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dracoqueen22Title: Whispers of Yesterday
Series: Infinity's End, Book Two
Warnings: smut, het smut, hints to slashy goodness, violence, language, character death
Description: Now firmly entrenched in the Theravada -- and firmly involved with Gale as well -- Ione discovers the hidden sides of both Grayshire and Theravada. She questions her own decisions -- and her feelings -- as the war takes on a more murderous, personal turn for the worst.
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Chapter Twenty-One
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Ione dreamed of fire and ice, the flow of water and the rumble of the earth beneath her feet. She dreamed of a demolished forest and streams clogged with refuse and of darkness creeping in, until it blanketed everything in shadow. She dreamed of such things until Gale woke her when he climbed into bed, smelling of battle and sorrow and radiating a need for comfort.
It didn't take much for her to fall back asleep. The day had been long, Ione was exhausted, and Gale's heartbeat was a steady rhythm in her ears.
She dreamed again, except this time of the past. Memories of her family, memories of her father, the strongest. It was a painful reminder that Souya was gone, ruthlessly taken from her in some political move that Ione didn't care to understand. The urge for vengeance stirred in her veins, hot and thick as tar, chasing away her scruples.
Ione wanted blood. And woe to the person who dared prevent her from acquiring it.
These sorts of thoughts should have disturbed her, as much as her earlier dreams had, but they didn't. Something within her had shifted in the past months, opening up to new possibilities. In many ways, Ione regarded it as a death of her naivete, but she knew that was too optimistic. There were things the world had left to teach her and she'd be a fool to assume her lessons done.
It was almost a relief to wake an indeterminable time later, to the feel of Gale's breathing against her forehead and hair, and the rhythm of his quiescent aether. It was impossible for Ione to tell what time it was – there was no window – but she guessed it was probably mid-morning.
She sat up, careful not to wake Gale, and glanced at the other beds arranged around the perimeter of the second bunk. They were empty save for one, currently occupied by a snoring Irvine. Fenris was gone, unsurprisingly, though Ione suspected he was exploring their new home, what little space there was to be investigated at any rate. Last night, Ione hadn't paid much attention to her surroundings, too tired to do anything more than collapse in the nearest bunk. Now, she actually looked, almost wincing at the starkness that greeted her eyes.
The Catacombs – Grayson had told her their name – had none of Paragon's warmth and welcome. It was cold and empty, the walls unadorned and the floors equally so, with only the bare minimum necessary for survival for present. It had only ever meant to be a fallback plan, never a permanent home.
Ione hated that Grayshire and its nobles had been the one to drive them here.
She sighed softly and drew up her knee, resting her arm across it. Her other hand dragged through her hair, getting enmeshed in the tangles. The smell of magic and battle still clung to her like a smoke-soaked cloud. She needed a bath, and a warm meal if her protesting belly were to be believed. Ione wanted answers as well. Answers that only Ghaith could provide.
Fingers tickled at her side gently, meant to announce rather than startle. Ione shifted her gaze, finding that Gale was looking up at her, sleepy but gradually becoming more alert.
“Morning,” she greeted, thinking that he looked even younger at this moment, his pale hair almost white against the starkness of the pillow, and his cheeks smudged by the grime of battle.
“Is it even morning?” he asked, voice raspy as though he'd spent half the night inhaling smoke. And perhaps he had. Since they'd been separated, Ione wasn't sure what he'd faced.
She shrugged. “Your guess is as good as mine.”
Gale chuckled and sat up, pushing his hair out of his face. Like her, he was soaked in battle, blood stains and streaks of soot and the like. Not only did they need baths and a change of clothes, but their bedding would also have to be washed. Hell, Ione herself was still wearing the outfit she had cobbled together yesterday out of one of Gale's tunic and a tattered pair of her own breeches. Of course, whether there was anything here they could scrape together to wear was anyone's guess.
“It is hard to tell here, isn't it?” he asked, and Quetz took that moment to pop her head out of his collar.
Frankly, Ione wasn't surprised. The snake did tend to gravitate toward the nearest source of warmth, and between the two of them and all the blankets, Quetz must have been quite toasty.
“It's almosssst noon,” Quetz informed them with a sleepy bob of her head.
Ione was skeptic. “How do you know?”
“I can tell these things.” If she didn't know better, Ione would think that Quetz sounded smug. And to think, Ione had thought Aponi the youngest of the familiars. “Everyone else is up.”
“Azriel's probably waiting on us then,” Gale said with a groan and tossed the covers back. “As usual, we'll be the last to show up.”
Ione casually stretched, working out the kinks in her back from sleeping so cramped. She missed their big bed and the fluffy blankets and pillows. “They'll have to wait a bit longer. I'm not doing anything until I wash my face.”
“With cold water from the underground stream,” Gale muttered with a sigh, swinging his legs over the edge of the bunk with plans to stand.
He didn't get very far.
Ione pressed herself against his back, winding her arms around him and pressing a kiss to the back of his neck, revealed by the fall of his hair. Buried beneath the odor of battle was the scent of Gale, familiar and comforting, and Ione breathed it in. The last twenty-four hours had been terrible and she needed that small reminder.
“Ione?” His voice was soft, one hand lifting to curl fingers around her arm and squeeze gently as if to show that he understood.
She squeezed him a bit tighter. “I wasn't worried,” Ione explained, though she wasn't sure if she could put her emotions into words anyway. “I knew that Grayshire didn't have anyone strong enough to even challenge you, save perhaps Lord Wyndham himself, but I always thought my father unbeatable as well.”
For a long moment, Gale was silent, his body beginning a slow tremble. Not out of fear, Ione realized from the subtle pulses in his aether, but from something else. Something a lot like anger, that made his usual calm composure crack and bleed.
“They'll pay for that,” Gale said firmly, shifting his head against hers in a way that could only be called a nuzzle. “Among many other transgressions that have come due.”
Ione had come a long way, to find herself comforted by implied bloodshed. There was a part of her, growing smaller and smaller by the day, that shrunk back in horror at the mere thought. The part that still thought justice could be had and differences settled with talk, but it was constantly defeated by the larger part of her that was willing to see the truth. Grayshire would never learn, not with gentle words and diplomacy. They would only see reason in blood.
The door to the second bunk opened, prompting both Gale and Ione to look up and identify the person. Ishmael stood there, looking hardly ruffled for all the battle they'd had yesterday, his eyes calmly assessing.
“Lord Hadley is calling a meeting,” he explained, gaze traveling over Irvine's snoring form before dismissing him entirely. “We've to discuss our next move.”
Ione could feel Gale's sigh. “Thank you, Ishmael. We'll be there in a moment.”
Inclining his head in something like a nod, Ishmael dismissed himself and quietly closed the door behind him. Ione idly wondered what it would take Ishmael to bend. He was just a kid, but he acted more adult than anyone else in Theravada. Which was probably Grayshire's fault on top of everything else it had ruined in its selfishness.
“So much for a bath,” Ione muttered, unlocking her arms from around Gale and giving him space to rise.
“We'll have plenty of time for that later,” Gale answered, and cast about for his outer robe, which he must have taken off last night.
Gale was right, of course, but that didn't make Ione feel any less grimy. She needed a bath and a hairbrush and a fresh change of clothes, but she settled for pulling her hair back into a loose, if not tangled braid, and trying to smooth down the wrinkles in her mismatched outfit. Her only consolation was that, in all likelihood, no one else would look any better.
She rose from the bed, slid into her ill-fitting boots, and considered herself fit for public. Gale, adjusting the sash to his outer robe, seemed ready for the same and they left the second bunk together, Ione following Gale's lead. She had been too tired last night to really pay any attention to the hurried tour Grayson had given her, but to be fair, there really wasn't much to the Catacombs. It was neither as large nor as sprawling as Paragon, and was about as straightforward as any second base could be.
Doors lined a hallway constructed out of stone with torches set up intermittently to light the space, flickering softly as she and Gale passed. He was heading, without pause, toward the door on the far end, opposite to where Ione knew the exit the labyrinth of tunnels to be. She vaguely remembered Grayson saying something about a common room taking up the most space. Which made sense she supposed.
Gale opened the door, which was actually a narrow piece of wood bolted into a frame of wood that fit snugly into the dirt-hewn wall, and gestured Ione in ahead of him. A gentlemanly gesture that would only ensure Ione was the first everyone would see in such a bedraggled state. The thought amused Ione and she didn't argue, the low murmur of conversation the first thing to float to her ears.
It was brighter in the common room, the natural lighting of Kieran fame in greater abundance and making it almost seem like daylight streaming though windows, if there were windows to be had. It was probalby the most comfortable of rooms, divided into two sections by a long bar that cut across lengthwise, separating a cooking area from a meeting area. Wood chairs were arranged haphazardly around the meeting space, interspersed with a few threadbare couches that impressed Ione. How in Talemar had they gotten such large furniture down here?
Nearly all of the dozen or so chairs were occupied by members of the Theravada who were in no better state than Ione herself. She could see the Sergei immediately, even Sabriel. Others were present as well, such as Malcolm, Hayden, Cade and Lady Hadley. Ghaith was still lingering – a surprise to Ione who half-expected him to return to the Azuran manor the first chance he had – and Cyrus shared one end of the a couch with him. Kieran sat next to his brother, conversing in low tones, and Azriel sat in a chair next to his mother, a hurricane churning beneath the surface of his expression. It only matched the low thread of tension and unease that hung in the atmosphere.
The smell of a recent meal hovered in the air and Ione's stomach grumbled in curiosity. She smelled bread, meats and cheeses and her mouth watered for a sandwich. She flicked a gaze toward the kitchen, turning toward it unconsciously, until Gale's hand curled around hers and pulled her to one of the couches that the others had left conveniently unoccupied. Ione tried not to leave a longing gaze toward the kitchens, but she couldn't help herself. She was starving.
Azriel was the first to notice them, a thin smile on his lips as he rose to his feet. “You're making a habit out of being late, Gale,” he said, more tease than chastisement.
Ione felt just a tad smug as a touch of flush decorated Gale's cheeks, his fingers squeezing her hand as though to remind her his lateness was usually her fault.
“I'd say it won't happen again but there's no guarantee,” Gale said, a bit stiffly, but still amused as he sat down on the couch and pulled Ione along after him. If he heard her stomach growling in outrage, he chose to ignore it.
Azriel, patient as always, let a touch of light enter his eyes before he shifted into serious business. “Of course,” he agreed, and moved to the front of the room, suddenly completely at home in tattered, blood-stained and ash-soaked robes, tired and worn. “And now that we're all together, we can let this meeting begin.”
Ione frowned. Surely this wasn't everyone?
“There's no one else?” she asked, thinking of Irvine who was still asleep, and Talya who'd yet to appear. She could see a reason to leave Irvine out, but Talya? One of the founding members?
An uncomfortable silence swept through the room and Ione felt as though she'd tread on grievous ground.
It was her uncle who broke the quiet, softly clearing his throat. “If you are referring to Talya, then yes, we are it. She was killed in Grayshire's raid.”
Ione stiffened, feeling her face go pale. Expecting everyone to have escaped alive was optimistic, Ione knew this, but she still hadn't wanted to hear that someone had been killed. Not Talya, not someone who had been so vibrant and alive.
Gale's fingers squeezed hers, a silent reminder that he was there, and Ione's hand twitched, to reassure him that she knew. But still...
“Who?” Gale asked quietly.
Azriel shook his head. “A section of the escape tunnel collapsed on her,” he said. “It could have been any member of the Brigade with a talent for earth-shaping.”
“Not that it matters,” Kieran interjected bitterly, his eyes flashing with a darkness Ione wished she could reconcile with the happy-go-lucky uncle she had always none. “We don't need a single face for revenge. It's all of Grayshire we are after.”
“I want to know what happened,” Sabriel said, leaning forward and bracing his elbows on his knees. “How did Grayshire find us?”
At this, Azriel ducked his head and Ione felt an uncharacteristic urge to leap to her feet and defend him. He shouldn't have to air his personal pain to everyone, even if he was the leader.
“I'm afraid that fault is mine,” Azriel said quietly, shooting a look to Kieran whose mouth was opening in protest. “I acted hastily and drew Grayshire's attention. It was sheer luck that they haven't identified me as a member of the Theravada, and that is only because the man who could finger me is now dead.”
Grayson leaned back in his chair, hands busy with a small dagger and a block of wood – a whittler like his brother? “How do you know that?”
“Because I killed him,” Kieran interrupted, ignoring Azriel's warning glances. He was on his feet in an instant. “And I can't say I regret it.”
“It wasn't only Lord Hadley's indiscretion however,” Ghaith added with a short nod of his head. “You will recall the issue of the traitor.”
Azriel sighed, looking disappointed. “I haven't forgotten.”
“What traitor?” Sabriel demanded, and there was a glint in his eye that looked as if he demanded blood.
“Her betrayal is not one that we can punish,” Azriel explained, his shoulders sagging. “Our only consolation is that Talya did not live to see what Kalulu had become.”
Surprise swept through the meeting room. Ione sympathized. She had felt much the same when she learned that Kalulu had been the one to betray them to Grayshire. That she had helped them attempt to assassinate Kieran.
“One of the spirits?” Siobhan breathed, as though she could scarcely believe her ears. “You have proof of this?”
“From her own mouth,” Gale said, sharing a short nod with Azriel as though asking, and then being granted, permission. “She admitted a certain... wariness about Kieran and hoped she could remove his influence from Theravada. But she also claimed she did not give them Paragon.”
“Spirits don't lie. They haven't the capability,” Azriel added, and spread his hands. “Kalulu, in her naivete, thought she was protecting me. That misconception nearly cost us Kieran and Miss Ione. And it did cost us Helene.”
Ione cast a glance to Sabriel, wondering how he was taking this. Sabriel had gone completely white, his lips a thin line. The perpetrator could not have been what he expected.
“Where is she now?” Sabriel asked, voice tight and restrained.
Azriel cast him a gentle look of understanding. “Out of our reach. We are mere humans. We've not the capacity to cast judgment. Our familiars have taken that upon themselves.”
Well, that explained Fenris' absence, and pretty much every other spirit that should have been present. In fact, the only spirit Ione could see or sense was Quetz, who acted like she was physically attached to him and couldn't be separated. Ione had the impression that for a spirit, Quetz was quite young, more like a child.
Sabriel didn't look happy with this, but he couldn't argue either. The spirits thought differently than humans, they had different expectations from each other and different values. Ione knew that Azriel couldn't treat Kalulu as he would a traitorous human. Ione had always thought Kalulu little more than a child, and a part of her understood why Kalulu might have feared Kieran. With all that Ione was coming to learn about her uncle, Ione couldn't be surprised by anything anymore.
She felt as if she'd spent her entire life being sheltered from the world, despite fighting for every promotion, good grade, and position she'd gained in both the Conservatory and then the Brigade. There was so much Ione didn't know. And she hated herself for that ignorance.
“So where does that leave us?” Grayson demanded, with the same bluntness that mirrored Ryder's. “Scattered to the corners of Talemar, cowering in the Catacombs, and waiting for Grayshire to sniff us out?”
“We may be scattered, but we are alive, and we are not defeated,” Kieran snapped, eyes glinting behind his lenses.
“Indeed,” Azriel said, and there was a note to his voice, one Ione hadn't heard before. A firmness that implied there was nothing left to argue. “If Grayshire thinks they have beaten us, they are sorely mistaken. This is not our ending.”
Ishmael, who hadn't taken a seat but chose instead to lean against the bar that divided the large common room per usual, made a vague gesture. “What have you decided, Lord Hadley?”
Azriel drew up straight, shoulders back and proud. “We've waited long enough. We've baited Grayshire, and we've quietly built our ranks, and we've let them think they have us cowed. No more. It's time we prepared our final assault.”
Final assault? Ione knew nothing of this, and it seemed she was the only one. Save for her uncle, Gale, and Ishmael, everyone else appeared just as curious... and intrigued. Ione was no fool. She knew enough that the final assault was large, perhaps a strike at the heart of Meropis itself. One large battle that would end the war for good.
“What, exactly, does this entail?” Malcolm asked, keenly interested. Ione had been his friend too long to not know that look in his eyes.
“The key to Grayshire's power is the king,” Azriel explained, making vague gestures with his hand. “If we topple said king, the heads of the seven houses will collapse around him, leaving room for a new form of government.”
Cyrus blinked, utterly confused, and raised a hand uncertainly, as though they were back in the Conservatory. “Are you suggesting we kill a god?”
Kieran snorted. “No. I'm saying we should neutralize a man, a human figurehead who is no more god than I am good at brewing tea.”
“Or woman,” Gale reminded him. “Their figurehead could be a man or a woman or a child. We've no one close enough who could share such information with us.”
“Are you telling me that His Holiness is nothing more than a human? A man given status by the heads of the seven clans?” Sabriel demanded.
Gale nodded. “How else do you expect the nobles to control the population? Commoners put an absurd amount of faith into gods... more specifically, a single omniscient god who doesn't even exist.”
“Among other lies that Grayshire has fed the populace over the years, can you believe that any less?” Azriel asked quietly.
“I could almost wish it were a lie, if only to assuage my pride in believing their farce for so long,” Neorah said, her hands folded carefully in her lap. “But we must admit to ourselves that my son speaks the truth.”
Siobhan lifted a delicate hand, pressing fingers against her temple. “Then Lord Hadley is right. We can only collapse the nobles by bringing down their god.”
“Which means that our first order of business should be reconnaissance,” Malcolm said, nodding slowly as he absorbed the information. He thumbed his chin. “We'll have to return eyes and ears to Meropis. We can't do this blind.”
Azriel nodded. “Yes, Mr. Wyndham, you are correct. But we are also improperly supplied. I must admit that I was unprepared for abandoning Paragon.”
“We also need to contact the other members of the Theravada, the civilians and the fighters distributed to protect them,” Gale added, his suggestion adding to the swell of relief spreading throughout the common room. A relief borne from the understanding that there was finally something to be done, rather than desperately trying to pull themselves together after Grayshire's attack.
Ione sat back on the couch, and listened as plans were laid and decisions made, something coiling in her innards. She was more a part of this now than she had ever been. She had a stake. More than their threats to her own life, more than Ophelia's death, even more than her father's murder.
There was something seriously wrong in Meropis and no amount of diplomacy would ever fix it. The powers-that-be would never learn, would never admit that they were wrong. They would cling with clawed hands to every last vestige of power until it was wrenched from their greedy fingers. Ione couldn't hope for a peaceful end. It was going to be bloody and brilliant.
She couldn't wait.
***
a/n: And now we come to the final chapter in Whispers of Yesterday. But fear not, I've already plotted out all of Nycthemeron and started writing. I've got the first two chapters written and they just need to be edited and fleshed out. This fic will start posting sometime this year. Promise. :)
Feedback is welcome and appreciated. Now's the time to tell me what moved too fast, what moved too slow, what wasn't explained well enough, what characters are flat and uninspiring, etc. I won't be offended. I need someone to tell me what's wrong so I can fix it. Don't be shy! I crave constructive feedback.
Thanks everyone for reading and sticking with me through all of this. I never would have continued writing if not for the support of my readers.
Series: Infinity's End, Book Two
Warnings: smut, het smut, hints to slashy goodness, violence, language, character death
Description: Now firmly entrenched in the Theravada -- and firmly involved with Gale as well -- Ione discovers the hidden sides of both Grayshire and Theravada. She questions her own decisions -- and her feelings -- as the war takes on a more murderous, personal turn for the worst.
Chapter Twenty-One
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Ione dreamed of fire and ice, the flow of water and the rumble of the earth beneath her feet. She dreamed of a demolished forest and streams clogged with refuse and of darkness creeping in, until it blanketed everything in shadow. She dreamed of such things until Gale woke her when he climbed into bed, smelling of battle and sorrow and radiating a need for comfort.
It didn't take much for her to fall back asleep. The day had been long, Ione was exhausted, and Gale's heartbeat was a steady rhythm in her ears.
She dreamed again, except this time of the past. Memories of her family, memories of her father, the strongest. It was a painful reminder that Souya was gone, ruthlessly taken from her in some political move that Ione didn't care to understand. The urge for vengeance stirred in her veins, hot and thick as tar, chasing away her scruples.
Ione wanted blood. And woe to the person who dared prevent her from acquiring it.
These sorts of thoughts should have disturbed her, as much as her earlier dreams had, but they didn't. Something within her had shifted in the past months, opening up to new possibilities. In many ways, Ione regarded it as a death of her naivete, but she knew that was too optimistic. There were things the world had left to teach her and she'd be a fool to assume her lessons done.
It was almost a relief to wake an indeterminable time later, to the feel of Gale's breathing against her forehead and hair, and the rhythm of his quiescent aether. It was impossible for Ione to tell what time it was – there was no window – but she guessed it was probably mid-morning.
She sat up, careful not to wake Gale, and glanced at the other beds arranged around the perimeter of the second bunk. They were empty save for one, currently occupied by a snoring Irvine. Fenris was gone, unsurprisingly, though Ione suspected he was exploring their new home, what little space there was to be investigated at any rate. Last night, Ione hadn't paid much attention to her surroundings, too tired to do anything more than collapse in the nearest bunk. Now, she actually looked, almost wincing at the starkness that greeted her eyes.
The Catacombs – Grayson had told her their name – had none of Paragon's warmth and welcome. It was cold and empty, the walls unadorned and the floors equally so, with only the bare minimum necessary for survival for present. It had only ever meant to be a fallback plan, never a permanent home.
Ione hated that Grayshire and its nobles had been the one to drive them here.
She sighed softly and drew up her knee, resting her arm across it. Her other hand dragged through her hair, getting enmeshed in the tangles. The smell of magic and battle still clung to her like a smoke-soaked cloud. She needed a bath, and a warm meal if her protesting belly were to be believed. Ione wanted answers as well. Answers that only Ghaith could provide.
Fingers tickled at her side gently, meant to announce rather than startle. Ione shifted her gaze, finding that Gale was looking up at her, sleepy but gradually becoming more alert.
“Morning,” she greeted, thinking that he looked even younger at this moment, his pale hair almost white against the starkness of the pillow, and his cheeks smudged by the grime of battle.
“Is it even morning?” he asked, voice raspy as though he'd spent half the night inhaling smoke. And perhaps he had. Since they'd been separated, Ione wasn't sure what he'd faced.
She shrugged. “Your guess is as good as mine.”
Gale chuckled and sat up, pushing his hair out of his face. Like her, he was soaked in battle, blood stains and streaks of soot and the like. Not only did they need baths and a change of clothes, but their bedding would also have to be washed. Hell, Ione herself was still wearing the outfit she had cobbled together yesterday out of one of Gale's tunic and a tattered pair of her own breeches. Of course, whether there was anything here they could scrape together to wear was anyone's guess.
“It is hard to tell here, isn't it?” he asked, and Quetz took that moment to pop her head out of his collar.
Frankly, Ione wasn't surprised. The snake did tend to gravitate toward the nearest source of warmth, and between the two of them and all the blankets, Quetz must have been quite toasty.
“It's almosssst noon,” Quetz informed them with a sleepy bob of her head.
Ione was skeptic. “How do you know?”
“I can tell these things.” If she didn't know better, Ione would think that Quetz sounded smug. And to think, Ione had thought Aponi the youngest of the familiars. “Everyone else is up.”
“Azriel's probably waiting on us then,” Gale said with a groan and tossed the covers back. “As usual, we'll be the last to show up.”
Ione casually stretched, working out the kinks in her back from sleeping so cramped. She missed their big bed and the fluffy blankets and pillows. “They'll have to wait a bit longer. I'm not doing anything until I wash my face.”
“With cold water from the underground stream,” Gale muttered with a sigh, swinging his legs over the edge of the bunk with plans to stand.
He didn't get very far.
Ione pressed herself against his back, winding her arms around him and pressing a kiss to the back of his neck, revealed by the fall of his hair. Buried beneath the odor of battle was the scent of Gale, familiar and comforting, and Ione breathed it in. The last twenty-four hours had been terrible and she needed that small reminder.
“Ione?” His voice was soft, one hand lifting to curl fingers around her arm and squeeze gently as if to show that he understood.
She squeezed him a bit tighter. “I wasn't worried,” Ione explained, though she wasn't sure if she could put her emotions into words anyway. “I knew that Grayshire didn't have anyone strong enough to even challenge you, save perhaps Lord Wyndham himself, but I always thought my father unbeatable as well.”
For a long moment, Gale was silent, his body beginning a slow tremble. Not out of fear, Ione realized from the subtle pulses in his aether, but from something else. Something a lot like anger, that made his usual calm composure crack and bleed.
“They'll pay for that,” Gale said firmly, shifting his head against hers in a way that could only be called a nuzzle. “Among many other transgressions that have come due.”
Ione had come a long way, to find herself comforted by implied bloodshed. There was a part of her, growing smaller and smaller by the day, that shrunk back in horror at the mere thought. The part that still thought justice could be had and differences settled with talk, but it was constantly defeated by the larger part of her that was willing to see the truth. Grayshire would never learn, not with gentle words and diplomacy. They would only see reason in blood.
The door to the second bunk opened, prompting both Gale and Ione to look up and identify the person. Ishmael stood there, looking hardly ruffled for all the battle they'd had yesterday, his eyes calmly assessing.
“Lord Hadley is calling a meeting,” he explained, gaze traveling over Irvine's snoring form before dismissing him entirely. “We've to discuss our next move.”
Ione could feel Gale's sigh. “Thank you, Ishmael. We'll be there in a moment.”
Inclining his head in something like a nod, Ishmael dismissed himself and quietly closed the door behind him. Ione idly wondered what it would take Ishmael to bend. He was just a kid, but he acted more adult than anyone else in Theravada. Which was probably Grayshire's fault on top of everything else it had ruined in its selfishness.
“So much for a bath,” Ione muttered, unlocking her arms from around Gale and giving him space to rise.
“We'll have plenty of time for that later,” Gale answered, and cast about for his outer robe, which he must have taken off last night.
Gale was right, of course, but that didn't make Ione feel any less grimy. She needed a bath and a hairbrush and a fresh change of clothes, but she settled for pulling her hair back into a loose, if not tangled braid, and trying to smooth down the wrinkles in her mismatched outfit. Her only consolation was that, in all likelihood, no one else would look any better.
She rose from the bed, slid into her ill-fitting boots, and considered herself fit for public. Gale, adjusting the sash to his outer robe, seemed ready for the same and they left the second bunk together, Ione following Gale's lead. She had been too tired last night to really pay any attention to the hurried tour Grayson had given her, but to be fair, there really wasn't much to the Catacombs. It was neither as large nor as sprawling as Paragon, and was about as straightforward as any second base could be.
Doors lined a hallway constructed out of stone with torches set up intermittently to light the space, flickering softly as she and Gale passed. He was heading, without pause, toward the door on the far end, opposite to where Ione knew the exit the labyrinth of tunnels to be. She vaguely remembered Grayson saying something about a common room taking up the most space. Which made sense she supposed.
Gale opened the door, which was actually a narrow piece of wood bolted into a frame of wood that fit snugly into the dirt-hewn wall, and gestured Ione in ahead of him. A gentlemanly gesture that would only ensure Ione was the first everyone would see in such a bedraggled state. The thought amused Ione and she didn't argue, the low murmur of conversation the first thing to float to her ears.
It was brighter in the common room, the natural lighting of Kieran fame in greater abundance and making it almost seem like daylight streaming though windows, if there were windows to be had. It was probalby the most comfortable of rooms, divided into two sections by a long bar that cut across lengthwise, separating a cooking area from a meeting area. Wood chairs were arranged haphazardly around the meeting space, interspersed with a few threadbare couches that impressed Ione. How in Talemar had they gotten such large furniture down here?
Nearly all of the dozen or so chairs were occupied by members of the Theravada who were in no better state than Ione herself. She could see the Sergei immediately, even Sabriel. Others were present as well, such as Malcolm, Hayden, Cade and Lady Hadley. Ghaith was still lingering – a surprise to Ione who half-expected him to return to the Azuran manor the first chance he had – and Cyrus shared one end of the a couch with him. Kieran sat next to his brother, conversing in low tones, and Azriel sat in a chair next to his mother, a hurricane churning beneath the surface of his expression. It only matched the low thread of tension and unease that hung in the atmosphere.
The smell of a recent meal hovered in the air and Ione's stomach grumbled in curiosity. She smelled bread, meats and cheeses and her mouth watered for a sandwich. She flicked a gaze toward the kitchen, turning toward it unconsciously, until Gale's hand curled around hers and pulled her to one of the couches that the others had left conveniently unoccupied. Ione tried not to leave a longing gaze toward the kitchens, but she couldn't help herself. She was starving.
Azriel was the first to notice them, a thin smile on his lips as he rose to his feet. “You're making a habit out of being late, Gale,” he said, more tease than chastisement.
Ione felt just a tad smug as a touch of flush decorated Gale's cheeks, his fingers squeezing her hand as though to remind her his lateness was usually her fault.
“I'd say it won't happen again but there's no guarantee,” Gale said, a bit stiffly, but still amused as he sat down on the couch and pulled Ione along after him. If he heard her stomach growling in outrage, he chose to ignore it.
Azriel, patient as always, let a touch of light enter his eyes before he shifted into serious business. “Of course,” he agreed, and moved to the front of the room, suddenly completely at home in tattered, blood-stained and ash-soaked robes, tired and worn. “And now that we're all together, we can let this meeting begin.”
Ione frowned. Surely this wasn't everyone?
“There's no one else?” she asked, thinking of Irvine who was still asleep, and Talya who'd yet to appear. She could see a reason to leave Irvine out, but Talya? One of the founding members?
An uncomfortable silence swept through the room and Ione felt as though she'd tread on grievous ground.
It was her uncle who broke the quiet, softly clearing his throat. “If you are referring to Talya, then yes, we are it. She was killed in Grayshire's raid.”
Ione stiffened, feeling her face go pale. Expecting everyone to have escaped alive was optimistic, Ione knew this, but she still hadn't wanted to hear that someone had been killed. Not Talya, not someone who had been so vibrant and alive.
Gale's fingers squeezed hers, a silent reminder that he was there, and Ione's hand twitched, to reassure him that she knew. But still...
“Who?” Gale asked quietly.
Azriel shook his head. “A section of the escape tunnel collapsed on her,” he said. “It could have been any member of the Brigade with a talent for earth-shaping.”
“Not that it matters,” Kieran interjected bitterly, his eyes flashing with a darkness Ione wished she could reconcile with the happy-go-lucky uncle she had always none. “We don't need a single face for revenge. It's all of Grayshire we are after.”
“I want to know what happened,” Sabriel said, leaning forward and bracing his elbows on his knees. “How did Grayshire find us?”
At this, Azriel ducked his head and Ione felt an uncharacteristic urge to leap to her feet and defend him. He shouldn't have to air his personal pain to everyone, even if he was the leader.
“I'm afraid that fault is mine,” Azriel said quietly, shooting a look to Kieran whose mouth was opening in protest. “I acted hastily and drew Grayshire's attention. It was sheer luck that they haven't identified me as a member of the Theravada, and that is only because the man who could finger me is now dead.”
Grayson leaned back in his chair, hands busy with a small dagger and a block of wood – a whittler like his brother? “How do you know that?”
“Because I killed him,” Kieran interrupted, ignoring Azriel's warning glances. He was on his feet in an instant. “And I can't say I regret it.”
“It wasn't only Lord Hadley's indiscretion however,” Ghaith added with a short nod of his head. “You will recall the issue of the traitor.”
Azriel sighed, looking disappointed. “I haven't forgotten.”
“What traitor?” Sabriel demanded, and there was a glint in his eye that looked as if he demanded blood.
“Her betrayal is not one that we can punish,” Azriel explained, his shoulders sagging. “Our only consolation is that Talya did not live to see what Kalulu had become.”
Surprise swept through the meeting room. Ione sympathized. She had felt much the same when she learned that Kalulu had been the one to betray them to Grayshire. That she had helped them attempt to assassinate Kieran.
“One of the spirits?” Siobhan breathed, as though she could scarcely believe her ears. “You have proof of this?”
“From her own mouth,” Gale said, sharing a short nod with Azriel as though asking, and then being granted, permission. “She admitted a certain... wariness about Kieran and hoped she could remove his influence from Theravada. But she also claimed she did not give them Paragon.”
“Spirits don't lie. They haven't the capability,” Azriel added, and spread his hands. “Kalulu, in her naivete, thought she was protecting me. That misconception nearly cost us Kieran and Miss Ione. And it did cost us Helene.”
Ione cast a glance to Sabriel, wondering how he was taking this. Sabriel had gone completely white, his lips a thin line. The perpetrator could not have been what he expected.
“Where is she now?” Sabriel asked, voice tight and restrained.
Azriel cast him a gentle look of understanding. “Out of our reach. We are mere humans. We've not the capacity to cast judgment. Our familiars have taken that upon themselves.”
Well, that explained Fenris' absence, and pretty much every other spirit that should have been present. In fact, the only spirit Ione could see or sense was Quetz, who acted like she was physically attached to him and couldn't be separated. Ione had the impression that for a spirit, Quetz was quite young, more like a child.
Sabriel didn't look happy with this, but he couldn't argue either. The spirits thought differently than humans, they had different expectations from each other and different values. Ione knew that Azriel couldn't treat Kalulu as he would a traitorous human. Ione had always thought Kalulu little more than a child, and a part of her understood why Kalulu might have feared Kieran. With all that Ione was coming to learn about her uncle, Ione couldn't be surprised by anything anymore.
She felt as if she'd spent her entire life being sheltered from the world, despite fighting for every promotion, good grade, and position she'd gained in both the Conservatory and then the Brigade. There was so much Ione didn't know. And she hated herself for that ignorance.
“So where does that leave us?” Grayson demanded, with the same bluntness that mirrored Ryder's. “Scattered to the corners of Talemar, cowering in the Catacombs, and waiting for Grayshire to sniff us out?”
“We may be scattered, but we are alive, and we are not defeated,” Kieran snapped, eyes glinting behind his lenses.
“Indeed,” Azriel said, and there was a note to his voice, one Ione hadn't heard before. A firmness that implied there was nothing left to argue. “If Grayshire thinks they have beaten us, they are sorely mistaken. This is not our ending.”
Ishmael, who hadn't taken a seat but chose instead to lean against the bar that divided the large common room per usual, made a vague gesture. “What have you decided, Lord Hadley?”
Azriel drew up straight, shoulders back and proud. “We've waited long enough. We've baited Grayshire, and we've quietly built our ranks, and we've let them think they have us cowed. No more. It's time we prepared our final assault.”
Final assault? Ione knew nothing of this, and it seemed she was the only one. Save for her uncle, Gale, and Ishmael, everyone else appeared just as curious... and intrigued. Ione was no fool. She knew enough that the final assault was large, perhaps a strike at the heart of Meropis itself. One large battle that would end the war for good.
“What, exactly, does this entail?” Malcolm asked, keenly interested. Ione had been his friend too long to not know that look in his eyes.
“The key to Grayshire's power is the king,” Azriel explained, making vague gestures with his hand. “If we topple said king, the heads of the seven houses will collapse around him, leaving room for a new form of government.”
Cyrus blinked, utterly confused, and raised a hand uncertainly, as though they were back in the Conservatory. “Are you suggesting we kill a god?”
Kieran snorted. “No. I'm saying we should neutralize a man, a human figurehead who is no more god than I am good at brewing tea.”
“Or woman,” Gale reminded him. “Their figurehead could be a man or a woman or a child. We've no one close enough who could share such information with us.”
“Are you telling me that His Holiness is nothing more than a human? A man given status by the heads of the seven clans?” Sabriel demanded.
Gale nodded. “How else do you expect the nobles to control the population? Commoners put an absurd amount of faith into gods... more specifically, a single omniscient god who doesn't even exist.”
“Among other lies that Grayshire has fed the populace over the years, can you believe that any less?” Azriel asked quietly.
“I could almost wish it were a lie, if only to assuage my pride in believing their farce for so long,” Neorah said, her hands folded carefully in her lap. “But we must admit to ourselves that my son speaks the truth.”
Siobhan lifted a delicate hand, pressing fingers against her temple. “Then Lord Hadley is right. We can only collapse the nobles by bringing down their god.”
“Which means that our first order of business should be reconnaissance,” Malcolm said, nodding slowly as he absorbed the information. He thumbed his chin. “We'll have to return eyes and ears to Meropis. We can't do this blind.”
Azriel nodded. “Yes, Mr. Wyndham, you are correct. But we are also improperly supplied. I must admit that I was unprepared for abandoning Paragon.”
“We also need to contact the other members of the Theravada, the civilians and the fighters distributed to protect them,” Gale added, his suggestion adding to the swell of relief spreading throughout the common room. A relief borne from the understanding that there was finally something to be done, rather than desperately trying to pull themselves together after Grayshire's attack.
Ione sat back on the couch, and listened as plans were laid and decisions made, something coiling in her innards. She was more a part of this now than she had ever been. She had a stake. More than their threats to her own life, more than Ophelia's death, even more than her father's murder.
There was something seriously wrong in Meropis and no amount of diplomacy would ever fix it. The powers-that-be would never learn, would never admit that they were wrong. They would cling with clawed hands to every last vestige of power until it was wrenched from their greedy fingers. Ione couldn't hope for a peaceful end. It was going to be bloody and brilliant.
She couldn't wait.
a/n: And now we come to the final chapter in Whispers of Yesterday. But fear not, I've already plotted out all of Nycthemeron and started writing. I've got the first two chapters written and they just need to be edited and fleshed out. This fic will start posting sometime this year. Promise. :)
Feedback is welcome and appreciated. Now's the time to tell me what moved too fast, what moved too slow, what wasn't explained well enough, what characters are flat and uninspiring, etc. I won't be offended. I need someone to tell me what's wrong so I can fix it. Don't be shy! I crave constructive feedback.
Thanks everyone for reading and sticking with me through all of this. I never would have continued writing if not for the support of my readers.
