CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Raiden flowed across the smooth varnished floor of the training salle, sweat sliding down his dusky skin, his hands and bare feet moving in elaborate patterns almost too fast to follow. Sunlight from the high clerestory windows made the wood glow like darkened honey and it gleamed off the silver glaives of the spectators – armed men dressed in skirts of black leather pteruges wearing baldrics chased with silver across their tattooed chests. Finely tooled knife belts sat at their hips, holding a rainbow of blades – their true weapons, not the sparkling glaives. The bishop’s Noble Guard never left Raiden’s side. Though the Bishop Arturious had declared him an “honored guest” since retrieving him from the Imperial Corso after his arrest, Raiden knew he was a prisoner in this opulent palace as surely as if he’d been in a cell at the polizia’s fortress.

The red-haired priest who’d arrested him, Brother Jacobis, a Blademaster and a fanatic, had not been pleased when the bishop himself greeted them at the Corso with a phalanx of Noble Guard. The polizia who’d accompanied the good brother on his raid had mysteriously vanished when they’d arrived, leaving Raiden alone with the Brotherhood priests. Still recovering from the blast and the subsequent fight, Raiden had swayed with exhaustion while they’d argued with one another in the courtyard of the fortress. The Brother Jacobis had been loath to release him to the bishop.

“He is a heathen from a foreign land who consorted with apostates, your Excellency! Because of him, I lost the Black Witch!”

“You forget yourself, good brother,” the bishop warned, his hands buried in the dagged sleeves of his brocade and linen robes. He was shorter than the red-haired priest, his cropped hair was almost entirely gray, and his elaborate vestments hid an ample belly, but his simple words brought the brother’s tirade to a sputtering halt. “Captain Raiden Mad is an Imperial Emissary and protected from arrest or religious persecution. You cannot throw him into a cell like a common criminal. He will be an honored guest in my own home.” He fixed the other man with a grim look, his nostrils flaring. “Or do you wish to continue with your insolence?”

Though red-faced with rage, Jacobis had nonetheless subsided. Tossing Raiden a last, murderous glance, he’d bowed to his bishop. “No, your excellency. I apologize…”

The bishop’s outrage had seemed genuine to Raiden in his dazed state, and he’d been relieved to be escorted to Arturious’s palace, hoping he would be able to convince the man to let him go. But he’d spent days wandering the palace, feasting at the bishop’s table, enduring inane small talk about trade and weather and taxes, and he was no closer to freedom.

Even though he was trapped, he was consoled knowing Shade had escaped, as well as Dante Safire. He worried about the Golondrina, having last glimpsed them in the burning stables, but felt a strange certainty they had managed to escape unscathed. They were resourceful fellows, after all. So far, he’d been given relatively free rein in the bishop’s palace, including use of the expansive gardens and the impressive library, and his chambers were far grander than his rooms at Safire’s villa. But he found himself in the Noble Guard’s training hall the majority of the time. Only when he lost himself in the arduous practice of the Thousand Forms did he manage to find relative peace.

Raiden moved through the Forms with ever-increasing speed, his feet leaving the ground in impressive kicks, his hands striking unseen enemies with lightning speed. Murmurs and soft exclamations rose from the men watching. At first, hostile and suspicious, the guardsmen who used the training hall had given him a wide berth. They’d laughed behind their hands at his practice and sneered at what they deemed “dancing”. Only after he’d fought them ten-to-one and soundly beaten them all had they looked on him with grudging respect. Little did they know how much he’d held back.

Now when he practiced the Thousand Forms, several of the guardsmen found themselves with free time and a desire for extra combat training. They’d even gone so far as to invite him to watch their magical training in return; he’d learned a bit more about bloodmagic and discovered how to better utilize his natural resistance. And how to kill them more efficiently, though he kept that to himself.

Coming to a finish after a flurry of kicks and blows, only slightly winded though his skin glowed with sweat, Raiden strode from the center of the salle to where his jacket was flung across a bench along the walls. One of the spectators, a burly fellow with thorny vines twining up his arms, handed him a towel. Raiden murmured thanks and wiped the sweat from his bare chest. The man stared at him for a moment, his eyes roving. Raiden was used to the scrutiny; his smooth, naked skin seemed to fascinate them. Even men without bloodmagic wore tattoos in Malavita.

“You should find someone to ink you,” he said, his brow wrinkling. “You’re small, but you’re tough. You deserve a strong tattoo.”

Since the man topped him by a head, Raiden didn’t take offense. He shrugged. “Maybe I will.”

A murmur took up among the men milling about the salle. The man he was talking to suddenly looked beyond him, his eyes widening. He ducked his head and made a swift retreat. Calmly, Raiden continued to wipe his skin dry.

“Brother Jacobis…”

“Good brother…”

“Blademaster, may the Faces turn to you…”

It didn’t surprise him that the red-haired priest had hunted him down. He’d shadowed Raiden for days now. Bishop Arturious had assured Raiden the brother meant him no ill will and had merely let his zealotry get the better of him. But he remembered how the man had moved with preternatural speed, and his palm itched for his sword. Hearing the retreat of the men around him, Raiden reached for his jacket in an unhurried manner before turning around.

“Good afternoon, captain,” the priest greeted him stiffly, his hands tucked into the sleeves of his crimson robe. Up close, without rage to contort his face, Jacobis looked younger than Raiden recalled. Freckles stood out on his smooth cheeks. “The bishop has informed me I must make things right between us. Therefore, I apologize for my previous actions. I was blinded by my desire to apprehend a heretic, and a murderer. You were merely in the way.”

“I see,” Raiden said slowly. “When I send my official report to my father, the Emperor Suijin, may He live forever, I’ll be certain to include your heartfelt apology.”

The priest’s gaze darkened. “Do you think your Emperor frightens me? I have seen true evil. No man born of this world frightens me. Only the Unseen make my heart quail.”

Raiden lifted an eyebrow. “I have seen the monsters in the Wastes, the twisted beasts made wrong by the blight. But are they demons, good brother, or just misshapen animals?” So, he truly was a fanatic. Like the Coterie, he believed the Unseen still stalked the land. Even the holy scriptures taught that the Unseen were gone from Malavita. Only their shadows remained – he’d seen those himself.

The priest scowled and drew closer, his greater height forcing Raiden to look up at him. “In Malavita, demons are as real as the earth beneath our feet, my son. It is part of a great lie that they only exist as shadows. Their war with the Sicani destroyed our land and for centuries the Brotherhood has fought their blight. Yet the Wastes grow stronger and the Veils grow weaker. The Unseen are rising. We must be ready!”

This last he said with great fervor, his hands clasping into fists at his sides. Raiden nearly stepped back, but he held still. Despite himself, he felt a shiver rush up his spine. Hadn’t Shade and the Golondrina been telling him the same thing? The Wastes were growing stronger, and the Veils weaker. The Coterie had warned Shade about the Unseen, too. She had scoffed. But. Was it possible…?

“Why hasn’t the Brotherhood raised a new Veil in a century?” he asked quietly. He’d asked Arturious the same thing but never received an honest answer, just obfuscation and deflection. “Why have they stopped pushing back against the blight? Why have they abandoned their vocation?”

Shadows haunted Jacobis’ dark eyes and he looked aside, his lips pressed into a line. “It’s not so simple.”

“If you won’t raise new Veils and reclaim more of the Wastes, why not let someone else if they are willing?”

“You speak of the witch.”

“And why not her? She already possesses the knowledge, and she’s more than strong enough. What is there to fear if she succeeds? Or is it merely your pride which compels you to block her efforts?”

Expecting anger and outrage, Raiden was surprised when the priest’s face lost all color and his eyes widened in abject fear.

“It is not pride. It would be a disaster,” he said in a strangled voice. “You don’t understand the danger, and neither does your Emperor. If the witch raises a new Veil, all the Veils in the land will fall!”

Raiden stiffened. “Because you think she’s evil, but you’re wrong. I know her.”

“You misunderstand. Perhaps your witch isn’t evil, but what she plans to do would doom us all. This I know.” He raised his hands when Raiden opened his mouth to object. “Listen to me, please, captain.” His voice dropped to a near-whisper, forcing Raiden to lean in close. “We have not raised a new Veil in over a century because the magic is failing us. The more recent Veils in the interior are far weaker than the coastal Veils. We do not understand why or how the magic has gone wrong. The knowledge was passed down from one priest to another at the highest levels of the church. But it is an oral tradition. Perhaps something was lost over the years, but the fact remains we are too afraid to attempt a new Veil.”

“Why?” Raiden asked, surprised at his sudden honesty. “Even a weak Veil would reclaim wasteland and push back the blight. Perhaps, with enough of them–”

Jacobis shook his head vehemently. He stepped closer and Raiden had to stop himself from stepping back. An odd spicy scent wafted from the priest’s crimson robes. Not unpleasant, but it made Raiden’s hackles rise. “The last time the Brotherhood tried to raise a Veil, it collapsed before completion in a great implosion of power. The shockwave reverberated along the qaraz, damaging the Veils near it until they eventually fell. It killed the priests who raised it, and many hundreds of innocent souls. The truth was hidden, buried, and the Brotherhood stopped raising new Veils, claiming our foreign rulers prohibited it. Which is why Dante Safire went to the Empire, I suspect.”

“The Brotherhood refused to work with us on the matter,” Raiden said. “We had no choice but to work with Prince Safire.” Understanding why they had obfuscated did nothing to raise his opinion of the church. Rather, it filled him with outrage. “You could have told us the truth. You should have told us the moment we claimed dominion over your wretched land.”

Brother Jacobis pulled back, his nostrils flaring. “The Veils are our dominion. Malavita survives because of our diligence, our power. You have no right to anything here, no matter what you claim on a map.”

“You have hidden the truth from your own people to keep them dependent on you. You lie to save face! I see nothing but cowardice and avarice in your actions. You should let Shade raise her Veil. She possesses awesome power. Perhaps where your magic failed, hers will succeed!”

His freckles stood out clearly on his pale face, and Jacobis’ eyes were dark pools. “We cannot allow your witch to raise a Veil, not when it could collapse. If she is as powerful as you say, such a backlash could damage even the oldest, strongest Veils. Are you willing to risk the lives of hundreds? Thousands?”

“Shade is trying to save her people. She won’t fail. I have faith in her.”

Jacobis’ gaze grew shrewd. “Then let me ask you this: are you willing to risk the life of your witch? We are determined to stop her, captain. One way or another. You can stop her from raising the Veil. Or we can. Which do you think would leave her alive in the end?”

Within the cool interior of the Duomo di Sicaria sat countless rows of wooden pews stained dark with age. Dressed as a pilgrim in a simple tunic, trousers, and soft boots, a travel-stained cloak about his shoulders, Dante Safire knelt in worship in a dark alcove far from the altar of the sprawling Duomo, his head bent to his clasped hands as he whispered in rhapsodical prayer. Beside him, another pilgrim sat stiffly on the pew, his hood drawn over his silver hair, leaving his face in shadows but for his frown. Tall and straight-backed, his arms crossed over his chest, this pilgrim seemed more annoyed than worshipful.

Dante threw Korin a glance, pausing his prayers to mutter, “You can at least pretend to be awed. Even you have to be able to feel the power of the Quattro Canto beneath us.”

Korin sniffed. “The Four and the Hidden are sacred, here most of all, but they are not a god. And this place has been twisted to oppress, rather than enlighten. I cannot pretend to be awed by hypocrisy.”

“For the Faces’ sake, the Duomo is not the place for religious debate. Just bow your head like a good pilgrim.”

Reluctantly, Korin uncoiled from the bench and got to his knees beside Dante. He rested his arms on the pew in front of them and bowed his head. “You know I hate these places,” he said crossly. “I don’t understand why I couldn’t wait outside. I’d rather pretend to be a beggar in the streets than a false pilgrim.”

“Because I wanted to keep an eye on you,” Dante said, shifting on his sore knees. He shot his old mentor a dark look. “I know you want to race after her. I practically had to drag you here by your hair.”

“Any of your men would have happily helped you retrieve the Imperial. Instead, like a fool, you brought only me. I’m not a soldier, I’m not even a bloodwizard.” He hunched over hands clenched so tightly his knuckles had whitened. “If you’d let me go after her, maybe I could have convinced her to stay on the right path.”

“She chooses her own path. And if I were you, I’d stay out of her sight until she’s raised our Veil.”

“If she manages to raise it,” he said bitterly.

Dante bit his tongue, refusing to have this argument again. Back in Enrice Veil, as Korin had confessed he’d sent Shade on a fool’s errand, hoping to force her into using the Coterie’s gemstones at the Nexus, Dante had listened in stunned silence.

“Shade will never do as you wish!” Dante had finally exploded, shouting at his mentor and startling his horse. The beast snorted and shied away from them, and it took Dante a few minutes to calm him. He was still shaking with fury, though, when he was able to confront Korin again.

“You know her,” he said, forcing his voice to normal levels. He stroked his mount’s soft nose, and glared at the tall, regal man. “How do you think she will react when she discovers your duplicity? Do you truly believe she will just shrug her shoulders and do what you want?”

A flash of uncertainty darkened his gleaming eyes before Korin shook off his doubt. “It is the only way,” he said firmly, reiterating what he’d been saying all along. “Shade wants to raise her Veil above all else. She must raise it – you heard her report about the tainted qaraz. The Wastes grow stronger every day. The Unseen grow stronger! There is no time for her stubbornness. She must act now, or all will be lost.”

Emotion crept into his voice, at last. Desperation, and not a little fear. It shocked Dante. He’d seen the healer angry and frustrated, concerned, even, but never, ever afraid. He felt no sympathy. Because of his fear, Korin may have pushed Shade too far this time, and it would cost them all. There was no way she would meekly do what she was forced into doing. She’d cross the Glass Fields on her hands and knees first–

“By the Faces.” A sudden realization turned his blood to ice. “That is exactly what she’ll do.”

“What? What will she do?”

Dante stared at his mentor grimly, surprised Korin hadn’t considered the possibility himself. “You backed her into a corner,” he said. “So, she’s going to do what she’s always done – tear the walls down.” At the look of confusion on Korin’s face, Dante bared his teeth in a vicious smile. “She’ll get to the Kindred’s stronghold, you old fool. She’ll cross the Glass Fields!”

Watching Korin’s expression crumble with horror had given Dante little satisfaction. In his bones, he knew that was exactly what Shade was going to do, and it made him sick. But instead of racing after her to try to convince her to take some other route, he’d ordered a second horse saddled and supplied. In one thing, Korin had been right – it was not his place to go after Shade. He had promised her he would save Raiden Mad, and he would keep that promise.

It had been difficult convincing his men as to the soundness of the plan. His lieutenants had argued vehemently, insisting they return to Sicaria in strength. But, even if they’d just ridden to the edges of the Golden Crescent, a force of bladed men would be noticed. Dante had to calmly explain that it would be much easier for two men to infiltrate the city, that he wasn’t returning to Sicaria to start a war, not yet. He was only going to retrieve his emissary.

To mollify them, he’d told them to keep preparing for war while he was gone, vowing they would reclaim all they’d lost to rousing cheers. And they would, one day.

The great bells of the Duomo rang for midday. The deep, sonorous tones throbbed through the building, making the pews vibrate. He tensed expectantly, hopefully, as he had every day since arriving in Sicaria. The Duomo was a prearranged meeting place, one the Brotherhood would never suspect.

As the bells sounded overhead, Korin nudged him in the ribs and jerked his chin toward the aisle between the pews. A brown-skinned man in black and silver livery strode down it, twirling a driver’s cap on his finger. His salt-and-pepper hair was contained in a neat braid and his drooping mustache was waxed into jaunty points. Dante watched him halt before the altar and make a perfunctory bow to the quartered sign of the Four and the Hidden, then cross to the colonnade along the southern wall.

His heart thumping, Dante rose from the kneeler as the bells echoed into silence. “Stay here,” he ordered Korin.

Behind the towering, fluted columns, in the deep shadows of the cathedral stretched a line of confessional cabinets. Curtains provided privacy for the penitent, but the priest sat behind a locked door. Dante could hear the fervent whispers and mournful weeping of the confessors, and the stilted, rote responses of the priests as he walked down the line until he came to a door with a jaunty cap hanging from the handle. The alcove for the penitent was empty, and Dante slipped inside, dropping to the kneeler and pulling the curtain closed behind him.

“It’s about time, Safire. I was beginning to give up hope.”

Though he’d recognized Cyril even in his driver’s disguise, Dante still felt a surge of relief upon hearing his familiar, gravelly voice. “I came as quickly as I could,” he said, grinning. He could just make out Cyril through the screen between them, and another figure wedged into the corner of the booth. A priest. His head was slumped to his chest. “Faces, you didn’t kill the poor fellow, did you?”

Cyril’s teeth flashed white in the shadows. “He’s just taking a nap.”

“Good. Not every Brotherhood priest is an enemy.”

He was answered with an eloquent grunt which made Cyril’s opinion clear. “Where’s Shade?” he asked.

“Shade is on her way to the mountains. And she’s tasked me with rescuing our mutual friend.”

“I guessed as much. I just wanted to be sure she was safe.”

Safe. Dante prayed he was right. “So, I’m assuming by your livery, Bishop Arturious has my emissary. How quickly can we retrieve him?”

“We’ve been laying our plans, me and the boys, but we’ve had no way of warning Raiden. He’s kept under watch by the Noble Guard and a bevy of hand-picked servants.” Cyril huffed. “Even Manoli couldn’t charm his way close to him.”

“That is surprising.” The young Golondrina was popular among his staff, men and women alike. “What are your plans, then?”

“The bishop is throwing a great ball in Raiden’s honor,” Cyril said, his broad smile gleaming through the screen. “He has announced some ‘surprise’ in store for his guests. I figured if he wants a surprise, we’ll give him one…”