Ash: A Secret History (138 page)

“How? No: tell me later.”

The boards beneath her knees brought pain, focusing her.

“Tell me what troops she’s got deployed here. What recent messengers she’s had from the armies in Iberia and Venice. And how strong she is in the north – I know she had another two legions with her when we were at Basle: they
must
be in Flanders!”

–
I … can tell you what reports have been made to the
machina rei militaris,
I think.

Ash bowed her head, her hands still tightly gripping the hands of the man in front of her; her eyes closed.

“And… I have to speak with the Wild Machines, if I can. Will you stand by me?”

There was, for the first time, a hiatus in her mind. His sadness suffused her. Godfrey Maximillian’s voice sounded, soft as thistledown:

–
When I was a boy, I loved the forests. My mother vowed me to the Church. I would have stayed under the sky, with the animals. I loved my monastery no better than you loved St Herlaine, Ash, and they beat me as they beat you, brutally. I still do not believe God intended me for a priest, but He gave me the grace to perform small miracles, and the gift of being in your company. It was worth it. On earth, or here, I stand with you. If I regret anything, it is only that I could not gain your trust.

The
it was worth it
she shoved into a dark part of her mind, wiped out, ignored. A tight, cold ball of muscle knotted under her breastbone. Before she could lose the courage and the warmth of him, she said, “Visigoth troop dispositions, siege of Dijon, main units, give position.”

The
machina rei militaris,
in Godfrey’s voice, began to speak:

–
Legio VI Leptis Parva, north-east quadrant: serf-troops to the number of
—

‘
IT IS SHE
…’

The same silence that had blanketed her mind among the pyramids of the desert numbed her. For a second, she lost the feel of the boards under her shins, and the grip she had on Digorie Paston’s hands.

“Son of a bitch—” Ash opened her eyes, screwing up her face. Richard Faversham held her shoulders; Digorie Paston her hands. As far away as if they had been at the other end of a field of combat, faces surrounded her: Anselm, Angelotti, Floria.

She gripped Digorie’s bony hands. “Godfrey!”

Nothing answered. A chill inside her mind began to spread. She reached into herself, meeting only numbness, deafness.
They can reach this far, then.

Christ, all the way over the seas from Carthage; across half of Christendom…! But the Stone Golem can, so why shouldn’t they?

“Godfrey!”

Faint as a dream, Godfrey’s voice whispered:

–
I am here, always.

‘
IT IS SHE
.
IT IS YOU
,
LITTLE ONE
…’

It is not enough, now, that there are men and women – Thomas Rochester, Ludmilla Rostovnaya, Carracci, Margaret Schmidt – whose lives may be rescued or ruined by her decisions.

She thinks,
No one is indispensable.

Now it is Ash, a woman, alone, after nineteen years; kneeling on hard wood in a cold wind, with the searing flicker of the hearth-fire hot on the sleeve of her doublet. A woman who prays, suddenly and separately, as she has not done since she was a child:
Lion protect me!

She recalls painted plaster crunching under the hooves of a brown mare, in snow, in the south, riding between the great pyramids. If she is numbed, now, it may be with silence or with cold. The voices in her head – and they are plural, multiple, legion – whisper as one:

‘
WE KNOW THAT YOU HEAR US
.’

“No shit?” Ash said, mildly acid. She let go of the priest’s hands, her eyes still shut, and heard his gasp of pain released. She sat back on her heels. There is no compulsion to stop performing any of these acts. In utter relief, she says, “But you can’t reach me. I could be anywhere.”

‘
YES
.
YOU COULD BE
.
BUT YOU ARE IN DIJON
.
GUNDOBAD
’
S CHILD TELLS US SO
.’

“I don’t think so. Told the Stone Golem and House Leofric, maybe. But not you. She won’t listen to you.”

‘
THAT IS NOTHING
,
SHE WILL
HEAR
,
WHEN THE TIME COMES
,
LITTLE ONE
,
LITTLE ONE
;
STOP FIGHTING US
.’

“In a fucking pig’s ear!”

It is pure mercenary, mercenary as she has always wanted to be seen: foul-mouthed, cheerful, brutal, indestructible. If anything else is under the surface, it is hidden even from her, now, in this adrenalin-rush.

“You’re not Wild.” Tears dripped down her face: and she could not have said whether it was pain or painful humour that put them there. “We
made
you. Long, long ago – by accident – but it was us, we made you. Why do you hate us? Why do you hate Burgundy?”

‘
SHE HAS HEARD
.’

‘
SHE HAS SHARED
.’

‘
KNOWN WHAT WE KNOW
.’

‘
LITTLE AS WE KNOW
.’

‘
KNOWN THE BEGINNING
,
BUT WHO KNOWS THE END
?’

What had been chorus became, with the last voice, a braided sound. Sorrow keened in it. Ash blinked under the power of it, momentarily saw the flames in the hearth and the blackened stone chimney behind, burned with the fires of centuries. Where the fire had been fierce, a piece of stone had cracked and fallen away. The pattern of fracture remained.

In her memory, Ash sees the dome of the King-Caliph’s palace fracture and fall, the weight of stone hurtling down.

‘
WE KNOW THE END
…’

‘
THE VILENESS OF FLESH
!’

‘
LITTLE VILE THINGS
,
NOT WORTHY TO LIVE
—’

‘—
BECAUSE OF YOUR EVIL
—’

Pressing her fingers into her palms so hard that her nails penetrated the skin, Ash gasped, sardonically, “Don’t let two hundred years of listening to Carthage prejudice you!”

There is something that may be rueful amusement – Godfrey? And a soul-deafening, icy babble in her mind:

‘
CARTHAGE IS NOTHING
—’

‘—
THE VISIGOTHS
,
NOTHING
—’

‘
GUNDOBAD SPOKE WITH US
,
LONG BEFORE THEM
—’

‘
VILEST OF MEN
!’

‘
WE REMEMBER
!’

‘
WE REMEMBER
…’

‘
WE WILL BURY YOU
,
LITTLE THING OF FLESH
.’

The last reverberation in her head made her wince, taste blood where she bit her tongue. She said aloud, not seeing the people around her, “Don’t worry. If they
could
move the earth here, they would. If they’re not doing it, they can’t.”

‘
ARE YOU SO SURE
,
LITTLE ONE
?’

Chills ran down the skin under her clothing; she thought, with appalled disgust, ‘
Little one’: that’s what Godfrey calls me; they’ve taken that from
him.

“Something’s stopping you,” she said aloud. With a fierce sarcasm, she spat, “According to you, the Faris doesn’t
need
an army! She’s Gundobad’s child, she’s a wonder-worker; she can make Burgundy into a desert just like that. All you have to do is pray to the sun, and
bang!
there you are. One miracle. So
why
haven’t you done it?
”

With that vehemence, she instantly focused herself – finding the same interior state that she finds when she handles a sword – and
listened.

Instantly, she grunted with a soundless impact. Her mouth stung. She put her hands up, opened her eyes; saw blood, realised she had bitten her lip. Someone said something abrupt, beside her. She could say nothing, only jerk her hand, wave them back. She felt at once winded, and numb; as she felt when she first learned to ride. It is that split second between hitting the ground, and pain. She froze.

Physical pain did not come.

‘
YOU CANNOT HEAR US
.
NOT IF WE CHOOSE
,
YOU WILL NOT SURPRISE US AGAIN
.’

“Shit, no.” Ash rubbed her hand across her mouth, feeling blood slick on her skin. “No,
sir.
”

‘
WE DO NOT UNDERSTAND YOU
.’

“No. You don’t. Join the fucking club,” Ash said bitterly.

There was no feeling in her of their puzzlement or confusion. Only the interior sound of the voices. Her blood dried cold, pulling on her skin. She probed it tenderly with her tongue, thought,
That’s going to hurt,
and swallowed blood and saliva before she said, “You can’t keep me out for ever.”

Nothing.

“What does it matter if you tell me? It’s
already
getting cold. You’re drawing down the sun, and it’s getting cold, where you are. Pretty soon you won’t need the Faris here. Or a miracle! The winter will kill us all.”

Again, voices in unison:

‘
WINTER WILL NOT COVER ALL
.’

“Godammit!” Ash hit her fist against her thigh, exasperated. “Why is Burgundy so
important
to you?”

‘
WE CAN DRAW DOWN THE SUN
’
S SPIRIT
—’
⁸

‘
USE ITS POWER
,
WEAKEN
,
BRING DARKNESS
—’

‘
DARK
,
COLD AND WINTER
—’

‘—
BUT
—’

‘
WINTER WILL NOT COVER ALL THE WORLD
.’

Ash opened her eyes.

Robert Anselm knelt in front of her, one hand steadying his hilt. Behind him, Angelotti had his hand on Anselm’s mailed shoulder. Both of them stared at her. Floria squatted between the two priests, resting her arms on her thighs, her long fingers almost touching the floorboards.

‘
WINTER WILL NOT COVER
—’

‘—
ALL
!—’

‘
DARKNESS WILL NOT COVER ALL THE WORLD
.’

“In nomine Patris, Filii, et Spiritus Sancti,” Richard Faversham said in a hoarse, high whisper.

Ash repeated, “‘Darkness will not cover
all the world
’…?”

She did not shut her eyes, could still see them all, but the sound of great voices in her head blasted her attention away from the tower room. A vast, cold sorrow almost drowned her:

‘—
WINTER MAY KILL ALL THE WORLD
,
BUT FOR HIM
.’

‘
DARKNESS MAY COVER ALL THE WORLD
–
BUT FOR HIM
.’

‘
WE CANNOT REACH
—’

‘—
BURGUNDY DIES AT HER COMMAND
,
ONLY
—’

‘
SHE WILL DESTROY BURGUNDY
.
OUR DARK MIRACLE
.
AS SOON AS THE DUKE DIES
.’

“All the world,” Ash said. “All the world!”

‘
WHEN IT IS GONE
—’

‘—
MADE DESOLATE
,
MADE A DESERT
—’

‘
WHEN IT IS NOTHING
:
BURGUNDY DESTROYED
,
AS IF IT HAD NEVER BEEN
—’

‘
THEN EVERYTHING
—’

‘
ALL THE WORLD
—’

‘—
CAN BE CLEANSED AND PURE
,
ALL THE WORLD
—’

‘—
FREE OF FLESH
;
VILE
,
DESTRUCTIVE FLESH
;
FREE
—’

‘
AS IF YOU HAD NEVER BEEN
.’

The surge and ebb of the great voices drained away. The floorboards shifted under her feet— no, were solid, but she lost balance and fell back and sat on her rump, Richard Faversham catching her, so that she sprawled up against him, his blacksmith’s arm around her shoulders.

A numb, desolate silence filled her soul. Into it, no voice came. No Godfrey. A white and deathly tiredness filled her.

“Did you pray?” she asked.

“To cast out the voices.” Faversham’s body shifted as he nodded his head. “To cast the demons out of you.”

“It may just have worked…” She snuffled, not knowing quite whether she would laugh or cry. “Godfrey, Godfrey.”

Softly, in her mind, his voice spoke:

–
I am with you.

“Son of a bitch.” She reached up to thump Digorie Paston on the arm. “Exorcism isn’t going to do it. No. And I don’t even know if it matters, now—”

She found her gaze fixed on Floria’s face.

“What?” the surgeon demanded. “
What?
”

“Burgundy isn’t an objective,” Ash said. “Burgundy is an obstacle.”

Robert Anselm growled, “What the fuck, girl?”

She stayed resting against Faversham’s solidness because she doubted her ability to sit up on her own. A fever ran through her body; all her muscles weak.

“Burgundy isn’t the objective. Burgundy is the
obstacle.
” She looked up at Robert Anselm’s sweating face. “And I don’t know why! They’ve kept saying they must destroy Burgundy – but it isn’t because they just want
Burgundy
wiped out. After Burgundy’s gone…”

A shudder went through her flesh; weakness at some deep level better not examined, better ignored. To her own surprise, her voice came out harsh and amused:

“It’s
us
they want to be rid of. Men. All men. Burgundy – Carthage, too. They’re … farmers who’d set fire to a barn to get rid of the rats. It’s why they want their ‘evil miracle’. After Burgundy’s gone – they say,
then
they can make their darkness cover the whole world.”

V

Ash added, “I have to see the Duke! Right now!”

Floria, holding a candle up uncomfortably close to Ash’s face, ceased peering into her eyes and focused instead on her. “Yes. You do. I’ll go ahead and clear it with his physicians.”