The Horns of Ruin (2 page)

We were met at the gate by a servitor of Alexander. Morgan
had held this guard a century ago, until our numbers dwindled and the godking
Alexander stepped in. He had ordered all records of our time in the prison
destroyed. Security, he insisted. As though a scion of Morgan would sell those
secrets. As though he couldn't trust the servants of his own brother. Though
trust is what got Morgan killed, so I suppose it wasn't without reason.

The servant was a pale man, whiter than his robe, his bald
head shinier than the dull silver of the icon around his neck. Not the cream of
the crop, here at the prison. He looked us over with lazy interest, then spun
up the clockgeist beside him and pulled the speakerphone to his mouth.

"Names?" he asked over the clockgeist's quiet
howling clatter. I stepped in front of Barnabas.

"Eva Forge, Paladin of Morgan and sister of the
Fraterdom. I demand entry to the house of my brother by my right as scion of
Morgan."

He looked up from my breasts, then down to my holster, then
up again to the two-handed sword slung over my shoulder.

"You'll have to leave your weapons at the gate."

I sneered and snapped out the revolver, flipped it once in
my hand, and spun the cylinder open. I presented the clacking wheel of bullets
to him and began to invoke.

"This is Felburn, heart of the hunter, spitting fire
of the sky. Morgan blessed the revolver as a weapon of his Cult at the towers
of El-Ohah, when the storm cracked the stones of that place and the cannons of
his army cracked the sky. This weapon was beaten from the iron of the mountain
of the Brothers, the land of their birth. The bul lets are engraved with my
soul's name, and blessed by the Fratriarch of Morgan on an altar of war."
I snapped the cylinder shut, passed the barrel across the pale man's heart, and
slammed it into my holster. "I carry it, whether I live or die, through
fire and fear and foes. I leave it nowhere."

"Well, I ... uh." The Alexian grimaced and
shuffled his feet. Barnabas leaned out from behind me.

"Don't ask her for the sword," he said, then
banged his staff against the narrow stone walls all around. "It's a much
longer show, and there's not really enough room for the full production. If we
step outside for a moment, though, I'm sure she'll be happy to demonstrate. Eva?"

I reddened and chewed my jaw, then glanced over my shoulder
at the old man. He was beaming. He stepped around me and tapped his ceremonial
staff to his forehead, like a fisherman hailing a passing boat.

"I'm Barnabas, Fratriarch of Morgan and First Blade of
Alexander's dead brother. If you don't know who I am, then you can be damned. I
have an appointment."

The color, what little of it there was, left the servitor's
face. The clockgeist chewed out an answer that he didn't really hear. He nodded
and the gate opened.

The pale-headed man locked the gate behind us, shuttered
the cowl on the clockgeist, and escorted us into the library-prison of Amon the
Scholar. We followed a long brick tunnel deep into the complex, the way lit by
the Alexian's gently humming frictionlamp. There were no other guards, no other
gates, but suddenly the tunnel opened up into the mitochondrial complexity of
the Library's stacks. We were among the Amonites. I bristled, and the
articulated sheath on my back twitched with insectile anticipation, like a
spider testing its web. Barnabas sensed the change and put a broad hand on my
shoulder.

"Silence," he whispered. "These are the tame
ones."

"It's the tame ones I don't trust," I answered,
but left my blade where it was and tried to relax.

They moved among the stacks in absolute silence. Their
black robes looked like wrinkled shadows, and they kept their heads down. A few
paused in their grubbing among the books to turn our way, but the sight of a
Paladin of Morgan sent them scurrying.

"They wander around like this?" I asked. The
servitor nodded his bald head, though he did not turn to look at me.

"They are bound to this place, my lady. Their books,
their equipment. The shrine of their god, fallen though he may be. They would
not leave."

I looked around at the close walls, the wooden ceiling, and
the stinking, pulpy stacks of books on their sagging shelves.

"I would. First chance I got."

"Well. Perhaps they don't have that, either." The
servitor fingered a loose coil of chain that hung from his belt and chuckled.
It looked like a woman's necklace that had lost its stone. There was carving on
the links, but I couldn't make out the pattern.

"I would prefer they wore the chains, servitor,"
I said, resting my hand on my revolver. The stacks were narrow and close, like
a maze of wood and leather. It felt like an ambush. "Better to have them
in cages. If we still ran things, it'd be cages."

The servitor stopped walking and faced me. The Fratriarch
walked another half-dozen steps then idled to a halt. He flicked a hand through
a book that was resting on a nearby podium, his eyes distracted. So old, in
that moment. He looked like a forgetful grandfather. I pushed the thought aside
and faced the servitor. He stared at me with barely veiled contempt. No, not veiled
at all. Just contempt.

"In chains, madam? In cages? Tell me, are all the
scions of Morgan so nuanced in their approach?" He whipped the coil of
thin chain from his belt and held it at shoulder height. "What was the
escape rate when Morgan held these halls? Do you know, even?"

I held the smaller man's gaze, leaving my face as dead as
possible. He fingered the chains with idle malice. The Fratriarch ignored us.
When it became clear that I wasn't going to answer, the servitor continued.

"We have had none, my lady. Not one. Chains rust.
Cages can be shattered. The bonds of this world fail us. Faith in metal and
stone is inevitably faith squandered." He sneered, his tiny eyes wrinkling
over his ugly nose. "You should know that, Morganite."

I would have struck him, if the Fratriarch hadn't been
there. The flat of my blade or the barrel of my bullistic, he deserved nothing
less. Patience. It was a speech I heard a lot from the Fratriarch. From all the
Elders. Patience. I put my hand flat against his chest and prepared to invoke.
He grimaced and clenched the chains in his fist, then spat out something
arcane. The stacks erupted in screams, all around, echoing between the rows of
books like thunder in a canyon.

My sword was in my hands without a thought, the pistons and
hinged arms of the articulated sheath pivoting it over my shoulder and into my
ready grip. I dropped into a guard position and began invoking Everice,
Mountain among Streams. The servitor laughed. The Fratriarch looked on with
grim disappointment.

Black-robed Amonites stumbled from the stacks, spilling to
the floor in shrieking agony. They writhed at the servitor's feet, their eyes
wide with terror and pain. I stared at them in horror, then fascination. The
Amonites had chains of their own, thin and flat, made of some dull gray metal
and arcanely etched. Our guide loosened his grip on his chains, and the
screaming stopped.

The servitor stood over them, the coil of chains dangling
loosely from his open palm. The Amonites lay in a heap, panting and mewling.
The room smelled of offal and disgrace.

"Cages rust. Metal fails." He returned the coil
to his belt. "We bind the soul, my lady."

He turned and walked away. The Fratriarch looked sadly down
at the pile of Scholars. There were old men among them, and children. He gave
me a look, then followed the Alexian. I surrendered my sword to its sheath,
then left the Amonites to struggle to their feet and disperse. There would be
words from Barnabas for that provocation.

"Not my fault he's a jerk," I muttered. He
ignored me.

The small corridors and tight stairways continued for a
while. I lost track of our turnings, though it felt like we were going higher.
Groups of Amonites watched us from the shadows, eyeing the heavily armed woman
and the old man with his fancy staff. The servitor they ignored. He hurried
ahead of us, opening doors and securing locks. Well, at least they used locks
sometimes.

"How did that work?" I asked the Fratriarch as we
crossed a broad chamber. I kept my eyes on my feet, only daring to glance
quickly over at the still furious Fratriarch. "How did he do that to
them?"

Barnabas did not answer immediately. When he did, it was
with a deep sigh and a quiet voice. "How does your armor work,
student?"

I stumbled to a stop. Student. He had not addressed me in
that way since ... since I was a child. I hurried to catch up.

"Master, I meant no-"

"I asked a question, and I await an answer."

"I ... Master. The symbol of the armor is the
armor."

"The idea of the armor, you mean. The soul of the
armor," he corrected. He let out a long sigh and looked around at the
dingy walls. His eyes held distaste, even pity. "We draw on the noetic
power of Morgan's armor, and it protects us. We draw on the noetic power of his
strength, the greatness of his deeds, the collective memory of his
courage." He waved a dismissive hand. "This is the same. The Healer
has built a prison into each of them. Chains would bind the flesh. The noetic
power of chains, the memory and symbol of chains, thoughthat binds their
souls."

I thought about that. It troubled me. The strength of
Morgan, his courage and his bravery, his victories in battle-these were the
things that gave us our power, our invokations. Each of our powers had its
basis in some part of Morgan's story. Everice, Mountain among Streams, for
example, is a defensive stance. When invoked, the scion of Morgan can face
multiple threats at once, her attention divided equally in all directions. It
draws its power from Morgan's actions at the Battle of Everice, when his line
had been overwhelmed by the Rethari hordes. Morgan had stood alone against
waves of scaled Rethari warriors for a full day, striking each of them down
with a single blow. To the rest of the army, heavily pressed and unable to
relieve their god, Morgan had looked like a mountain in a flood, battered from
all sides but unyielding.

I wondered what bit of Alexander's history the power of the
chains came from. Nothing widely known, it would seem. All the gods had their
secrets, of course, revealed only to the highest scions. Still, it was a
strange power for Alexander the Healer.

"Master Barnabas, I beg forgiveness for my actions.
The presence of so many of the Betrayer's scions-"

"Forget it," he said wearily, and then smiled.
"There is a duty here, and a purpose. These people do not serve Amon the
Betrayer." He stopped and fixed me with his pale eyes. "He did many
things. It is by his hand that this city was raised, and by his servants' hands
that it still stands. His tools drove back the Feyr and forged the Fraterdom.
The Betrayal was one act, as horrible as it was. One act. They worship the god
that he was. Not the murderer he became."

"Is that supposed to be enough?" I asked.

"It must be. Amon is dead. Morgan is dead at his hand.
Of the three brothers, only Alexander remains. There is nothing more we can
do."

We stared at each other, master and student, elder and
orphan. The Fratriarch sighed and turned to the servitor, who was waiting at
the foot of a staircase. I followed, as I always follow. The Cult of Morgan was
not mine to lead.

We continued in tense silence up a tightly coiling spiral
staircase, dusty shelves of books on all sides, until we emerged into a much
larger room. The Fratriarch and I stumbled to a halt, wide-eyed.

We were on a broad terrace that was, itself, part of a
cavernous space of books and dappled light. This single room was a gash that
ran the height of the building, steep walls that stepped outward in terraces
and narrow walkways, polished wooden railings and trestles arching across the
gap, their paths illuminated by warm frictionlight and, amazingly, the natural
sun in delicate patterns. I followed the thin light up to the ceiling. Several
of the domes that we had seen outside yawned over this grand chasm, their
chipped black paint letting in a bright constellation of sunlight. And
everywhere I looked, the walls, the rooms that opened onto the cavern, the
walkways that wound treacherously across, all of them were lined with
bookcases. They seemed to burst organically from the wood and stone, like
strata of musty intellect crushed into gilded pages by the weight of the
building.

The servitor hurried to a cabinet by the edge of the
terrace. It was a dark wooden contraption with many tiny doors, each one
cryptically marked with letters of the Alexians' secret language. The bald man
ran a finger along the cabinet, then snapped open one of the doors and drew out
a long wooden dowel, jangling with loops of chain. He looked up and saw us in
rapt distraction.

"The Grand Library. Surely there are records of this
place in your monastery?"

"The godking had our records burned when his Cult took
over the prison a century ago," Barnabas whispered, then looked at the
servitor. "He didn't trust his brother's church to hold the secrets."

"Trusting his brother Amon led to Morgan's downfall,
eh?" the servitor said tersely. "Perhaps Alexander did not wish to
make the same mistake."

I stepped to the bald man and placed a hand on his
shoulder. "You should watch your words in the presence of people like
me."

"You should watch your hands on the body of your
godking's servant, woman."

The Fratriarch placed his staff between us, and we parted.
I went to stand by the railing. This guy was getting on my nerves more than he
should. Something in the air of this place made me uncomfortable, like a battle
shifting under your feet before you can do anything about it. I put my elbows
on the railing and stared down into the shelved chasm.