Chapter Forty-Two: 777
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[18:30]
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Mujir's Resistance marched on Quatroc. They marched through the lonely streets, then through the slowly occupied market, and finally right up to the gates of the Holy City. In every street, their numbers grew. Thousands of women—Quatroc women, and the ones who had been brought along for the festival. The MR fighters, of course, every one of them who could be in Quatroc. The priests' girls, the ones who took vows, and the ones who would have given up if not for their burning hatred. At the front of the veiled assembly rode Geneva and her leaders, with the Kavishka and the Klis girl just behind.
Not since before Rafintair's coronation had such a group of women passed the Holy City's walls.
On 777—Pucijir's triumphant anniversary—an army of them marched through the gates and into the courtyard. The four guards were no hindrance.
A feast had been set up in the enormous courtyard. Priests, fathers, husbands, sons, and brothers turned to see what was happening in their world.
When no more of Mujir's army could fit into the courtyard, Geneva Tal removed her veil. "The day has come," she proclaimed in a ringing voice, "for the injustices of Pucijir's Order to end. We are not leaving the centre of Pirese operations until the bloodthirsty emperor has been removed; until your murderous god and worse disciples have been debased. So say we all."
Every woman removed her veil.
The war began.
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Fewer men fought than Miko had expected. At first, of course, most of them froze in shock, and stared as if the women charging had sprouted ten heads each. When the first wave of violence crashed upon them, many of the men simply ran, not resisting at all. More than a few men stood and joined the fighters. These men were quick to tear tie one of the discarded veils around their right arm. Then the battle hitched up a notch, and Miko stopped thinking about the men on NLY.
Rafintair's army was, of course, mostly on its rampage toward the MR headquarters, so they had a little time before the battle turned ugly. Until then, there were enough Holy Brothers and Pirese faithful to make this difficult.
Maximum damage while you can, he reminded himself as he launched into a group of infuriated Holy Brothers. Beyond them was the main entrance to the Pirese temple. If things didn't go according to plan (and when did they ever?), he and Krista had agreed that the temple could work just as well as Rafintair and his bodyguards.
Just about anything would do, today. Anything, so long as it progressed beyond what currently existed.
Miko fought for the future.
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Krista fought because they had given her hat hair. Well, that and of course freedom and equality and blah, blah, blah. But she got really mad because their veils gave her hat hair. And apparently they had something against her pretty blond hair; they kept trying to push it (and her) into the ground. Jerks.
Jerks, she realized with a frown, who had managed to surround her. How had she found her way into the middle of this one? Miko and Dejah, too, she noticed as she chanced a quick look around. Shouldn't they be advancing more quickly? Prophecy, and all?
Well, at least she wasn't bored. That'd be worse. Probably. Unless she could not have the hat hair, then maybe…
Her eye caught something seconds after the Force spiked in warning. "Oh, no, kriff it—" She had to sidestep, then duck, and lash out once, twice, behind her again. Another few side steps, and some fancy footwork besides, however, and she had the perfect (or workable) spot to shoot one of Miko's attackers in…the shoulder. She scowled as the man (one of the priests, maybe? He had training) snarled and kept fighting. Kriff.
That was four guys focused on Miko, and all of them in close quarters. Completely unacceptable. Krista always had the most dance partners at the parties. Certainly more than Miko had.
It took her a few minutes to get closer and dig something pointy (she liked the long dagger Dejah had lent her) into the back of one of the closest Pirese guy. "Can I cut in, boys?" She smiled brightly when Miko and two of the bad guys turned to look at her. "Hi!" she chirped, then twisted the knife in the one guy, who was still (barely) standing upright. He fell over. Boys—no stamina.
"I can handle this, Kris," Miko said. They had to all but shout to be heard properly by each other.
She took a blow to her shoulder, grimaced, and kicked her attacker. "I don't care how much you think you've changed, Miko. You aren't ready for a foursome."
"I blush once, and get saddled with a bodyguard? How is that fair?" He grunted; he swung his lightsaber at one priest's middle.
"Well, throw in a prophecy of doom, and you'll be stuck with me forever. You haven't had any of—" she kicked out at a man behind her, "those, have you?" Two down, now, but Krista's current dancing buddy was being…annoying. Stubborn. Stubborn streaks were unforgivable in a man, as far as Krista was concerned. Well, except for Miko. But he was just so cute when he indulged in the stubborn nature he had inherited from his master.
Oh, gods. No. Not cute. Not—
Generally speaking, it wasn't a good idea to take one's eyes off one's opponent mid-battle. It was, like, dangerous and stuff. But someone distracted Krista, so it wasn't really her fault.
She didn't notice at first, fighting bad guys and trading barbs (okay, flirting) with Miko as she was. But eventually, a certain MR fighter came close enough to nearly stumble into Krista. More than "nearly" stumbled, actually, as she sprawled and caused Krista to momentarily lose her balance. "It's too early to be drinking mid-battle," the blonde said as she tried to repair the damage. "Are you ok— Veras?" Which was when she stopped focusing on her sword-bearing opponent. Or looking at him, even. Instead, Krista stared at Braun's not-dead wife. "We thought you were… Does Braun know—? Oh my gods. How—"
"Krista!"
The blonde's attention snapped back to the fight at Miko's panicked cry. "Whoops," she muttered, just as a sword came hurtling toward her head.
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The emperor had three daughters for the anniversary's sacrifice. He supplemented the number with four women who had long been under vows. Each of them had some royal blood—Pucijir deserved the best; it was the only reason Rafintair ever regretted his lack of daughters.
The emperor bestowed upon the others a feral smile. "Bring in our Executioner."
Gru'loq Whilem's son was more green than not, but the family had a tradition. Gantik had been raised for this. Pucijir appreciated family loyalty. Gantik was the right choice for today.
They built a fire in the centre of the chamber, where the greedy flames would be able to lick at the bare feet of the sacrifices. None of them were quite stupid enough to flinch away from the heat. Well, not yet. Rafintair had seen more than a few sacrifices change their mind. And there was always one who fought at the last moment. Despite these whimpers and winces, Mujir hadn't made any significant struggle in years. Not since the traitor, Jarran Klis, even—although the daughter's bloodiness had been irritating.
At midnight, these women would die—the finale of an hours-long, centuries-old tradition. Fire and exorcism and prayers and power…and Mujir's final death.
He looked around him at the Holy Brothers and sacrifices before his eyes settled on the Executioner. "Let us begin."
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Krista dropped to the ground, but even that and her twist to the side only just avoided decapitation. The blade glanced off her right shoulder—and before she could formulate another plan, a second attacker joined the first, and another defensive move couldn't stop a sword from going through her left shoulder. She gasped at the pain, and couldn't stop a small cry. "Force damn—" She had been rising to her feet, but stumbled and fell now. The dagger fell from her left hand as she struggled to get past the pain.
Before she could summon her strength, a blur of Veras darted between Krista and her attackers. Miko-blur joined Veras-blur only seconds later. Miko's blue lightsaber flashed several times, and by then Krista's eyes were just wide enough that she could make out details like his floppy red hair and worried blue eyes when he crouched in front of her.
"You have to get back up," he insisted, shouting to be heard over the chaos. Then, almost belatedly except he was too worried for her to believe that, "Are you alright?" He stood again, pinning one eye on the mêlée. Veras stayed close, fighting but aware enough not to trip over them.
"Ow," Krista said, weakly trying to pass it off as a joke.
He didn't hear her, but must have grasped the basic concept; he tried to summon up a grin. He helped Krista to her feet, and manoeuvred her left arm close to her body. "Can you manage?"
She was about say to say of course, but then the army arrived, and women started dying.
Of course Krista could manage. And she'd do it with an eye chained to Miko. She was getting used to it.
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Sanar was pretty sure that Kyp was deliberately getting in the way of her attackers. Granted, his devotion was sort of…sweet, but Sanar did have a lightsaber. She even mostly knew how to use it. He could justify being the one to finish people off because of the Sildar, but otherwise he had to leave her some of the fighting. They ought to have a long talk about that—later, of course. But still.
They were almost to the front of the palace now, along with Braun and Geneva. The emperor's last line of outside defence was more than a handful of Pirese priests and adepts, while the army pushed from behind. Eventually, even Kyp had to focus on his own fight. Sanar felt it immediately.
Kyp's borrowed lightsaber allowed her to cause maximum damage, but Holy Brothers were neither cowardly nor incompetent in the face of pain. The lightsaber cauterized wounds, which made it less messy. The men who fought against Sanar Klis quickly deduced that—as unpractised as she was with her dangerous blade—numbers were a useful equalizer. Sanar fixed her eyes on the palace—Rafintair and Prophecy and her fate waited—and kept fighting.
She aimed Kyp's lightsaber higher and drew it longer—as long as she could without harming herself. Two went down in front of her—a decapitated head bounced, and another man died just as quickly with his chest cut open. Three more took their place, and one of them was behind her. She kicked out at the one more to her right, and skipped to avoid a sword's arc at her left leg. It more than nicked her anyway, but Sanar grit her teeth and pulled strength from every one of Horaire's beatings.
Niftyax, he had named her.
Niftyax, she snarled in agreement, and fought harder.
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Isra waited in the shadows just outside the Holy of Holies. If Rafintair saw her even here, he would probably have a fit—she wasn't even supposed to know where it was. The emperor's former favour had been crushed by his resentment that she had not fought tooth and nail to avoid Gaffil's plans for her. Of course, if he did for some reason come out, Isra would take it upon herself to start the Kavishka's work, and finish Gaffil's plot…whatever the cost she would most certainly have to pay.
Isra could do that.
The spy thought she might rather that the Kavishka come and prove Mujir true once and for all.
Isra waited.
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When Kyp struck down his immediate opponent, he took a step back, and realized that he had fought his way to the front door of Rafintair's castle. He darted back into the fray for a moment (or several) to help bring Sanar through the entrance. They made a mess of Pirese devotees and blood between them. The Sildar killed each of Sanar's surrounding opponents.
Good blood vengeance, the Sildar whispered, but it was different now.
It was different because: Shut up a bit, would you? Kyp demanded. I'm trying to concentrate. And the Sildar…listened.
The Sildar listened, and sank deeper into Kyp so that it no longer felt foreign and awkward. Nothing—not even Kyp's hands—burned as he fought with the Sildar. Not this time.
I love you, Sanar had told him. And the Sildar had believed her.
The Kavishka fought for vengeance and retribution and long-repressed violence, but more than a small part of Kyp Durron was still savouring Sanar's confession.
I love you.
And this time he thought she might not even run. Well, much. Okay, comparatively. He would make it work.
First, though, Rafintair. Kyp had struggled to put everything ahead of himself since Carida; he could do it for one more night.
When he pulled Sanar into the palace, Kyp caught sight of a group of people—Geneva and Braun among them—turning a corridor in the distance. He was pretty sure Geneva was supposed to wait for him; he was also completely certain that Geneva Tal didn't believe a word of Prophecy. She wasn't thinking about the Kavishka right now.
Kyp and Sanar raced down the hallway while the others could still be followed. Kyp wondered absently what Prophecy would do if he simply got lost and couldn't find Rafintair in time. Wouldn't that be an anti-climatic ending to 777? Perhaps he would get a time extension? Would there be late fees?
"You could try concentrating," Sanar interrupted his thoughts. She was uninjured as far as he could see, but blood had sprayed across her face, and smeared on her knuckles. As the couple began to slowly close the gap between them and Braun, she pushed back the sweaty hair that had escaped her ponytail. The grin she sent him, however, was as teasing as any of the good moments of before, but brighter. He could have kissed her right then and there.
"What?" he said, breathing a little harder than he'd like to admit. "Concentrate, and finish this in three minutes? Where's your sense of the dramatic?"
"Hurry up," Braun snapped over his shoulder. He had finally looked back to see who was following, and had slowed his pace a little so that they could catch up. "Right now? Not a great time for flirting. Try later."
Sanar rolled her eyes, and ran faster. Kyp followed her lead.
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Isra waited. Waited as Geneva approached and gave her a cursory look. Waited as the others sketched their plan a last time. Waited as her leader turned to pin her with a hard, expectant stare
Isra waited for the Kavishka.
When he came, he was shorter than she had expected. She had built the Kavishka up almost as a giant in her mind (Gaffil would laugh at her if he knew). His colouring wasn't Na'Lein, though his hair colour was close to that of the Jir brothers. His eyes were very green, a shade she hadn't seen before. A familiar woman ran beside him—Sanar Klis, even, Isra realized with a start. How unexpected.
"Isra," Sanar gasped as she came to a halt in front of her. "Larifx. How are you?"
"If your boy succeeds, wonderful," Isra replied, eying the Kavishka. "So ask me in the morning." To Isra's amusement, she had read the situation correctly; Sanar flushed, but did not protest about the Na'Lein saviour being "her boy." How very unexpected.
"I'll do my best not to disappoint you," the Kavishka said in a foreign accent. "But then perhaps you should let us in?"
Isra smiled, her eyes gleaming, and nodded. "I…" and she thought briefly of Gaffil, "present the key to your confrontation with Rafintair."
Gaffil's key was lighter than the original, but it had hung heavy against her breast every moment since Gaffil's death. Finally, she was able to remove it from her neck. The key was made of clay, but redder in colour than it really should be. Isra preferred not to think about why.
She freed her neck of the chain, and caught the key in her full grip. When she lined it up properly, it clicked in place.
Isra inhaled deeply. She remembered Gaffil, and prayed the Mujir-damned warftha hadn't been stupid enough to play her this one last time.
And then she turned the key.
The door opened just a little. Enough. "I give you Rafintair," she told the Kavishka. Then Isra left to rejoin her sisters.
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Silence fell as Rafintair gave Gantik Whilem the sacred dagger. Gantik glanced at it nervously. It occurred to him that he recognized it—this was almost definitely the dagger Sanar had used to kill Horaire. A blade for killing the innocent and the executioner, he thought. And executioners?
Possibly.
"We begin with the markings," Rafintair intoned. "To portray these unworthy as what they could be with Pucijir."
Markings. Gantik wondered if Sanar appreciated how she had "marked" Horaire with a sacred knife in the heart. He wondered how—or if—Rafintair had considered the irony.
"Purify the weapon, High Priest." Rafintair gestured to Ethin, the priest who had replaced Horaire.
Gantik decided he would kill this man the same way Sanar had Ethin's predecessor. Gantik held the dagger, flat on his palms, closer to his future victim.
Ethin's eyes fairly glowed in anticipation—this was only his second go at this. His fervid devotion still outshone his arrogance, if only by a little. He raised his arms, slightly slanted over Gantik and the dagger. "Your markings, Pucijir," the priest proclaimed. "May the women be worthy of them. May your fist be with Your Executioner this holy night."
Gantik bowed just as he was supposed to, but deference was the last thing in his heart. When he came back up, it was to push the dagger right through Ethin's heart. "So say we all."
Ethin died more quickly than Horaire had. His face hadn't even changed from shock to fury before he fell. Rafintair's expression did.
And then Sanar and the Kavishka were there.
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