Born Of Fire And Darkness (Book 2) (2 page)

As in the old days
, Braetin replied.

But we have learned much since those days, since the deaths of our brethren. Darkness knew things we did not.

His ways were perversion.
When Braetin roared with anger, Graiphen trembled.

His ways were
successful
.

Braetin hesitated. The sudden uncertainty in her startled Graiphen. He could sense her thoughtful consideration.
Do we have an accord?
she asked finally.

We do.
She turned her attention to Graiphen.
I am Pang
.

Braetin’s voice echoed in his mind.
Go to Durjin. Find the witch Seba. Bring him to me. He has learned the magic of the Children of Eurmus, a power I would have for myself. Do this, and I will forgive your trespasses.

Trespasses?
Graiphen had served unwaveringly. He had seen her fed and worked without ceasing to restore her to strength. Did she blame him for her state, for the injury Octavia had done to her? If so, he had one chance to prove his worth. He had to go to the capitol.

Come
, Pang said.
We leave now. I am hungry.

∞

Octavia kept herself to the parts of Vol where Kilovians lived, typically the poorer quarters. Granted, many Talmorans now sought her services as a conduit since the emperor had publicly thanked her for her service. He’d credited her with saving many lives after she and Korbin had stopped the madman that had threatened the entire Council of Eight a few months before. Now that she could no longer hide her identity, she insisted all who wished to ask for her help come to her rather than her going to them. Getting Talmoran nobles to venture into the poor quarter was a first test of their sincerity.

The emperor had praised her actions and given her access to his personal healer and allowed to her convalesce at his home in Vol, while he returned to Durjin. But at that terrible time, what she required was not Talmoran medicine. She needed her own herbs, to practice the ways of her people, to experience the comforting presence of the One.

As soon as she’d proved strong enough, she returned to her flat in the immigrant quarter. Every day since, people queued to see her. Once there had been five conduits practicing in Vol, plus their mentor. Now she was the only one. The other Senne had been murdered by the Red Manus, agents of the temple of Braetin, and her mentor, Sen Rhikar, had died breaking a bond the madman Seba had forced upon him.

Now Seba was imprisoned by the empire and Octavia had been cleared of the charge of criminal heresy. Still, none of that would make up for the loss to the Kilovian community nor the deep sense of grief Octavia herself endured.

With the others of her order, the Sennestelle, gone, Octavia tried to tend the needs of all the Kilovians in the city of Vol, providing them with herbs and healing mixtures, offering prayers and a few words of solace. She attended births, presided over death rites, helped find things that were lost, and comforted those who needed her.

When it became clear the tide of people coming to her would not slow any time soon, she had asked the community for help. Kilovian leaders in the immigrant quarter set up a place for her at a local meeting hall. This, at least, kept people from banging on her door at all hours of the day and night, although it had taken some persistence before the word had gotten out to come here instead.

Sitting in her usual seat in a small, private room in a far end of the meeting hall, Octavia turned to her new apprentice, Liara, a thin, plain girl who was far too inexperienced to be of much use. “How many more?” Octavia asked, mopping her brow. The summer was upon them, and the closed space of the hall lacked enough ventilation to keep them comfortable during the hottest part of the day.

“Four, Senne,” Liara said.

So serious
, Octavia thought. The girl had not a jot of humor about her. The irony of a woman like Octavia making such an observation was not lost on her. She acknowledged people who didn’t know her well said she herself often had a grim demeanor, but the life of a member of the Sennestelle was not easy nor comfortable.

Liara, on the other hand, seemed incapable of humor. She wasn’t one Octavia might have chosen to be her first student, but even though things had changed in the city, the violent deaths of all the other conduits in the city meant families suddenly didn’t want their children to serve their community this way. Liara had come of her own accord.

“How many of those four are Talmoran?” Octavia asked.

“All of them, Senne.”

Even in days past, Talmorans paid more for her services, but now seeing a conduit had become
fashionable
, something Octavia detested. “Tell them to come back tomorrow,” she grumbled.

“But, Senne—”

With a raised eyebrow, Octavia cut Liara off.

The girl blushed. “Forgive me. Yes, Senne. I’ll do as you ask right away.”

“Wait,” Octavia said. Liara had still acquired little training beyond a few basic concepts and some rudimentary herb collecting techniques. She needed to learn how to deal with people. She seemed unduly intimidated by the Talmoran upper classes. “Speak to each of them privately. Ask what they want before telling them to come back another day. After they are gone, I want you to meditate on and record each case, and tomorrow, tell me what course of action you think appropriate.”

“But what if they won’t speak to me? It’s you they want to see, the one whose skill their emperor praised. I’m little more than a servant.” She cast her eyes downward.

“If they won’t speak to you, tell them not to return at all.”

“They never listen,” the girl remarked quietly, looking distressed. Those Talmorans who came were ones who cared about what was
fashionable
; in other words, the wealthy or those who wished to impress. If Liara wanted to be a conduit, she needed to stop being impressed by and afraid of money and position.

Octavia stood. “I’ll go out the side door.” She brushed her hand over her long, dark hair, smoothing it down. “Four people. Four pages. First thing in the morning.”

She left the girl behind and exited the hall. Liara wasn’t particularly good at following instructions to the letter, nor was she a fast learner, but she was all Octavia had. It would be years before she could be called a conduit.

Octavia realized she couldn’t keep trying to do everything on her own. She had to ask for help. Sen Betram in Durjin would be the easiest place to start, but she might also write to the Sennestelle back in Kilovia. With a new kind of tolerance emerging in the empire, perhaps it would be even more attractive to send young students to Vol.

On the other hand, many of their number had been brutally murdered. She’d heard rumors that although the servants of Braetin had gone quiet, they were gathering strength again. How could she convince anyone of this new “tolerance”? How long before consulting a conduit was no longer fashionable and the Red Manus’ influence grew once more? Noblemen were fickle, and what was popular one day might be shunned the next.

After the wars and the persecution of conduits, their official structures were not as strong as they once were, but those who practiced did their best to maintain the old ways. The knowledge of the One must not be allowed to die out. Although the temple of Braetin had been publicly silent since the incidents in the recent winter, people still sought the temple anyway.

A few, Octavia knew to her dismay, were Kilovians. They didn’t care if seeing a conduit was fashionable with Talmoran nobles and they weren’t impressed with the favor she’d found with the emperor. They saw the power and threat the temple represented. Without the support of the community and the willingness of new young people to be trained, over time, the Sennestelle might disappear completely. Without conduits, Octavia feared their traditions and practices might disappear. She should mention this when and if she decided it was time to petition for help.

As she made her way to the small flat she occupied above a weaver’s shop, Octavia felt a twinge of guilt. Perhaps she could have stayed and talked Liara through what she expected of her.

In truth, Octavia was tired to her bones. She hadn’t slept well in months, and none of the usual herbal remedies helped. Her dreams were filled with shadows and pain. Seba was gone, imprisoned without access to many of the materials a conduit would need to do harm. Still, he was ruthless and crafty, and it had nearly cost her life to defeat him last time. She couldn’t shake the lurking memories of him or of the shadow goddess she’d encountered through Graiphen. Braetin’s voice still haunted her mind.

Her most persistent nightmare involved twisted images of her sister Trinity, who had died many years before. Thoughts of her sister had once consoled her, but no longer. Octavia pressed her eyes closed and shook her head hard. She closed her front door behind her, willing the terrible images away.

For long moments, she stood in the darkness in the narrow close, her back pressed against the door. The entryway was small and she felt it closing in on her. The air was warm and smelled of sweat. Hers, perhaps. Her fingers trembled.

“I’m so tired,” she whispered. How long could she continue to tend to the needs of every person in the city alone? During the day, she worked herself to the quick. At night, she was chased by Seba, by the Red Manus, and worst of all, by a horrific and distorted version of a sister she’d loved. That her mind would twist that sweet memory into a hellish vision made her feel angry and betrayed.

A sudden pounding on the door behind her startled her and she jumped forward. Her heart raced and she spun around, then stumbled back into the stair.

“Go to the Halden Hall tomorrow,” one of her neighbors, Palo, said from his own front door just a few feet away from her own. “The Senne no longer takes petitions at her home.”

Bless him
, Octavia thought. Without the help of those in her nearby community, she never would have been able to manage the petitioners. They were so insistent, so needy. Kilovians understood and respected her wishes. Talmorans often seemed affronted. They thought themselves too important to be kept waiting, and their requests were usually the most tedious and least worthy of her time.

“I’m a friend,” a familiar male voice replied.
Korbin.

While her neighbor made another polite but firm refusal, Octavia brushed off the front of her robes. After a moment’s breath, she opened the door.

“It’s all right, Palo. Thank you.”

Palo, a young butcher from the adjoining building, nodded. “As you wish, Senne.” He bowed slightly and withdrew into the door opposite.

“Hello,” Korbin said. She hardly recognized him. His hair was still curly and black, but shorter than before. His fine clothing bore the decorative braiding and ornament that the upper classes wore. He looked every inch a Dul. Although born to the upper class, he’d been an outcast when she’d first met him, the disowned son of a senator, hiding in the slums from his old life. He’d been a rogue and a gambler and had looked the part.

Like many Talmorans, Korbin was tall and his bearing straight. He stood with that peculiar stance only a Dul could affect. She couldn’t put her finger on exactly what it was, but it made him look like no matter where he might be, he had the right to be there. No wonder Palo had taken him for a petitioner.

“It’s been a long time,” she said, giving him a tired smile. Despite her weariness, she was pleased to see him.

“You’ve been busy, I know.” His eyes crinkled and he grinned at her. There was that roguish smile she’d liked so much. “You look well.”

She ignored the lie and conceded that their lack of communication was her fault. She barely had time to do anything these days except work and sleep. “Would you like to come up?”

“If it’s not a bad time.” He came in without waiting for her to answer. He knew her so well. Although their friendship had only been forged in the past year, they’d been through things that induced an intimacy she couldn’t deny.

“Never a bad time for a friend,” she said. “Come in and have some tea.”

“That sounds good.”

She moved to close the door and saw someone else approaching, making a beeline for her door. He wore a cloak and token of an Imperial messenger.
Here?

Opening the door all the way, she stepped out and waited. Korbin came up behind her and joined her. “Expecting a message?” he asked quietly.

“No, but some who seek my services can be persistent. It’s probably someone Liara told to come back another day.”

“Liara?” he asked.

“My young apprentice.”

“A new conduit? That’s good news.”

“Perhaps someday,” Octavia said. She would have elaborated, but the messenger interrupted.

“Senne Octavia?” he asked and bowed formally. He was a slight man, as willowy as a dancer. When he straightened again, he glanced around quickly. Octavia doubted he had many deliveries to this area.

“Yes?”

“Token?” he asked politely.

“I’m not a citizen,” she said, her tone cold. It was something any Talmoran citizen or anyone with a trade would have to verify their identity, but she was neither.

Korbin held up his own token. It was a new one, not the bloodied and battered Talmor Rider chip she’d used to perform a blood ritual so many months ago. This one marked him as one of the nobility. “I can vouch for her identity.”

“Thank you, Dul,” the messenger said with a nod, barely brushing the token with his long fingers.

A flicker of annoyance passed over Octavia. Whoever had sent this man should have known she wouldn’t have a token and given the messenger a suitable means to identify her. She was about to voice her irritation when he pulled out a crimson velvet satchel and handed it to her. She accepted without a word. The fabric was the softest she’d ever touched, like the fur of a baby rabbit.

“The Imperial seal,” Korbin whispered. Sure enough, dangling from a gold cord was a token anyone in the empire would recognize. He glanced at the young man. “This arrived today?”

“Yes, Dul. I was sent urgently as soon as the bird arrived,” the messenger said, his face showing his excitement at being assigned such an important task. “I’m to wait for a reply.”