Bellica Read online

  Bellica

  a pagan fantasy novel

  Book 1 of The Third Age

  by Katje van Loon

  To Oma. I hope they have eBook readers (and chocolate!) in Heaven.

  Table of Contents

  Glossary

  ~

  The Beginning

  Heavens

  The Divide

  Earth

  The Descent

  Underworld

  ~

  About the Author

  Acknowledgments

  Glossary

  fustanella (pl. fustanellae): pleated skirt worn by Atherian men. Standard attire for men in formal and casual settings unless they are in the military, sailors, or otherwise in an occupation where practicality demands pants.

  peplos (pl. peploi): an Atherian woman's outfit similar to a dress. Made of a large rectangle of fabric, it knots at the shoulders or down the back, depending on the style. There are sleeveless and long-sleeved types, the ones with sleeves being buttoned down them. There is sometimes a long slit down the side, sometimes not. Generally worn with a bodice as a belt, which is usually rather thin and underbust, with the peplos folding out over it. Considered a formal outfit; if worn outside of court settings the woman wearing it may be considered a bit masculine.

  klina (pl. klinae): a reclining couch used for sitting, lounging, talking, reading, and eating. Or making love, if one is adventurous.

  efemira: a journal.

  karykos (pl. Karykai): the healer's symbol. Two snakes wrap themselves around a staff that has wings at the top.

  husband: female spouse. Women may marry men or other women, and are not restricted to one spouse. (This term is particular to Athering and is not used in places such as Mt. Voco.)

  wife: male spouse. Men may marry women or other men, and are not restricted to one spouse. (This term is particular to Athering and is not used in places such as Mt. Voco.)

  Empreena: heir apparent to the title of Empress. Zardria felt "princess" was a lesser title when her aunt took the title of Empress, and so she came up with Empreena.

  terrabane: a dangerous, virulent poison. No cure. Use of it merits instant execution.

  Bellica: highest rank in Athering's military; similar to a general. Only women are able to attain this rank.

  majora: feminine form of major. One rank below bellica; major is the highest rank men can achieve.

  priva: lowest rank in the military; similar to a private.

  Magek: magic, spelled differently. It's spelled with an e-k because of the Magi-Atherian history: Magea Rosa became synonymous with the concept of magic at some point and the spelling changed to accommodate that.

  ara: altar.

  Reiaume: means the entire land as ruled by the female sovereign ruler. Female equivalent of 'kingdom'.

  Date and time system

  Athering has a 26-hour day and each hour is 90 minutes long. They run on military time so there is no post- or ante-meridian. Because each hour is 90 minutes long the mid-point of the hour is at 45 minutes.

  The year is 390 days long -- 10 months of 39 days each. Each month is divided up into three tredicems, or units of 13 days -- however the unit of a sevenday is also used for naming the days of the week. The days of the week are Jourd'Aradia, Jourd'Juno, Jourd'Althea, Jourd'Selene, Jourd'Bellona, Jourd'Muerta, and Jourd'Umbra.

  The Beginning

  4750, The First Age

  Midnight darkened the corridors of the Temple. The few remaining lights let out a gentle hum; most flickered, deteriorating with age. Hidden in shadows, Estela stood in an alcove, waiting for the Watch to walk by, to pass her unnoticed. She hoped.

  Soon her wish came to pass--a priestess, already Dedicated, passed her, in robes black as night. They were all black as night. This priestess must not be in direct contact with the Deity, or she would have noticed Estela where she hid.

  The woman gone, Estela darted out from her alcove, headed for her destination, the centre of the Temple. The holiest of holies, where only those ready for Dedication to Umbra could go. Never mind if they'd been Called or not.

  The holy centre of the Temple was empty. Here were no artificial lights; the flames of candles and torches flickered, reflections dancing on the black stone. She'd read in a history book the stone used to be multicoloured, millennia ago. Worship of Umbra had darkened it.

  Her heart pounding, Estela approached the altar. It had been dedicated to the worship of Umbra as long as she had lived. Truly, it was not suitable for anything else, and she knew this. Umbra was the only Goddess honoured in Athering. She knew this as well.

  One cannot control her dreams, she thought, finding the sacrificial knife. And I have been Called to Another's service.

  The flames cast enough light for her to see her reflection in the knife's blade. She looked young and terrified.

  She was. She knew what would happen if they caught her. But when the Goddesses Called, one answered.

  She held her hand over the altar and slit her palm with the knife. Blood flowed over the smooth stone.

  "Great Kore, Goddess of Light and Prophecy, You have Called me and I answer," she said, her voice shaking. "I Dedicate my life, my soul, and my blood to You. I pray that I am found worthy."

  A low laugh echoed through the room, from behind her. Estela whipped around. At the entrance stood the Mother Superior, Maga Domina, and several High Priestesses. They were all full servants of Umbra. She swallowed nervously. This was it, then. It was over. She hoped Kore had accepted her offering, or it would be a horrible afterlife indeed.

  The Mother Superior stepped forward slowly, a terrible smile on her face. "Hm. Estela," she spoke slowly, savouring the girl's name as if it were a tasty morsel. "Somehow I always knew you would be one to betray the Order."

  Estela found her voice, buried in her chest, cowering in fear. "You've no right to be the Order anymore, Beralyn. We turned away from Aradia long ago." If I am to die anyway, I'd rather go out with a show of courage.

  Beralyn laughed again, coming inexorably closer to where Estela stood. "And you think you'll suddenly change everything by Dedicating to a long-dead Goddess?"

  "Kore's not dead," Estela said, holding her head high.

  Beralyn scoffed, but Estela thought she saw a flash of uncertainty in the older woman's eyes. "You think She lives on in your stupid little books? Oh, I know," she added at the surprise Estela could not keep from her face. "I know about your trips to the forbidden section, deep within the castle library. I know about your fascination with a time that's long forgotten--as well it should be." She made a signal with her hand then, and the high priestesses came forward. They grabbed Estela by the arms and pushed her brutally to her knees. "You'll be forgotten, too, little girl," she said with cold menace.

  "No," Estela whispered. "I won't. Not by you." A bright light had begun to shine in Estela's chest; now it grew until it occluded all else. She felt absolutely at peace, and knew in her heart that Kore had answered her. When she spoke again, she knew the words came from some place other than her mind. "When the Dark One rules, all falls to ruin in this world and the other. Her Chosen takes the Sceptre, and compassion is forgotten. But another shall arise--a Chosen of Kore, of the Line of Aradia--a child of Light to balance the Dark. And thus shall the Dark One's rule fall, and thus shall compassion take the Sceptre again."

  Beralyn continued to smile, but it was tinged with doubt. "Well, I hope you weren't referring to the Queen's firstborn. That girl's already been sacrificed, just this morn."

  At any other time Estela would have felt sick to her stomach, but she only smiled in return. "The time is coming," she said, and knew the words to be her last.

  Beralyn snapped her fingers; the Maga Domina brought forth an axe, and then Estela's head was bent
forward, her hair moved to the side.

  A sharp pain, the beating rush of air, the feathery presence of wings, the warm embrace of darkness. Estela was no more.

  Heavens

  Ghia

  Jourd'Muerta, 21st Novena,

  4019 of the Third Age

  Midwinter Eve

  Today was an exceptionally busy day in the hospitalis. She hadn't expected it to be so--the regiments had arrived back in town over a sevenday before, causing chaos with the sudden influx of wounded women. Head Healer Helene had done her job, ruling the hospitalis and her healers with the same steely grip she'd always had, and soon things calmed down again.

  I wonder if I'll ever have my mother's leadership skills, Ghia wondered idly as she dealt with some minor injuries sustained by one child of a group who'd gotten into some mischief in the bowels of the castle. It was lucky they hadn't drowned. The broken arm of their ringleader was already set, with some strict chastising to go with the fresh cast. Truth be told, she felt odd reprimanding children no more than a decade younger than she, but it seemed she was adult enough for them to take it to heart.

  Straightening, she saw it wasn't time for a rest yet--the first regiment's Chief Medical Officer, Jules deTania, was walking through her door looking as if Muerta Herself had laid Her hand upon his shoulder.

  Ghia smoothed her peplos and walked over to the man, professional healer's calm in her voice.

  "We hadn't expected you back so soon, Jules. What can I do for you? Your women are doing fine," she said as an afterthought, thinking he might be here to check on the soldiers of his regiment.

  He shook his head briskly. "Bellica Yarrow's women, actually, and I hear she's been enough of a nuisance to you already." He smiled down at her and Ghia chuckled softly. Bellica Yarrow had been in every day to check on the status of the soldiers wounded in the East Campaign, beginning to look more like a worried hen than a seasoned military officer. It had taken Ghia's threat, to hold Yarrow in the hospitalis herself for exhaustion and stress overload, to get the bellica to ease up.

  "A mite, yes," she responded, looking critically at the older man. "You look half dead, Jules. Have you fallen ill?" Her hand was against his forehead checking for fever before he could protest.

  Gently he removed her hand as Ghia thankfully remarked his cool skin. "No. I came in for something to help me sleep. I haven't got a wink since Nucalif," he said, and then fell silent, looking off into the distance.

  Ghia said nothing. She had no experience with being a soldier, but she'd tended enough to know what state he was in. She led him by the arm to her cabinets at the back where she found some valerian and mugwort tea--better quality than what one could get at an apothecary's shop, and free.

  It brought a smile, albeit a tired one, to his face, and he murmured his thanks.

  "Anytime," she said softly, and placed a hand on his arm. "If you need to talk...." She let it hang in the air. He knew healers were counsellors for the mind and spirit as well as the body.

  He nodded once, smiled with a bit more vigour, and left.

  She watched him go, flexing her hand. It tingled, telling her there was more to Jules' lack of sleep than what he let on. Than what I had assumed, she realised. It was beneath his surface thoughts, locked deeply within his psyche. She wouldn't pry.

  He'll tell me of his own accord, or broadcast it loudly at some point, she thought, heading to the gardens to gather what could be gathered in the dead of winter. I can wait until then. Besides, Jules is a friend. I have too much respect for him just to reach into his mind and take what I can.

  She didn't spend long in the garden, for not many plants were winter-blooming. When she came back into the hospitalis, she saw her mother had returned from her errands in the town.

  Ghia greeted Helene with a kiss on each cheek. "How's Aunt Kasandra?" she said, leaping right to the point. She'd not seen her aunt in a while, being kept busy at the hospitalis.

  Helene laughed as she set her packages down, gesturing to some acolytes to deal with them. "You won't like this--she wants you to work tonight."

  Ghia suppressed a groan. Normally she didn't complain about having two trades--she wanted to be a healer, after all, and was good at it. So being her mother's heir, while stressful, was everything she wanted. But healing was not the best-paying work for the hours it sucked out of you, and Kasandra would rather pay the high rate for wenching in the tavern to Ghia than to anyone else. Even if I'm not exactly a wench.

  But working in one of the most popular taverns in Atherton on Midwinter Eve?

  "Does she hate me?" she asked out loud.

  Helene laughed again and made her way to her office. Ghia followed, closing the door behind her after they entered the small room. "No. She wants you to make good tips," her mother said, sitting down in the big chair behind her desk. She pulled her ledger to her and opened it up to the day's page. Finding quill and ink, she looked expectantly up at Ghia.

  Hastily Ghia related the events of the hospitalis that had occurred during Helene's absence, and the woman wrote them down quickly in her neat handwriting. There must have been an edge to her voice as she talked about Jules' request, for Helene's eyes regarded her daughter steadily.

  "I didn't pry," Ghia said, a bit petulantly. "I'm not a seven-year-old anymore." Helene's mouth quirked, and Ghia could hear her mother's thought: No, but you sound like one. Ghia glared at her mother and the woman laughed.

  "Ok, so you didn't. But you sensed something."

  It wasn't a question. Ghia nodded anyway. "There's something more than the usual reason a soldier can't sleep, but I don't know what it is."

  Helene waved her hand and salted the ink on the page. "Give it time. You two are friends; he'll tell you eventually." Her look turned shrewd as she closed the book and pushed it away from her. "And don't let on," she said.

  Ghia nearly stamped her foot with exasperation. "I know."

  "Right. You're nineteen. You know everything."

  Ghia would have been mad, but her mother's face held such barely contained mirth she found herself laughing. Her laughter set off her mother and the two women were soon in hysterics, doubled over, clutching their sides.

  "But in my case it really applies," Ghia managed to say at last, gasping for breath.

  Helene sighed, expelling the rest of her laughter with a whoosh as she sat upright in her chair. "And you're a special case," she said, and suddenly the mood was serious again. Ghia swallowed the remaining giggles in her throat and nodded. "You know me, mija. I can't bear the thought of losing you. I'm just a nervous hen," she added with a self-deprecating smile.

  Ghia stepped forward and embraced her mother. "Yes, you are, and I love you for it. And you know I'm always careful." She stepped back, sensing the meeting was over, and went to open the door.

  "I know," Helene said. "Take the rest of the day off and then go to the Cauldron by 1800 hours, alright?"

  Ghia stopped at the door and regarded her mother briefly. "Thank you," she said, and then groaned when she saw who was coming through the hospitalis door. "I'll be off as soon as I deal with the bellica," she muttered, and stalked off to meet Yarrow.

  The bellica of the first regiment towered over Ghia, standing two metres high as she did, but the healer did not quail at facing down the older woman or her Major Caelum, both taller and older than Yarrow. She stood with her hands on her hips and glared at the bellica, sparing neither of them her ire.

  "Did you not believe me when I said I'd drug you up on valerian myself last time? Care to test me?" she asked imperiously.

  Yarrow glared back with as much force, but Ghia didn't flinch. The bellica grabbed Caelum by the arm and moved him in front of her like a shield. "It's his fault I'm here," she said sourly.

  Caelum rolled his eyes and grabbed the bellica's other hand, bringing it closer so Ghia could see. It was wrapped loosely with a white cloth, blood seeping around the edges. "Cut herself open doing something stupid," Caelum said, his kind eyes starin
g down at the healer.

  Ghia smirked. "I'll take a look at it," she said, and reached for the bellica's hand.

  Yarrow yanked her hand away. "It's just a fecking scratch, alright? Leave it." She held her hand close to her chest, daring the two of them to contradict her.

  Caelum did. Ghia let him: physically--and socially--he was the only person able to subdue Yarrow at all. He put his arm around Yarrow's shoulders and started to guide her further into the hospitalis, to an empty chair and table. "Listen, Princess, I don't care if it's 'just a fecking scratch' or whatever you've got into your brain that it is. Your hands are important. Ghia's taking a look at it." He pushed her solidly down into the chair.

  She kicked him the leg, her large military-grade boot making a solid thunk against him. He didn't even flinch. "If you call me Princess one more time, Caelum, I swear to Goddess...."

  Ghia tuned them out as she got the supplies ready: her mortar and pestle to grind the darkshade and some water to make the paste; some linen to wrap the wound; a bowl of fresh water to clean it. She didn't take the sinew; the wound was small enough to not need stitches. When she was done, she grabbed Yarrow's hand with no gentleness and no ceremony.

  Yarrow made a sound of protest and continued to glare at the two of them, although now that her glare was so divided, it was losing some of its heat. Ghia unwrapped the bandage, but she already knew what had happened. As soon as her skin had touched Yarrow's the scene had played in her head: the Shrine in the West Tower, to Queen Zameera, untouched by any save the bellica. The rusted, broken sword that had once belonged to the bellica's mother, a bellica herself before she was queen. The ritual Yarrow did without fail each year on this day, the day of her mother's death. The dust causing such a mighty sneeze that she had hit her head on the altar of the Shrine and fallen to her knees; using her hand to get up, she'd managed to grip the sword and cut herself open.