After spending several days recovering from the battle, first under the care of the Orczy doctors and then under Agatha, who barreled in and insisted she treat ‘her’ patient, Cato received some mixed news.
Bad news first: his soul was severely injured, and he would likely never be able to cultivate it again. Without that, he would also not be able to improve his body past the third stage of alchemic transformation, and thus his lifetime potential was cut off. He could grow to match Captain Apostolis, but would never exceed him.
Then the good news: the duke was so impressed with his courage and sacrifice that he assigned Cato an immense pension and gave him new responsibilities as a judge. In addition, he was to be placed under the direct command of Vice-Captain Caselli, and it was all but promised that, when Caselli became captain, Cato would take his present office, so long as he was able to improve his body to the third stage.
Cato’s soul felt like a leather bag filled with broken glass. He hadn’t really appreciated how clearly he felt its shape before, but now it was chaotic and formless, grinding against itself and putting his teeth on edge. Even after the numerous injuries on his body were treated, not least the sword wound that ran through his guts and out the other side, he was accompanied by a constant phantom pain belonging to a non-existent organ.
He accepted. With his improved salary and the pension, he was surely a wealthy man, and would pay off the Baron of Inillo’s debts in a few short years. His new responsibilities took him off guard duty for a while, allowing him to recover, train, and get used to his new condition.
It was more generosity than Cato had ever really expected. But he couldn’t help but be rather numb to all of it.
He had killed people that night. He didn’t have a solid grasp of how many. Unlike in Beroli, where his newly acquired powers ran wild, he had felt much more in control this time. He had sliced humans open and cut into them like it was the easiest and most natural thing in the world.
There was nobody in the city, probably the entire world, that would speak against him for that. Already, other members of the guard were singing his praises, not just for his sacrifice but for his ferocity and decisiveness. They sent letters with little war poems, mostly doggerel but some very sophisticated, and it all made Cato want to throw up because in the moment, when he was under attack and it was kill or be killed he hadn’t even thought. The restraint he tried to exercise against the hoodlums in the tavern days earlier didn’t even cross his mind, not even to reject it.
Through it all, one impression came back to him again and again. It wasn’t his fault. It was his body’s instincts surfacing, old half-memories of bloody fights carved into his flesh. It wasn’t his fault.
If it wasn’t his fault, it wasn’t to his credit either. He didn’t save Orczy lives, it was just muscle memory. He didn’t plunge heedlessly into danger to defend family or country, it was just someone else’s habit.
He couldn’t accept that.
If he accepted that, what would be left of him? Just a fool who crippled himself.
The rest of the night was a blur. He knew, vaguely, that the duke had confronted one of the Kolonn family leaders and fought to a bloody stalemate until the archbishop arrived and rescued his daughter. Other rumors about those events spread and mutated so quickly that even the eyewitnesses next to him couldn’t agree on exactly what happened.
So he just carried on. Went with the flow.
Once he could walk again, the flow took him to the great, dark, damp dungeon beneath the Orczy manor. The contrast between the magnificent and colorful gardens covered in autumn’s cerulean blooms and the tunnels of stone below shocked some distant observer within his skull, but the thing called Cato was led down through the secret door within the inner gatehouse like an old dog following dumbly at its master’s heels.
His master, in this case, was Sergeant Enzo, who had decided Cato was his blood brother for life and insisted on cheering him up at all times. These good intentions happened to collide with the single creepiest person Cato had ever encountered.
The duke’s resident torturer, Lorqua, proved especially unsettling for how normal he first appeared. An ordinary-looking man entering middle age, whose manner and expressions reminded Cato of a grocer he often saw in the city square.
Then Lorqua gave Cato a tour of his implements, with detailed descriptions of the function of each and their order, using that very same friendly and cheerful manner, and even Enzo recognized this visit was unsalvageable.
Torture, it happened, was not an effective method for extracting truthful information from a determined prisoner. In general, any person who was willing to spill their secrets would do so quite quickly, and those who knew nothing would make up whatever they thought their captors wanted to heat. In Lorqua’s terms, it usually took around two-and-a-half fingernails. The first to show they were serious, the second to show it could get worse, and the threat of the third would break them.
Anyone who got through the third fingernail without talking would probably go through all ten, and many worse tortures besides, because they possessed both a powerful reason to remain silent and the will to carry it through. This was why handlers most often had some kind of leverage over spies, usually their families. Whatever you could do to them, the same or worse would be done to their loved ones if they talked.
As it happened, the three ‘guests’ residing in the Orczy dungeon gave Lorqua a perfect cross-section of possible torture victims.
The first was none other than Konrad Kolonn, scion of the Kolonn family, and the mastermind behind the attack on the Orczy compound and Teresa’s kidnapping. There was absolutely no shortage of questions the Orczy would have loved him to answer. Unfortunately, he was a prime example of a prisoner that could not be tortured, for two reasons.
First, his political importance guaranteed he would soon be ransomed, and if the Kolonn family found even a hint of torture, the consequences would be severe. If he had died in battle against the duke, that would have been an acceptable outcome within the norms of the feud. But instead, Konrad was captured by the archbishop. Had the archbishop killed him, even under the very understandable circumstances, the Forna family would have been drawn into the feud, and despite its great influence it was not nearly so prepared for warfare as the Orczy. The same would have occurred if the archbishop handed him over to the Orczy for imprisonment and the Orczy tortured him. Better to keep him contained and take the ransom money.
Second, Konrad Kolonn wasn’t conscious. He was drugged out of his mind on Violet Dew, a devilish little substance concocted from hallucinogenic fungi, nightshade, and a hint of dragon venom. Phenomenally expensive and difficult to acquire, but the same dose that would kill a thousand ordinary men would keep a cultivator at the fourth stage in a stupefied coma for days. Given how few people in Anthusa were actually capable of defeating him, this was the only way to reliably keep him imprisoned.
Violet Dew also had another lovely side effect: it seeped into the victim’s bones, becoming inert and very difficult to detect, but would return to the victim’s bloodstream if they exerted themselves, such as by cultivating. Since purging it was a slow process, even for someone as powerful as Konrad, it wound up delaying full recovery and further cultivation for quite a long time after the victim woke up.
All this to say, torturing Konrad was neither permissible nor possible. Lorqua confided that many of his guests belonged to this category, and it frustrated him greatly.
The second guest in the dungeon was Lio Chekodorovna, a notorious Petronian thief. She spilled everything as soon as she arrived in the dungeon, and Lorqua left her cell deeply disappointed, unable to even show off his instruments. Cato and Enzo, on the other hand, left with a great deal of detailed, actionable intelligence.
The third guest was Cato’s acquaintance, he of the gut wound, Caro Alidosi. He was a canon within the Order of the Golden Rose, a wealthy and influential monastic organization which had long played both sides in the Orczy-Kolonn feud. He had, to all appearances, gone rogue and aided the Kolonn forces in a scandalously direct fashion, which, it went without saying, his organization wholly condemned. A ransom of one-hundred gold anthems arrived later that evening: a very small amount, quickly rejected by the duke. While the Golden Rose took a few more days to raise the funds which were already sitting in their coffers, the Orczy had free rein to interrogate their guest without giving great offense to any party. Enzo explained this all very matter-of-factly to his country bumpkin of a blood-brother, who would soon need to understand the ways of the world.
This was a guest upon whom Lorqua could practice his art. He invited Cato and Enzo to accompany him in the cell through the whole process, from showing Alidosi the instruments along with their functions, creating an anticipation of the ordeal to come, remarking that his patrons would not be interfering in the process, and offering one last chance to spill before the torture began.
Alidosi didn’t take it.
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Cato spent most of the next few hours outside the cell heaving and vomiting into a nearby bucket. Enzo insisted that the first time was always the worst, and he would get used to it.
Cato very much hoped that wasn’t true.
Lorqua took his sweet time, but eventually got well past the two-and-a-half mark, and Alidosi refused to talk. Cato honestly expected him to talk at this point, or at least take a break. The torturer did not. By the time Enzo pulled him out, the torturer had done far, far worse.
Enzo explained on the way up. “Everyone knows you can’t crack someone who has more to lose from talking than from enduring the pain. Any good torturer also knows when their victim has crossed the threshold. That bastard,” he hooked a thumb down the damp stone stairs at the faint sounds of pain, “isn’t going to talk.”
“Then…” Cato couldn’t get the words out through the sour taste in his mouth.
“Why keep going at all beyond that point?”
Cato nodded.
There had to be a reason. A good one.
“What do you think happens if we get someone down there who thinks he’s got it all figured out? He’s not prepared to withstand the whole thing, not by a long shot, but he thinks ‘I’ll get a couple fingernails taken out, I just have to hold out until then and the torturer will realize I’m not going to talk and he’ll leave me alone.’ So he does that. Of course, we keep going. He realizes the torturer’s not going to stop, so he talks. Could have saved himself a lot of pain for the same result.”
That… that wasn’t a reason. Not a good one.
“If we try to be merciful, people like that thief down there start to get ideas. Wind up hurting themselves. So once we start, we don’t stop, and we make sure everyone knows it. Before we hand Alidosi back to the Golden Rose, the duke is going to parade him through the streets. Let everyone know exactly what happens when you don’t talk. That way, nobody gets any ideas.”
Cato stopped, turned around, and retched again, his dry spit dripping down the stairs.
“Hey, hey easy. Look kid, the captain wants to make a judge out of you. It’ll be good practice for what comes later, and don’t forget that it’s a damn good deal what you’re getting. But before any of that, you need to know about the punishments. You need to see that shit first-hand.”
Enzo helped Cato up the last steps and out of the dungeon. He sat Cato down and let him wash down the bile with a swig of diluted wine, then sat down across from him.
“You don’t want to see that? Don’t want to sentence anyone to that? Good. Anyone who can let that happen without blinking an eye is way too ruthless to be a judge. But remember this: that madman Lorqua’s job is to be merciless so you can be merciful. He’s the stick you hold. Don’t forget how bad it hurts, but don’t forget you have it either.”
Cato gasped out a few tentative breaths. “But… the duke…”
Enzo shook his head. “Men like him and men like us are different breeds. Don’t forget that either.”
If nothing else, Cato was finally out of his stupor.
⚜ ⚜ ⚜
Far away, beyond planets and moons and suns and stars, upon the slopes of the great mountain of heaven, His Holiness Prudence IV watched these events through a gap in the golden celestial clouds.
He sat upon the raised palm of the angel Zathiel. Though cross-legged and leaning forward to peek through the same gap, he was as large as a house, and his full height was greater than thirty cubits. Despite this immense difference in size, the angel of the second choir accorded Prudence IV great deference.
“It is as you say, your Holiness,” roared the angel. This vast sound like the waves crashing upon the shore was reckoned among his kind as a very respectful ‘inside voice.’ “Young Tenorio is in great turmoil, surrounded by dangers on all sides, and with few protectors.”
The late Holy Son’s head was in his hands. “It’s all my fault, Zathiel. Do you think, if I had been stricter with him, he wouldn’t have to suffer so?”
Zathiel’s hair billowed like the sails of a ship as he shook it.
“No, your Holiness,” he rumbled like distant thunder, “your actions were no less than the will of God, an inevitable part of the divine plan.”
Say what you will about their bedside manner, but angels knew how to get you off the hook when they were so inclined.
“PRUDENCE!”
His Holiness Immaculate XIII came stomping back down the mountain of heaven full of fire. Immaculate had no patience for any of Prudence’s tricks, and took special care to keep him in sight at all times since he last interrupted their climb.
However, Prudence was a keen student of history. He knew that his great-grandfather, during his mortal tenure as Holy Son, presided over a period of intense conflict and heresy over the matter of how and from whom the Holy Spirit proceeded. This question, initially dismissed as a minor matter, turned into an intractable philosophical debate which threatened to schism the church and might have one day provoked interstellar war.
Immaculate XIII put down the debate with immense and carefully executed violence against the opposing side. So thorough was his purge that, even under the more liberal regimes that followed, few dared to bring up the subject in public discussion.
In spite of that, nobody could say that the disagreement had actually been settled, and Prudence’s great-grandfather spent much of his twilight years composing lengthy treatises arguing his side to an absent opponent. Prudence was forced to memorize these arguments as a child, and took great pleasure in provoking his ancestor with a few well-chosen barbs.
Immaculate responded with a full recitation of his mortal manuscripts, followed by many more arguments he had composed while in heaven, but Prudence was gone well before then.
The walking lecture went on for a month until Immaculate XIII opened the floor to clarifying questions, and another month went by scaling back down the mountain.
“Zathiel, put him down immediately!”
The colossal angel obeyed, placing Prudence down on the mountain slope with immense care.
“I’m afraid I must depart, dear Zathiel, but might I ask a favor before I go?”
“Prudence…”
“This won’t take a moment, great-grandfather.”
“There wouldn’t be any more moments if we made straight to the top.”
“Dear Zathiel, might I ask you to descend and give my poor son some guidance?”
He eyed his ancestor, but Immaculate just gestured for him to get on with it.
“Of course, your Holiness. How shall I intervene? Shall I appear in a dream? An omen? Shall I inspire him when his heart is weak?”
“Actually… I recognize this is a substantial request-”
Immaculate XIII’s eyes widened. “Absolutely not. Zathiel, belay that request!”
“I was hoping that you might incarnate and stand by his side directly.”
“Prudence, that is utterly excessive. Zathiel, deny him at once.”
The warrior angel looked at the two impassively. Angels made decisions, but did not dither. They questioned, but never doubted. They debated—indeed, some angels were known to do hardly anything but debate the nature of the Divine and of Creation—but they could not be said to disagree. They possessed total knowledge of their own nature, and merely needed to comprehend a situation to immediately understand what they should do in response. Their debates did not aim to persuade the other, but only to express themselves and their unique natures as God made them. They were invariably humble about their position as pieces of Creation, but with regard to one another they were utterly solipsistic.
Only while incarnated in the mortal world might an angel undergo anything like doubt, indecision, or change.
Even so, being forced to choose between the commands of two human superiors of equal rank was something angels found distinctively uncomfortable. In such moments, they had just one response.
“Please calm yourself, Holiness Immaculate. I sense it is God’s will that I should do this. After all, I don’t think I have ever incarnated before.”
Prudence grinned. His selection had not been wrong. In cases where there was some controversy, angels acted invariably according to their nature. Zathiel was a guide and a protector, one who had just watched young Tenorio Kyno’s fortunes and misfortunes for two months. His victory was assured from the beginning.
“This is ridiculous. Prudence, need I remind you that if Zathiel is corrupted and exiled as a result of the changes he experiences, it will fall on your head? Do you have any inkling of what could happen with such a hasty decision?”
Prudence adopted the blank expression and vaguely condescending tone of the angel. “Whatever shall happen, it is the divine plan, and the plan is good.”
“That’s not remotely how this works and you know it, Prudence.”
“Hmmm, I don’t know. What did Ariosto of Ulsi say about predetermination again?”
“You- that miserable antifilioquist buffoon never produced a thought of worth in his entire life!”
“Farewell, your Holinesses,” trumpeted the angel.
A great, dark circle opened up in the golden clouds of heaven, more than a thousand cubits across. Before such a gap, even the great angel seemed like a miniscule stalk of wheat. Within that portal appeared a titanic face; a woman, perhaps, noble and silver, her dark eyes glittering.
“Greetings, o Luna. I request passage into the mortal realm.”
“Greetings, Zathiel. Has the time come for you to incarnate?”
The two angels shared mirthful laughter for three hours. It was a very funny angelic joke. The two Holy Sons, meanwhile, spent those hours recovering from hearing the voice of this angel of the fifth choir, the guardian of the boundary between the mortal and celestial realms, whose every word contained the weariness of endless cycles and the mutability of the moon’s faces.
“Indeed, great Luna, and I know both the place and the time. Already there is a vessel down there that shall fulfill my requirements.”
“I wish to state for the eternal record that I oppose this entirely!”
Immaculate’s voice could hardly rise over the roiling current of clouds, yet Luna turned her eyes towards him.
“Noted, your Holiness.”
While the humans in their midst took more time to recover, Zathiel stepped through the vast portal and into Luna’s waiting hand. With a gentle breath, she scattered him like stardust across the vast space around the planet Vintal. The greatest portion of his essence dissolved back into the endless perturbations of the vacuum, ready to reform when Zathiel returned to heaven.
One speck, however, flew down to the planet Vintal. It was borne about on invisible astral currents hither and thither, and it seemed for all the world like this seed of consciousness might land in some totally unexpected location. But with the gentle inevitability of fate, it drifted towards the city of Anthusa, through a home’s open window, and into the body of one happy new mother.