Siege and Sacrifice (Numina) Read online

  For a moment, the world diminished to soot and darkness. Rone’s hearing came back to him first. Thunder. No, that was marching feet. The soldiers ran past them as Kolosos trekked deeper into the city. Or was it retreating, its time in the mortal world running out? Rone wasn’t sure. Right now, he didn’t care, so long as it was going away from them.

  His voice was lost, so he merely dug in the ash. First he found the stranger, who burst from the pile like a dolphin from the sea, gasping for air. “Good heavens! What just . . . Oh my!”

  Rone ignored him and rushed to the next lump in the ash. Just debris. The next, Sandis. Naked as the day she was born, again. Unconscious, again.

  “This will be hard on him,” she’d said earlier, referring to Bastien. “Summoning so close together. He’ll be sick when he wakes.”

  How bad would it be for her?

  “Is she . . . all right?”

  The man stepped toward them, his voice pitched high, but Rone didn’t think it was from fear.

  Rone scooped up Sandis and held her close to his chest before addressing the man. “If you want to live, I suggest you get out of here.”

  Taking his own advice, Rone sprinted back the way he and Sandis had come.

  Much to his chagrin, the stranger followed.

  Chapter 4

  Her eyes were sand. Her bones glass. A pathetic mewling sound touched her ears. It took Sandis a moment to realize it came from her own throat.

  “Sandis?” The name was far away. Something caressed her. Fingertips like barbed wire. She shied away from it, only to discover a dozen sore muscles.

  Water splashed over her lips. She half choked on it. The moment her mushy brain realized what it was, however, she came alive.

  Muscles and joints protested as she sat up and gulped water down her parched throat, letting it hit her empty stomach like an avalanche of jagged rocks. The fingers brushed her arm again, but this time they weren’t so uncomfortable. Just warm, calloused. The water ran dry, and Sandis mourned the empty cup.

  Rubbing the heels of her hands into her eyes, Sandis blinked, trying to banish the gritty feeling clinging to her eyelids. The light around her was too yellow to be natural. It striped the walls in between the assortment of shadows. Lamplight. Her old room. Her old cot.

  “Are you all right?” It took her a moment to place that voice. Cleric Liddell?

  “Does she look all right to you?” Rone.

  She tried to speak, but her voice crumbled at the back of her mouth like burnt bread. To her relief, someone refilled her cup with water. Her stomach protested every drop of it as it went down, but her vision and head began to clear.

  Ireth. She didn’t feel him now, but she remembered summoning him again. Why . . . ? Oh yes, the collapsing building. Did she still have her rifle?

  Blinking, Sandis looked down. Her hands were clean, but dirt lingered under her nails. She recognized the material covering her front—it was a vessel’s shirt, a little too large for her, its back left open to reveal the golden brands of her script. The kind Kazen had made her wear so his associates would know she was a weapon.

  She didn’t like it.

  “Take a break from combusting, all right?” Rone’s voice was half-tender, half-irritated, if such a thing was possible. He sat on a chair beside her cot, wearing one of his old shirts. Was he laundering the one he’d worn to the cathedral?

  The cathedral. Ashes and embers. In the moment, she’d been too intent on her mission to take in the destruction of the sacred place. But was it still sacred, knowing what she knew? And yet if the numina weren’t gods, and weren’t mortals, what were they?

  She cleared her throat and rasped, “I don’t know if I’ll survive another one so soon.” She felt terrible, worse than after awakening from a full summoning. Her body was dried out like old paper. Her head throbbed.

  Cleric Liddell hovered at the foot of her cot. Where was Bastien? Still unconscious? He would feel worse than she, when he awoke.

  Oh Celestial, Anon, she thought, ribs squeezing tight. How terrible must it be for him? The amarinth kept him alive, protected him from the lethal part of the summoning, but it wouldn’t be able to heal the damage of hosting such a monster, would it?

  Who was that?

  He stood off to the side, a couple of paces behind Rone and Cleric Liddell. He looked to be in his midthirties, with long, wavy brown hair tied at the nape of his neck. Only his light-gray eyes signified he might not be a Kolin. Did he hail from Ysben? His face was narrow and a bit feminine in shape. He looked . . . excited.

  “That was magnificent,” he said once Sandis made eye contact with him. “I am so grateful to you, Miss Sandis. Truly. I’ve never seen such a spectacle! I didn’t know such a thing was possible.”

  Rone set his jaw, and Sandis had a feeling that during the hours she’d been recuperating, Rone had determined he did not like this newcomer.

  “I’m sorry,” she spoke carefully, “but who are you?”

  The man practically jumped forward, bumping Rone’s shoulder as he did so. He extended his hand. “My name is Jachim Franz. It really is a pleasure to meet you and your associates.”

  Sandis tentatively took his proffered limb.

  “This sack of ashes was standing at Kolosos’s feet like he was stargazing.” Rone folded his arms.

  Sandis perked up. “I remember you.” She’d seen him, a silhouette against Kolosos’s glow. The one who’d stood under the falling building. She smiled. “You survived.”

  “Oh yes, a little dirty, but quite well.” It was then that Sandis noticed the dirt stains on his clothes. He wore a long, formal shirt that hung to his knees, tied with a belt around his waist. She recognized the symbol on it—a four-pointed star with a line slashed through it—but didn’t know what it meant.

  As if sensing her thoughts, Rone said, “He’s a scholar. And an imbecile. And he refused to leave until he talked to you.” He sighed and stood, gesturing to his chair as though it were some won prize. Jachim—Sandis was sure that was a Ysbeno name—sat in it as though it were some great reward, and he leaned close enough to Sandis to make her uncomfortable.

  “I’m a student of Noscon anthropology,” he explained, overeager with a voice pitched higher than that of any grown man in Sandis’s acquaintance. “A historian, and a linguist, if I may boast.” He grinned. “Of course, I’ve studied the occult as well. Its roots are entirely Noscon, did you know that? I’ve never seen it practiced anywhere outside of Kolingrad, where we live over the ruins of their civilization. At least, the practice hasn’t been documented anywhere else. There are certainly people in Godobia who have taken an interest in—”

  “She’s ill,” Cleric Liddell said, as though uncomfortable with his own interruption, “and the city is under siege. Surely you can get to the point?”

  The smallest smile tugged at Rone’s mouth. And least he and Cleric Liddell were getting along.

  “Oh yes, yes.” Jachim pushed his finger up the bridge of his nose as if he wore invisible spectacles, then seemed surprised to find nothing there. He shrugged. “I couldn’t help but notice the symbols on your back, Miss Sandis.”

  The statement alarmed her, but Jachim looked so friendly, the panic receded. “It’s . . . Gwenwig. Miss Gwenwig.”

  “Your colleagues failed to tell me your surname.”

  Rone rolled his eyes.

  “I, of course, could not pass up the opportunity to study what must be the greatest numen of our time! I suspected it to be the one called Koh-Lo-Sos”—the way he said the name was foreign and jarring—“and your colleagues here confirmed it. To think such a demon, described so briefly in Celesian texts, could penetrate our mortal realm. I had to study it. Which in turn leads to my gratitude to you for saving my life. But oh! My dear Miss Gwenwig, I did not think it possible to do what you—”

  Jachim jerked back suddenly. Or rather, Rone had grabbed the back of his collar and hauled him to his feet. “You said you wanted to give your thanks,” h
e growled, turning him around roughly, “not interrogate her.”

  Jachim appeared unfazed. “But surely that was the power of a numen! And she is no summoner. She did it herself, she—”

  “Out.” Rone shoved him toward the door.

  “Oh, please, let me stay!”

  For a moment Sandis felt sorry for him. But surely it would be safe enough for him to leave the lair. The ground wasn’t shaking, and Kazen relied on the amarinth to summon Kolosos. It could only be used once a day and wouldn’t reset for several hours. And yet, the last time she’d ventured outside had been so . . . frightening. It had been dark, burning, lightless. Screams and gunshots had filled the air. Shivers coursed down her arms—

  “It’s for the sake of knowledge!” Jachim pleaded as Rone bullied him into the hallway.

  “Rone, wait,” she rasped, stretching her hand toward the two. Rone paused in the threshold while Jachim scratched his ear.

  Sandis took a deep breath. If the man merely wanted to study her, he was welcome to leave. But he claimed to be a Noscon scholar, didn’t he?

  “Mr.”—what was it?—“Franz,” she said, rubbing her throat. “Do you perhaps know the true nature of the Celestial? And its connection to the numina?”

  Cleric Liddell visibly tensed.

  Rone’s grip on the scholar slackened as the man said, “The Celestial’s connection to the numina? Surely everyone knows Celesia detests the occult—”

  Rone didn’t let the man finish before shoving him out of the room.

  Sandis rubbed her dry eyes and sighed. He doesn’t know. Reaching back, she traced her fingers across the ridges of her brands. It took a moment for her to remember Cleric Liddell. Looking up, she met his gaze. The priest turned away.

  If the Celestial is a numen, surely a Noscon scholar would have heard whispers of it. Perhaps I am wrong. Yet in her gut, she felt sure she was right. Would Ireth be able to confirm either way?

  “I would shun you,” Cleric Liddell said after a moment, “but I’m not sure what is right anymore.”

  Sandis pulled her hand from her brands. She wasn’t sure, either. She started to stand, but dizziness swept through her, so she remained seated. “We’ll have to focus on what’s right outside of religion. On working together, being kind, looking out for one another.” A dry itch wormed up her throat.

  Cleric Liddell offered her a weak smile. “I suppose that is true.”

  Sandis mirrored his smile as she lay back down on her cot, giving her weary body a little more time to rest.

  Sandis was feeling more herself by the time Bastien woke. He threw up over the side of his makeshift bed, and Sandis cleaned it up without a word while Rone made him a plate of something to eat. Once he was sitting up and sipping water, Sandis told him all about Mahk, the fantastic numen whale Ireth had chosen for him.

  “Wh-What does it do?” Bastien asked after finishing his second cup of water.

  “Do?”

  “You know. Ireth spits fire and runs fast, Isepia flies, and Kuracean has impenetrable armor . . . What does Mahk do?”

  Sandis rolled her lips together. Her mouth still felt dry, despite her belly being so tight with water. “He swatted Rone into the wall.”

  Bastien snorted.

  “I didn’t test any of it. I called him just long enough to get the blood for the bonding tattoo. I’m sorry.”

  Reaching back, Bastien ran his hand over the new symbol pricked just below his neck, wincing. “It’s fine. Better to wonder than to destroy the place, right? Mahk a real mess of it?”

  Rone groaned at the pun before leaving the room.

  But Sandis barely heard it. Destroy. The word brought her back to the smoldering patch of embers where the cathedral had been. How much more would Kazen destroy before he was satisfied? Or would he never stop?

  Holding her breath, Sandis waited for the ground to quiver. It remained still, but her stomach formed a loose knot of anticipation.

  She told Bastien about the destruction in District Three, summoning Ireth again, and the scholar who seemed far more interested in the occult than anyone Sandis had ever met outside of grafters. Perhaps he was a grafter, but Sandis was fairly certain she knew of all the grafters who dwelled within the city. And he seemed too nice, too honest, too . . . clean.

  “Good that he left.” Bastien picked at the stale bread on his plate. “With Kazen unleashing K-Kolosos over and over, these scars on our backs will see us dead faster than you can say ‘Gerech.’”

  Sandis rubbed gooseflesh from her arms. Anon. Kolosos didn’t even register on the numina scale. Was hosting it painful for Anon, or did the amarinth somehow protect him beyond the initial summoning?

  Sandis knew Kazen. He wouldn’t run her brother ragged for his revenge. Not until it was complete, at the very least. He had always taken care of his vessels, physically. Except . . . perhaps Kazen’s success was solely due to the amarinth, and not because Anon was a strong vessel. If that was the case, the summoner would feel no need to preserve his health.

  Her mind revolted against the idea. Vessels like Sandis and Bastien were hard to come by. They had been the strongest in Kazen’s collection. Bastien could hold a level eight, and Sandis . . . Sandis could actually communicate with Ireth, something no other vessel—as far as she knew—could do. Anon had to be a strong vessel, or Kolosos would burn out too fast, limiting Kazen’s destruction.

  Even so, Kazen couldn’t keep Kolosos out for long. Ireth could be summoned for hours, given a full summoning. Hapshi had lasted the entire night. The damage Kolosos wrought was appalling, and it had only been out for less than an hour.

  Something cracked down the hallway—a splintering door?—and a ruckus of footsteps followed. Men’s voices filled the air, too many for it to be just Cleric Liddell and Rone. Sandis and Bastien exchanged a wide-eyed glance. Shooting to her feet, Sandis barely had enough presence of mind to help Bastien to his before rushing to the door. She could see nothing from the doorway, but the voices grew louder.

  “We have nothing you want.” That was Rone.

  Sandis and Bastien exchanged another look and then, in silent agreement, rushed to the next turn in the hallway. Sandis’s heart leapt into her throat when she saw them.

  Scarlets.

  Four of them, all well-built men, wearing the scarlet uniforms of Kolingrad policemen, the symbol of a boat without sail marking their chests. Men who, if they knew what Sandis and Bastien were, would arrest them and take them to be executed. They might do the same to Cleric Liddell and Rone for merely associating with them.

  And Sandis’s shirt had an open back.

  Her thoughts grew thorns and spun in a frenzy. Should she and Bastien run? Could Rone fight the scarlets without the amarinth? Perhaps they could hide? Or maybe—

  “We mean you no harm,” the scarlet at the front said, sounding . . . tired? He was perhaps in his midforties and had thinning hair starting to gray at the roots. Though his arms were thick with muscle, his uniform stretched over a well-fed gut. “I presume you’re Rone? Rone Comf?”

  Rone took a retreating step, but his shoulders didn’t relax. He started to glance behind him, toward Sandis, but stopped himself. Sandis knew he didn’t want to draw attention to her. “What do you want?”

  “We’re here for you and your company. Miss Sandis Gwenwig, I believe. And a priest and another man?”

  Sandis bit her knuckle. How would they know—

  Jachim. The scholar. Panic feathered under her skin.

  “You are not under arrest. Quite the opposite,” the scarlet continued. “My name is Tomm Esgar; I’m the chief of police in Dresberg.”

  The name sounded familiar to Sandis’s ears. Chief Esgar was the one who’d been unwilling to further investigate the disappearances of several youths in Dresberg. The ones Sandis had linked to Kazen. The newspaper journalist who’d written about the kidnappings had said as much.

  Rone’s hand inched toward his boot, where Sandis knew he kept a knife. “You’re
not helping your case.”

  No, Rone, Sandis internally pleaded. Maybe, maybe he could fight them without the amarinth’s aid, but then the entire force would be looking for them. Sandis was tired of running.

  Chief Esgar rolled his eyes. “You’re being summoned by the triumvirate.”

  Rone’s hand stopped. So did Sandis’s breathing. Bastien sputtered.

  “The triumvirate?” Cleric Liddell clasped his hands together. “What? Why?”

  Chief Esgar’s shrewd eyes whipped to him. “Because there’s a monster tearing down our city and one of their chief scholars believes you can help stop it. Let me make this clear. If you don’t come, I will arrest you.”

  Rone scoffed. “I’d like to see you—”

  “We’ll come.”

  The two words surprised Sandis, especially since they came from her mouth. All four policemen looked over, noticing her and Bastien for the first time. Straightening, feigning a confidence she didn’t feel, Sandis said, “We’ll come.” If the scarlets wanted them dead, they could have managed it by now. They could have at least restrained them. “On your honor that we will not be harmed in any way, and we can leave at will.”

  Thoughts of her uncle passed through her mind. She didn’t want to be under another person’s thumb again. But she also knew they were painfully outnumbered and without direction. They needed allies, information. Even if those allies had been her enemies mere days ago.

  But Kazen was enemy to all.

  Chief Esgar scanned both Sandis and Bastien. Evidence of their vesselhood was hidden from his eyes, yet Sandis felt the man could see it. She tried to read his face—was that a twitch of disgust? A glimmer of curiosity? Fear, as her uncle had once expressed?—but his countenance remained neutral.

  “You already have the words of Triumvirs Holwig, Var, and Peterus. You do not need mine.” Perhaps noting Sandis’s frown, or the tension flowing off Rone in waves, he added, “But you will have our protection as well.”

  Rone retreated toward her, never taking his eyes off the scarlets. When he reached her side, he mumbled, “We don’t have to do this. You don’t have to do this.”