Chapter 21
A CLEAN FAST IS BETTER THAN A DIRTY brEAKFAST
“No. Oh no. Did you say it was a Glass of Death? May I see it?” Zakhar asked.
Zima shrugged and handed it to him. Once he had his hands on it, Stacia could see he handled it gingerly, turning it over and over, carefully examining the device.
“I thought so,” he said, after tracing his fingers over the clockwork piece at the top and mumbling to himself as he translated the inscription found beneath the levers. “It isn’t a Glass of Death; it’s a Glass to Summon Death.”
“Summon Death?” Stacia said. “I’ve never heard of such a thing.”
Zakhar set it down and wiped his palms on his pant legs. He seemed to be very, very nervous. “I wouldn’t exactly call this a gift,” he said softly, attempting to address Stacia and purposely exclude Zima. “It’s more like a curse,” he hissed in a whisper.
He angled slightly away from the little girl, trying to distract her with some breakfast first, then continued, “There are certain of us among our brethren who study, shall we say, forbidden relics.
Items that would be deemed useful to those wishing to practice in secret orders.
These clandestine groups that our brethren aid and even participate in can range from the mundane, such as those who might share an affinity for—for felines, for example, to those who worship things so dark and twisted that they would frighten even the bravest of heroes.
“I’ve even heard that one of the churches has an antiquarium of sorts in the basement.
It’s filled with all manner of antiquities and artifacts ranging from pagan gods and goddess idols to tokens representing physiolatry and paleolatry.
Items said to be possessed of gramaryes.
Then there are grimoires, books that explain alfridaria, others describing cults of the nullifidian order, that sort of thing. ”
“And is this particular relic something that falls into the dark and twisted category?” Stacia asked.
“Truthfully, I don’t know if this would be an item considered good or evil. Perhaps it entirely depends on the wielder or upon how it is used. There are many such items.”
“What . . . um, what does this one do, I wonder?”
“Mama told me it summons death. Like Zakhar said,” Zima explained as she spooned up another bite of porridge.
“My you have big ears,” Stacia chided.
“Can’t help it when you’re talking about me,” Zima replied. “But if you want to know what it does, that’s easy enough. I’ll just use it.”
Before they could stop her, she grabbed the timepiece and pulled it back to herself. Next, she adjusted the clockwork on top, angling the dials toward herself. Then, just as both Stacia and Zakhar shouted, “No!” she flipped it upside down.
They stared at it in wide-eyed horror as the white sand began mingling with the black, then the particles passed through one another. The black began filling the top and the white filled the bottom. Stacia covered her mouth with her hand while Zakhar said, ominously, “You shouldn’t have done that.”
Zima, who had simply begun eating again, replied, “There’s no sense in worrying about something if you don’t know the truth of things. It’s better to find out. That’s what I think, anyway.”
Stacia felt like she couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t talk.
Her whole body shivered, and she wished there was somewhere she could hide.
She could almost feel death breathing down the back of her neck.
She kept looking over her shoulder to see if someone was there, but nobody ever was. It was unsettling, to say the least.
Meanwhile, Zakhar had managed to scrounge up a pencil and tore off a section of map he could use to jot down notes.
He was furiously scribbling even now. Stacia could find value in the fact that he could act when she was frozen in place, and yet how he chose to act bothered her.
She knew the saying—“The sword lacks the power of the pen”—and she understood and even believed it, and yet there were many, many times when a pen was useless, a detriment even, as was the man who wielded it.
Didn’t the Scripture say, “For everything there is a season, and a time for every matter under heaven”?
Surely that meant there was a time to take up a sword and a time to set it down.
The salt-and-pepper stream thinned, broke, and then stopped completely.
Zima set down her spoon. Stacia felt her fingertips tingle.
It always happened just before she entered a battle.
But this time she was without a sword, without armor.
“Dobroye utro,” a smooth male voice said. “How may I serve you today?”
Stacia spun, staggering slightly, and then managed to get to her feet. Standing there, between Zima and herself, was one of the most handsome men Stacia had ever set eyes on. His hair was dark, as were his eyes, which settled on her only briefly.
“Who are you?” Stacia demanded.
The man’s eyes now looked her up and down, and she got the impression he found her lacking.
“I don’t answer questions to which the answer is obvious,” the man replied.
“Besides, I didn’t come for you. I was summoned by someone else.
” He inclined his head to Zima. “Do you wish to know the past or the future?”
Zima blinked. “I don’t know.”
“I can only tell you one. Most people only get one. You get two. You’re lucky. I’m going to be visiting you twice.”
“Oh! I am lucky, then.” She smiled, showing a dimple in her cheek, and the man smiled back.
Stacia sucked in a breath and thought if such a man waited to greet her upon her death, perhaps it wouldn’t be such a bad thing after all.
Zima screwed up her face. “Past then, I guess. I suppose since I’m so young and all, my death is probably far off, if it will ever happen. My aunties say I’m never going to grow up.”
“Do they now?” The good-looking man bit his bottom lip and rocked in his boots, then bent over and touched his fingertip to Zima’s pert nose. “Well, who am I to contradict aunties?”
Giggling, Zima rubbed her nose.
“Okay,” he said. “So you want to know about your past death. I’m not allowed to give you all the details, mind. Only clues, so to speak. That means you must pay very close attention. Understand?”
Zima nodded, her little face very serious.
“Good. Now take my hands. Hold on to them tightly.”
He studied her face and then said, “I see . . . love, a family, sacrifice, a brave girl, toes pointing to the sun, a little boy, and a proud mother.”
“Was I a mama?” Zima asked soberly.
“I can’t tell you that, little one. What I can tell you is that you were loved and still are.
You did not waste away or die in war. It was an accidental passing.
You were younger than most. The most frequent question I get next is, when?
As in, when will it happen? In your case, it doesn’t much matter, does it?
It’s already done. I try to encourage most people not to ask it anyway.
I find that when they know, they just dwell on the time they have left, and they stop living.
What’s the point of that? Life is meant to be kept; the purpose of it is to gain experiences, and to feel joy.
Why grieve the end of mortality before it happens? ”
“But . . . but there is an afterlife, isn’t there?” Zakhar asked.
“If you want to ask me questions, you’ll have to use the device yourself,” the man said softly, not bothering to look at Zakhar. “But I’m not certain a conversation with Death is what you really want, is it, Priest?”
Zakhar swallowed, and Stacia could almost see him shrinking back.
Death squeezed Zima’s hands. “Do you have any other questions for me, little one?” he asked.
“Yes. What am I supposed to do with your gift?”
Grinning, he said, “Not many would consider it a gift. I’m happy you do. I don’t like to think of myself as a monster. You might be surprised to know that there are many who pray for me to come.”
He turned at that moment, and his eyes connected with Stacia’s.
She gasped as he gave her a small nod. He knows!
she thought. Somehow he was aware of the dark thoughts she’d had just after the death of her mother.
And when her sister was lost as a tiger, she’d prayed again for Death to take her.
Stacia hadn’t even told her sister. She hadn’t been able to.
Honestly, even if she had been, Stacia doubted if she could share such feelings.
Veru was so sure of herself, so full of life.
She didn’t think her sister would understand the dark places Stacia went in her thoughts when she was alone.
Thoughts such as—how could she lead the empire her parents left behind?
Stacia knew no one wanted her to lead. They wanted her beautiful sister, not a woman who fought like a man with hair redder than the flag.
And besides, who would marry a girl who could outride and outfight them?
Not to mention a woman who was a handspan taller than most men.
Her mother had always said that it didn’t matter what a woman looked like, so long as she acted like what a man expected, they’d get along just fine.
That was the problem. Stacia didn’t want a man she had to change for.
She wanted a man who respected her and one whom she could respect as well.
Was it too much to ask for a man worthy enough to be able to look in the eye and not be disappointed?
If not mentally, then at least physically?
Stacia shook her head. Who was she kidding?
She wanted it all. Someone smart, interesting, attractive, and tall. Such a man didn’t exist.