Shadowborn Page 26

  Bree and Johan bowed in unison at the dismissal. They exited the library, nodding perfunctorily to the soldiers protecting the entrance.

  “Do not lose your fire,” Johan said to her as they left the guards behind. “Do not forget your rage. Peace is not our final goal.”

  “Then what is?” she asked. Johan smiled down at her, something troubling about the eagerness in his voice.

  “Victory.”

  CHAPTER

  22

  Isaac Willer stood on the balcony of his bedroom and gazed over the island he was born to protect. What had once been a beautiful green lawn dotted with carefully trimmed trees was now a burned and ruined mess, the surrounding stone wall blasted with holes from the attack by Marius’s specters. Much of the surrounding homes were smoldering piles of ash and rubble. Farther in the distance, the green and blue beauty of Weshern was pocked with black stretches, as if infected with a burning disease.

  “This was but one attack,” he asked. “Can we endure another?”

  He did not hear his wife’s soft footsteps behind him, only knew she was there when her arms wrapped about his waist. She kept careful with her embrace, not wishing to agitate his injuries.

  “We will always endure,” Avila said. “The wiser question is if Center can also endure?”

  Isaac leaned his head back so he might press his cheek against hers.

  “Their weapons are endless, while ours shrink with each battle,” he said. “But we have a smaller populace, and enough food to last through the cold season.”

  “Are you suggesting we lay siege upon Center?”

  “It was a thought,” Isaac said. “With their crops heavily damaged, and our trade cut off, we could focus on hit-and-run tactics against their surviving animal stock and farms.”

  “A lot of innocent people will starve,” Avila said. “And the common folk will starve long before the soldiers, knights, and theotechs. You know that.”

  Indeed, Isaac did. It was why he had not proposed the idea during the discussion the day before. Someone as bloodthirsty as Johan would shrug off the innocent dead as a casualty of war, but Isaac could not bring himself to such ruthlessness. He wanted freedom for his own people. He had no desire for the people of Center to suffer for the actions of their military and religious leaders.

  “I want to do what is right,” Isaac said, turning to embrace his wife. His fingers rustled through her blond hair. His eyes closed, and he breathed in the lilac scent of her hair. “I just don’t know what that is. So many have died. I must find a peace that does not leave that loss in vain.”

  Avila pulled back, and he opened his eyes to find hers locking him into her gaze.

  “Then embrace war with all your heart,” she said. “Center reels at the precipice of an abyss. Push them over, and free ourselves from their theotechs forever.”

  “If they will not reveal the secrets of the elemental prisms, then war must follow,” Isaac said. “It pains me knowing Johan is correct. But I will not embrace that war with my whole heart, not in private. Not when alone, or with you.”

  Avila smiled a sad smile.

  “We have always lived two lives,” she said. “This is no different.”

  Isaac kissed her tenderly, without force or passion. He wanted comfort from her, and she offered it with the gentle caress of a hand on his face and another at his breast.

  “Thank you,” he whispered when she pulled away.

  She started to reply but a knock on the door interrupted her. Isaac pulled free and slowly passed through the thick curtains at the balcony entrance. Beyond was their extravagant bedroom, the bed, dressers, and mirrors all coated with silver. His bare feet sank into the absurdly thick and soft blue carpet. Isaac pulled back a chain lock, followed by the slender dead bolt beneath, and opened the door a crack.

  “Yes?” he asked.

  An older soldier stood outside, his eyes long circles of exhaustion. He wore no helmet, revealing much of his gray hair had recently been burned away.

  “My Archon,” he said. “I come bearing an urgent message.”

  “Then speak it.”

  “A messenger from Center stands at the entrance of the mansion. He says he brings a written request for peace from Marius’s own hand, to be read by your eyes only.”

  Isaac’s heart skipped a beat. A request for peace? The grand weight on his shoulders trembled ever so slightly. If the terms were acceptable, then the bloodshed, the war, it might all end with the stroke of a pen …

  “I will need to dress,” he said. “Assign the messenger an escort, and do not let him leave the mansion grounds.”

  The soldier bowed low.

  “Yes, my Archon,” he said.

  Isaac shut the door and turned to find his wife standing beside the bed, a hand nervously twirling the sapphire amulet hanging from her neck.

  “Center seeks peace?” she asked. None of Isaac’s hope mirrored itself in her tone.

  “It seems that way,” Isaac said. “We’ll need to know their exact terms, as well as discuss the matter with the other three Archons.”

  “It might be a trick.”

  Isaac thought for a moment, then shook his head.

  “Center may offer us too little,” he said, “but I do not believe Marius one to play frivolous games that may tarnish his virtuous image. The dead mount on both sides. My gut says this offer is sincere.”

  “But if it is a trick?”

  Isaac sighed.

  “If it is, I’ll have my guards rip the messenger into a dozen pieces and have my Seraphim scatter the pieces from miles above Center.”

  Avila said nothing, but he saw the lurking doubt in her eyes. Isaac knew he was risking much, raising his hopes in this way, but he could not help it. This war was hell, consuming both their worlds. It needed to end.

  Isaac and Avila dressed in their separate wardrobes. They would greet any messenger of Center in their finest. Despite all of Center’s cruelty and recklessness, the messenger was still an official envoy, and deserved all the treatments of such. Isaac finished first, his black suit tight and proper, and he helped his wife lace the deep blue corset of her dress. When done he offered her his arm. She took it, and they exited the room.

  Two soldiers waited on either side, their arms crossed behind their backs.

  “To the throne room?” one asked.

  “Indeed.”

  They walked, the soldiers two steps ahead.

  “Did the messenger come alone?” Isaac asked.

  “It appears so.”

  “Why was I not informed when he first arrived on Weshern soil?”

  The soldier glanced over his shoulder ever so slightly.

  “Because we did not scout his arrival until he was several miles from the mansion.”

  Isaac frowned. They had multiple patrols watching the airspace between the various islands. For one to slip by so easily reminded him of how much territory they needed to protect, and how few Seraphim were left to protect it.

  “Very well,” he said. “I will speak with Commander West about tighter patrols. We cannot afford to slacken our defenses.”

  The throne room bore the name of the seats of power of old, but hardly resembled a true castle throne. The wide hall was designed to greet diplomats and civilian representatives. Long tables on either side of the room were covered with glasses and plates. Comfortable chairs formed semicircles around four fireplaces. At the far end were two chairs, by far the most ornate decoration in the room. The legs and back were stained silver, the cushions a flawless blue.

  Isaac and Avila took their seats, Avila sinking into hers, Isaac at the edge of his. His fingers tapped the armchair, a habit he ceased the moment he noticed. This messenger would be reporting back to Marius, and Isaac could not afford to weaken his negotiating position by appearing overeager for peace.

  “Bring him in,” Isaac said.

  The nearest soldier opened the wide door, allowing in the messenger and his two escorts. The man was on
the shorter side, and he wore the deep red robes of the theotechs. That detail did not go unnoticed by Isaac. Messengers were normally trusted knights. To send a theotech added importance to the carried message. The man’s head was covered in a soft coat of white that appeared more like down than hair. He approached the two thrones with a limp, his face covered with wrinkles, his curled hands cradling a rolled scroll sealed with wax.

  “Welcome, theotech of Center,” Isaac said. His voice echoed in the heavy silence. It seemed even soldiers were holding their breath. “Might I have a name for my guest?”

  “Titus Cenborn,” the older man said. “A loyal servant of our holy Speaker, Marius Prakt, and have been from the very first day he ascended to his position. I come with his words in hand, and a message to deliver if your ears are open to hearing it.”

  Nothing revealed yet, but it intrigued Isaac that it would be delivered verbally first, before the scroll was handed over. Most Archons preferred to rely on their written words instead of a messenger adding inflection and emphasis where there might be none. Most often the verbal deliveries were of good news, good wishes, and congratulations.

  “Our ears are open,” Isaac said, settling a little bit farther into his chair and forcing himself to relax. “Speak, and I pray you come with tidings of peace and humility instead of further warmongering.”

  Titus controlled his emotions masterfully, but Isaac caught the tiniest of twitches at the corners of the man’s mouth. The hints of a smile?

  “In such times, we all pray for tidings of peace,” the older theotech said. His voice was aged yet firm, with not a hint of wavering. “But peace is an agreement, and I can only bring an offer.”

  “Is that what you bring?” Isaac interrupted. His wife chastised him with a glare, but he didn’t care. Men and women were dying. He didn’t feel like enduring a long slew of flowery words prior to hearing what really mattered.

  “An offer of peace?” Titus straightened himself, and he slowly nodded his head. “Yes, Archon, I come seeking peace between Center and Weshern, if you must be so hasty.”

  That flicker of hope and light strengthened in Isaac’s heart.

  “Under what conditions?” he asked, knowing that any peace he reached must secure safety for the future of his island, and not just a temporary cease-fire that would one day leave them vulnerable.

  The theotech cleared his throat.

  “Our Speaker believes that this conflict has arisen out of misunderstanding and confusion, and not of true animosity between our nations. We kill and burn over differences of rights and privileges. These things we must resolve peacefully, and without needless death. Marius says this not out of fear of defeat or of the rise in power of the minor islands. We face a greater threat than we can imagine. Living fire fell from the sky. We see the stars, and the stars shine on our vulnerability. The eternal-born come for us, Archon Isaac. They come, and we must be united in our defense against them. Nothing will quell their anger. Nothing will sate their fury. Only blood.”

  Isaac could feel the awkward discomfort spreading through the room. Achieving peace and freedom was absolutely the desired goal, but the chilling threat of a new conflict dampened that relief.

  “Weshern will stand against any foe, supernatural or otherwise,” he said. “But we will not stand in unity with Center as if the atrocities you committed against us never happened. Entire towns burned beneath your invasion’s fire.”

  “And we offer repayment for our transgressions,” Titus said. He motioned with the scroll held in his tightly curled fingers. “Nothing will return the dead, not for either side. Mutual trust is the only step Marius believes will matter. The angels ask for reconciliation, and they have revealed the path to our holy Speaker. Here, in my hands, I hold the truth of the elemental prisms that we have, until now, strictly controlled.”

  “Center will reveal the secrets of their creation?” Isaac asked. He could hardly believe it. That information represented complete freedom from Center. No more reliance on their trade, no more duels with other islands for the thinly spread supply.

  “If you will accept peace,” Titus said. “For we gain nothing without that.”

  Isaac beckoned for one of his guards to fetch the scroll for him to read.

  “Let me see for myself,” he said. “If what you say is true, I will gladly accept peace.”

  The old man let out a hacking cough.

  “It is for your eyes only,” he said, glaring at the guard. “We are entrusting very much to your hands with this offer, and we expect discretion while terms are negotiated.”

  The nearby guard looked his way for confirmation. Isaac waved him off and ordered the theotech to hand over the scroll. Titus shuffled closer and extended an arm. The scroll hovered unsteadily in offering. Isaac took the scroll and broke the wax. His shaking hands unrolled it. On the yellow parchment there was but a single sentence at its very center, carefully written in a tight, flourishing script.

  Demons shall never ascend above angels.

  Isaac looked to Titus, to question the deceit, to demand an explanation, but he had barely opened his mouth before the old theotech closed the gap between them with the speed of a young man. Titus’s arm wrapped around his neck, locking him in place. Isaac’s instinctual attempt to pull back meant nothing, for it felt like immovable stone held him. His mind baffled as to how a scrawny, elderly man could possess such strength.

  Sharp pain sliced across his throat. Warm blood ran down his neck. Isaac tried to speak, to scream and curse, but his body betrayed him with only gurgles and coughs. Titus’s face shifted ever so slightly as he leaned in closer, cheek to cheek, an intimate embrace. His eyes shifted from brown to blue. The features of his face smoothed ever so slightly, shrouded by a hood that would reveal this horror, this betrayal, this disease with a nightmarish grin, only to him.

  “You damn fool,” Johan whispered.

  The face became Titus’s once more. The iron grip released. Isaac collapsed to the floor. His mind could barely process it. A mere few seconds ago he’d read words on a scroll. Now he lay dying. He saw the ceiling, only dark and clouded. His ears heard screams, the shouts of guards. Fighting, and far away. Johan must have immediately fled. Isaac tried to sit up but his body weighed a strange ton more. His head barely lifted off the blood-soaked floor.

  A loving hand touched his. His wife. Her face overtook his vision.

  “Isaac,” he heard her whisper. “I love you, Isaac. I love you.”

  He would have whispered it back but he had no air in his lungs to voice it with. He kept his gaze upon Avila, hoping she could read the message in his eyes, hoping she’d know his appreciation for all their years together.

  Kept it as the world turned to shadow.

  Kept it as his wife’s face vanished beneath the black.

  CHAPTER

  23

  Bree sat in the holy mansion’s walled garden, hands scraping through the soft earth. Flowers surrounded her, dark red and purple shades of bellflowers, an appropriate somberness to their blooms. Even the birds seemed quieter, and why shouldn’t they be? Surely they sensed the destruction around them. Bree had been given temporary stay in one of the holy mansion’s many rooms. On her way to the garden she’d passed burned and broken walls. She’d walked over vast stretches of charred carpet. Worst of all had been the hidden tears and quiet crying of the soldiers and the staff.

  Weshern’s heart had been ripped out of its chest yesterday, and somehow the world had to go on.

  “Miss Skyborn?”

  She glanced over her shoulder to see a guard standing awkwardly on the path.

  “Yes?”

  “The Archoness has requested your audience.”

  Bree rose to her feet while brushing at her uniform in an attempt to clean it. Off came the dirt, but no amount of brushing would remove the many bloodstains.

  “Lead the way, if you’d please,” she said. “I’m still learning the layout of the mansion.”

  The
soldier nodded respectfully.

  “As you wish.”

  They left the garden. A starling’s voice burst to life as she stepped through the glass doors. Bree tried her best to take comfort in the song. They passed through the halls, but instead of traveling to the throne room they entered Avila’s bedroom. Two more guards stood at attention on either side of the door. Bree was surprised there weren’t more.

  “Lift your arms,” one ordered. Bree frowned at him.

  “I’m sorry, miss,” the other said, stepping closer. “But at this point not even the Phoenix is free from caution.”

  “I understand.”

  They thoroughly patted her down, ensuring she had no hidden weapons. When finished, they allowed her access to the door. She knocked twice, then stepped back a pace. Her throat felt raw and dry, and no amount of swallowing seemed to help. What might the Archoness wish from her?

  “Come in,” Avila’s voice called from the other side.

  Bree obeyed.

  The window to the Archoness’s balcony was the only source of light. Avila sat in a chair before a tall oval mirror, staring blankly at her own reflection. She wore a black dress with silver buttons. Her face was covered with a blue shroud. Even with its covering Bree could see the smeared lines of tears.

  “Thank you for coming,” Avila said. The eyes in the mirror glanced her way. “There are important matters we must discuss.”

  Bree stood up straight, her hands locked behind her back. It took all her focus to remain emotionless and professional in spite of the palpable sadness rolling through the air. Though Avila’s voice remained strong, her grief was a spiritual force. The room itself seemed to quiver when she spoke.