I wake to Sholanan’s breath warm on my cheek. A smile finds its way easily to my face, and I pull her tighter against myself, relishing how delicate she feels against me. Such pretty things I’d whisper to her if not for my vow. I’ll protect you, sister. I’ll continue to guide you, as I did in Purgatory. Just stay close to me.
She nuzzles into the crook of my neck. Again I wish I could swallow her. Keep her and her sweetness with me always. I settle for planting a light kiss on her brow. She stirs a little, before settling into me again. I would never question my Queen’s plans or methods, but it does feel cruel to put such a soft creature on a battlefield.
Sholanan stirs again.
I brush a hand through her hair, looking to ease her. Then I start as I feel something pull away from the back of her head. My eyes pop open to find Brea standing over us, her attention fixed on Sholanan.
Setting my chin atop Sholanan’s head, I glower up at Brea. Our new sister squirms but I hold her still. Brea has already done so much to draw our Queen’s favor away from me. She cannot have this as well. Yes, the Virtues are one sisterhood, but it isn’t all equal. Brea didn’t go to Sholanan in Purgatory to nudge her towards enlightenment. She didn’t have what I had with Sholanan last night.
Undeterred, Brea locks her eyes with mine as she leans down and gives our new sister a peck on her shoulder. Something volcanic wells in my chest. I reach up to shove her face away but she backs out of my reach, that horrid little grin on her face, why is she always grinning? Sholanan squeaks at the sudden violence of the motion, manages to look over to see Brea. She perks up a little. It’s like shrapnel in my guts.
Blood in the water. Brea smells it at once.
She pads over, all her focus on our sister nestled between us. Sholanan, so pliable, squirms in my grip. Brea, smiling like the cat about to catch the canary, reaches towards her. Two fingers extended, lowering to Sholanan’s lips. She watches them come. Then, with the same confused submission she allowed me to explore her with last night, she opens her mouth, looking up to Brea for approval.
I erupt. Crawling over Sholanan I grab at Brea’s arm, she’s too close to pull away in time. Nails digging into her forearm, a growl claws up my throat and leaves my mouth as a gnarled word: “Mine.”
Everything turns to glass. Brea even stops smirking. My anger is snuffed out and replaced with something cold. Sholanan glances between us, lost as ever.
I’ve spoken out of turn. I’ve blasphemed. Brea is all smug bliss again. Wresting her arm free, she ignores the red scratches I’ve left in her skin and reaches again for Sholanan. She meets my eye, an ultimatum there. Let me play with her, or I’ll reveal your sin.
An angry, impotent tremble runs through me. What choice is there? I can’t incurring risk my Queen’s wrath now. I back down, but band my arms around Sholanan’s waist. Making it clear she is still mine, and that Brea’s time with her will be limited. Our new sister looks down at my embrace, narrowing her eyes as she tries to make sense of the power struggle she’s suddenly at the center of.
Brea strokes her cheek, drawing her attention, before brushing her fingertips against those pink supple lips. I bury my face in Sholanan’s hair and squeeze my eyes shut. But nothing can block out the damp sounds of Brea slipping her fingers into Sholanan’s mouth, and after the briefest hesitation, Sholanan lapping and suckling.
***
Two weeks later, after Sholanan has finished basic training, we set out in a truck to Fort Kroeder. The Fort sits within the Reclaimed Zone, an area of about a hundred miles around Cratavn deemed relatively safe from the Host. Patrols are able to keep adequate watch on its expanse, and anything that enters would be within range of the artillery atop the city’s outer walls. It’s been a few years since the Host have been reported that close to the city, however. Long enough that some scant housing projects and small scale agriculture have cropped up within the Zone.
Our mission today is simple, something to ease Sholanan into duty. “An agitator is believed to be operating out of Fort Kroeder,” explains the Proxy, bracing herself against the wall as our transport rumbles through the grassy hills. “This woman has been working to sabotage Her Grace’s efforts to reclaim the outside world. You are to search for her and, if she is here, subdue her for transport back to the city.” Pulling a photograph from her trench coat, she holds it out for us.
It’s her- the woman from the Bone Factory. The raincoat she wears partially blends into the grain and greyscale of the photo as she slips behind a metal door. I recognize the alert cast to her eyes, however, the rounded features nestled under her hood.
It’s about a two hour drive to Kroeder, located near the edge western edge of the Reclaimed Zone. The war effort has left too few troops to fully man it, with only the odd patrol checking in to ensure no Host have taken up residence inside. The truck rocks to a stop and we emerge from the back to find ourselves before the place, sat atop a high crest overlooking the craggy highlands. Its walls are only distinguishable from the stone jutting from the grass around it by their smooth faces, worn and pitted from years of being left to the elements. It takes the four of us throwing our weight into the rusted metal gates to shove them open. The neglected steel parts with a grating creak. Within, the courtyard is little more than an empty bowl of weathered concrete and dirt. Anything of value had been moved out of the Fort as it was abandoned to the then-encroaching Host.
After the Proxy steps into the courtyard behind us, we re-close the gate, and silence floods the shell of the Fort. Most of the structure is underground, only a small squat keep flanked by a quartet of cupola turrets visible above, their rusted barrels point off into the clear sky. I recognize the door to the keep from the photograph. We have six hours until the truck returns for us.
First we break off into pairs. A common procedure for search operations like this, where we don’t expect heavy resistance. I move next to Sholanan, leaving Brea no choice but to take her place next to Imeshan. It’s not unusual for us to choose ourselves, as the Proxy knows we hold to her teachings. Still she watches how quickly I go to Sholanan’s side with interest. Checking the keep door, we find it locked. The Proxy has a key, however, and opens it. She follows at the back of our line as we file in.
Our halos light the way as we descend the long concrete stairway into the central gallery. Kroeder is an older installation which had been hastily- and crudely- repurposed into something more like the newer forts throughout in the Zone. As such, it hangs in a limbo in which it’s suited for neither yesteryear’s wars nor today’s. This, one can guess, is part of the reason why Cratavn’s armies haven’t been in a hurry to move back in. The whole place is an awkward misstep from the war’s early days. Perhaps that’s why even the Host haven’t been keen to sieze it. We were shown Kroeder’s floor plans before our deployment, have a workable enough knowledge of the hall which runs under the walls and down beneath the hills below before branching off into the barracks, supply and ammo closets, and the smaller turrets nestled throughout the crags.
Once we reach it, the gallery reeks of must and decaying metal, flooded with darkness save for the wan glow of our halos. It’s just wide enough for Brea and I to lead the way side-by-side, tranq rifles braced against our shoulders. No matter how softly we step, the sound of our boots on the concrete echo away up the hall. We soon come to where the way branches into three passages, signage on the walls labelling each as Barracks, Magazines, and Turrets. I pull Sholanan along with me down the left hall to the Barracks, briefly catching Brea glare at me as I pass her. It’s hard to be sure with the echo of our boots, but I swear I hear the Proxy softly chuckle.
Our way is fraught with corners, turning back under the courtyard. Soon the corridor straightens again and we find closed doors lining the walls. I gesture to Sholanan to take position beside one. She lingers a moment, her pretty, vacant eyes staring, before she remembers this part of our training. We assume breaching positions, and I open the door to creep in weapon first. Within we find cots, their sheets dusty and creased, arranged in two rows along the length of the room. I direct Sholanan to take the left end while I search right. Again, a moment of doe-eyed indolence before the order sinks in. She has yet to find the rhythm of our choir.
We look for signs of habitation. Sheets with less dust on them, or which look a little too orderly or disorderly. We find none. The next room has nothing for us, either. It isn’t until I’m halfway through my search of the third that Sholanan nudges me on the shoulder. She leads me to a cot on her side, the mattress pushed askew on the cheap metal frame. The edge of a sheet of paper sticks out from under it. I go to pull it out and find it’s in fact a bundle of several sheets, crinkled from being pressed into the frame by the mattress’s weight.
I pause.
Written on the papers is not a language I recognize but symbols. A code, perhaps. Some of the shapes are familiar. It takes me a moment to place them. When I do, it’s like cold rain in my face. I’ve seen them before, at the Darsimal Salient.
My eyes run over the code again and again. I recognize it. From Darsimal. But I can’t. That isn’t possible, because I didn’t find a note at the Salient. I was only distracted, and it endangered the choir. I cannot recognize these. These were only a dangerous fancy, Her Grace told me so—
Sholanan nudges my shoulder again, snapping me back to the mission at hand. I fold the papers up, removing the symbols from my sight and my mind, and slip them into a pouch on my belt. Turning to her, I nuzzle my mask against her forehead. Well done, sister. Craning her neck up, she returns the gesture, rubbing her own mask against mine. For a moment I feel I guide her almost as much as the Proxy. An absurd thought- bordering on blasphemy. I push it away to continue our search.
We find nothing more in the bunks and continue into the mess hall. Tables and chairs, paled with a dense coat of dust, stand at the edges of our light like the old bones of dead beasts. The room is vast enough that we can’t see the whole of it by our halos. We split up, stalking with rifles at the ready. Sholanan’s footsteps fade from my hearing as we move apart. I scan the floor for tracks, the tabletops for hand prints, anything. The most I find are a few chairs knocked on their sides.
Across the hall, a small thump.
I perk up towards the sound. The glow of Sholanan’s halo reveals her stopped by one table, fixed on the space below it. Stillness. Sholanan begins to crouch down to search under the table.
Between the dark and the distance it’s hard for me to follow what happens next. There’s a click, before a deafening gunshot and a muzzle flash shatter the quiet. A shotgun. Sholanan leapt aside at the click, letting the blast shred a chair at the table behind her. Next comes a flurry of movement I track mostly by ear- limbs and boots fumbling on the concrete, another chair thrown aside, a second shot as Sholanan fires her rifle into the dark. I glimpse only the crumpled edge of a rain coat darting away in her halo-light.
Our prey’s boots pound madly on the concrete. We pursue at a distance, wary of return fire. Our halos reveal us but she has the full cloak of darkness to cover her. She appears only in brief flurries of movement moving in and out of the edge of Sholanan’s light as she tries to circle around us to the exit. We don’t run. We just watch for the billow of her coat and take a quick shot when we spot it. While Sholanan follows, I make my way towards the doors to cut our prey off. The agitator is already panting. She’s been fleeing us since she heard the whine of the door opening echo through the gallery, I’m sure. All that means is she’s that much closer to exhaustion. That much closer to our grasp. I can’t help but smile, anticipating the sight of her russet eyes again, light fading from them she sinks into the tranq’s embrace.
The next time Her Grace looks down on me, it will be with pride. I will not fail Her today.
I’m closing in to cut her off at the door when I see the glint of my light on metal- the barrel of her weapon. I duck aside as she shoots, buying her just enough space to dash past me and through the door. It’s almost fun, how slippery she is. Is this the first time our target has been human? Yes, I think so. I’m finding a growing thrill to it. But it must be me who claims her. Hunger roiling in my chest, I abandon Sholanan to give chase. I’m sorry, sister, but you’ll have to earn this.
Striding through the hall, I hunt by the sound of my prey’s flight. She pauses a moment and I ready to duck, anticipating return fire. Instead, only a click. “Shit!” Breathless, desperate. She flees on, breathing heavier. I fire after her, not even aiming. Teasing her, even. A small cry fills the hall but she keeps going. Now I run as well, closing the distance fast. My heart races more from excitement than exertion. I can already see her coat flapping behind her in my light. It will be me.
I keep losing sight of her behind the corners but catch up in time to see her duck into the middle hallway, going towards the Magazines. Then I spot something which sours my excitement- a silvery glow swell in and out of sight as one of my sisters enters the corridor before me. It hits me now how stupid that was, toying with my prey. I should have pounced on her in or near the mess hall. Gritting my teeth, I pick up my pace. It has to be me.
I hear them before I catch up to them. Fast, breathless whispers, rasping through the dark corridor. Following it into what appears to have once been an ammo closet, I find- of all my sisters- Brea pinning the woman up against the wall. Something stays my disappointment, however. Something about Brea. She’s frozen as the woman mutters to her. The words sound the slightest bit familiar, perhaps something I’d heard in passing once. Two things make me doubt this. First is that they aren’t a language I recognize- not Common, not any of the couple of old world tongues still spoken in Vandett Tower. Second is the wide-eyed haste with which the woman recites them. Whatever she’s saying, it means the difference between life and death to her.
Brea just stares at her. In confusion? Perhaps. But the way her eyes narrow, as if squinting to try and see something distant, makes me doubt that as well.
The woman finally pauses to pull in a breath, a relieved smile starting to spread across her face.
Until she notices me, watching from the doorway. She goes silent.
Brea remains lost a moment longer, before she follows the woman’s gaze to me. I expect a hint of gloating from her. Some smug gesture. There’s nothing. Just a flat stare.
Boots trudge up the hall behind me. I enter the room to make way for the Proxy to stride in, followed by Sholanan and Imeshan. Our guiding star assesses the woman, a glint of triumph in her eyes. “Quite the thing,” she says, “isn’t it, my angels? That any human being would oppose our Queen, when She is the only hope left for humanity.”
Our prize composes herself, face hardening. “Yeah,” she says. “She’s done a lot for us out here.”
The Proxy hums. “And She’d do even more, if you’d stop interfering.” She reaches into her coat. “Brea, hold her still.”
Brea pulls the woman away from the wall to get behind her, one arm pinning her wrists behind her back, the other gripping her by the jaw. Our prey fights her every inch of the way, grunting as she thrashes, but she is only human and no match for a Virtue. All she can really do is watch as the Proxy pulls out a small vial of honey-like ambrosia.
“Go ahead,” says the woman through clenched teeth, keeping her brave face as the Proxy uncorks the vial. “I won’t give you anything.”
“Perhaps not here and now.” The Proxy looks to Brea, who then works her fingers between our prize’s lips and pries her jaws open. “But soon.” Then she pours the ambrosia into the woman’s mouth.
I have wondered what effect ambrosia would have on a mortal. To us it’s invigorating, a warm calming tingle that eases our wounds and lifts our fatigue. I can tell at once that isn’t how it feels to our captive. Even before Brea has closed her mouth the woman begins to twitch. First her face, little spasms in the eyes and cheeks. Then it spreads through her limbs. Her eyes widen and dart about. Next she starts to thrash, her struggles seemingly renewed until the erratic writhing begins to look more like a kind of seizure, intense enough that Brea has to work to hold her.
Then it hits. The spasms slow until she goes limp in our sister’s arms. The frantic alertness in her eyes fades as they lose focus, eyelids sinking down until she looks half-asleep. It’s as if the ambrosia stimulated every nerve in her body until they burst aflame and then burnt out. It must have taken a minute at most. Now she is left spent, sweat shining on her skin in our halo-light, utterly at our mercy.
The Proxy, returning the empty vial to her coat, admires her handiwork a moment. There is certainly something to admire, as well. Our captive sagging in Brea’s arms. Russet eyes fluttering as she struggles to hold them open. A springy curl having come loose to fall across her forehead. Satisfied, the Proxy stands against the wall beside her, motioning to Brea to let her go. When she does the woman collapses back and starts to slide down the wall. The Proxy slips an arm around her waist, guiding her more gently until they sit together on the concrete.
“Quite the rush,” asks the Proxy, “isn’t it?”
“F-Fffuck yyy…” Our captive speaks in a hoarse whisper. Her dull eyes drift about, searching for focus and finding none.
The Proxy drapes her arm over her shoulders. “Don’t fight it, my friend. You won’t win.”
The woman starts to slur another protest, but her head slumps down onto the Proxy’s shoulder and she trails off.
As our prize drifts into her stupor, the Proxy addresses us. “Brea, Imeshan, keep watch for the truck. Lakera, Sholanan, stay here.”
Out sisters leave, and Sholanan and I stand guard by the closed door. A lull settles in then. Our captive teeters on the edge of consciousness, her eyes opening a crack every so often to stare blankly into space before they shut again. A thin slick of drool trails out of the side of her mouth onto the Proxy’s shoulder.
Sholanan’s attention keeps drifting to the agitator. Her interest seems particularly piqued when she shudders again. Leaning forward, Sholanan looks ready to leap to her aid when I set a hand on her wrist to stay her.
The Proxy looks up at us. “Is something wrong, Sholanan?”
My sister’s eyes twitch. “She’s suffering, Proxy.”
“She is.” The Proxy smiles down on our prize, quivering against her. “Because she opposed our Queen. Such treachery must carry a cost, sweet angel.”
Sholanan settles back into her post. Such frivolous kindness still lives in her heart. She understands the truth of things, though. Our Queen must not be challenged, and any challenge to Her must be defeated. “Yes, Proxy.”
The captive tries to lift her head from the Proxy’s shoulder. Her strength gives at once and with a soft groan she lets it fall back down.
“Of course,” adds the Proxy, looping her arm around our prize’s neck to grasp her chin. “It would be easier for our friend if she’d stop fighting. All she has to do is let herself sink.”
The lull returns. Only for a short while, however, before it was broken by a knock on the door. The Proxy nods to me, and I pull it open. Who should stride in by Brea. “Proxy,” she says, “there’s something outside the fort walls. It sounds like someone humming.”
The Proxy lifts her head, interested. “Do you recognize the voice?”
“Yes, Proxy,” Brea replies. “It sounds like Getye.”
Cold grips my chest. Since Getye’s death I’ve heard the soaring trill of her voice as well, lilting through my dreams. Whatever sings in her voice now can’t be her, of course. Not unless her ghost has found its way out to haunt us in waking.
Even the Proxy stares for a moment, before she asks, “You’re sure, Brea?”
“Yes, Proxy.” There’s a heaviness to Brea’s voice. Not emotion necessarily, for we know to regulate those, but an uncharacteristic weight.
Our guiding star considers this a moment, her fingers kneading at the shoulder of our prize’s uniform. “Lakera, Sholanan,” she orders at last, “Go out and help them investigate. Do not leave the fort.”
Following Brea to the courtyard, we find Imeshan already out there, scanning the top of the wall. Weapons ready, we take position around her. The wind has picked up and blown clouds over the sun, dulling the world to a mixture of greys and browns. Imeshan is all darting eyes and quiet whimpers. For a moment I consider she might have knocked her halo askew on something, just enough to feel it. It looks level, however, secure around her head. Brea gives her a light shove on the shoulder and she stops.
In that silence, I hear it. Soft enough that it takes me a moment to pick it up, because it does sound to be coming from outside the courtyard. A sweet, airy voice, humming. I know it. Just as I recognize the jaunty tune. That cold hand tightens its hold on my chest. It’s as if I’m back in the forward trench at the Ghost Forest, Getye nearby humming along with the troops’ song.
An urge wells up in my mind. I must open the gates and step back out onto the hills. Getye will be there, humming her tune, dirty blond hair swaying about her face in the breeze and rose gold blood trickling down her back. I must then throw myself down at her feet and beg for her forgiveness. She was right beside me. My little sister, with her big curious eyes and soaring soprano, she was right beside me and I couldn’t- didn’t- save her.
Suddenly my sisters all raise their weapons at the top of the wall, just above the gate. I do so as well. And there it is.
Standing atop the gate, the wind tugging at its dirt-stained white trench coat, is the Hierophant. Getye’s voice is coming from it.
There’s a moment of confusion then. My sisters don’t know of this creature- the Queen-Minister only asked me to observe it, so far as I know. Yet it’s clearly some variant of Host, with its spindly proportions stretching it out to a freakish height, the metal hooks tipping its long fingers, the little pops of red flesh in the gaps of its bony exoskeleton. No one fires on it. It feels as if we shouldn’t. It looks like the Proxy, all flowing white with that immaculate sculpted doll face. It even holds itself like her, posture graceful and straight.
Its gaze sweeps over us as it hums in our sister’s voice. Black eyes in a creamy, pristine visage, staring out from under that hood. I’ve only seen such terrible beauty once before, long ago when the Proxy first came to me in Purgatory, her white jacket and golden hair aglow in that dismal place.
It reaches down to us.
The confusion dissipates at once. That urge I had, to leave the fort and prostrate myself before my dead sister, it wasn’t only a passing madness. I thought the Hierophant reaching out to me was an invitation, but it’s an offer. Its face is so clam, so knowing. It knew I would fail Getye, and it held absolution in reserve for me. Is she with it now? Did it find and raise her body to bring here with it?
With another choked whimper, Imeshan breaks formation, following the Hierophant’s guiding hand to the gate. Sholanan watches her a moment. Then, knowing no better than to trust her sisters, she follows. I go next. I do think of the real Proxy, just inside the fort behind us. A biting sense of wrongness does grip me, abandoning her orders. But she doesn’t carry Getye’s voice with her. She doesn’t offer forgiveness. She even punished Imeshan for briefly losing her way in grief- for mourning our lost sister too strongly. The Hierophant wears her coat and her face, holds itself with the same authority, but without her distance- that detached cruelty. There’s something kinder in the way it extends its hand to us. I can ease your pain, angels. Just come to me.
So we do. Imeshan struggles to push open the gates. Sholanan and I join her and we manage it together, rusted hinges squealing again. Then we gather beneath the open gateway, peering up at the Hierophant as it turns to us. Closer up, I can make out metallic ball joints nestled in the exposed fleshy joints of its limbs. Wisps of golden hair even catch in the breeze around the opening of its hood. The darkness of its eyes is the dark of the clear night sky. Not hollow but deep, a vast serenity drawing the mind into itself. The Proxy’s eyes are beautiful, with their clear wintery blue. But this beauty is only a surface affectation. The Hierophant’s gaze promises more.
It crouches down closer to us, a hand set on the lip of the wall. My heart leaps. Is it about to come down to us?
A gunshot shatters the still. The Hierophant lurches forward as a tranq strikes its back, pinging off its exoskeleton. Just as suddenly as it appeared, it darts away along the wall, coat billowing behind it as it skitters. We try to follow it still but it’s too fast, its long limbs pulling it across the concrete with a haste even we can’t match. By the time we reach the corner of the wall it’s already gone, disappeared into the craggy hills around the fort.
The three of us linger a moment, unsure what to do with ourselves. Ice starts to settle into my chest. My chance at Getye’s forgiveness is gone. I won’t know the relief of taking the Hierophant’s hand and hearing my lost sister’s voice again, telling me I am absolved. We’re left with only the Proxy, with her pretty shallow eyes, for guidance.
The Proxy...
I blink. The Proxy, who leads us on behalf of Her Grace. My sorrow melts into bitter embarrassment. Perhaps the Proxy herself is only a pretty idol to follow, but she stands in for Queen-Minister Charith, the bridge between this ailing world and the divine. Were my sisters and I not sent here to serve the Queen-Minister? Yes, we were, this was drilled into us in Purgatory. The way we serve Her is by obeying Her Proxy. We have not done this today.
That peace I felt looking into the Hierophant’s eyes sours. Whatever lurks in those depths, it’s powerful and wicked. A ghostlight tempting us away from Her.
We stand in our shame, staring out into the highlands. We remain there until the trudge of boots on gravel pulls us back. I’m the first to turn and see Brea approaching, her weapon still at the ready. I expect to see mocking in her eyes. What more could she ever want to gloat over?
I don’t see it. She watches the crags below as well, her posture tense.
***
The mission was a success. The truck returns on schedule, and we load our captive, still incapacitated, into the back with us. Yet throughout the entire drive, the Proxy sits in silence, a hand gripping her knee, slipping each of us cold glances from the corners of her eyes. Brea had told her what happened with the Hierophant. How all of us fell for its bewitchment, save for her. My indignation at her clear victory is, for now, drowned out by anger at myself for being so easily deceived.
None of us are called to the Queen-Minister’s quarters that night. As our captive is carried away by a group of guards, we go up to the showers, then retreat to our quarters. Imeshan and I toss and turn for some time. Even Brea seems restless. Then I feel my covers pulled away and someone crawl in beside me. Wild curls tickle my arm as a soft cheek comes to rest on my shoulder. Exhaling my growing anxiety, I drape an arm around Sholanan’s shoulders and pull her closer. It’s an unspeakable relief, her coming to me herself. Knowing she understands. She is my sister before anyone else’s.
We wake the next morning to the intercom calling us all to the Queen-Minister’s quarters. The four of us hurry to Her, kneeling before our Queen in our robes as She glowers down at us from the couch. The Proxy stands at Her side.
“All of you went to it,” says Her Grace, features sharpened in the bright dawn sunlight entering through the windows. She leans forward a little, looming above us like a vast bird prepared to swoop. “All of you except Brea.”
We answer, “Yes, Queen-Minister.”
A heavy silence, one which appears just as uncomfortable for our Queen and Her Proxy as it is for us. “Brea,” asks Her Grace. “Why did you not go?”
Brea has been walking through chances to gloat since we returned from the Fort. She has had every opportunity to shoot me her smug little glances, to sleep soundly last night knowing her peace would add to my torment. Instead she’s been staring down at the rug beneath our knees since we got here. She perks up at Her Grace addressing her. “It didn’t seem right, Queen-Minister. I could tell it was some kind of Host.”
Now Her Graze’ scrutiny turns back to us. “And you three couldn’t tell it was a Host?”
Sholanan is the first to speak. “Imeshan followed it first.”
The scrutiny narrows to Imeshan.
Imeshan’s voice is small as she replies, “It sounded like Getye. I knew it was one of the Host but it was humming like her. I…” She swallows. “Queen-Minister, I miss Getye.”
“Hm.” The Queen-Minister taps Her finger on Her knee. “Sholanan, why did you go?”
“Because Imeshan did.” The simplest thing in the world. “It looked like the Proxy, and Imeshan went to it, so I thought I should, as well, Queen-Minister.”
“Do not follow Imeshan’s example.” She pauses to massage Her eyes. “Such beautiful idiots surround me...” Next She points to me. “And you, Lakera?”
Dread grabs me. What can I say for myself? Do I admit I felt a warmth in the Hierophant’s gaze, a kind the Proxy doesn’t offer? “There was something about its eyes, Queen-Minster,” I admit. “They were so dark, so deep, they drew me in. I couldn’t look away. It felt like it was offering me something.”
Her Grace tilts Her head, curiosity blooming in Her eyes. Behind Her, the Proxy’s brow twitches. My Queen asks, “And what did you think it offered you, Lakera?”
I need a moment to find the words. “Getye’s death still haunts me, as well,” I continue. “I sometimes feel I let her die. It felt like the Hierophant was offering me forgiveness.”
She mulls that over a moment. “You realize it wasn’t, though,” says My Queen at last. “It’s one of the Host, Lakera. All it has to offer is death.”
I lower my face, ashamed of my foolishness. “I realize that now, Queen-Minister.”
Reclining, Her Grace considers all of this. “It seems,” She begins, “we’ve encountered a problem we weren’t prepared for. Of course, we will devise a way to defend against this trickery. But for now, let me remind you all of something.” She extends Her hand to the Proxy, who accepts it and allows the Queen to guide her around to stand before us. “This,” says Her Grace, placing a hand on the Proxy’s thigh, “is your guiding light. This is my Proxy. You will not be misled by any substitutes or imposters. If it does not look like her, stand like her, speak like her, have her eyes, then it is not her. You will not heed it.”
A thin smile finds its way to the Proxy’s lips.
Her Grace’s gaze sweeps over us like a cold wind. “Is that clear, my angels?”
We answer, “Yes, Queen-Minister.”
“Good. You’re all dismissed. Except you, Brea.”
As I stand and file out with Sholanan and Imeshan, I catch of glimpse of Brea, still kneeling before the Queen. Now I expect to see her eyes alight, her head high as she awaits her reward. She has straightened, the promise grabbing her attention. Her eyes, however, remain elsewhere, staring into some distance visible only to her.
