A Season of Rendings Read online

  A Season of Rendings

  The Redemption Chronicle, Volume II

  Adam J Nicolai

  Contents

  By Adam J Nicolai

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Epilogue

  A Note From the Author

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Also by Adam J Nicolai

  Also by Adam J Nicolai

  Also by Adam J Nicolai

  By Adam J Nicolai

  Alex (Available Now)

  Rebecca (Available Now)

  Todd (Available Now)

  The Redemption Chronicle

  Children of a Broken Sky (Available Now)

  A Season of Rendings

  Of Dark Things Waking (Coming June 2018)

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  A Season of Rendings

  The Redemption Chronicle, Volume II

  by Adam J Nicolai

  Copyright © 2018 by Adam J Nicolai

  Published by Lone Road Publishing, LLC. All rights reserved.

  Original Artwork by Adam Paquette © 2014

  Map art by Cornelia Yoder, http://www.corneliayoder.com

  Cover Element Design by Kit Foster Design and Lone Road Publishing, LLC

  All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief, properly credited quotations.

  Created with Vellum

  For those who waited, both patiently and impatiently.You know who you are.

  And yes—those days were incredible. Everything about them was incredible. The kind of story you expect to read in school, or hear at bedtime. Not to live through, to experience. I could scarcely believe it while it was happening.

  It's all history now. But at the time they were dizzying steps. Terrifying. Taken so fast we couldn't keep up with them. You have to remember we were practically children ourselves. A year before, we'd stayed up late telling Night stories.

  But that's the way of change. It comes fast. It uses who it wills.

  Then you blink, and the first day of a new age is already behind you.

  Excerpt of a letter from Angbar Shed'dei, addressed to Sarah Thorn at the Eldran Historical Society

  Prologue

  The Second Storm

  Caleph Sera had undergone the Transformation at the age of thirteen, receiving into His own soul the radiant spirit of Akir at the deathbed of His predecessor. For forty years since, He had been the Fatherlord Himself: God granted flesh. Akir's presence was a ceaseless heat at the back of His mind, a vague yet omniscient companion. When He dreamt, it granted Him visions; when He spoke, it guided His tongue.

  Now, it was growing irritated.

  Since dawn, His advisors had updated Him on the Church's coffers, its ongoing feud with Prince Isaic of Keswick, and the preponderance of witches that continued to be identified across the kingdom and even overseas. Now Archbishop Joshua, a fossil of 93 summers, prattled on about the Purification of the newest book of the Chronicle.

  There was only one thing He wanted to know, and it was none of these. They were all dancing around it, and that could only be due to ill news.

  "Enough," Sera snapped. Joshua clamped his jaws shut as if he'd just been slapped. "What of Matthew's murder in the Shientel Valley? You've told me nothing."

  Matthew had been an apostate—a former bishop who had left the Church and crossed the kingdom spreading the claim that the Church did not do the work of God. His lies had riled up countless peasants and even some nobility.

  Sera had needed to handle the man carefully. Matthew had to be silenced, but the Church could hardly kill him in broad daylight; nothing would embolden his would-be followers faster than turning him into a martyr. So they had tried to discredit him by attacking his character and his motivations. The nickname "Mad Matthew" had gained some traction. But it hadn't been enough.

  Finally, Sera had ordered the Tribunal to find and stop Mad Matthew, paying particular care to the need to be circumspect. He hadn't specified the manner of Matthew's end—dead or alive didn't matter to Him, so long as the man was off the streets and done spreading lies.

  Finally, earlier this autumn, the Tribunal had done its work. The reports said Mad Matthew was dead, his murder blamed not on the Tribunal but on a young peasant, a smith's son, from the little village of Southlight. This would have been a perfect resolution—had the boy not escaped.

  The table was crowded with old men. Sera, at fifty-three, was among the youngest. Now, all of them turned to Archbishop Genneth of the Tribunal, who inclined his head.

  "Your Holiness," he began, in a voice like gravel. Genneth always sounded as if he needed to clear his throat or take a drink—perhaps both. "The smith's son was tried for the murder and found guil―"

  "You've told me this. I know this. He was freed by his friends in the village and escaped. West, you said. Toward Newton, and one of our own Preserver compounds. I trust you have them back in custody? Perhaps the punishment has already been delivered?"

  The color draining from Genneth's face was all the answer Sera needed. "Not yet, Your Holiness. The trail . . . went dry."

  The man's excuses were bothersome as mayflies. Sera swatted them down. "You said Marcus and Elmoor were summoning arc hounds. Arc hounds do not lose a trail."

  "Yes, of course, Your Holiness. But the arc hounds didn't return."

  "Impossible." Sera cracked the word like a whip. He looked around the table at the other Archbishops. Dilen Yeros, the sniveling snot leading the Order of Apostles, scoffed his agreement.

  "Perhaps your man Marcus missed them, or lost his connection with them," Yeros said, always eager to pile on. After decades in his role, the man should have known that his constant undercutting did not endear him in Sera's eyes, but some people never learned. "If one is not a strong enough miracleworker―"

  "Bishop Marcus is competent," Genneth threw back, venting at his peer the frustration he couldn't direct at the Fatherlord. "The arc hounds were killed."

  The table fell silent. Interesting. Since the art of summoning arc hounds had been rediscovered shortly after the Rending, the creatures had never failed to finish their prey. Not once.

  Now they had. Not against the King's army or a squad of trained Preservers, but against nameless peasants—peasants who were, if His advisors could be believed, hardly more than children.

  Something had triggered His interest in this situation weeks ago; something about its proximity to Thakhan Dar, the mountain that had birthed the
Rending. Now, it was clear that His attention had been warranted from the start.

  These were no normal children.

  "Killed?" Yeros threw an incredulous glance at Sera, an ingratiating look that said, Does he take us for fools? "Are you certain Marcus created the hounds properly? Perhaps he couldn't manage―"

  "Bishop Marcus is no idiot," Sera said, cutting Yeros to size. "I've met the man myself. You could learn a lesson in dignity from him, Yeros." As Yeros reddened and fell mercifully silent, Sera went on. "So they escaped the Tribunal's custody, led them a merry chase, and slew arc hounds, all after adopting Matthew's lies as their personal crusade. Is this your report?"

  Genneth steeled his jaw. "It would seem so, Your Holiness."

  "Fatherlord." Talen Seer was always the last to speak. His voice, confident and sleek, glided into the silence like a bird of prey. "Just before our meeting, I received some intelligence that may shed some light on the situation. It seems a group matching the description of Father Genneth's peasants interrupted a witchburning in Keldale. One of their number rescued the witch from the fire; another threw white lights from her hands and put clerics to sleep."

  Sera steepled his fingers. This was getting interesting indeed. "So they're witches themselves."

  "It would appear so, Your Holiness. And I'm fairly certain this is the same group from Father Genneth's village. The smith's son—a redhead—was with them, along with a nog and a young man that several mistook for a Preserver. But," Seer raced on, pre-empting Yeros just as the whiney man opened his mouth, "this problem has been resolved. My men pursued them west overnight, ultimately driving them into Veiling Green, where the wolves slaughtered them."

  Sera felt a twinge of disappointment. He had hoped to have these ones questioned, particularly after hearing that they had held their own against arc hounds. "Very good, Archbishop Seer. Have the bodies brought to Tal'aden. These were special children, if the stories can be believed. I would look on them myself."

  Seer nodded. "Of course, Father, but I'm afraid there is little of the bodies left to look upon. Bishop Calfon sent a scouting party after the first group when they failed to return, and found the lot of them torn to pieces behind the line of wolves."

  "So the wolves attacked your men as well as these peasants?"

  Another nod. "I can only surmise my men were so eager to catch their prey, they failed to mind their distance. Still, their zealotry is to be admired—they brought the witches down."

  "How can you be sure of that without the bodies?"

  The slightest hint of a quizzical frown shadowed Seer's confident smile. "I don't take your meaning, Father. All the bodies were literally torn to shreds; there is nothing left."

  "How can you be sure the children didn't escape into the wood?"

  "Into Veiling Green?" Seer gave a disbelieving scoff. "Well, of course―" He trailed off as he slowly realized the Fatherlord was serious. "But even if they did, the curse on Veiling Green is older than the Church. No one escapes once they enter."

  Sera arched a brow at him. "Hm. Just as no one survives an arc hound pack."

  Seer exhaled: a noise that, from him, counted as an exasperated sigh. "The children are dead, Your Holiness. I swear it. If you wish, though―"

  His gaze snapped to the massive window behind Sera, the words dying in his throat. He circled his heart, reaching for his God's Star like a dying man clutches at his chest. Around the table the others followed suit, awe and fear stealing into their eyes.

  Akir's presence—that golden glow crouched in the back of Sera's thoughts—surged, flaring like the sun. It was so bright it made His vision dance, so loud that He could hear God's voice.

  Caleph, it whispered, bringing with it a headache like a thunderstorm. The Fatherlord grabbed His forehead, trying to hold His skull together. Caleph! The voice was an explosion of divinity, a detonation of strength too powerful for mere flesh to contain.

  He'd felt something similar once before. It hadn't been nearly this debilitating, but its effects had never really left. Akir's presence had been stronger in His mind afterward, more assertive and aware. It had happened years ago, when—

  When . . .

  No. Impossible.

  Sera lurched to His feet and turned to the window behind Him, His heart hammering, and saw a vision from His nightmares.

  In the distant southeast, the sky was breaking again.

  1

  i. Seth

  They had jailed his master.

  Seth crouched behind a boulder, peering into the depression that housed the Preserver compound. Just a few months ago, this place had been his every waking breath—the sum total of his existence. Now it looked small: a small number of buildings, in a small, snow-shrouded basin, run by a small man.

  As an apprentice Preserver, Seth had struggled for years to suppress his feelings and become the empty vessel the Teachings required. He called on that training now, keeping his face blank and his eyes clear, but his fingers betrayed him. They trembled against the frozen stone, digging like talons.

  They had jailed his master.

  Jokan must have drugged him. The thought bobbed on a sea of rage. He could never take Master Retash in an even fight. An image of Jokan leapt to mind, all beady eyes and sharp ears: a rat on human legs. Seth had seen Jokan spar with Retash once—just once—and the little man had been forced to concede. He had never been able to get past Retash's defenses; had been utterly unequal to his attacks.

  In the years since, he must have decided on another approach to beating Seth's master. What Jokan lacked in physical prowess, he made up in guile. Last fall, in Keldale, Seth had learned Jokan had detained Retash for treachery.

  Treachery? Seth asked a memory of Jokan's face. He stole around the boulder, slipped easily down the snow-covered ridge. He darted from one building's long shadow to the next, closing in on the little jail building, where a single figure stood guard.

  I'll teach you treachery.

  Seth flexed his hands, waiting for the guard to glance away. A trained Preserver might never make such a mistake, but Seth could tell from the man's stance that he was an apprentice only. In a few minutes, the guard gave a small cough and glanced both ways to see if anyone had heard his moment of simple weakness.

  In the instant he was looking away, Seth stole across the road and into the shadows just around the corner from the guard.

  He didn't see me, but he'll see the tracks. When he comes to investigate, I'll take him.

  As if bidden, the guard crunched through the snow and around the corner. His eyes locked on Seth.

  Daniel. Seth had trained with the boy. They had shared a room. Meals. Whispered conversations in the dark.

  He opened his mouth to shout for help, and Seth struck him in the throat.

  Daniel fell back, gurgling. Seth flowed forward to catch him. "Easy," he whispered. The strike had been precise: enough to cut off Daniel's voice and no more. "Easy," he said again, and delivered a second blow, this one to Daniel's skull. The boy's eyes rolled back and he went limp in Seth's arms.

  Can't leave him in the snow. He'll freeze. Seth hoisted him up and bore him around the corner, toward the little building's door. He should've checked first, made sure the way was clear, but his recklessness went unpunished. No one saw him. Relieved, he pushed the door open, still carrying Daniel's limp body.

  Two clerics gaped at him.

  "What is the meaning―?" the taller priest began. The short one started invoking a miracle.

  Seth dropped Daniel and lunged forward. A second throat punch sent the chanting cleric reeling, but the tall one began an invocation of his own. Seth turned on him, but he was too late.

  " . . . kel rushtar'r," Tall Priest finished, and Seth felt a Binding seize him.

  Empty. Empty. He dropped his fear as if it were a brick, cut his desires loose like chains from his ankles, but the Binding still snagged him. He wasn't empty; he was furious.

  He was always furious.

  Mid
-lunge, his legs turned to ice. He tripped and tried to raise his hands to break the fall, but his arms were numb. The stone floor smashed into his face.

  Idiot! he seethed. How would he ever become a Preserver if he couldn't clear his mind? He had practiced for days on end. His failure only infuriated him more.

  "Gal'sa faen tar'r," Tall Priest droned. A miracle of healing, no doubt for his colleague, who was still wheezing. "Gal'et sa haal'l sen Akir."

  Short Priest sucked in a gasp of air. "Seth . . ." he managed. "Seth Rulano. His apprentice. Jokan said he would come."

  "Get help," Tall Priest said. "I'll watch him." Facedown against the stone, powerless to stop him, Seth heard Short Priest scramble to his feet and run.

  His forehead blared with pain. Use the pain, Retash had told him once. Don't dwell on it, but focus on it if you need to. Don't let it control you. It is transient; your priest will heal it. While it remains, use it.

  He was alone with his pain, unable to speak or even blink, barely breathing. He focused on it, let it fill him and crowd out his old rage.

  Empty. There was no emotion, no intention, no self. The Binding's shackles slipped off.

  Seth blinked.

  "Gal'sa faen tar'r." Tall Priest knelt by Daniel now, his back turned. "Gal'et―"

  Seth struck him, and he crumpled.