Siege and Sacrifice (Numina) Read online

  “But how much can we do if we don’t work with them?” she whispered back.

  He met her gaze. His expression was easy to read. He was unsure, frustrated, and something else. Something she didn’t often see on his features. It took her a moment to decipher the emotion, and when she did, the knot in her stomach pulled tight.

  Rone Comf was afraid.

  Chapter 5

  Rone didn’t trust any of them.

  He’d handed Sandis his jacket the moment the scarlets turned to escort them to the Innerchord, and she’d taken it without comment, using it to cover her criminal brands. Bastien had unbraided his hair, using the long, wavy locks to hide his own brands. Granted, these men had to know they were vessels. How else were they supposed to “help” fight Kazen? Rone didn’t think they were walking into some sort of ill-timed trap to be shipped off to Gerech—the triumvirate needed all the help they could get—but the truce wouldn’t last. If they managed to nab Kazen in between summonings, how quick would these officers be to slide their swords between their new allies’ ribs?

  His fingers twitched, aching to touch the coiled loops of his amarinth. It had always given him confidence, even when stationary. He’d have to fake it for now, if only for Sandis.

  As they left the dilapidated neighborhood and started down the abandoned streets, passing shuttered houses, Sandis reached for his hand. Her fingers knit between his own and clamped down hard. Seemed Rone wasn’t the only one seeking courage. He pulled her close, as though he could shield her from the cracked world surrounding them. Bastien followed half a step behind, wide eyes darting around as though a grafter would jump out at any moment. Cleric Liddell licked the heels of the scarlets, seeking his protection among them.

  None of them spoke as they followed the scarlets to the center of the city. The silence hanging over them was so complete Rone could hear the voices of people hunkering in flats or alleyways still unaffected by Kolosos’s destruction. It struck him viscerally that the roads, usually packed with people, were nearly empty. The city had become a completely different place overnight, and it made his skin itch.

  Rone had been to the Innerchord before. He’d yelled at a secretary in the Degrata and even broken into the citizen records building. But for some reason it felt different now—the buildings looked too big and too far apart. It was as if they were leaning in to inspect him as he passed, debating whether or not to allow him passage, or whether they should lift a boot and end his pathetic mortality.

  They chose the former. Chief Esgar led them into the Degrata, past a thick row of guards. Ah, so they hadn’t restationed Gerech’s men to fight Kazen. They’d just moved them here to protect their own sorry hides.

  The first floor was empty save for a few more guards, most of whom lingered by the stairs. They looked over the shabby group as they ascended, and Rone made a point of making eye contact with one until it became uncomfortable. Once they were trapped in the stairwell, guards before and behind them, Rone found himself thinking about his old master, Kurtz, who’d taught him all he knew about martial arts. Odd, the way the mind worked. He hoped the man was all right.

  Bastien was winded by the time they reached the third floor and passed more guards. Chief Esgar whispered to one of them. Sandis looked around, taking in her surroundings like they were in some sort of palace. The place was nice, yeah—marble tiling on the floor, strips of red carpet, dark oak panels on the walls. Frosted windows tinted pale blue. And oh, look, a plant. It was even alive.

  The chief led them around the corner and into a larger seating area with a couple of sofas and a smattering of upholstered chairs. At the end of the space stood a tall middle-aged man speaking to a soldier with biceps the size of Rone’s thighs. A sheaf of paper occupied the soldier’s hands.

  The middle-aged man looked up as Rone and the others approached. His dark-brown hair boasted streaks of gray and pointed into a severe widow’s peak. His facial features were stern: narrow eyes, pointed chin, a hooked nose not dissimilar from Kazen’s. He was dressed in finely tailored clothes, his shirt sage green and possibly velvet. For a second he looked angered by the interruption, but his eyebrows lifted when he recognized Esgar.

  “This is them?” he asked.

  Esgar paused and bowed. So this guy was important. One of the triumvirs? They didn’t exactly have their portraits hanging in public areas. “Yes. We found them without problem, just where Franz said they’d be.”

  It took Rone half a second to connect “Franz” with the scholar. He had an intense desire to punch the academic in the eye.

  Esgar turned toward them. “This is Triumvir Boladis Var.”

  Liddell bowed immediately, and Sandis followed suit. Bastien, hesitant, awkwardly repeated the gesture. Rone shoved his hands in his pockets and leaned his weight onto his left foot.

  “Wonderful weather we’re having,” he said.

  The chief of police scowled, but held his tongue.

  Var appeared unfazed by Rone’s lack of respect. “You’re the last ones we’re waiting for. We’ve gathered our city’s experts in hopes of bringing this war to a quick end.”

  So it was a war, then. All of Kolingrad against a single man armed with a demon and an amarinth. Seemed fitting.

  “Come,” Var said, moving to a pair of double doors behind him. “We have much to discuss and little time.” He said something under his breath to the beefy soldier before leading the way in.

  Sandis hesitated, glancing at Rone. He squeezed her hand. She offered him a small smile. She took Bastien’s hand, too, but had to release it when they reached the doors so they’d all fit through. There were over a dozen other men in the room, but Cleric Liddell’s eyes shot straight to a pair of white-robed men in the far-left corner.

  “Praise the Celestial!”

  The cleric immediately bounded around the long oval table at the center of the room, making his way to where the Angelic, a high priest, and a familiar priestess stood. Rone’s blood vessels immediately constricted. His father’s gaze met his for a second before turning to Cleric Liddell. Only a second. Why had he wasted a moment’s worry for the father who hadn’t felt any concern for him? Or for his mother? The Angelic couldn’t know Adalia Comf had already fled the city.

  The Angelic and Liddell clasped each other’s shoulders and bowed their heads together, a warmer welcome than Rone had ever received from his father.

  “Rone,” Sandis whispered, but Rone merely shook his head and turned his attention elsewhere, ignoring the urge to shout across the room, Guess you should have listened to us the first time, eh, Pops?

  Esgar made quick introductions, starting with the two men who sat across from the double doors, wearing sage uniforms similar to Var’s. The younger man, perhaps in his early forties and with an unfortunate haircut, was Triumvir Mirka Holwig. His father had also been a triumvir before his death, and rumor had it that Mirka had ridden his coattails to get where he was today. Kurtz had complained nonstop about it for the week following Mirka’s initiation. The older man, perhaps in his midseventies, was Triumvir Gunthar Peterus. He was stocky with a stern face, along with jowls and a stomach that said he ate better than any other man in Dresberg, if not the country. His white hair stuck out in tufts over his ears. Surveying Sandis and Bastien, he leaned over to whisper to the man beside him, who was none other than the scholar Jachim Franz.

  If Rone leapt over the table now, how many times could he punch the scholar before someone pulled him away?

  Franz smiled stupidly at them and waved when Esgar needlessly introduced him.

  Bastien shifted closer to Sandis, his gaze glued to the far-right corner. But Esgar went the other way with his introductions.

  “This man”—he referred to the oversized soldier with the impressive biceps—“is General Istrude, head of the Kolingrad Militia.” He swept his arm to the left. “And of course you know Angelic Adellion Comf, head of the Celesian Church, may God ever smile on him,” Esgar said. He was either devout or a sy
cophant. The Angelic nodded his approval.

  “Rone, you’re hurting me,” Sandis whispered.

  Blinking, Rone realized he was crushing Sandis’s hand. He immediately let go and pulled away. Sandis offered him a sympathetic smile as she took his hand again. Rone could no sooner meet her gaze than he could his father’s.

  Esgar introduced the high priest as Dall and the priestess as Marisa, which made him glance up. Yes, he knew her. On their last visit to the Lily Tower, she’d pulled them aside and read them a passage from scripture about Kolosos. The Angelic had sent them away, ignoring their message, but at least she’d tried to help.

  And now they were here.

  “And”—as the chief of police turned, his tone dropped to that of indifference—“lastly, we have—”

  “Oz,” Bastien said.

  Rone turned to the Godobian in surprise. His blue eyes met the dark gaze of the middle-aged man in the far-right corner. Three adolescents sat at his feet, oblivious to what went on around them. They played with a tied piece of string, passing it between one another’s hands. All were dark haired and dark eyed, and looked between the ages of fifteen and seventeen.

  Rone lifted his gaze back to the man Bastien had called Oz. The man tilted his head and smiled in an oddly familiar way.

  The truth struck him just before Esgar made the introduction. Bastien had spent the last several years as a slave. There was only one reason he’d know this man.

  The adolescents at his feet weren’t his children. They were his vessels.

  “Yes, this is Oz, who still refuses to offer us a surname.” Esgar’s voice had shifted from indifference to frustration. “And his slaves, of course.”

  “Such a harsh word.” Oz had the kind of voice you’d expect from a comedic actor. “If I didn’t keep them, my good man, you wouldn’t have the information you have.”

  Sandis perked up. “Bastien. Is he . . . ?”

  “My old master, yes.” Bastien tipped his head in acknowledgment.

  Rone ran his free hand back through his hair. “This is awkward all around, isn’t it?” All they needed was Talbur Gwenwig to complete the circle, and it’d be one horrible family reunion.

  “What information?” Sandis asked.

  Triumvir Var, whom Rone had temporarily forgotten, said, “Let’s be seated. I need order to think.”

  Everyone who was not sitting moved to do so, although Oz’s vessels remained huddled in the corner. Var took a seat opposite Triumvir Peterus, and Rone sat next to him, followed by Sandis, Bastien, and Liddell near the end of the table. The general sat on Var’s other side. Chief Esgar moved around the room and between lingering guards to sit beside the loathsome Franz. Rone noted he left an empty chair between himself and Oz, while two empty chairs islanded Oz from General Istrude.

  Var spoke first. “What Oz means is that we have better knowledge of predicting when this man, whom we’ve identified as Kazen Dalgar, will summon Kolosos and strike again. A vessel needs twelve to eighteen hours of rest after hosting, and so we expect—”

  “Sir?” Sandis’s voice was a mouse’s.

  “—that Kazen will return by nightfall.”

  “Sir?” Sandis asked.

  Thick lines creased Var’s forehead as he turned toward her.

  “It won’t be eighteen hours. It will be twenty-four.”

  Oz shook his head. “I don’t know if Kazen starved you, lass, but the standard sleep for a vessel—”

  “She’s more familiar with the situation than you are,” Rone said, meeting Oz’s eye.

  The grafter was silent long enough for Sandis to finish.

  “It will be twenty-four hours minimum because Kolosos cannot be summoned without an amarinth,” Sandis finished, gaining more confidence with each word.

  Jachim perked up. “What was that you said? An amarinth?”

  “You know it?” asked Peterus.

  Jachim nodded. “I’ve heard of it, yes. It’s part of Noscon legend, mentioned in the Yokhosho Temple . . . what’s left of it. A device that spins—not like a top, mind you, but like a gyroscope—and grants its owner immortality.”

  “A minute of immortality,” Rone added.

  “A minute?” Peterus asked.

  “A minute,” Rone repeated. “Sixty seconds.”

  “Fascinating.” Jachim leaned back in his seat, then flung himself forward. “Wait, you believe it to be real? And that Kazen has one?”

  Sandis nodded.

  “I know it’s real because it’s mine,” Rone said. “All of us”—he gestured down to Bastien—“have witnessed it. It’s real, and Kazen has his vessel use it every time he summons that monster here.”

  A soft sigh passed through Sandis at the mention of her brother. Rone shifted his hand over and rested it on her thigh, under the table, where the others couldn’t see.

  “So that’s how the bastard did it.” Oz set his chin in his palm.

  The priests whispered to one another.

  The other triumvir, Holwig, said, “Noscon goods can’t simply be owned. They’re property of the government—”

  Oz interrupted, “I don’t think that’s up for debate at the moment, chap.”

  “They shouldn’t be owned at all, but destroyed,” chimed in High Priest Dall.

  “Well,” Rone said, “why don’t you march up to Kazen and tell him about the miscommunication? I’m sure he’ll hand it over.”

  Priestess Marisa frowned.

  “We have no need for vitriol here, young man.” The Angelic folded his hands together on the table.

  Rone folded his arms. “And I’m sure you told the triumvirate that you had advance warning about Kazen’s plans and did nothing, right?”

  “What?” asked Var.

  “Rone,” Sandis hissed.

  Peterus slammed his fist onto the tabletop twice. “As my comrade said, we don’t have time for this! We’ll deal with legalities after the city is again safe.” Despite his words, he cast a hard glance at the Angelic, who seemed unaffected by Rone’s accusation. Rone thought about pointing out that the triumvirate could have had advanced warning, too, if they had a means of actually listening to their citizens, but he kept his mouth shut. For now.

  “An amarinth,” Jachim murmured as though completely oblivious to the argument. He pulled out a clean sheet of paper and began rapidly writing.

  “Would it not be easier”—Marisa treaded carefully—“to follow Kolosos when it runs? After it diffuses, Kazen could not carry the vessel too far—”

  “I would love to try,” General Istrude replied, “but the crab numen picks off my men like weeds. And last night, before vanishing, Kolosos shot out a wall of fire so bright it blinded the soldiers it did not kill.” He set his jaw as though trying to stifle emotion. “The beast leapt the wall, and we’ve yet to discover where it went, despite its size. We will try again tonight, if it returns.”

  Peterus took a moment to collect himself and rubbed his wrinkled forehead hard enough to leave red marks. When he looked up, his eyes shot to Sandis. “It’s my understanding you’re a vessel.”

  Rone tensed. Sandis jolted enough to move her chair. Bastien’s lips pressed into a white line.

  They all stared at her. Rone shifted forward, trying to block some of them. Was it such a shock to them? Did these people sleep with their heads under their pillows, ignoring what really went on in the world around them? In the city they professed to run?

  After a long pause, Sandis answered, “I am.”

  “Were you, perchance, in Kazen’s employ?”

  Rone scoffed.

  “I was not employed, sir. I was taken against my will.” Her voice was even, her gaze level.

  You’re doing great.

  Peterus and Holwig exchanged a brief glance. “Be that as it may . . .”

  “Yes, I was one of Kazen’s slaves.” She licked her lips and dropped her eyes, taking another moment before lifting them again. She glanced at Bastien, who nodded. “As was Bastien, but for
only a short time.”

  “Do you know anything about Kazen that could help us?”

  The room grew deathly quiet as Sandis went on to describe Kazen in minute detail, so much so that no one could believe her to be lying. Most of it Rone knew—she’d shared some of it when they were on the run and whispered the rest to him in the dark when she couldn’t fall asleep, curled against him as though he could absorb her stories and give them happier endings.

  And he wanted to. God’s tower, he wanted to.

  Jachim sat upright in his chair hard enough to shake it. “Could it be Kazen knows how to harness the power of the amarinth not just to bring such a colossal numen into the mortal realm, but to keep it here? It could be acting as some sort of power reserve even after the minute passes, not for him, but for the vessel!”

  “Franz,” Triumvir Var hissed. “That is not what you’re supposed to be taking notes on!”

  Jachim blinked. “Oh, right, yes.” He returned to his original papers and, after shaking out a hand, began writing down what looked like Sandis’s testimonial. Holwig encouraged Bastien to add his information as well, as though the account of a single woman wasn’t enough to satisfy him. Rone decided that he didn’t much like the man.

  Var spoke next. “And how did he come to get the amarinth?”

  Rone got to relay that one, albeit in far less detail than what Sandis had provided.

  “And how did you obtain it, my boy?”

  The endearment rankled him, but Rone repressed his annoyance. He didn’t love giving away all his secrets, but he supposed his days as Engel Verlad were over. Truth be told, he’d known that before Rist ever stole the amarinth. “I used to work sewage. One of the tunnels collapsed. I found it in the rubble. I presume it fell from a Noscon burial ground or some such.”

  Var raised his eyebrows and looked to his fellow politicians.

  “It’s a viable story,” Jachim said with a nod, accidentally smearing ink on his chin. He didn’t seem to notice. “Much of the Noscons’ abandoned city was destroyed by our ancestors, but portions of it were merely built over. Some of their streets merged with our sewer system. I highly doubt it was a burial ground, however. My studies indicate the Noscons burned their dead.”