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The curtains had been blown wide, and Dominicus shone through the glass, casting brilliant white upon the marble floors and walls.
It was a beautiful catalyst to a very bad migraine.
It had been many weeks since the windows had been opened. The sprawling palace had become more of a sickhouse these past months, almost a year since the Lady of the Seventh House had walked the gardens she’d loved so much in her youth. But that was First House time, which she rarely paid much mind to; Cytherea had simply been driven indoors once the Seventh turned its pretty face towards Domimicus, and was awaiting the time it turned away again.
If she made it that long, that is.
Her breathing came out in wet rasps, and her fingertips were blue, as if stained with ink, but that signified a good day for someone so advanced with heptanary blood cancer. Her handkerchief was unbloodied for the time being, and her legs carried her out of bed without the aid of her crutches or rolling chair. Twenty nine years had already felt like a myriad, but the Seventh House was not yet finished with her. Thirty years with the sickness was unheard of, and if she could just get to thirty-five… what the necromancer she would be.
Her body rotted and died all around her, and from its death, she birthed miracles.
She had cured simple cases of the blood cancer, mostly in young children. She had brought people back from the brink of death, though it had always been so temporary, so fleeting. But the House ignored these triumphs that veered their people towards life, which is messy and so often ugly, but dropped to their knees in reverence at what she could do to the dead.
The Seventh had an abundance of exactly two things: roses and graves. Intricate mausoleums were made in advance of their demise, to house each prolific family, but none were as large or as elaborate as the tomb that stood in Cytherea’s own garden, waiting for her. She could recall being five, so alive and fawn-limbed, staring at the tomb and realizing that she was born waiting to die.
Her own parents were displayed in glass coffins inside, more perfect and beautiful in death than they had been in life, thanks to Cytherea’s talents.
She had taught them all more about death than the necromancers of the Seventh had for generations. She was no spirit adept, but the work she did with bodies made more pleasing hosts for revenants, and the ghosts would hang on longer to a body that was pure, unmolested by death.
Half the time they had been unaware of their own death, still reeling with the aftershocks of thanergetic release. They could relive their whole lives in those few moments in which their soul lingered in the residual power of their demise.
The sounds of battle drew her ear, as they were like to do. Cytherea loved the sound of metal hitting metal. It sang to her in a way that made her forget her migraines, even if each impact made her ears ring. She followed the echoes down the long hallway.
Both large, glass doors leading to the training room were open, and she relieved herself some by leaning against the doorframe. The cavalier primary was sparring with her secondary, swords in hand. Pardon, swords in hands . They had their sleeves rolled up, both pairs of arms straining visibly under the weight of their longswords.
The cavalier secondary was a remarkable swordsman, all form and flattery. So high on the political food chain, and united with the necromancer who was second in line to rule Rhodes, he would likely see no battle that was not stage-craft. His swordplay displayed this, with stiff shoulders and fancy footwork. His hair was becoming ruffled, though, the hairline damp with sweat, unaccustomed to such a large weapon.
The cavalier primary was a thing apart. Her tan was fading from her time spent indoors, but she had not neglected her training, and the tendons of her arms stood at attention. She was as tall as her subordinate, even with her knees slightly bent, and while she lacked some of his grace and speed, she made up for it in experience and quick wit.
She was beautiful. Her unruly, dark hair, and olive skin setting off the pink of her lips, spread taut over her teeth as she bared them to her opponent.
Cytherea would have stood there for an eternity and watched them fight. But Loveday only required a minute more before she disarmed her secondary. The sword clattered to the floor with a mighty, metallic sound.
Then they both turned their heads to the sound of Cytherea’s applause.
“A stunning display of swordmastery. The adepts of the Seventh are in such capable hands.”
Loveday gave her the most heartbreaking smile as she adjusted her grip, smugly drawing attention to herself as if to say, these hands ?
“Your cavalier seems to find new ways to best me each time we train together,” said the cavalier secondary, sounding only slightly envious. At the rate in which Cytherea was declining, he would be cavalier primary within the next two years, but he seemed to find no pleasure in the fact. His necromancer was of perfect health, and therefore measured up only to a fraction of the adept Cytherea was.
Funny how that works out.
“Is she showing off? I’ll be sure to punish her in kind…” Cytherea’s voice stuttered to a halt on the cavalier secondary’s name, a sharp pain lashing across her temple.
Loveday flashed her brilliant blue eyes at her. “You haven’t forgotten it, have you?”
“No, of course not.” Panic seized her chest momentarily, but it was overwhelmed with a cough that rattled her ribcage. Loveday rushed to her side, sword forgotten on the ground behind her, as Cytherea pulled her hand away from her mouth. Still no blood.
“You’re out of bed,” said her cavalier. “And without my help. Have I become that useless?”
“My apologies.” Cytherea took her cavalier’s arm when it was offered to her. “I will make sure to faint some time today so that you might save me and retrieve your masculinity.”
In a timbre reserved for the privilege of her ears alone, Loveday said, “As it turns out, I believe I left my masculinity in your bed.”
“I do become weak as the day goes on,” Cytherea noted. “I may need an escort to my bedroom tonight. In fact, I may need a vigil.”
“Far be it from me to neglect my Lady’s needs.” Her cavalier was a head taller than her, and therefore much faster, but she was accustomed to decreasing her normal pace for Cytherea’s sake. Loveday served as cavalier and crutch, though more increasingly the latter in recent years.
Their relationship was taboo amongst the Houses. The marriage of necromancer and cavalier was not a romantic one, and adepts were highly discouraged to take up any cavalier that they may find appealing. This often led to people being paired with the same sex, though that backfired frequently enough that it was no longer a normal practice. The Seventh was romantic, but even in Rhodes, they did not display their affection frequently, or in public settings. Or at least, they hadn’t, until Cytherea’s health took a serious turn.
After all, who can deny a dying woman her simple pleasures?
But Cytherea did not feel death looming over her shoulder. Death had apparently given her a brief respite, and she voiced her desire to walk the gardens. She had grown sick of roses in her youth, but missed them terribly as she approached the end of her third decade. Loveday humored her, and began leading her towards the large doors that led out into the yard.
Dominicus so often made itself an enemy of hers, but it produced no headache, and beneath her large, sprawling hat, Cytherea did not even feel the need to squint. Instead, she looked upon her beloved gardens with new, unpained eyes. How long had it been since she had seen the gardens of Rhodes? Those few months had felt endless. She could have wept at the simple joy of walking between the rows of rose bushes. But that would cause Loveday some concern, so she hid her melancholy.
“Have they always been so beautiful?” she asked, mesmerized.
“Yes,” answered her cavalier. “You know what he always said. Always toward absent lovers love’s tide stronger flows.”
Cytherea looked away from the flowers and towards her cavalier. “Who says that?”
“God.” Loveday’s curls were getting long enough almost to cover her beautiful eyes. They swept over her brow as she looked down at her adept.
“How would you…” But Cytherea coughed again, and this time it brought with it a vertigo that nearly swept the Lady of the Seventh of her feet. Loveday caught her with ease, and held a handkerchief to Cytherea’s face. When the coughing subsided, the white cloth was faintly pink.
Before Cytherea could reiterate her question, or Loveday could inevitably interrupt her to insist she sit down, a servant came rushing from the House, holding her skirts up with both hands.
“My Lady,” she panted. “The Emperor has asked to see you.”
At this, Cytherea promptly fainted.
-
It was far too early in the day to use her spell as an excuse for the mischief she would have liked to get up to. And there was also the obstacle of God, who was arriving at her House after visiting Rhodes, and hearing of her unique abilities.
The servants worried fretfully over her dress, and her hair, which had been tangled with leaves and fallen petals after falling in the garden.
“Leave them,” she’d insisted. “This is the Seventh, we are expected to be dramatically whimsical.” They had not listened, and she had resigned to being fretted over.
They sat her at the vanity and brushed through her curls. Cytherea had looked into the mirror and immediately decided that was a bad decision. A younger, more malnourished girl stared back, her dark eyes ringed with black, and blood coming out of her ears. She feigned a small nap as they finished. When she dared to look again, the skeletal-girl had gone.
Loveday was waiting outside of her room, in fresh clothing free of sweat, and her ornate rapier at her hip. It had never been her cavalier’s weapon of choice; she claimed it lacked sincerity. But the Emperor had insisted that all cavaliers be trained with a rapier, and so Loveday had learned, even if she had groaned to Cytherea endlessly about it in their youth.
It took twice the time it should have to reach the great room. By that time, the Lord Undying had arrived, and stood watching with rapt interest as the Duchess was lowered into her chair. He was the man who had become God, but he could have just been a man, frightening eyes notwithstanding. The cavalier primary came to stand at attention by her right shoulder.
“My Lord,” Cytherea said, bowing as low as she could whilst sitting. She should have lowered herself to the floor, but one of the few privileges of her condition was being exempt from such formalities. “I am Cytherea Loveday.”
“No,” said her cavalier. “Not yet.”
When the Duchess turned her gaze over her shoulder, Loveday was looking down at her with the most pitiful expression of empathy and sadness. Before they could say any more, God spoke:
“Didn’t Mercymorn come with me to see you?” he asked, cocking his head to the side.
“No, I don’t believe so, my Lord.”
God gave her a curious expression. “I don’t understand.”
“What?”
He spoke slowly, as if Cytherea’s faculties had been dramatically decreased. “I asked you when you began to notice an increase in your talents.”
This was how it went. This was how Cytherea unknowingly convinced God that she was the most talented necromancer Rhodes had ever produced. And when he stepped forward and asked if he could touch her, Cytherea bowed to his whim as was the only appropriate response when God asked something of you.
He pressed his fingers to her forehead in somewhat of a caress. Loveday moved minutely closer, and Cytherea could see her fist balled at her side, knuckles white with tension.
“Even without your talents, you are a walking miracle,” he said, stepping away. “One of your lungs has collapsed completely, and the other is hardly any better. I don’t know how you’re walking, let alone getting corpses to. Hell, I don’t know how you’re breathing.”
Cytherea wanted to assure him that she was breathing entirely fine. In fact, beyond her two coughing spells, she had felt marvelous all day. Of course, she had several theorems at work at all times, and the underside of her eyes were blue, but Cytherea wanted to dance, she felt so alive in the presence of her Lord and Resurrector.
“I would like to invite you to Canaan House,” said God, and it gave Cytherea quite a fright. Her vision rippled like water for a moment before settling back into clarity. “I believe we may be able to help you further.” Then God smiled, and she thought perhaps she had never seen anything so beautiful. “And in turn you may be able to teach us a thing or two.”
Cytherea did not have to consider. She so desperately wanted to live, to make that wretched mausoleum wait just a bit longer. “It would be an honor.”
Loveday had not fought the Emperor’s invitation while in the great room. But when she returned with Cytherea to assist her in packing, she looked solemn.
“You will, of course, be coming with me,” Cytherea soothed her.
“You loved Rhodes.” Her cavalier sat at the end of her bed as servants worked around her, presenting items of clothing to the Duchess for instruction. No, no, that dress is far too old. No, the lace trim irritates her skin. Yes, as many hats as you can, the First House is dreadfully bright.
“It's too late to change anything,” said Loveday. “A myriad too late, but I have to ask you not to go, anyway. This won’t help you, Cytherea. There is nothing but pain ahead of you.”
“How are you to know that, beloved?” Cytherea asked softly, and her cavalier’s face creased with exhaustion. It was an expression that was far too old for her, as if she’d had hundreds of years to be tired, to be sad. It was a very Seventh expression, and looked strange on her face. Loveday had always been far too alive for the House that flirts so wantonly with death.
The Duchess of Rhodes remembered very little of the shuttle ride. Had it taken hours? Days? Maybe it had taken as little as a minute. Cytherea did not know. Time does such awful things to memory.
The House of the First was a work of art. Cytherea stepped out of the shuttle, her small hand in Loveday’s. It was resplendent and bright, putting Rhodes to shame in a way that should have saddened Cytherea, but instead revitalized her. It felt like a beginning and an end. It felt like coming home. It was heaven made real, materialized in bright white stone, on a planet that twirled around Dominicus like it was dancing.
Stepping into the sun, Cytherea let go of Loveday’s hand, and the scent of saltwater laid itself against her tongue. The gardens were large and green, coloring the terraces that surrounded the central tower. Waves lapped at the island-palace, as if the planet were an old friend, excited to see her again. Cytherea spun on her heel, energized with excitement, a smile stretching across her face.
Her cavalier was not there. The space that their shuttle had occupied was left empty.
Cytherea called for her cavalier, but she did not come to her. For the first time since the Lady of the Seventh was a child, Loveday Heptane did not appear when summoned.
This frightened her more than anything had in her entire, long life.
Her feet carried her to the palace of the First, her dress billowing out behind her in her haste. She did not look behind her. Cytherea did not watch as the gardens withered, the fruit trees dried and the flowers died, time gaining on them as she rushed into the large atrium.
Beautiful. Enormous. Empty.
The tables were immaculate, the colorful throws inviting, but it mattered none to Cytherea. She would have welcomed any of the Emperor’s disciples, as she collapsed onto the pristine, wooden floor and proceeded to cough up what looked like a large portion of her dead lung.
Petrified by her own magic, it sat amongst a splatter of rotted tissue. The first stain of the First House. She would paint this world with blood.
Cytherea made her way to her feet, stumbling towards the closest corridor.
There was a hatch, nothing more. The room was devoid of all else, the only light shining on that metal handle. Cytherea shuffled over to it, and yanked it with the last of her remaining strength. It did not budge. The metal was cold, and it burned her fingers as she pulled and pulled.
She wanted Loveday. She yearned for God.
But John had abandoned this place long ago.
She turned, forsaking the hatch and the sins that lay beyond it, the bodies that lay at the bottom, and came to find that the corridor had disappeared. In its place was a large door. Affrighted, she scrambled up and leapt for it, hands wrapping around the handle and pulling it open.
The room was familiar, the domain of old friends she was not yet acquainted with. A wall of weapons. Two beds, one of which was occupied by a small girl with brown, curled hair that was fighting to come free from where it was tied at the back of her head. She looked at Cytherea as she approached, her inky brown eyes filled with heartbreak that only grief could cause.
“You had the choice to stop,” she said, and she was speared through by mighty barbs of bone, spraying the Duchess with her blood.
Cytherea screamed for her cavalier, lungs protesting from the effort. Her vocal chords frayed and the cry died in a gurgle of blood as the diseased liquid fell from her lips as if a dam had been broken inside of her. She spat it onto the floor and scrambled for the door.
She threw herself back into the next room, and fell face-first onto the hard floor. She hid her face in her arms and wept, unwilling to lift her eyes from the ground to witness what she knew laid before her.
A single bed. A memory of Rhodes brought to the First House, a revenant of the Seventh past. Abandoned. Defiled. Cytherea lifted her face to the room that would once house herself and her cavalier. On the wall was her final message, writ in blood; a warning from the future, the final cry of the past.
But the cavalier who stood in front of it was not her own.
She stared into those awful, brilliant eyes and wept anew. The eyes of an old friend, the eyes of an enemy-made-ally. Of a weapon, a necessary evil. The eyes of God, stolen from his holy face.
Gideon the Ninth said, “Did time make a villain out of you, Duchess? Or was it grief?”
Cytherea found her voice. “I am the holy gesture that extinguishes the flame.”
“You lied to us,” said the cavalier primary of the Ninth.
“He lied to me first!” Her arms quivered as she pushed herself off of the floor, gathering herself to stand. She was so cold. “He said that it would heal me! He said it would make me whole! I have been emptied out but made filthy.”
“You have betrayed your House.”
“The Seventh have had ten thousand years to learn mercy,” Cytherea told the child.
“You’re dying.”
At this, Cytherea laughed. It was a tired sound that reverberated in the ruins of her chest. “I have been dying for millennia.”
Gideon the Ninth unsheathed her large sword. Cytherea did not run, for her legs had failed her. She did not call for her cavalier, for she knew Loveday would not come. She strode forward, her long legs carrying her quickly to press the end of her sword against Cytherea’s breast.
The scene flickered and failed. The walls fell and the lights dimmed. The atrium spread out before her, in ruins of bone and glass. Her stage, the final act of her horrific tragedy. Reality washed over her, and the past fled, and she had no mind left to beg it to stay. The hands that held aloft the sword became small, the face paler, the eyes darker. She was half-human and half-revenant, and Cytherea knew her, as like always recognized like.
“Don’t leave me,” begged the child who held the blade to Cytherea’s dying chest, and the world should have shattered beneath the weight of such grief. But the First House had not stuttered in its rhythm for Cytherea’s loss, and it would not for this child, either. One of her dark irises fractured, and gold melted into it like day breaking through night.
Over the young lyctor’s frail shoulder, stood Loveday.
“Our flesh has failed,” she said. “This is our end. It is time to go, my love.”
Cytherea’s mouth did not move, but it was her spirit that said, “Promise that I will find you in the River.”
It was a relief when the Reverend Daughter plunged her cavalier’s sword into her heart, so it would not break when what remained of Loveday said,
“You know that you will not.”