quickly, and Petronus realized that he kept pace with the mechoservitors and their long, mechanical strides with no difficulty. After several leagues, he pushed himself harder and found he could put distance quickly between them, surging ahead.

He felt a sudden fear rising to ambush him when it struck him just how fast the jungle and canal were blurring past him as he ran. And even as the fear rose, an equally sudden calm flooded his body, and all he felt now was strength and power. He slowed and let the mechoservitors catch up to him, then settled into an even, easy run.

Behind them, the hounds kept howling though the distance had not closed, and Petronus suspected by the sound of them that they were on the opposite side of the wide canal. It gave them time, and Petronus increased his speed slightly to see if the mechoservitors could keep up. They could and he pushed them, his eyes on the tower.

He ran in the light of the sun and the twilight of Lasthome when the sun had set.

Petronus ran and did not stop running until he heard the girl crying in the crescent. And even then, he lurched back into a run even as he held the crescent to his ear.

“Tell Nebios I am coming for him,” Petronus whispered to the daughter of D’Anjite.

Vlad Li Tam

Vlad Li Tam stood by the window, the curtain pulled slightly to the side so he could see the gloomy street outside. The room was a quiet, steady buzz around him now as his Knives finished the last of their packing. Som moved from person to person, whispering instructions into their ears and waiting for their nod of understanding. They would not come back to this place. Another house had been acquired on the far edge of the city, and all evidence of their stay in this place had already been seen to.

It is nearly time.
The fever was killing now, and his Knives had begun their surgery—bits of gossip here and there, left in the taverns and the markets. Speculations of angry gods who punished pride. It wasn’t much, but it wouldn’t take much of a lever to move this boulder. Not with the staff to aid him.

He ached all of the time now, and he’d taken to smoking the kallaberries to ease the headaches and help him sleep each night. And he tried to limit his use of the staff, but that no longer helped. Still, it gave him the army he needed to do his work in the world.

Vlad heard something in the hall, and his eyes went from the window to the door. It opened, and two of his Knives slipped inside, a magicked bundle between them that kicked and twisted silently. He smiled and moved to the bundle, crouching beside it. “My apologies for such an impolite introduction, First Captain. If you can keep your wits about you I’ll have you untied and ungagged.”

He heard assent in the man’s grunt and nodded to the Knives who had carried the man in. They stooped to unroll the magicked tarp and then free the person struggling within it. Aedric’s dark eyes flashed their anger, and Vlad stepped back as the first captain stood.

Aedric was a young man—not even thirty, his dark, curly hair pulled back and tied with a cord. But youth couldn’t hide the truth his eyes spoke so loudly. This was a dangerous man who had taken life and lived with it as a consequence of service to his king, Rudolfo.

And I am responsible for the death of his father.
Vlad released held breath and took another step back, watching the recognition dawn in the man’s eyes.

“Tam?” The first captain of Rudolfo’s Gypsy Scouts took a step forward, eyes darkening. The Tams around him reached for hidden blades.