“We’re on your side, you silly fucker!” Kraz admonished one unfortunate marksman whose bullet had added another hole to his already ragged garment. Fortunately it had passed through the Blood-blessed’s sleeve without finding any flesh, not that this cooled his anger any. Having injected a burst of Black he seized the sniper, marked out as a rebel by the Brotherhood symbol stitched onto his jacket. The fellow struggled vainly as he was lifted, legs dancing in thin air.
“Thought . . . you was . . . Cadre,” the man rasped out through a rapidly constricting throat.
“Leave the poor sod alone, Kraz,” Hyran said. “We ain’t got the time.”
Kraz’s face bunched in frustrated malice and he cast the sniper aside, tossing him end over end to land on the opposite roof-top amidst a cloud of shattered tiles.
“We’re just about there,” Jelna said, pointing to where the rows of streets came to an abrupt end. Beyond them lay the band of green fields surrounding the Sanctum. Lizanne went to the edge of the roof-top, eyes tracking over the expanse of well-maintained grass and shrubbery she remembered from her coach ride with the unpleasantly aromatic Chamberlain Yervantis. It was much the same but for the numerous bodies lying in a line of blackened, dismembered clusters all the way to the outer walls of the Sanctum.
“It would’ve fallen on the first day but for the Blood Cadre,” Jelna said, face dark as she stared at the piled bodies below.
Lizanne checked her timepiece once more and turned to the south, her boosted vision making out the dark mass of people streaming into the Corvus suburbs. The progress of the People’s Freedom Army was swift but not unopposed. Cannon shells exploded here and there along with frantic flurries of small-arms fire, but the loyalists were far too few in number to successfully contest the advance. Within minutes the rebel throng had reached the dense streets of the slums where their numbers swelled amidst an upsurge of cheering.
“Four minutes,” she told the others before injecting more Green and commencing a swift descent to ground level.
She had them form a line then led them across the fields in a sprint, raising a cloud of churned earth and shredded grass in their wake in an unmistakable sign of their nature. Lizanne brought them to a halt some four hundred paces from the wall, extreme range for a rifle-shot but not a cannon. A salvo of shells was launched almost as soon as they came to a halt.
“Remember,” Lizanne said to Hyran. “Just like I showed you.”
She injected a second long burst of Black and raised her gaze, finding the plummeting shells easily thanks to the Green in her veins. A concentrated burst of force was enough to explode three of the shells in mid air, Hyran taking care of the remaining two a split-second later. After that the cannon fell silent.
“We’re just going to stand here?” Zakaeus demanded. Lizanne turned to see he and his wife had edged back a little, faces slick with sweat.
“If you run,” Lizanne told Zakaeus in a flat, sincere tone, “I’ll break your spine and make you watch whilst I disembowel your wife. Now stand still and shut up.”
She turned back to the wall, eyes scanning the battlements as she felt the timepiece tick away in her pocket. Where are you, you old bastard?
It took perhaps a minute for the first Blood Cadre agent to appear, a man of slight build but with the age and bearing of a veteran. Lizanne’s unnatural vision picked out the gleam of the Imperial crest against the dark fabric of the man’s tunic. He was soon joined by more agents, dark-suited figures shoving soldiers aside as they crowded onto the battlements to view their enemy. Seeing the animosity on their faces, Lizanne was reminded of something the Blood Imperial had said in Azireh’s tomb: Many of my children want justice for their murdered brothers and sisters. Whatever the truth of that, it appeared he hadn’t deigned to join them in administering justice, for she couldn’t find any sign of him.
“This is . . .” Sofiya managed before choking into a terrorised silence.
“Madness,” her husband finished. “We can’t possibly fight so many.”
“I told you,” Lizanne said, raising her gaze to the sky as her ears detected a familiar, droning whine, “I do not require you to fight.”
The Profitable Venture’s captain had assured her that the required precision was well within the capabilities of his gun-crews. “A large static target,” he sniffed. “Just a matter of trigonometry, miss.”
It proved no idle boast. The first shell impacted directly atop the battlements some fifty yards to the left of where the Blood Cadre had assembled. Some were killed outright by the blast and the shrapnel, others reacted with impressive swiftness, leaping clear or sprinting in the opposite direction with Green-facilitated strength. It wasn’t enough to save them. The next four shells landed in quick succession, making the ground quake with every impact. The section of wall where the Blood Cadre had gathered dissolved into a storm of flame and shattered stonework. The bombardment continued for five minutes, the fall of shells pausing a few times as the gunners adjusted their aim so as to carve a breach in the wall a hundred feet across.
Hearing a growing, angry murmur at her back, Lizanne turned to see the vanguard of the People’s Army emerging from the streets fringing the fields. They came streaming over the green expanse, convicts from Scorazin, turncoat conscripts and thousands of rebel townsfolk all making for the smoking breach in the wall with no Blood Cadre to oppose their charge.
“I consider your contract fulfilled,” Lizanne told the Griffans. “Feel free to return to the ship, though I would advise hiding out for a few hours first.”
She hefted her revolver and glanced at the five rebel Blood-blessed who stood regarding the ruined wall with equal parts delight and anticipation. “Shall we?”
CHAPTER 46
Clay
A strange, guttural gasp rose from the crowd as they moved closer, jostling each other in their desire to gawp at the crystal rose crafted by the impossible powers of a little girl. The initial awe had given way to a collective hunger, as if the mere sight of something so incredible had transformed them all into children desperate to get their hands on a new toy.
“Stop this!” The voice cut through the crowd’s rising tumult like a knife. It was Devos Zarhi, standing apart from the encroaching throng, her arms raised and eyes lit with a manic light that put Clay in mind of Preacher in one of his rare talkative moments. “This . . .” the thin woman hissed, lowering her arms so both hands were pointed blade-like at the gently rotating crystal rose. “This vile corruption of the Benefactors’ gifts offends all who hold to the divine. Do not imagine they are blind to this!” She turned to the crowd, voice raised in shrill conviction. “Do not delude yourselves they will allow such interference in their design to go unpunished! Do not—”
“Oh, cease your prattle you ignorant fool!” It was Zembi, his face full of an anger that gave the lie to his studied mildness from only a few moments before. He had moved to place himself between Krizelle and Zarhi. Whilst not quite so imposing a figure as Veros Harzeh, he was still a substantially built man and his hunched bearing carried an obvious warning. “This girl is not a corruption of anything,” Zembi went on, addressing the crowd now. “Her gifts are innate, revealed only through blind chance. No one made her this way. My daughter is as much a gift as the crystals . . .”
“She is not your daughter,” Zarhi cut in, voice lowered now to a sibilant hiss. “You stole her.”
The rose stopped spinning, trembled for a second then fell to the floor. “Father?” Krizelle asked, moving to tug at Zembi’s robes. “What does she mean?”
“Oh yes,” Zarhi said, her features taking on a sympathetic grimace that didn’t alter the animosity still shining in her eyes. “Didn’t you know, little one? You share no blood with this man.”
“Liar!” Krizelle said, tears blooming in her eyes as she lunged towards the thin woman. Zembi caught Krizelle in a tight embrace, lifting her and ca
rrying her away.
“This man stole you!” Zarhi called out. “Your real parents ache for your return . . .”
“LIAR!”
Clay winced at the thunder-clap sensation of a large amount of Black being released at once. Devos Zarhi was blasted off her feet like a twig caught in a gale. She slammed into the crowd, the crack of breaking bones mingling with a chorus of panicked shouting. The remaining throng retreated, some more resilient souls coalescing to resist the fleeing tide whilst others went to aid the pile of groaning bodies surrounding the crumpled form of Devos Zarhi.
Kriz froze the memory as Zembi ran for the exit, Assembly members fleeing from his path, the little girl in his arms staring over his shoulder at the carnage she had caused.
“I didn’t kill her,” Kriz said, moving to peer at the twisted and inert body of Devos Zarhi. “Though I’m told she never walked properly again. To my shame I find this does not trouble my conscience.”
“Was it true?” Clay asked. “About him stealing you?”
“Adopted is more accurate, albeit an adoption ordered by the Assembly. I have no memory of my parents. Zembi told me only that they were farmers . . . and that they feared their daughter greatly. Apparently a pack of Reds attacked the farm when I was an infant, descending out of the night to pick off the livestock. One got into the house and found me in my crib. My father shot it before it could eat me, but its blood got on my skin, in my mouth. And yet I didn’t die, but I did burn down the house. Fearing me subject to some curse sent by the Benefactors, they took me to the local Devos, a man far wiser than Zarhi here, who had a long-standing friendship with Philos Zembi, famed genius of the Enclave. Clearly I was far too important to be left in the hands of simple farmers.”
“And you never found out till that moment?” Clay asked.
“My education and co-operation were easier to achieve if I grew up believing we had a familial bond.”
“Still a shit thing to do.”
Kriz turned away from Zarhi to regard her father, staring at his tensed, determined features as he bore her younger self away. “I suppose so,” she said. “But I’ve come to understand that he was a man beset by many troubles. It’s often the way with those who dare to make their dreams a reality.”
• • •
She was older in the next memory, Clay guessing her age at somewhere between fifteen and eighteen. This Krizelle stood on a lawn of well-tended grass alongside a large crystal structure Clay quickly realised he had seen before. It was a sculpture of a man holding both arms aloft. His hands appeared unfinished, frozen in the act of growing fingers. A quick survey of their new surroundings confirmed it, the vast granite wall of the mountain’s interior lit by a soft orange glow from below, the same hard-angled buildings with their balconies, bridges and stairs, so many stairs.
“The city beneath the Nail,” he said in a soft murmur, gaze tracking over the successive stairways that had taken him to his confrontation with the White.
“Welcome to the Philos Enclave,” Kriz said, stepping into view and frowning at the recognition evident in his face. “You’ve been here before.”
“That I have. It was . . .” He paused to gaze around at all the people crowding the various staircases and terraces. “. . . quieter then.”
“You mean empty,” she said with grim certainty. “Lifeless.”
“Not exactly. There was something living here alright.”
“What . . . ?” Kriz’s question died as a child’s cry of frustration sounded across the lawn. Clay saw the younger Krizelle going to comfort a boy several years her junior engaged in furiously kicking the mangled crystal ring at his feet.
“Won’t do what it’s told!” the boy fumed as he kicked.
“Come now, Hezkhi,” Krizelle said, laying a calm hand on his shoulder, taking a firmer grip until he stopped kicking. “What have we learned about anger?” she asked him.
The boy’s lips formed a momentary snarl as he prepared a scornful reply, but something in Krizelle’s kind but implacable gaze made him reconsider. “Anger is the barrier to clarity,” he mumbled.
“Quite so.” Krizelle knelt and retrieved the twisted crystal ring from the grass, holding it up for critical inspection. “What were you trying for?” she asked Hezkhi.
“A snake,” he said, affording the ring a sullen, accusatory scowl. “It ate itself.”
“Too many facets.” Krizelle ran a finger over the surface of the misbegotten snake. “You’re trying for too much detail. Remember these shapes are grown, not crafted. You have to let them find their own way.” She reached into the pocket of her robe and came out with a small vial. “Try again. I’ll guide you.”
“Blood-blessed,” Clay realised, watching the boy drink the product. “Zembi found another one?”
“Not just one.” Kriz nodded to her right, Clay turning to see a dozen or so more children near by, all engaged in the same activity. He estimated their ages varied from as young as seven to thirteen and their attempts to produce crystal sculptures weren’t much better than Hezkhi’s.
“Despite the . . . unfortunate incident at the Assembly,” Kriz said, “or perhaps because of it, Zembi was granted authority to seek out others like me.”
“He adopt them too?” Clay asked, seeing the obvious affection on her face as she gazed at the Blood-blessed youngsters.
“No,” she said. “But they still called him Father, nevertheless.”
A loud chiming sound came from above, Krizelle and the children all looking up towards the city’s summit in response. “It appears Father needs me,” she said, giving Hezkhi a final pat of encouragement before moving towards the nearest flight of stairs. “Stay here and finish the lesson. I’ll see you at supper.”
“He must have finished another monster,” the boy said, dropping his misshapen artwork to the grass and starting after her. “Let me come, Krizelle. I want to see.”
“No!” Krizelle’s tone was sharp enough to freeze the boy in place. “And they’re not monsters,” she added, in a softer tone, then pointed at the fallen sculpture until Hezkhi sulkily went to retrieve it. “Remember, let the crystal find its own way,” she reminded him before starting up the stairs.
Kriz and Clay followed her as she ascended successive tiers, exchanging numerous greetings with the people she passed. Although Clay saw none of the fear exhibited by the Assembly members, there was a notable deference in their demeanour, as if Krizelle, despite her youth, held some kind of authority here.
“Were you in charge or something?” he asked Kriz as they climbed.
“No, I held no formal position, except as tutor to the children. But informally . . .” She trailed off, face clouding as she watched her younger self turn a corner. “The more Father lost himself in his studies the more remote he became. Sometimes he wouldn’t appear for weeks. Since I was the only one to see him with any regularity, I became a conduit of sorts, his link to the rest of the Enclave.”
He guessed where Krizelle was leading them before he saw it, the unadorned rectangular building rising from a broad plaza of tiled stone. He was immediately struck by how different it looked, not just the people but the light. The orange glow of the lower tiers had disappeared, replaced by a soft white light cascading from above. Raising his gaze, he saw a crystal, far larger than any he had seen before, slowly revolving above the summit of the city.
“So you had your own sun here too,” he said, pausing to shield his eyes as he took in the sight. Despite all he had seen the wonder of it was still jarring. “How do they do that?” he asked Kriz. “Just hang there like that.”
She halted the memory, freezing the crystal’s slow rotation. “Would you like the scholarly explanation or the simple one?” she asked.
“Simpler would be better.”
“Very well. I don’t know. None of us did. Not even Father.”
Clay squin
ted at her. There was a faintly sheepish smile on her lips, eyebrows raised as if she were confessing a minor lapse of some kind. “What d’you mean?” he said. “Your people built all this. Built that place beneath the ice. How can you not know?”
“We didn’t make the crystals, Clay. We found them. We knew only what they did. We knew that if they were placed in proximity to a powerful heat source they would float in the air and exude a light that could both heal and nourish vegetation. That’s how we recovered from the Event, the crops grown with the crystals saved us and the settlements that cultivated them became the foundation of our civilisation.
“We also knew that, if subjected to sufficient force, the crystals could be persuaded to adopt different shapes. And we knew that they had fundamentally altered drake, and as it transpires, human biology. But how they did it.” She shrugged and turned away, unfreezing the memory and following her teenage self towards the building. “That we never knew. I sometimes think that’s what made Father . . . become what he became. For him, an unsolved mystery was always the worst torment.”
As they approached the building the familiar symbol above the entrance came into view. “What does it mean?” Clay asked, pointing at the upturned eye. “Keep seeing it everywhere.”
“The emblem of the Philos Caste. Philos meaning knowledge in the ancient pre-Event tongue.”
“And Devos and Veros?”
“Devos is the archaic collective term for the pantheon of pre-Event gods. In our time it’s become synonymous with those who serve the Benefactors. Veros, which translates literally as Overlord, now pertains to those who ascend to senior roles in the Assembly.”
They followed Krizelle into the building and down the deep stairwell to the chamber with the three domes. Once again it was different, the domes were there but the light that emitted from the apertures in their roofs was all the same colour. Krizelle led them towards the largest of the three domes, Clay feeling his heart quicken as they approached even though he was pretty sure he would find no White in residence this time.