The Strength of the Few by James Islington - 3

DEATH IS A DOORWAY.

It’s echoed too many times, in the day that has passed since I woke in the Academy’s infirmary. My father’s words. The vain comfort of a ghost.

And yet as I silently join the crowd of mourners, fingers brushing against the shape of the wooden ship in my satchel, I cannot help but ponder it once more. Cannot help but wonder again at whether his spectre really was—impossibly—more than just a conjuring of my fevered, melancholy mind.

Here and now, I have never so desperately wanted to believe something was true.

The jagged crest of the Necropolis stands tall in the west, blotting out the setting sun. Hundreds of us gather, hushed, around a pyre. It is a symbol only. Callidus’s body is already interred in the Ericius crypt. When I arrived a few hours ago, I asked to see my friend, one last time. I was told no.

Grief, thick and heavy, threatens to choke me as I stare through the crowd into the flames. I swallow it down.

“Are you going to be alright?” The burly redheaded boy standing next to me murmurs it in Cymrian. He doesn’t look in my direction, but I know he’s seen the way I occasionally sway unsteadily.

“Yes.”

Eidhin grunts. He’s one of the few not casting furtive glances at me, despite us keeping to the back and arriving unheralded. We’ve been elsewhere in Agerus since disembarking the Transvect from the Academy, just sitting and talking in the spring sun, delaying our arrival at Callidus’s rites until the last possible moment. My suggestion. Many of those present will want to speak with me about the Iudicium, but I am here to mourn my friend. Their questions can wait.

“You look like you are about to fall over.”

“Trick of the eye. Not as symmetrical as I used to be.” Flickering orange highlights the dangling, empty left sleeve of my tunic. Quips are my best defence against the hollowness of that particular loss. It still hurts. Still feels like it’s there, half the time.

Up front, silhouetted against the flames, the priest gets everyone’s attention. His voice rings out in the cold.

He makes a solemn libation of wine, and begins my friend’s funeral.

I listen despite how empty it makes me feel, aching as I wonder what Callidus would have thought of all this. There are so many people here. How many knew him? A lot are patricians, judging from their clothes—older men and women, probably a mix of Governance senators and wealthy clients of the Ericius family. Plenty of them simply eager to show support for Magnus Tertius Ericius, no doubt.

The Magnus himself stands at the front next to his wife, head bowed, his two daughters—both younger than Callidus—veiled by his side. I can see Veridius on the other side of the pyre too, a gaggle of sombre and pale-faced students alongside him. Indol, Iro, Aequa. Emissa. The latter catches my examination through the flames. I look away before she can react.

It’s not long before the priest gives way to the Tertius. It’s the first time I get a good look at the man to whom I’ve tied my fate. He’s slender, on the shorter side of average height. Walks with a pronounced limp. Still, even from here power radiates from him. As he turns to face the onlookers, I can see Callidus all too clearly in his angular features and quick brown eyes.

He starts talking of his lost son, so softly that I strain to hear him. Stories from years ago, mostly. Halfway through, he falters and chokes to a stop. Looks away as a chorus of sniffs and sobs fill the abrupt silence. I feel tears welling in response. I know Catenan funerals are seen by some as opportunities to flaunt their grief, a way to advertise the pious bereavement expected of patricians, but I don’t think this is an affectation.

I see only a father up there, still barely countenancing the idea that the son he loved is truly gone.

The Magnus Tertius soon recovers. Finishes. There’s no suggestion in his speech of downplaying Callidus’s importance to his family, nor any hint of embarrassment that he was only a Seventh in the Academy. It’s as expected, but I’m still glad, and not just for Callidus’s memory. If the Censor had moved to distance himself from his son, my hurried reasoning for getting myself assigned to him would be moot.

After him, others speak. A litany of earnest praise, half of which manages to compliment the Tertius as much as my brave, dead friend. Callidus would have found the sycophancy of it all hilarious.

The tributes continue until the last of the light has leaked from the sky. There’s a short procession to the base of the Necropolis, a few final solemn words from the priest.

And then it’s over.

I stand there for a while with Eidhin. Unspeaking. Not really knowing what to do, now. The crowd mills, a sea of low, restrained murmurs surrounding us. Many wait patiently to give their sympathies to Magnus Ericius’s family. I wonder how many just want to ensure that their presence here today is properly noted.

“Vis?”

I flinch at the voice. Turn to find Veridius standing a few paces away, his dark toga blending with the shadows. Alone, thankfully. His dirty-blond hair is, for once, neatly brushed. We haven’t spoken since he left the Academy yesterday—not since I chose to be assigned to Governance, rather than accept his offer to join him in Religion. Not since he claimed that he was trying to prevent another Cataclysm.

“Principalis.”

Veridius answers my cool greeting with a worried smile. His blue eyes are so full of concern, I can almost believe it’s real. “It seems I need to have a word with Ulnius when I get back. You shouldn’t be on your feet yet, let alone here.”

“He told me the same thing. Argued with me about it all the way to the Transvect.” Ulnius could have forced the issue—it would have been easy for him to involve the guards—but the Academy’s physician knew why I was leaving, and is a better man than that. A better man than Veridius. “I have already arranged for a physician to meet me tomorrow in Caten.” Something Ulnius did insist upon, before my departure. “I’m fine.”

“That is wonderful to hear, Vis. Such a rapid recovery is a good sign.” No trace of cynicism from the Principalis. No sign of frustration that I’ve released myself from his care. Just that genuine, caring attitude that I still find hard to believe is completely an act, even with all I know. “I am so pleased that—”

“What do you want, Veridius?” I imbue his name with impatient weariness. I’m no longer a student and in no mood for façades.

Veridius frowns briefly, then sighs and turns to Eidhin. “My apologies, Eidhin. Would you mind if I had a moment alone with him?”

My friend glances at me. “Would I?” He asks it in Common, unconcerned that the Principalis can hear. I’ve been vague about what happened during the Iudicium—partly because I’m not sure how much to tell him yet, and partly because I’m just not ready to talk about it—but he knows I blame Veridius for at least some of it.

“This won’t take long,” I assure him grimly.

Once Eidhin has moved out of earshot, Veridius steps closer. Lowers his voice, though no one is nearby. “Have you thought about what I said yesterday?” No mistaking what he’s referring to. Between that and the wooden toy ship left by my bed, I’ve thought of little else.

“I said I’d listen to what you had to say, when I was ready.” I fight a wave of light-headedness. “It’s been one day.”

“And I thought you would be bed-ridden for considerably longer than that.” Calm and smooth, his sombre-but-compassionate expression unchanging. To any onlookers, simply a mentor consoling his former student. “Your life will be in danger the moment you reach Caten. I’m trying to stop what’s coming, but there are others who I believe very much want the opposite—and if they learn of your existence, you will not be safe.” He holds my gaze. Trying to impress upon me the seriousness of what he’s saying.

“Then you and I will have to make sure we don’t tell anyone.”

“That’s not…” He exhales. “I cannot imagine what you are going through, Vis. I can’t. But I beg of you—don’t let your pain blind you to what’s really going on. You have questions, I have answers, and gods know you’re smart enough to know that you need them. When you’re ready, send word. I will arrange a Transvect to Solivagus from wherever you need.”

I press down the desire to respond with another glib comment, and nod sharply.

As much as it stings, he’s not wrong.

“Good.” Nothing visible, but there’s a release of latent tension in the softly spoken word. Veridius glances around, looks about to finish the conversation, then hesitates. “While we are talking—your friends. They have been worried about you.”

I gesture to the empty space around us. “Evidently.”

“They were desperate to come over the moment the ceremony finished,” the Principalis admonishes. “I asked them not to. I thought, today of all days, it might be more overwhelming than helpful. But if I am wrong about that, I can let them know.”

I stare at him. Not sure how to respond. He’s right. I’m not ready. Not ready to face their sympathy. Not ready for Indol’s questions. Not ready to hear why Aequa didn’t make it to Callidus at the Iudicium. And as far as Emissa is concerned… vek . Every time I think of her, I don’t even know what emotion I’m having. It’s all such a mess.

I hate that Veridius understands that, though.

“Tell them I’ll find them in Caten,” I mutter.

“I will. Don’t underestimate the tensions there right now, though. Divisions are deepening. From what I hear, you may find it awkward to speak privately with anyone outside of Governance.” Veridius smiles soberly, touching my good shoulder. Still maintaining that perfect, caring façade. “Be well, Vis. And truly—be careful in Caten, and don’t take too long to find me again. We need to start trusting each other.” He turns to leave.

My anger, stoked but suppressed until his last sentence, flares. I can’t help myself. Trust .

“Tell me, Principalis,” I call after him. “Did you go to Belli’s funeral, too?”

Veridius stiffens, almost imperceptibly. “I went to all of them, Vis.” Doesn’t look back. “I wept at all of them.”

He walks away.

Eidhin joins me again as I stare after him, my fury dying as quickly as it came, leaving only a confused smouldering. If Veridius truly is trying to stop a new Cataclysm, should I even be angry with him? I’m not sure I know anymore.

The burly boy next to me follows my gaze. There’s silence between us amidst the murmuring of the other mourners.

“He offered to free me from my father’s agreement,” he eventually says in quiet Cymrian.

I glance at him. My anger lost. Sure I’m misinterpreting, somehow.

“He said he had already gained permission. That I could have it in writing, with the Princeps’s seal,” continues Eidhin. His voice is uncharacteristically strained, brow furrowed as he watches the Principalis vanish into the crowd. “All I had to do was win the Iudicium on my own, and my people’s fate would no longer be tied to my obedience. I could do whatever I wished, and there would be no consequences for them. No Sappers.”

He finally looks across at me. “I thought the temptation would be too much. So I said no. And now our friend is dead.” Blue eyes reflect firelight and deep, deep sorrow. “I once told you that it is how they change you. One compromise at a time. That every man has to find his line, and never cross it. Do you still believe that?”

I’m still trying to formulate a response when there’s movement off to my left, and a young man I don’t recognise materialises from the darkness.

“Hail, Catenicus.” His tinted glasses, despite the night surrounding us, mark him as at least a Sextus. He’s either unaware he’s interrupting, or doesn’t care. “The Magnus Tertius wishes to speak with you.” He wheels and walks off, the implication clearly that I’m to follow.

Eidhin glowers at the retreating man, then sighs. “It is alright. Go. We can continue this later.”

I don’t move, still struggling with the enormity of what he’s just told me. I know exactly how much the Hierarchy’s agreement with Eidhin’s father weighs on my friend. Can only imagine the pull Veridius’s offer must have had.

I half turn to leave, then change my mind. Step forward and embrace Eidhin around his thick neck with my one good arm, leaning close.

“Never let them change you, Eidhin. Never. You are more honourable, more of a friend, than any man could hope for,” I whisper fiercely in his ear. “And Callidus would tell you the same.”

I release my grip on him and, without waiting for a response, hurry after the Tertius’s messenger.

The man with the tinted glasses leads me wordlessly away from the subdued crowd and the Necropolis, following the line of one of the carefully tended Eternal Fires that illuminate the valley. We’re not going to the Ericius crypt, then. Part of me had still hoped to see Callidus, one last time.

I try not to dwell on that and use the journey to settle, to clear my mind. It’s not why I’m here, but I thought this might happen tonight.

We walk for a full minute, leaving the susurrus of mourners behind. The fire to our left crackles against the silence as it allays some of the evening’s encroaching chill. Tall, shaped cypresses line the path on the right. The outlines of myriad tombstones lie beyond.

Then we turn abruptly between two trees. Stars alone light our path. Gravel crunches underfoot. My eyes adjust and, just before I can uneasily question where we’re going, I see the Magnus Tertius ahead. Sitting on a bench, surroundings unlit. Staring into the night. Even at a distance, that indefinable sense of power emanates from him.

He stands when he notes our approach. He looks young for his age. In the moment, in the dim, I almost think I see my friend.

The Magnus glances at the man who led me here, who takes it as a dismissal.

“So. Here we are, Catenicus.” Callidus’s father only speaks once we’re alone. Up close, I can see dark stubble covering his jawline. Helpless exhaustion in his eyes. Even the might of a Tertius is tempered by the haunted aspect of a man grieving.

“Magnus Ericius. It’s an honour.” Hierarchy Censor or not, I almost mean it. Callidus spoke well of his father. “And… your son. I cannot tell you how sorry I am. He was a good friend.” A quaver in my voice at that last part, despite myself. I cover it with a rough cough.

“So I am told.” Sombre, but clipped. Not here for courtesies, however heartfelt. “Tell me. Is that why you’ve decided to cause me so much trouble?”

“Sir?”

“Let us be honest with each other, Catenicus. Let us speak our truths here in the shadows while we still can. Your joining us in Governance is a coup. A coup that comes at a time when relations between Governance and Military are unsettlingly fragile. A coup that, as far as I can tell, we did not instigate.” Magnus Ericius’s expression is hard. “You are a Telimus. Catenicus. Domitor of the Academy. Military would have given you any post you asked for, and yet I can assure you that with us, you will start with no special privileges. You gain nothing and lose much by doing this. So if you have any interest in trust, any interest in advancement, then you need to tell me now—why, exactly, are we having this conversation?”

I allow my brow to furrow. Don’t answer for a long few seconds. Not because I’m surprised—I knew this, or something like this, would be coming. My answers are prepared. But it’s still better if I seem taken aback.

Eventually, I meet the Tertius’s gaze. “Because I want to know why Callidus died. And I want to make sure whoever is responsible for it, pays.”

It’s subtle, but Magnus Ericius’s gaze sharpens. “If you wished to pursue the Anguis, surely Military would have been your best option,” he says carefully.

“Yes.”

Callidus’s father studies me, then nods. Understanding in the motion. I don’t believe the Anguis are responsible for the Iudicium, at least not solely.

From his reaction, neither does he.

Interesting.

His hands are clasped behind his back. He wears his pain openly as he considers the stark white tombstones stretching away across the valley. “They tell me you were with him, at the end.”

I swallow. “I was.” My friend suddenly in my arms again, bloody and broken. Struggling for every breath. And then not.

“They say you carried him. All the way back to the Academy.” He finally looks across at me. Gaze drifting to my left side.

“He was my friend,” I remind him softly. My voice does crack, this time.

The Censor’s face twists and he glances away again, reflecting my grief. A display of vulnerability, however brief, that’s dissonant with the unnatural strength radiating from him.

“You should know as well, sir,” I recover enough to press on. “He was only in Class Seven because he was being coerced. He made a mistake, trusted one of the other students—Belli Volenis—with Census documents that showed all the recent deaths in the Iudicium. He was trying to protect her. She took them and told him that if he didn’t drop down to Seven, she would hand them over to her father.” I take a breath. “She died in the Iudicium, and the documents are safe; he got them back a month or two ago. It was just too late to improve his standing. He… he really wanted you to know.”

Tertius Ericius squeezes his eyes shut. “When he slipped so far, so quickly, I assumed there was a reason. A good reason. And if there wasn’t, that he needed a firm reminder that he was capable of more.” He shakes his head. “But I shouldn’t have told him not to join us for the Festival of the Ancestors. I wanted him to come so that I could ask what was going on, but in the end…” His face twists. Regretting past decisions. Mourning time lost that he can never get back.

Then he eyes me. Suddenly suspicious. “And the documents?”

“Still at the Academy, but safe. Hidden. As soon as I can get to them again, I’ll return them to you. No matter what happens between us. You have my word.”

“Just like that?”

“I told him I would.”

He studies me. Brow furrowed, as if I’m a puzzle to be solved.

“They’re going to isolate you, Catenicus. Wall you off from anyone and anything to do with the Iudicium, or Military, or Religion. As well as any easy access to our high-ranking senators. Including me.” He glances around. Alone though we appear to be, we both know this is too dangerous a conversation to have out here. “I understand your aims now, I think. I would like to support them. But it would be difficult to do that for a Sextus.”

Unease settles in my stomach as I absorb the implication. “Sir?” Graduating the Academy as Domitor traditionally should make me a Quintus, with everyone else from Class Three in line for a similar promotion within the next couple of years.

“You will be publicly honoured, of course. Feted for your heroism and sacrifice, as well as your achievement. Well provided for.” The Tertius says it with matter-of-fact calm. “But quite aside from their suspicion, there are many in Governance who wonder how your reduced physical capacity will affect your ability to wield Will. You will be asked to go through Placement, the same as everyone else.”

I don’t say anything for a few seconds, expression carefully neutral. Every Academy graduate has their ability to use Will assessed before being assigned to a pyramid. It’s an important process for most, a baseline measure of talent that is considered an indicator of how far one can rise in the Hierarchy.

But, we were always told, a formality as far as our initial ranks are supposed to be distributed. I’ve barely given it a thought.

Sextus rather than Quintus. Far, far easier to push me to the side. Ignore me.

I’m to be frozen out. Symbolic. Governance in name alone.

“But there is a Quintus position to be had.” Tone calm, assertive and confident. Showing none of my roiling horror at the thought. At the realisation that my injury may yet take even more from me.

“And you are still Domitor,” Tertius Ericius agrees easily. “Continue to rank highly among your peers, and none will have reason to suggest you should be given anything less than what you have earned over the past year.”

His gaze settles on me again. Meaningful.

The issue is that my missing arm is a problem. There is a physicality to wielding Will. We’ve been taught over and over that the more hale the body, the easier it becomes. And, naturally, the inverse.

The Tertius moves on. “I cannot linger, but I am glad to have met you here tonight. Thank you for what you’ve told me, Catenicus. I see now why my son called you friend. Know that you have at least one more in Caten.” He dips his head in farewell, respect in both words and motion. “Stronger together. I look forward to speaking more, once you have been through your ceremony.” He starts with a brisk, ungainly gait back along the path toward the distant Eternal Fire.

“Ceremony, sir?” I call after him.

He throws a puzzled glance over his shoulder. “At the Aurora Columnae? You cannot go through Placement if you can’t use Will, Catenicus.” He chuckles humourlessly at the absurdity of the notion as he turns away again.

I watch him limp back toward the fires, the night cold around me, air smelling faintly of smoke. Of course. I hadn’t forgotten, exactly, but these past few hours had pushed it to the back of my mind. The giving up of the one part of me I’ve kept sacred, all this time. The last, irrevocable step in my becoming part of the Hierarchy.

The line I swore I would never cross.

Stars glimmer above the shadowy mountains. Only the silence of the dead keeps me company. I could still disappear. Right here, right now. Just… not go back. It’s probably my last chance.

But like every other time I’ve had the thought since waking yesterday, I know it’s a choice in name only. I’m done with running.

I square my shoulders. Set myself toward the looming black of the Necropolis.

Follow the Magnus Tertius into the darkness.