The Horns Of Ruin Part 16

"Yes. Morgan left behind his fields and his wealth, and warred against the Feyr in their madness. There was once a sect of our faith that wors.h.i.+pped Morgan the Farmer, did you know?"

"What became of them?"

"What becomes of all of us," Barnabas answered. "They pa.s.sed on. Come, the G.o.dking awaits."

We walked ceremoniously up the wide, curving stairs of the foyer and past a line of stiff guards in s.h.i.+ny plate, and tabards of white and gold. Up to the terrace of the throne. It was not a large building, at least not this part of it. We waited patiently on the reception terrace while voices rumbled from beyond the curtain. When an attendant came out, we bowed once and then were led inside.

The ceremony was simple. Matthew carried my blade, Emily my revolver. The ceremonial garb of the Paladin was symbolized by a cloak, draped over the Fratriarch's arm. I walked barefoot, in simple linen. The marble floor was cold, and the room smelled like old books and too much incense.

Alexander awaited. He sat on the throne of the Brothers quite casually. Depictions of the Brothers always show them as larger than life, giants among men, their shoulders broad and their faces divine. But he was just a man. An ancient man, and a man of great thought and cert.i.tude, and a man who had seen a hundred thousand dawns and raised his sword to a million foes, certainly. But still, just a man.

Alexander's hair was dark, and his brows and lips were heavy. He looked at me with simple brown eyes, but there was a depth to his gaze that weighed on me. We lined up in front of the throne and knelt. When I looked up he was leaning forward slightly, like a bored man who has seen something unique. He raised a cupped hand, and we stood.

"You have brought my fallen brother's latest scion?" he asked.

"We have, Lord." Barnabas put a hand on my shoulder and indicated I should step forward. I did. "Eva, daughter of Forge, Initiate of the Blade. We have examined her, and recommend her for acceptance into the role of Paladin."

"Initiate of the Blade." He stood from his throne. No taller than any other man. No taller than me. But his voice was soft, and carried generations within it. "An unusual choice. A brave choice. It was always my brother's choice, as well."

"You honor me, Lord," I said.

He walked around the four of us, pausing to examine the vestments draped across Barnabas's arm. When he came to the sword, balanced across Matthew's palms, he lifted it and looked down its length before handing it back to Matthew.

"The Grimwield is a h.e.l.l of a blade, Eva Forge. Even this figment of its dream will serve you well in battle. Have you seen my brother's true blade?"

"Yes, my Lord. I stood my night beside it, meditating on the acts of G.o.d Morgan."

"Of course. It is good that you follow the old ways." He returned to the throne, and an aura of fatigue seemed to settle about the room. "More should follow that path. Enrobe her, that she might stand before me."

I knelt, and Barnabas draped the cloak across my shoulders. I turned to Emily, and she presented me with the revolver and belt of bullets, laying them over my arm. Matthew stepped in front of me and presented the hilt of my blade. There were no words to the ceremony, as Morgan took the blade without grand speeches or stirring exultations. He led with actions, and with steel.

Sword in hand, robed and armed, I walked humbly to the feet of Alexander.

"I have never liked war, Eva Forge. That was my brother's calling, and his burden. When he fell, I took the mantle of his vengeance and carried it out. Since then I have offered the final blessing to his initiates in his stead. And so now I offer it to you. Will you serve the Fraterdom, in all your days, against all its enemies?"

"I will."

"Will you carry the sword and the bullet in true faith, protecting the weak, defeating the strong, opposing those who oppose you, standing with those who stand beside you?"

"So have I sworn."

"In faith Morgan raised you, and in faith he has clothed you. Find comfort in the actions of his life, in the deeds of his greatness. Find strength in his memory, and courage in his courage. Remember always his death, and his life."

"His life," my three brothers whispered behind me.

"In all things, honor him. Morgan, G.o.d of war and of the hunt, Brother of my Brother, Betrayed by the Betrayer. Stay true to him and he will guide you. Depart him, and he will depart you. Fight for him, and he will fight with you."

"Forever," we said in unison.

"Forever," Alexander answered. He touched his finger to my forehead, and then my sword, and finally my bullistic. He settled into his throne, and the energy went out of him. We left the room quietly, while he stared out the window at the lake. Just as we reached the door, he raised his head and called to me. The others were already in the hall.

"Eva," he said, though so quietly I could barely hear his voice. "Your sword may be Morgan's last. May your blade bear much fruit."

"I ... yes, Lord," I answered, and then left. The others gave me curious eyes, but I shrugged.

"He seemed tired," I said.

"Alexander gets like that sometimes," Barnabas said. "Especially when discussing the Betrayal. It saddens him."

"I imagine it saddens Morgan, too," I answered. Matthew grinned, but the others didn't like it so much. We were quiet until we got outside the Spear. I pulled on the boots I had left with the attendant, then wrapped the ceremonial robe more tightly around me.

I told the others what Alexander had said, about my blade possibly being Morgan's last. At the time they chuckled nervously and changed the subject. Later, I thought he was speaking to the general dwindling of the Cult, and the lack of new recruits. He was right in that. No more initiates pa.s.sed the Rites of the Blade, and very few even entered the path of initiate.

And now there were no more initiates, and no more Cult, but only my blade. The last of Morgan.

*sat cross-legged on the floor, the blade across my knees, sharpstone in hand. The stone rasped as I drew it against the edge. It was a drone that was familiar to my ears, like a prayer for calm. The girl was still staring at me. Waiting for me to do something.

"You were in a hurry a minute ago," she said, after several long minutes filled only by the stone's song.

"Things change," I said.

"Just in the short time I've known you, you've always been the sort to act. Rather than sit."

"I am. But now I must also be Barnabas, and Tomas, and Isabel." I turned the sword over and started on the other side. "I am the Council of Elders, and the legion of Paladins, and the armies of the initiates. I have to be the whole Cult, Ca.s.s. The luxury of being only the Paladin is ending."

"And this is what the Council of Elders would do? Sharpen their blades and think things through?"

"In a way. They sit and they think and they ask questions. Like this: Where did the archive come from?"

Ca.s.sandra stood up, paced the room, peered out the slatting, and then sat down again. "I don't know. I don't know why it matters, either."

"Matters? It's probably the most important thing right now. It came to us at this time, in this way. You said yourself it was a message. But a message from whom?" I stopped my sharpening and put away the stone. "Better yet, why now?"

"Maybe this was only recently found. Maybe whoever found it didn't trust the Alexians to convict their own G.o.d-"

"A reasonable mistrust," I said.

-and didn't think anyone would believe the Amonites. So they gave it to Morgan."

"No one would believe the Amonites. And yet here we are. You, an Amonite, asking me to believe what you've read on the archive." I got out a rag to polish the sword. "And what you've read is that your G.o.d is innocent, and the only G.o.d we have left is the true murderer."

"I swear, Eva, that's what it says."

"Perhaps. And if it does? What are we to do? Proclaim Alexander as the Betrayer, and lead a popular revolt among ..." I waved my hand dismissively. "Among the civilians? Lead an army of trash pickers and fishermen against the Fraternal Army?"

"We would join you! Free the Librarians Desolate and we would provide you with-"

"Stop. No one will believe the scions of Amon. Joining you to the cause would only invalidate it in the eyes of the people." I leaned back against the tower and closed my eyes, the rag and sword forgotten in my hands. "I haven't said I believe you, yet. The more I think about it, the less I believe. It's too perfect, and too easy to conceal. Some Amonite cult mocked up a pretty-looking machine and snuck it into the monastery. It didn't make any sense to us because it's just a pile of junk made to look nice, so we summon an Amonite. The Amonite 'deciphers' the archive to reveal that the Scholar has been innocent all along." I opened my eyes and clutched the rag. "How could you expect us to believe that?"

"How do you explain the murders, then? Someone wants to keep this hidden."

"Or is willing to kill to make the story look good," I answered.

"G.o.ds, why are you so stubborn?" She stood up and threw her arms wide. "They've declared you apostate! For no reason! Alexander has burned your monastery and is going to kill your Elders! And you're debating over who the enemy actually is?"

"For two hundred years we have carried the banner of the Fraterdom. We have hunted the scions of Amon throughout the earth!" I stood as well, because I looked more impressive standing than this skinny, curly haired little girl, and I didn't want her to forget that. "Amon has been the Betrayer for all that time! Do you expect us just to abandon that crusade, to make amends and turn against Alexander? On your word, you, an Amonite?"

We stood trembling at each other, fists balled, jaws set. I at least had my arm thrown over a mighty big sword. She didn't back down. She wouldn't back down.

"Really, I don't care if you take my word. But it's true. I don't know what has to happen for you to believe that, but it's true."

"The timing is crummy," I said, after a s.p.a.ce of many breaths. "The Rethari are marching. They could have spies in the city. They could be sp.a.w.ning those ... monsters, agitating the Betrayer Cults. They could have fed the archive to us, and fed false information to Alexander, implicating us in the attacks. The Alexians could be acting in true faith. The Rethari could be setting us against each other in the hope of finally throwing us down and raising up their own G.o.ds."

"You have a lot of theories," she said. "But I'm not hearing a lot of answers, and fewer plans."

I sighed and nodded. "Yeah. It's easy to ask questions." I sheathed the blade and buckled on my holster. "I need to know more, though. I need to know that this is true, before I act."

"Who else can you ask? The Alexians? They're not just going to say, 'Oh, yeah, right. We're the ones who killed Morgan. Sorry about that,' and go away."

"No, they're not. And if it's true, I'm willing to bet most of them don't know, anyway. No, I need to find a different source. Someone I can trust."

"Who?"

I looked around the little platform, at the wreckage of our short stay. This might be a holy place, someday. The last temple of Morgan.

"The Feyr. Amon's research led to them, didn't it? Maybe they still have the same answers to his questions."

"There aren't many Feyr still around."

"Nope. But I know where to find them." I motioned to the archive, and her shotgun. "Get that stuff together. We're going, and we're not coming back."

The echoing hum started up in my bones as we got closer, the period of the impellor's vibration getting shorter with each step. By the time Ca.s.sandra and I were standing outside of the tall, black tower, every second breath was washed in the invisible song of the impellor.

There was a time when these had been the tallest buildings in Ash, save the Spear and the Strength. Mostly for the comfort of the inhabitants, though even here at ground level the wave of the strange device inside was ... distracting. Up at the same elevation as the monotrain, you couldn't stand this close to the impellor, not without jellying your meat. All across the city, any building this high had a couple empty floors, abandoned to the periodic thrum.

Ca.s.sandra hid in an alleyway near the tower. I had told her where we were going. There would be a signal for her to come inside. I was still wearing my new half-cloak, and the sword was bundled into a reed mat strapped across my back. Not the best disguise, but the best we could manage. No one had called the whites.h.i.+rts on us. Yet. Once Ca.s.sandra was good and hidden away, I braced myself and went inside.

The tower was really just a sh.e.l.l, st.i.tched inside with catwalks that gave access to the central spinning core. Black-clad Amonites crawled all over the inside of the tower, checking fittings and monitoring the impellor's activity. They wore some kind of hard suit, with masks and goggles over their faces. The sheath twitched beneath the reeds on my back as a wave of adrenaline spun through my fingers. Up there, in their goggles and masks, they looked so much like the coldmen. Similar technology, maybe? I swore, every clue I got gave me more people to mistrust. My instincts yelled for guilt on the heads of the scions of Amon. Everything else pointed to Alexander. I didn't like it.

The impellor itself was ... alien. The shaft was a blizzard of movement, like a tornado of twisting metal pistons and smooth, swooping cogs that meshed and danced at odd angles and impossible speeds. The structure rose to the top of the tower, spinning in a near silence that was actually a roar of movement just below the range of my ears. My skull ached to hear it, but could not. At the top of the column was a giant cylinder, like the head of a war hammer. It turned more slowly than the column, though it seemed dependant on its action. Each face of the hammer was made up of dozens of open drums, their skin glowing an arcane blue, each drum fed by a dozen conduits that coiled and were themselves fed by larger tubes that burrowed down into the column. The whole thing looked like something that had dropped out of the sky, to be wors.h.i.+pped.

I wondered how Amon had built such a crooked thing, based on that smooth, clean Feyr artifact that we had fished out of the cistern. Not a logical jump. Then again, for all that Amon was the Scholar, the Feyr were something more. Something different. I shrugged, then went to find someone in charge.

Wasn't even a Healer. Just a guy in city blues, peering at gauges and checklists through a pair of uneven wire spectacles. His hair was rusty gray, sticking out all around and bald on top, his naked scalp spotted with moles. I had to tug on his shoulder to get his attention. There wasn't much about me to keep his eyes, so I showed him the gun under my cloak. He took in the whole package, the hidden sword, the revolver, the poorly covered uniform, then nodded once.

"Yeah?" he asked.

"There are some people here I'd like to talk to."

"Those people are probably busy."

"I'm sure they are," I said. "But I'm sure they could be spared."

"What's it about?"

"Kidnapping. Murder, maybe." I picked up one of his checklists, flipped through a couple pages, then put it down somewhere else. He didn't like that. "Maybe a grand conspiracy to topple the Cult of Morgan."

"You're the Paladin," he said finally, after a long pause. "The heretic."

"That's what they're saying. Does that matter to you?" I asked, flas.h.i.+ng the bully again. "Or this?"

"Neither, really. Were you hoping to threaten your way through this conversation?"

"Does it matter to you that someone has killed all my friends, burned the house of my G.o.d, and now falsely accuses my Cult of siding with the Betrayer?" I took the revolver out and placed the barrel squarely on the table, like I was pointing something out in his ledger. "Does it matter that I'll kill anyone who gets in the way of me hunting those people down, no matter who they are, or on what throne they sit?"

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

He looked up at the catwalks, like he was doing a mental count of his crew.

"It wasn't any of my people," he said. "Whatever you're talking about, it wasn't these guys. I know where they go, where they sleep, what they eat. Who they love. It wasn't any of them."

"And if any of them are involved, I guess that makes you complicit?"

He snorted. "You're trying to threaten me. That's cute, little girl warrior comes in here to threaten me." He plucked the gla.s.ses off his face and tossed them on the table. "I'm not going to scare. You pull my people off that machine, you maybe put the Harking line out of commission. How you like that?"

I sc.r.a.ped the revolver along the edge of the table and pa.s.sed it across my body. One long arm stroke and I backhanded him with the heavy tip of the weapon, the reinforced barrel taking him along the jaw. He spun away, drooling teeth.

"Took you long enough to lose those G.o.dsd.a.m.n gla.s.ses." I holstered the bully, shattered the mat of reeds, and drew the blade. I put the tip on the floor and leaned against the crossbar. The blade slid into the hard stone of the floor like a hot knife into ice. "Now, I'd like to talk to some of your crew."

He stood slowly, anger boiling off him in sheets. His voice was a barely controlled cauldron.

"I said, it wasn't any of my d.a.m.ned people."

"It's not your d.a.m.ned people I want to talk to. It's your d.a.m.ned Feyr."

He looked at me with steadying calm, wiped the blood off his chin, and laughed.

"Not my call to make. Those b.u.g.g.e.rs come when they want, go when they want. And if they do a G.o.dsd.a.m.n thing while they're here, that's their business. No. They want to talk to you, they'll talk to you. Not my problem."

"How do I-"

He dropped like a cut puppet. I leaned away, surprised, then heard other things: tools falling, gla.s.s breaking. Above, an Amonite slid heavily against a railing, then spun over and fell against a lower platform like a bag of flour. No one to catch him, because all of his mates were out, too. I left the sword where it was, swaying slightly in the floor, and drew my bully.

The Feyr was standing behind me and slightly higher, up on a piston array. He was wearing a robe, white cloth wrapped tight around his tiny form. He had a hand raised in benediction, looking all around the tower with his wide, black eyes. He noticed me and nodded.