Vashante Tens stood beside her Lady in the antechamber, shadowed and still, feeling the ancient tower of Ymmngorad breathe in unison with the fervent hearts gathered. Bee—The Lady Bhaeryn—waited at the chamber’s center, black raiment draping her slender form, a halo of gold accent circling her waist, having been dressed to exemplify her sacred femininity for the ceremony. The candlelight faltered as the air quivered with anticipation, wordless chanting echoing from passages unseen. Looming, waiting, old Ymmngorad’s bones tremoured with portent.
Jhedothar, also clad in dark-hued garments, stood in silent vigil to Bee’s right, his hulking and antlered silhouette speaking volumes of the power he once claimed as Lord of Cruiros. Vashante sensed in him a smouldering intensity. He had been brought low, perhaps even humiliated, through violent means. Yet he was no fool, and she recognised that he was too finding some measure of himself with the changing of the times.
They were already sworn to Bee, the two of them, bound by oaths that none yet dared to question. The Eidolon and an erstwhile Lord. One a symbol of generations of hidden fanaticism in the desire for purpose. The other of the aspiration of a man who sought to change the world, perhaps even for the better, to safeguard the lost and downtrodden in the formation of a new realm entire. And despite every misgiving, perhaps they both recognised that they could achieve more together than they ever could apart.
Slashex, a presence of metal and whirring limbs, watched from the edges, blind gaze kept in studious reserve. Yonmar Free, the old bone monk, remained likewise in the gloom, hands folded before his robed form in patient devotion. One bore instruction of the secrets of the occult, from the dark ages of antiquity, and the other ensured this day would be well recorded and remembered henceforth.
The gloom in Ymmngorad’s hidden antechamber thickened with a wordless chanting, emanating through the walls from chordophages unseen—a thrum that set every plate of Vashante’s cyborg shell to life. She felt, too, the rhythmic beat of the tower’s breath, as though the ancient spire itself awaited the blood rite.
Bee looked down at her own palm. Jhedothar held a small blade of onyx at the ready. Vashante glimpsed in them both the faintest flicker of hesitation. The Lady locked gazes with Slashex—who stood half-sheathed in his folded metal limbs, watching from the shadows—and, in that covert glance, Vashante sensed the unspoken knowledge they had shared.
The ceremony began with Toshtta Yew, stepping forth into the half-light. Her bronze-armoured frame was fringed with vines and living blooms, an inheritance from the Rose of Thorns who once gave her life. On her knees, she bent her head low, letting the hush of the chamber cradle her.
Jhedothar offered the blade and the Lady Bhaeryn pressed her palm against it. A stream of crimson welled forth, shot through with twisting threads of quicksilver. Vashante tensed, heart pounding at the sight. She had seen her own share of monstrous flesh—she herself was profane in her constitution—but to see the Vat-Mother’s witchcraft, here and now, was something else entirely. A crawling, self-shaping fluid glimmered in the droplet, alive and resolute. The sight of living mutagen rising from the sanguine made Vashante’s breath catch in her throat.
Pain and discomfort flashed across Bee’s face. Then, almost imperceptibly, Bee’s eyes half-closed, as though issuing a silent command to the nanomaterial in her blood. Vashante saw Slashex, off to one side, tense with interest, but he said nothing. The swirl of silver gathered, coalescing into a metallic token no bigger than a coin. Bee’s lips parted in a breath—some wordless act of will—and the token shimmered briefly before growing intricate, blossoming outward like a forging growth of living metal.
Toshtta Yew remained knelt, helm inclined, her bronze-lacquered armour stirring with the vines that bound her to the Rose of Thorns.
Bee stepped toward her. The chanting surrounding them rose and fell in a slow wave. Bee bent over the kneeling aspirant, red-silver suspended between her fingers. All around, the air itself itself seemed to constrict them.Reading on this site? This novel is published elsewhere. Support the author by seeking out the original.
Carefully, Bee pressed the material to Toshtta’s chest, letting the twin liquids—blood and that crawling silver—touch her. Even in the low lamplight, Vashante spied the flicker of mutagen across Toshtta’s armour, fusing in delicate filigree that sank through plating and vine with an eerie gentleness. As Bee withdrew her hand, the token manifested, shaped by the crawling nanomaterial into the form of a silver rose. Wrought from living metal, it curled its petals and grew until it fixed itself in place upon Toshtta’s armoured shoulder as a large besague, fully rooted to the vine-laced plating. Vashante saw Bee hesitate a moment, adjusting the metallic blossom with her single hand, ensuring it did not bite too deeply.
Toshtta stayed kneeling through it all, her trembling breaths audible from behind the sealed helmet. Only when Bee stepped back did the Flowerbedside Companions hurry in to drape a black cloak upon Toshtta’s shoulders, a moment stretched into forever: Toshtta’s head remained bowed longer than expected, helm sealed, secreting all expression. Yet, from behind Toshtta’s visor, Vashante could sense a rising adoration, luminous and sacrosanct, and when she rose it was as a member of the Knights Consort.
Next came Sar-ek. He offered Bee a silent bow, dipping his head but never quite losing that arrogant poise. He knelt then, every movement a studied display of silent confidence. Once more Bee conjured the sanguine from her hand, letting the red-silver swirl shape itself anew. It raised as if to float for a moment in midair, supported on the finest gossimer of hairlike fibres. Again, Bee placed it gently on Sar-ek’s chest. There was an instant in which the mutagen meshed with his body—embedding itself, perhaps binding to his bones, to his ribcage—but Sar-ek did not flinch. Spinning out from his own flesh, blood, and mutagen in a near-organic cascade, there grew upon him a silverline cuirass.
The plates of armour upon his chest and back were at odds with the crude and shoddy mailes that had been assembled for the warriors here to date. They gleamed, a bastion of armoured metallic bone. Another black cloak, drawn by trembling, flowery maidens, came around his shoulders. In that hush, Sar-ek stood tall, confidence suddenly struck through by a stern reverence, unspoken but palpable. To have been touched by the hand of a Goddess, indeed.
Then Cartaxa stepped into the small circle of candlelit gloom, his worn armour bearing scars of battles uncounted. He, too, bowed low before taking a knee. Vashante recognized in him an unfeigned solemnity: a vow re-pledged, some debt renewed. Their eyes met for a breath—Cartaxa’s multifaceted gaze mirroring her own burden of guilt and determination.
Bee’s next shaping of red-silver sealed his pledge, the nanomaterial ordering itself into a plain ring, a band of thick metal. Bee carefully placed it upon Cartaxa’s outstretched forefinger—nothing fancy, no gem to dazzle, simply a token of quiet promise. The black cloak was drawn across his shoulders by gentle, blossoming hands as he straightened. Cartaxa neither trembled nor postured as he rose, simply accepting his new station with calm inevitability.
Slowly, the chanting from the tower Ymmngorad quietened. Vashante stood close to Bee, observing the stillness that overtook those present. No words were spoken. No incantations or empty claims. Each newly enoffed knight wore the tokens of Bee’s living metal as testament to their bond. Sar-ek shifted, projecting confidence as he took his place. Cartaxa clasped his ringed hand by the hilt of his blade, as though reaffirming a final vow.
Even in that hush, Vashante felt the tower’s walls resonate, a trembling in its labyrinthine flesh and skeleton. High above, in her crypt-prison, the Rose of Thorns stirred. These rites—remembered by such old families, kept alive by such old customs—held meaning. Lady Bhaeryn’s blood, testament to her lineage, etched these three knights into her circle, entrusted to stand guard over Cruiros forevermore. And they were recognised.
Only then did the chanting ebb to nothing. One by one, the newly named Knights Consort stepped away. Bee offered each a faint, solemn inclination of her head as they departed. Toshtta lingered, helmet brushing Bee’s ear in some inaudible murmur. Bee’s wan smile answered whatever was said.
Vashante kept her silent vigil at Bee’s side until they were alone, watching as the final moments of ceremony came to an end in the hidden halls of the Crawling City. Only then did Bee turn, meeting Vashante’s gaze with an irrepressible grin.
“I did it,” she whispered proudly.
“You did.” Vashante lowered her head, glancing at the floor. Pressing a hand down onto Bee’s shoulder, she tapped away the words, “I knew you could do it.”