Chapter 46
Trust Us or Yourself
The storm tapered off during early morning hours while Erik lay in a deathly doze, stretched motionless on a narrow cot in the dormitory. He felt the weather system shift, a malevolent claw easing its grasp and natural forces reasserting primacy.
It had been a long time since he’d been in an active temple. When full consciousness returned he lay very still, his breathing keeping its sleep-pattern, every inch of his skin alive with attention and anticipation.
Where is she? The thought was soft, entirely natural, and it was time for him to admit a few things to himself.
First, though, he listened.
Footsteps. A subaudible hum, both electric and sorcerous.
Cloth moving, soft breathing very much like his own.
The dormitory was usually dim even on a summer afternoon, a restful cave for those who were, after all, night creatures.
Further away, there was chiming, slipslither of metal against metal, exhalations of effort.
That would be the sparring halls; this place probably had more than one. He hadn’t realized how much he missed the reminder of community, of collective endeavor. Many Sons meant many eyes, and also meant a better chance of staying on the rails.
A shifting, soft, unbearably sweet singing far beneath this room was the Flame.
This place would have unfettered, active access.
At least one lirai here, probably more if the warmth teasing and tickling along his skin was any indication.
Above, in the shifting grey where his unphysical senses turned into insubstantial fringe, there were breathless-crackling accumulations of force, shielding layered hard and durable around glowing pearls.
That’s where she’ll be, then.
The relief was indescribable. He wasn’t in a cell, chained to stone walls while the god ran rampant through his head. If he was in the dormitory, he was clear, and even if they didn’t let him near her, even if she hated the one who had betrayed her to the Flame, she was safe.
Unless Control was a traitor. This is the closest active temple. Is it one of them? Or…
There was a spot of suspicious silence to his right. Erik kept his breathing to the rhythm of deep sleep, and continued turning over terrible thoughts.
“You can stop pretending,” a fellow Son said, softly.
Erik’s eyes drifted open. He examined the man in the chair pulled to the cot’s side; this was a regular Sons’ dormitory, one he’d seen versions of too many times to count.
High stone walls, ribbed and vaulted ceilings, round golden light fixtures—it used to be gaslight, Ignatius always said, and Erik felt his age for a few moments before studying the Father at his bedside.
“Grigori.” He found the man’s name, let it slide between cracked lips. He needed hydration, and some plain old calories wouldn’t go amiss even if he’d had enough bloodshed lately to keep him charged for a long while. “Right?”
“Indeed.” The Father’s hairline was just as pointedly pristine as it had been yesterday; it also looked like cassocks were out of fashion in this temple.
Grigori sat ramrod-straight but with his legs stretched out, probably weary after a long night of excitement and quite possibly patrol as well.
“And you are Erik. Very spry for a dead man.”
“So I gathered.” No, Erik decided, this guy probably hadn’t been on patrol.
They had more than enough Sons here to run both city sweeps and guard duty, not to mention easily hold some in reserve for events like last night as well.
An active temple had resources a frontier one couldn’t dream of. “Is she all right? Liv, is she—”
“Our lady Stellack is being settled in the third primary liraim; she has two temporary trios and our other lirai are doing their best to welcome her. She asks after you constantly, I am told. I would suspect a fostered dependency, but this appears a most irregular situation. Therefore, we are reserving judgment for the moment.”
Mighty decent of you, sir. Erik swallowed the sarcasm.
It was something Liv might have said, her chin lifted and that fire in her summerdusk eyes.
Of course, she could say whatever she wanted here, and probably would.
At length, and with all her arguments arranged neatly like anyone who spent any time around attorneys learned to in sheer self-defense.
Erik, however, was forced to different measures.
He cleared his dry throat, winced, and pushed himself upright, swinging his legs off the cot.
It even smelled like a Sons’ dormitory—stone, heatless low-level sorcery, the tang of men living together, working a dirty job and cleaning up as best they could. “Am I clear?”
“Yes.” Grigori nodded, but otherwise didn’t move. “The vehicle you used has been attended to, new gear has been issued you, and as soon as you finish debriefing I will be taking you to our new lirai.”
He hadn’t expected that. “She might not want to see me.”
“If so, she’s chosen a very strange way of expressing the preference.
” Grigori gathered his long legs and rose with a Father’s restrained, eerie grace.
No cassock, which was strange but maybe the fashion now.
It looked like this man favored black linen button-downs, crisply ironed, jeans also ironed, and engineer boots.
His signet gleamed reassuringly. “What is it you fear, my Son?”
The traditional question, an invitation to absolution. Ignatius hadn’t asked him in a long damn time, probably because the old man knew everything about his Elder, and vice versa.
Or did he? Now that Erik thought about it, there were some troubling things swirling in his skull where the Dreamer had gone looking, invisible fingers stroking a brain’s cargo of impressions and memories. “Failure,” he said, heavily, as he had every other time.
Except now, the fear was crystallized into a single form.
He almost wished they had found more than the usual garden-variety corruption in him.
It would be better than suspecting a control liaison of treachery, and far more comfortable than suspecting men he’d fought with, trusted his life to, and lived with for so long.
“What manner of failure?” Grigori was ruthless, but then again, you wanted that in a confessor. No quarter given to others or himself made a Father, just as hair-trigger temper and self-assurance made a Younger Brother.
Erik didn’t want to answer. He perched on the edge of the cot, gaze dropping to his hands.
Callus-hardened palms, blunt fingers of surprising dexterity, no healing scrapes across his knuckles because the Dreamer had flushed him with vital force at the end of questioning.
Soon Liv would do the same as a matter of course after any engagement, and the thought sent a hot spear through his guts.
He was still in last night’s shredded T-shirt and dirty jeans. His socks were filthy with blood and grit; his boots were probably past repair. His skin crawled.
But when asked, a Son gave an answer. Otherwise, the slim chance of absolution whittled down to zero. “I should have sensed something.” He exhaled sharply. “I should have known. I failed my lirai.”
“Your lirai.” Grigori paused. “Are you sealed, then?”
So that was why he was still here. He could lie, of course.
If ever he was tempted, now was the time.
“No.” If he had a useless mortal scruple or two, well, it was better than the alternative.
Another Son might think differently, but Erik’s own line in the sand was clear. “There has been no consent.”
“I see.” No commendation, but no pity either. “The lirai judged you clean, my son. Nevertheless, we will be watching.”
“Good.” Erik made his legs stiffen, forced himself fully upright.
It was harder than he liked. The problem wasn’t physical—he was in fighting shape, ready to take on the worst. Rest and a lirai worked wonders, especially for a Son.
“I made her a dreamstone, Father. If I…” If it turns out I’m not clean after all.
The lirai had cleared him, but he had to make sure.
“Well, the setting will need to be destroyed, if the worst happens. Will you do that?”
“Of course.” The Father’s tone plainly said he considered the promise superfluous, but who cared? He’d given his word.
“She might fight it.” She’s a stubborn one, he almost added, but that was a step too far. Judging a lirai was simply not done.
“They generally do.” A shadow of the man’s true age crept into his tone, and he rose several notches in Erik’s estimation. “You do not trust us or yourself, do you.”
Of course not. “No, Father.”
“Very well.” Grigori nodded. “In your case, I would not either. Come, let’s get you clothed. You’ll feel better with weapons.”
* * *
The machinery of the Sons was working at peak here, a welcome change.
T-shirt, jeans, new jacket with the collar shape he favored, boots of the same make as his old ones.
The weaponry was fine if a little heavy, and his familiar knives were burnished to a high gloss, handed over in a new harness that would creak until broken in.
The crystalline knives were utterly personal; you didn’t draw a new blade unless the old broke. Erik flicked them out in turn, tested the heft, scanned each from tip to pommel, nodded, and eyed the .45s. Thought they shifted to 9mms. “Haven’t carried those for about five years.”
“Your last requisitions sheet before Islington went dark had .45s,” Grigori said. “You would prefer something else?”
“No, thanks. They’ll do.” He rolled his shoulders, the harness buckling the way it was supposed to—looked like they’d made a couple changes to the design, but all to the good.
The Younger behind the requisitions counter exchanged glances with the Father, and bright curiosity burned in the redheaded youth’s eyes.