Of Dark Things Waking (The Redemption Chronicle Book 3) Page 15

  "As real as you make it," Harth said.

  "Could you make anything with this?" the King said. "Gold? Weapons?"

  "I . . . don't know yet, Your Highness," Syntal answered. "I'd need more time to study it—but remember that anything I did make would vanish when I ended the chant, which I'd have to do eventually."

  "Hm." Isaic returned to his throne. "You can end it now."

  The image winked away. Syntal wiped the sweat from her forehead.

  "Lyseira Rulano," the King said, and all eyes turned to the room's entry—where the same page had deposited the girl and her would-be Preserver. "You finally saw fit to join us."

  "I was busy," Lyseira returned. She wore a filthy tunic and breeches, soaked through with grime. She looked as if she'd crawled to the palace on her hands knees. "If you hadn't noticed, the city is starving."

  Isaic bridled at her tone. "That's exactly why I summoned you. People are going hungry, and it's your job to feed them."

  "How can I do that when I have to leave the field for three hours to come explain myself?"

  The field? Melakai glanced at the King, but Isaic's face betrayed no insights.

  "I don't want explanations. I want results. I want food." Isaic settled forward, threw an accusing finger at the girl. "You said your people could make enough food to shore up the lack in the city stores."

  "They could!" Lyseira retorted. "Five months ago! Since then the stores have run empty, the livestock's fallen sick—the winter has dragged on almost half a year. We're doing everything we can but I only have so many Kesprey!"

  "I thought more joined every week."

  "Well, not all of them can summon manna! We don't have―" She clipped the words off as Seth put a hand to her arm.

  Kai felt his first real thrill of fear at the possibility of starvation. It had been a specter all winter, of course, ever since the first snows had fallen shortly before the first leaves should have, but the situation had been too bizarre to take seriously. A maelstrom of extraordinary circumstances had all seemed to balance each other out—the freak winter with the sudden appearance of Kesprey who could create food; the abrupt war with Tal'aden and a host of chanters who might be able to counter them. Kai had stood in the eye of the storm and watched it swirl, assuming—for no good reason, he realized now—that it would eventually blow itself out.

  But Lyseira looked desperate. Frightened. Lashing out not because she harbored disrespect for the King, but because she had glimpsed that black place where stations no longer mattered, and found it closer than she'd feared.

  Lyseira drew a steadying breath. "We can't feed everyone. We can feed maybe a quarter of the city once all the reserves are exhausted." And that day approaches fast, Kai thought. They were nearly down to the reserve grain, the seed they had planned to use for next spring's crops. "But I prayed yesterday, and Akir showed me a way. Maybe you can help me with it."

  "And what is that?" Isaic said.

  "I need the reserve grain seed."

  Isaic spread his hands. "It's the city's grain—the city is handling it, not you. We'll decide when to parcel it out, if we do at all."

  "I'm not asking because I want to hand it out. I'm asking because I want to plant it."

  The absurdity struck the chamber into silence.

  "That was Akir's command," she went on. "Clear the fields, and plant the grain. Now."

  "That's ridiculous," Logan, the throne's treasurer, said. A plump and balding man of some thirty-five summers, he wore indignation poorly. "We'd do as well to burn it!"

  Lyseira met his outrage. "Akir didn't say to burn it. He said to plant it."

  "Where?" Logan threw back. "In the snow?"

  "In the fields. A score of faithful are working there as we speak."

  Logan scoffed and threw a hand toward the King. "Your Highness―"

  "What are they doing?" Isaic asked Lyseira. "Clearing the snow?"

  "Yes. For now."

  "To what end? The soil is long frozen."

  "We'll till it the best we can—with mining picks, if we have to. I just need to know how much soil to prepare."

  "None!" Logan spat. "Your Highness, I hope you're not seriously considering―"

  Isaic held up a hand to silence his treasurer. "Wheat can't grow in the dead of winter, Lyseira."

  "Just as bread can't fall from the sky," she said—and then, pointedly: "And men struck by fire always burn."

  Isaic sighed. That was another time she saved his life, Kai remembered. First at the guillotine, and again at the temple square. He hadn't been there, but he'd heard about it; the story had spread like wildfire after the riots ended. Akir Himself had intervened when the Church had tried to burn the eldest Gregor with Godsflame. The fire had wreathed him, but left him untouched.

  "I take your point," Isaic said, humbled. "I do. But this is different, isn't it? Is this a miracle like those you've worked before? You plant the seed and speak the words, and make the wheat grow from the dead earth?"

  His softer rhetoric tore the wind from her sails; she seemed to deflate right in front of them. "No," she sighed. "He didn't tell me what would happen, and I won't lie to you and tell you He did. I'm not even sure, myself. There is no miracle to invoke, so far as I know. I only know what He told me."

  The King put a hand to his temple, shaking his head.

  "But," Lyseira continued, "I also know this: Akir rewards faith. He has proven it time and again. Those were even His last words to me: 'Keep faith.' For the people out there digging in the snow right now, that was enough. I can't promise what form His answer will take, but I swear, if we do as He asks, He will provide."

  Isaic fell quiet; he worried at his bottom lip as though it were the last seed of grain in Keswick. Then he said, "Leave us."

  The congress members and Crownwardens nodded and filed out. Kai waited to make sure everyone complied—which is how he knew that not everyone did.

  "Seth," he said. "The King gave an order."

  "I stay with Lyseira," Seth answered.

  "You go where the King tells you," Kai said flatly.

  "Kai." Isaic shook his head. He had had his own Preserver, not long ago, who had refused all orders to leave his charge—a man who had died trying to save Isaic's life. "I'll allow it. Stay as well, if it suits you."

  Kai bowed. "Your Highness."

  When the last page left the room and the doors had closed, Isaic said, "I can't give you our seed grain. The time is coming fast when it'll be all the food we have left."

  "And after it's eaten, what then?" Lyseira said, not unkindly. "There is a hope, this way. That way . . . only starvation."

  "You don't know that. Angeltear is a week away. If it keeps to its name, the thaw will start. To waste all our grain seed so close to spring . . . ?" Isaic spread his hands. "I can't. You must understand."

  "Did Summerset keep to its name?" Lyseira pressed. "Or Redleaf? Deepwinter has been six months long. Your man was wrong—eating the grain seed would be tantamount to burning it. Akir offers another way."

  "A mad way!" Isaic pled. "Can't you see how tenuous this situation is? If I give you our grain seed only to have it die in the frozen earth, people will think I've lost my mind. They're angry, Lyseira—a riot is a dangerous way to start a rule. Any populace that riots once can riot twice, and you and I may not like the results so much the next time."

  Lyseira looked away, eyes burning and lips pursed. Finally she said, "How can you lose faith so easily? After everything He's done, after every sign He's given you? He saved you from execution, protected you in the temple square, elevated you to King after the Fatherlord stripped your birthright, and still you question Him?"

  Isaic gave her a sad smile. "When I tried to give Akir credit for those things, you stopped me. Remember? 'That was my choice,' I believe you said. You said I sounded like the Fatherlord—and now you make the same arguments, because they suit your position."

  Lyseira didn't deny the accusation. "M'sai. Fine. But that's t
he exact reason why you must do this. For once, it's not my choice. It's not my idea. Do you think I would come to you and ask this of my own accord? He spoke to me. This isn't just some miracle, invoked by a mortal throat. This is Akir! It's the direct commandment I've always prayed for. And it lies at your feet."

  Isaic drew a hand over his mouth as he deliberated. "I'll give you ten bushels," he finally said. "I'll have it delivered to Majesta tonight, after sundown."

  "No." Lyseira locked eyes with him. "He said, 'Take the last of the grain seed.' It has to be all of it."

  Isaic's spirit of compliance curdled into a scowl. "Now you test me, girl."

  "He said what He said, and it's a question of faith. If we're not going to do as He commanded, why bother doing only some of it? That would be a waste of grain.

  "I need the last of it—all of it."

  "Heaven save me from girls with churches," Isaic muttered, turning pale. "M'sai. Fifty bushels." Lyseira's face went blank with surprise. "5,000 people, fed for a day. If they learn what I did with it, they'll kill us all." He looked at Melakai. "When they're ready. Under cover of dark. And if the people find out, if they come after us," Isaic promised, looking back to her, "I'm blaming Akir for that, too."

  iv. Harth

  The students nearest the door started as he threw the door open, throwing surprised looks toward the entrance as if they thought the King had launched a raid.

  "Stop what you're doing," Harth said. "The King is planning a visit. We have to clean this place up."

  Syntal pushed past him for the last blank chalkboard, where she started writing the words Tenets of the Chanters.

  "What?" Takra stammered. "When? Now?"

  "I don't know. It could be today, it could be next week, but this place―" He grabbed a dirty plate from a nearby table, crusty with the remains of a small meal from two days ago. "Look at this! Sehk, it's barely fit for a swarm of rats! The King of Darnoth is coming! We have to clean up!"

  "Memorize these," Syntal called over her shoulder as the group slowly began to close their books and put away their scrolls. The chalk danced and squealed over the blackboard. The first tenet now read, Loyalty to the King. She underlined it twice. "As far as you're concerned, this is what we've always said. This is what we're about, it's how we're going to use our chants. M'sai? You don't just learn them and go off and do whatever you want. If you learn here, you work for the King."

  "If you have a problem with that, you can walk out now," Harth supplied.

  "Why?" Takra broke from the others and approached Harth. "What happened? Is this coming from him?"

  "It's coming from us," Harth said, but Takra's piercing eyes caught him. He squirmed like a worm on a hook. "But yeah, m'sai, he was concerned about it all. Wouldn't you be? School full of people who can blow up a whole market square just by thinking about it? We're all taking oaths to him."

  Belline, a pale woman of middling age, homely and earnest, looked at him. "We're all loyal. What does he think we're going to do?"

  "He doesn't think we're going to do anything!" Harth said. "We offered this, just to put him at ease. And if you want to keep learning here, you'll need to take this oath when he comes, and mean it."

  Syntal finished the second tenet—Opposed to the Church—then erased the last word and rewrote it: Opposed to the old Church. "We also said we'd help defend the city if it came to that."

  "Whoa, now," Ben said. "Defend the city? There are a lot of kids in here."

  "From the Church?" Takra said. "Of course we will."

  "We can't put Clive on the front line of a war," Ben returned.

  Harth interjected. "It'll be up to the King. We just have to make it clear to you that it's a possibility—for the those of able body, a very likely possibility."

  "For men of able body, you mean," Belline said.

  Harth shook his head. "Syntal and Takra are the two strongest chanters in this room. The King will send who he chooses."

  Belline gawped at him. "I just learned Chanterlight the moment before you opened that door," she said. "Even looking at the book, I've only managed to cast it twice! I've been at it for weeks, and half the time I can't even―"

  "And we'll let him know that," Harth promised. "We're not trying to get anyone killed, but . . ." He trailed off, desperate for a way to make them understand. "I mean, put yourself in the King's position. When this winter ends, Tal'aden's going to fall on this city like an avalanche. They have clerics—scores of them, hundreds even. And we have Lyseira's church, but most of those folks were simple peasants before the riots. They have no experience with war, and they're probably still―"

  "Well, neither do we!" Belline protested. A chorus of agreement rippled through the students.

  "— they're probably still outnumbered!" Harth repeated, speaking over her. "Do you want to see the Church take Keswick back? Do you know what happens to you if they do?"

  That struck them quiet. In the moment of silence, Syntal spoke. "All right, this is all of it for now. Memorize these." The blackboard now read:

  Tenets of the Chanters

  — Loyalty to the King

  — Opposed to the old Church

  — Dedication to excellence and research

  Bit slap-dash, Harth thought, but it'll work. "There'll be a quiz," he said. Syntal beamed at him, a smile that lit the whole room, and he returned it with the goofy earnestness of a man who knew he was careening blind and loving it.

  "Keep cleaning a minute," Syntal said. "Harth, come here." She darted into the back hall and he followed her, leaving the students' questions behind for the time being.

  "If we're to be his soldiers," Harth said, keeping his voice low, "seems to me we ought to be getting paid."

  "That's a good point." Syntal took his hand and pulled him after her. "We should probably talk to the King about that."

  "Do you think we should do something to help Lyseira with her field? Maybe we should take a short break here and figure out what we're doing, make a plan."

  "No need," Syn said. "I like the plan we have. And Angbar's there. A few Detonations ought to melt all the snow plenty quick. I'm sure he'll think of it."

  Harth looked around. She was leading him the wrong way, back toward the dormitories. "Where are you―?"

  She threw open the door to her room and pulled him inside, where she took his face in her hands and kissed him full on the lips before kicking the door back closed.

  It seemed they were taking a break after all.

  8

  i. Iggy

  When he next swam awake, his head lay against cold stone. He opened his eyes to absolute darkness—even the stars had forsaken him this time. The cold in his bones had amplified, sending constant shivers through his body.

  Dead, he thought again as he stared into the dark, listening to his own shuddering breaths as his body fought for warmth. But dead bodies didn't shiver.

  F-f-friend? he whispered, fighting to push the word through the agony and fever. B-b-bear?

  A rumble from the darkness, as of a great weight shifting. Bear, yes, the animal answered. Friend, no.

  That was a bad sign. You . . . have to . . . h-h-help me, Iggy whispered, knowing it had to do nothing of the sort.

  Can't.

  You alr-r-ready did. You b-b-brought me here. Wherever here is.

  My home. All I can do. If you still die, I will eat you while you're still hot.

  Iggy felt a surge of despair. Sehk, he thought. Oh, sehk, oh sehk'akir. Please don't, he wanted to beg. God, please don't, I need help.

  But that would only make him seem weak. Instead he forced himself, still shivering, to whisper, Why not just eat m-m-me now?

  Because, the bear said. I saw you fighting darkness on the ridge. You were a bear. It paused. You are bad at being a bear.

  Then help me. B-b-bring me to the nearest town. Where people live. They can—

  They'll kill me and eat me.

  No. No, you can drop m-m-me at the edge of t-t-town,
they won't—

  They will. You know they will. They're as hungry as I am. Woke too early.

  Finally, Iggy's eyes began to adjust; he saw, now, the whisper of starlight glimmering on the snow outside. The bear trudged to the cave mouth, sniffing the night air. Even from its silhouette Iggy saw how emaciated it was, its fur hanging from a scaffolding of bones. Should be spring, it lamented. I know I didn't have enough food, but it should be spring. They didn't gather enough food either. Everyone starving, and nothing to eat. It swiveled its great head back to him. But I decided I will eat you. Once it's time.

  I can feed you, Iggy promised, if you help me. D-d-d-done it many times before.

  The stink of suspicion washed over him. How? You can't even walk.

  But I have herbs, he said, that can help me. Heal me, maybe—I just can-can-can't r-r-reach them. The taste of bile surged in his throat. His fever thrashed him like a wolf on prey. His legs didn't move.

  I can't use herbs, the bear said.

  B-b-but if you g-g-get them for m-m-m—

  No! The bear roared, swiveling back into the cave. Done enough for you. Gave you a chance. Now just wait, and you do something for me.

  Iggy glared through his pain. J-j-just d-d-d-do it then! Can't you s-see I'm sehking m-m-m-miserable?

  The bear padded over to him, its great body framed in the light of the stars. It sniffed twice, then said, No.

  Why not?

  I told you. I saw you against the darkness. No one else could have stood like that.

  So help me! Iggy threw back. Or give me the m-m-m-mercy of a quick death!

  The animal pulled away, thinking.

  Then it turned and lumbered into the night.

  The hours bled into each other, one endless expanse of agony, as he drifted in and out of consciousness. Again and again he saw the man's face, flickering from the wasted flesh of a corpse to the healthy bearing of the goatherder. Again and again he disarmed the man only to watch him rise with his weapon in hand anew, a black sword with a crimson glow threading the center of the blade. Sometimes the man would fade into the bear, who would threaten to eat him; sometimes the bear would fade into the man, and say, "What comes next will break you."