The Destiny (Blood and Destiny Book 4) (18 page)

The citadel was a strangely squat
structure hemmed in by numerous tall buildings. Cid scratched at his temple as
he scanned their surroundings. The presence of soldiers on the streets had
grown markedly the closer they moved to the palace, and now the odd threesome couldn’t
go more than a few yards without seeing a military uniform.

Friar Narry bounced
along with a smile on his face, seemingly unperturbed by the soldiers; Sandy
kept her head down, either playing the part of a pious priestess or feeling
threatened; Cid struggled to maintain the illusion that he was nothing more
than an innocuous citizen. His appearance was a mess—not that he’d ever looked
particularly clean-cut—but he seemed to be an out-of-place blemish on any
landscape, a fact which would prove troublesome if they were to avoid drawing
attention.

His two fellow
infiltrators appeared to look to him for instruction. Larissa’s plan seemed
nothing more than hope and holes, but he felt compelled to at least attempt
what she asked of him. The thought of leading other people –even a pair of
fairly willing people—was far beyond his comfort zone.

When the last of the
buildings blocking the view to the palace passed by, Cid tried his best not to
glance up at it in awe. It was a great white building, oddly similar in both
size and design to the Eptoran palace, though he could only see the large wall—too
high for climbing—and some form of structure jutting out from the center. His
thoughts turned to Elena as he imagined her within the confines of her own
palace, half a world away. At least she was safe, instead of on some lunatic
mission which would likely get everyone killed.

They reached the
entrance gate leading to the citadel, which was flanked by soldiers. Cid would
have found their presence unusual had he not known of the link between the
religious structure and the palace. Narry bumbled straight toward the center of
the gate, his bristly beard wobbling slightly when one of the soldiers ordered
their group to halt.

“What is it, young man?”
Narry asked.

“What do you three
think you’re doing?”

“Entering the citadel,
of course. I am a priest, recently transferred from Meridina, and this is my
young charge,” he said, motioning to Sandy.

“What about that one?
If he’s a priest, then I’m the Goddess of Creation.”

“He is a mechanic. The
boiler house is in need of repairs,” Narry said, pointing to Cid’s tool belt.

“Any weapons?” the
soldier asked.

“No. You’re welcome to
check.” Cid stretched out his arms, offering a view of his belt. He hoped the
soldier didn’t have the time or inclination to actually perform any sort of
physical exam.

“All right, you go
ahead.”

Inside, the citadel was
a dark and dingy place, with burning braziers attached to the walls at
irregular intervals. Cid felt an odd tingling down his back. His faith in the Gods
had wavered significantly since the moment the Machine exploded; though he
still considered himself a believer, he certainly felt out of place in this
most holy of citadels. It was rumoured to be older than the Empire, dating back
far beyond records and built before the palace. He would have liked to visit as
a tourist to appreciate the stature of the building, but from the way each hall
leading from the entrance foyer was manned by a mean-looking soldier, he supposed
tourism wasn’t encouraged.

Much as the citadel in
Meridina, and every other of its kind, this appeared to have the same layout,
with sections dedicated to each of the nineteen Gods. Cid had no idea where to
start looking for a secret passage.

“This priest is taking
this maintenance man to the boiler room,” a soldier barked from somewhere
behind them. Cid hadn’t seen the man follow them inside. He stifled a groan. If
they were to have an escort, poking around would be impossible.

Friar Narry took the lead,
Sandy following in his wake, leaving Cid to navigate the narrow corridors last.
He heard the heavy footsteps of the soldier behind, keeping close track on
their movements. The citadel appeared to be laid out in much the same manner as
every other religious building he’d seen; the design of the more modern
versions was still based on this most ancient structure. They passed the room
for the Saint of Purification, decorated in white marble with clear glass
windows; the corridor curled down and around in a constant, long spiral,
passing more rooms for more gods and goddesses. Finally, they reached the end
of the passage, blocked by an ornate gate. The Friar reached his arm through
and unlocked a latch; the gate creaked open, allowing them access.

“Be quick about it,”
the soldier standing at Cid’s shoulder said.

He breathed a sigh of
relief as they left the soldier behind and continued down the path.

The floor turned to a
spiral of steep steps, the well-decorated walls replaced by dark stone slabs at
rickety angles, squashing the space ever tighter.

“This is not the sort
of place one wants to become trapped in during a fight,” Cid said.

“Fighting in a holy
citadel is a sure way of angering the Gods,” Narry responded from farther down
the staircase.

“Perhaps if someone
else starts the fight, the Gods will grant us mercy as defenders,” Sandy said.

“I wouldn’t bet on it,”
Narry said.

“I’m not sure the Gods
appreciate betting in a citadel, either, Friar,” Cid said.

“Good point.”

They reached the end of
the steps and found yet another corridor, the dark and dingy space barely lit
by one single fire torch hanging precariously from the wall at the opposite end.
Several archways led off to either side, the first of which contained the
boiler room.

“I should probably have
a poke about in there for a bit, make it look like I’m actually doing what we
said I’m down here to do in case that bright bugger decides to come look,” Cid
said.

“I agree,” Narry said
with a nod.

“Do you think there is
an actual passageway to the palace down here? I thought Larissa was being a bit
fantastical about it all.”

“Oh, there is a
passageway,” Narry said with a curious smile. “Sandy…”

Sandy lifted her robe,
revealing a little too much leg for Cid’s nervous constitution to handle, then
pulled out a spyglass.

“How long have you had
that?” Cid asked.

“Since we left the
airship. I spent some time on the train journey modifying it for the Friar.”

“Illusion-detecting
filters?” Cid said.

“Indeed,” Narry said,
his beaming grin widening.

“I’ll leave you two to
it, then,” Cid said. Where Sandy had been storing the spyglass all this time, he
didn’t want to know.

He turned into the
boiler room, a large square space which looked like it had once been a block of
prison cells, and now an enormous, cast iron metal beast occupied the center of
the room. Several chimneys led through holes in the ceiling, carrying the heat
to different parts of the building. A warm pile of ash filled the tray beneath
the boiler, but for now, the beast was unlit. At the far end of the room, a
pile of coal spilled out of a coal chute, a modern addition to the ancient
structure. It didn’t give him much comfort to know they had replaced the prison
with a heating system.

Cid plucked at the
tools on his belt, intending to leave a few dotted around, maybe even to open a
few panels on the boiler to make a show of
fixing
it. Only he couldn’t
decide which tools to use for the subterfuge. Invariably—knowing his luck—if he
left a spanner, further down the line, that spanner might be the difference
between life and death. He also didn’t like the idea of leaving behind one of
the few things he had to remind him of Elena. It seemed a callous way to treat
a gift.

After agonising for
some time, he eventually fiddled with one of the chimney pipes, loosening a
bolt and shifting the pipe out of alignment, leaving his pliers clipped to the
bolt.

“Cid,” Sandy called.

He poked his head out
into the corridor and looked up and down. There was no one around. He stalked
towards the end of the hall, checking in the other rooms, which appeared to be
empty. “Where are you?” Cid said when he couldn’t see Sandy or Narry anywhere.

An answer came when
something rolled along the floor and bumped into his foot. The spyglass. He
bent down to pick it up, a frown tugging on his bushy eyebrows. The front of
the glass had a red filter stuck to it. He lifted it to his eye and scanned up
and down the hallway, watching for signs of a hidden illusion. When he finally
turned to the end wall containing the burning torch, he saw what was missing.
The entire wall wasn’t actually there. The torch hung from an iron pole
connected to the ceiling. Sandy and Narry stood side by side, smiling at him
from the other side of the wall.

“Fuck me,” Cid muttered
as he lowered the spyglass, the wall returning to its place. “That’s our way in,
then.”

“Indeed it is,” Narry
said. “Gods be praised.”

Kerrigan’s pace through the city was not
as swift as he would have liked, his body still weak from the injuries
sustained at Sallarium. Saunders marched quietly at his side, a slight hobble
in his gait from his own injuries.

“Sir?” Saunders said as
they turned into Odelius Street. The fort came into view less than a mile
ahead.

“Yes?” He guessed what
Saunders was going to say before the Lieutenant began but opted to let him ask
the question nonetheless.

“Are we really going to
go along with Miss Markus’ plan?”

“She has asked us to
learn information which I intended to uncover for myself. It so happens her
request aligns with our own initiative at this point.”

“Yes, sir. It’s just
that…I believe Larissa and the others are intending to assassinate the President.
We have an opportunity here, sir. We know who they are and what their plan is.
If we were to report to the General, he may reinstate our ranks.”

Kerrigan slowed to a
stop. He turned and leaned his uninjured shoulder against a nearby lamppost. A
cool breeze blew up the road from the direction of the fort; it would be a pleasant
day in the city for most residents, blissfully unaware of the seedy underbelly
of the government in charge. Saunders was right. They had a choice, a chance to
return to normality. If they played the part well enough, their mismatched
traveling companions would be rounded up and hanged before the sun had set and
he would return to the rank of Colonel. He might even be given a promotion for
his efforts. It seemed like a convenient setup—a test from the gods.

“General Gott and I
have had a few disagreements over the years,” Kerrigan said. “It was difficult
to deny the orders of the man in charge and even trickier to argue with his
approach.”

“I can attest to that,
sir,” Saunders said, a hint of cynicism in his voice.

Kerrigan chuckled. “The
Colonel in my unit before me died suddenly in circumstances which were never
explained, and we knew enough not to ask questions. When I was promoted to
replace him, I was called for a meeting with the President and General Gott. I
walked into his office with pride. When I came out, I was filled with dread and
faced a choice.”

“What happened?”

“They described some of
their dubious activities to me and gave me a mission. The General found it to
be an efficient plan serving two goals at once.”

“What did they ask you
to do?”

“To clean the streets
of the Capital of whores and homeless.”

“Ugh.”

“Indeed. I tried to
question why the police force weren’t dealing with issues, as it didn’t seem to
be a matter for the military. That is when the General told me of Doctor
Orother’s experiments.
Only a select few know the details
, he told me. I
should be proud to be so trusted.”

“We’re you proud, sir?”

“Initially…yes. It
didn’t take long before I saw the true meaning of what it meant to be in the
select
few
. By then, it was too late. I couldn’t back out, not without risking my
career—my life. We have an opportunity here, as you said, Tobin. If you want to
make a report to the General regarding the plot to assassinate the President, I
won’t stop you. I think I will take this opportunity to correct my mistakes.”

“I’m with you, sir.”
Saunders nodded with a slight smile.

Kerrigan expected
nothing less. He pushed off from the lamppost and marched down the road towards
the fort, reminding himself to expect an unpleasant reaction to his return from
the dead.

Before long, they
reached Fort Dalet. The entrance to the ancient stone structure was tucked
behind large earth ramparts and a ditch, flanked by two bastions. Guards with
crossbows patrolled the walls, and a pair of soldiers high atop the wall on
either side of the gate turned their weapons toward the two men as they
approached.

“State your business,”
the highest-ranking guard barked down to them.

“Tell General Gott that
Colonel Kerrigan and Lieutenant Saunders are here to report,” Kerrigan called
up to the soldier.

The man faltered,
lowering his crossbow slightly. “Sir? Is it really you, sir?”

“Yes, and we don’t have
all day to stand around discussing it. Let us in,” Kerrigan yelled. The two
soldiers on the wall exchanged nervous glances with one another. He tried not
to feel too affronted. There was no protocol stating what action a soldier
should take when a supposedly dead Colonel turned up at the gate, demanding to
be let in.

The two men disappeared
from the wall.

“What if the General
orders them to kill us?” Saunders asked.

“In broad daylight? The
General does not have a dramatic flair. If he’s going to get rid of us, he will
do it in private where there will be no witnesses.”

“I don’t think that’s
as comforting as you intended for it to sound, sir.”

The iron portcullis
rose up, and the thick wooden doors behind it opened inwards. Kerrigan marched
forward with head held high, as if there were no doubt in his existence.

“It’s good to see you,
sir,” the soldier said with a salute when Kerrigan reached the other side of
the door.

“Thank you,
Sergeant…Kantas?”

“Yes, sir.” The
Sergeant’s face brightened at being recognized.

“Carry on.”

“Sir…”

Kerrigan had started to
walk away, but the worried tone of that one word caught his attention. “Yes?” he
asked as he turned to face Kantas, who operated the winch to lower the
portcullis.

“There is someone with
the General, sir.”

“Oh?”

“I don’t know his name,
but the whole fort has been on high alert since he arrived.”

“Thank you, Sergeant.” Kerrigan
exchanged a wary glance with Saunders before heading toward the administration
building.

. . .

Larissa expected
The
End of Hope
tavern to be bustling and lively, especially as she and Holt
arrived there as the sun dipped in the sky. Most workers should have been
heading home or out into the city for evening entertainment. Instead, apart
from the tavern staff and an old man nursing a dribble of ale beside the
fireplace, they were the only other people inside.

“It’s quiet,” she said.

“That’s the fifth time
you’ve mentioned it,” Holt replied. He took a sip from his glass of water—having
refused to drink anything alcoholic—then turned his attention toward the window.

“Do you think the
others will come back tonight?” Larissa asked. “I know I gave them until
tomorrow night. Perhaps that was too long? Should we wait all that time? What
if we hear some report of criminals being captured? Will we attempt to rescue
them?”

“Which question should
I answer first?” Holt said.

“Please, Holt, don’t be
like that.”

“Like what?”

“Your usual unhelpful
self.”

“How was I being
unhelpful?”

Larissa sighed and
wrinkled her nose. It felt like the beginning of an argument, and her nerves
were already too on edge to cope with having a fight. For all they had been
through together, it was a wonder they weren’t more consistently natural in
their conversations. Although, she supposed that had always been a stumbling
block between them. She smiled, recalling the first time they’d met, how he’d
seemed so darkly dangerous and handsome, and she’d wanted to fall in love with
him one moment and throttle him the next. Idle chitchat was not a skill he
possessed. Neither did he seem to have developed an ability to offer her any
sort of meaningful comfort when she was obviously distressed.

Her hand twitched up to
her neck, looking for the necklace and stone that had long since disappeared.
She silently resolved to replace the jewellery with something far more
innocuous by way of a stone if ever she made it out of this alive and in one
piece.

“Larissa?” Holt said,
tearing her silent promises back to reality.

“Yes?”

“I’m sorry.”

“What for?”

“Being unhelpful.”

“Oh. It’s all right. You
don’t have to apologize.”

“No. But I’m told that
it is expected of a man to apologize after a fight with his…” Holt’s eyes
narrowed and he looked down at his feet.

Larissa didn’t know
what to say, how to respond. What had he been about to classify her as? His
lover? His girlfriend? The love of his life? “Captain?” she offered.

“That’ll do for now.”

She bit her lip and
turned her attention to the glass of wine on their table. She’d barely touched
a drop, feeling foolish for having ordered it when Holt placed his order for a
glass of water. The heat from the fireplace didn’t do much to warm their end of
the tavern, so the flush on her face came from pure embarrassment.
For now
.
She stifled a smile. For the first time in a long time, her mind wandered to
ridiculous romanticism. Would they one day be married and live happily ever
after in a beautiful little cottage, perhaps along the coast—the opposite end
of the coastline to Aditona? She could almost picture him making a training
assault course in a nearby copse of trees. Maybe one day there would be
children running around the course with him.

“You two want some
dinner?” the barman called over to them, snapping apart her dreamy vision. They
had already secured a room for the night, posing as husband and wife.

“Do you have a menu?”
Larissa called back.

“Not exactly. We have
pie. Lamb or chicken?”

“Which would you
prefer?” she asked Holt.

“Chicken.”

“One of each please.”

“Right you are.”

The barman disappeared
into the back of the tavern, and they returned to a comfortable silence. She
wondered what Holt was thinking about. Surely, his mind couldn’t only be filled
with keeping watch for trouble and planning attacks? As close as they were to
achieving their goals, especially the one goal he wanted from the start—to kill
the President—she was desperate to know if there was any space left in his
thoughts for her. For their future.

“Holt?”

“Yes?”

“What are you
thinking?”

He took a deep breath,
then tore his gaze away from the window and looked her in the eye. He seemed
tired, a layer of sweat bathed his brow, and she knew he was suffering once
more from the
Anthonium
withdrawal.

“Cid,” Holt said as he
turned back to the window.

“Oh.” Her shoulders
drooped. So much for him sharing her idealistic daydreams.

“No, I mean Cid is
coming.”

“Oh!”

The tavern door opened,
and, sure enough, Cid, Narry, and Sandy entered. For once, Cid had a smile on
his face. Larissa dared to hope their fortunes might be on the verge of
improving.