A Season of Rendings Read online

He tried to imagine a reality without that burning hatred, simmering in his gut like a bottle of Bahiran firewater every morning. Tried to find his other reasons for skipping temple every Dawnday. "Your Highness . . . no one can argue with Akir's miracles. I would have to be some kind of fool to deny the existence of God. But why does He only work those miracles through priests? I just wonder . . ."

  He sounded weak and stupid. He took another approach. "You've heard of Matthew Rentiss?"

  "Mad Matthew. The apostate who came through Keswick last year."

  Melakai nodded. "I heard him speak, and I have to say"—he took another glance at Harad before diving in—"the only thing that surprised me about his murder was how long it took to happen. He made too much damned sense."

  "How so?"

  "He said out loud what the rest of us just think about. The Church claims to be the people's guardians and healers, to be looking out for them, but who truly believes that? They would've let every poor commoner in the city die of redwarts last winter if you hadn't intervened. Every other day in this city, someone disappears from their home in the dead of night, and we know it's the Tribunal, but no one says anything."

  My son's name was Bastion, he ached to say. My granddaughter's is Takra. They killed him and stole her.

  "The lucky ones never turn up again, and the unlucky ones—well, we're not idiots. They confess, but it's plain they've been tortured into it, and then they get executed for their heresy." And I'll probably be next. He stole another look at Harad, which the Preserver returned evenly. What in Hel are you doing, Kai? "Yeah, they say it's Stormsign, they say it's a witch, but is it? Every time?" Kai shook his head. "Nah. Can't be. It's just someone like me, someone stupid enough to open his mouth at the wrong time, to go off thinking out loud."

  Isaic said nothing.

  "There's seven Sacred Principles. We all know 'em. My favorite ones, the ones I taught my son and I hope they're teaching my granddaughter at that damned temple, are the fourth and fifth. 'Do unto others' and 'Seek the righteous path.' The way I told it to him was, it means 'do your best.' Listen to that voice in your head that Akir gave you, the one that tells you what's right and wrong, and damn what anyone else says." Even if they've got a star around their neck, he'd actually said, but he had just enough prudence to leave that part off now.

  Good, he congratulated himself. You gave him enough fire to let him know how you actually feel, and still left the personal business out of it. Then Isaic sucker-punched him again.

  "I've heard they took your family. What happened?"

  You sly dog, Kai thought. You knew the whole time? That was it, then: he was all in. Finally faced with the opportunity to say something, he didn't flinch. "Yes, they took them. My granddaughter, Takra, was working miracles at eight summers. My son, Bastion, tried to keep it quiet, but they found out." He looked at the wall and steeled himself. Then he dashed over the words as if they were hot coals. "They killed Bastion in the dungeons. Takra was young enough; they took her as an initiate. She still serves at Majesta. I only see her when they send her to the palace as an errand girl."

  "I'm sorry," Isaic said. "No wonder you drew steel today."

  That needled him. "No," he snapped. "That had nothing do with it. I wanted to draw steel nine years ago, but I―"

  Was too much of a coward.

  "—trusted to justice when the Tribunal took them, like so many other fools have. They rewarded my trust with death and kidnapping.

  "I wanted to kill them. You're damn right I did. But I didn't. And part of the reason . . ." He hesitated. I'm going to sound like a lackey, he thought, but if he did, so be it. It was the truth. " . . . was this." He pointed at his Crownwarden pin. "Crownwardens are handpicked to serve. I know how close we are to the throne. I knew how bad it would be for the King to have his most senior guardian killed in some Tribunal witch hunt. So I swallowed it.

  "They killed my son," he growled, "and I swallowed it.

  "You want to talk about loyalty. You asked me about pride. Well, from where I'm standing, you've done more in the last six months to seek the righteous path than your father has in his entire reign, and more than I've ever seen the Church do. When Brother Matthew came through, a lot of folks heard truth in his words. He gave them hope. Well, in your time as Regent you've given me even more hope, for the first time I can remember, and I can't wait to see you take the throne for good."

  He finally shut his mouth, something he probably should've done a good three minutes earlier. Well, scorch it. He asked, I answered. Cards on the table.

  That's a whole lot of euphemisms, Kai. Not a damn one's gonna save you if that Preserver reports you to the Tribunal.

  Hel, it didn't even need to be the Preserver. This whole thing could just be a test by the Regent, something Angelica put him up to. For all I know that business in the throne room today was a trick to get people to spout off—exactly like I just did.

  And still Isaic kept silent, his eyes bright and steady. Melakai would've paid a golden crown to know what was going on behind them. To fight the urge to speak, to blabber just to fill the silence, he crossed his arms behind his back and braced his feet. He was no Preserver, but he knew how to hold his tongue when he had to.

  "I'm promoting you to Head Crownwarden," Isaic finally said, "and tripling your pay."

  Melakai blinked. The last Head Crownwarden had died in the fall, and the King hadn't appointed a replacement before leaving on his sea journey. "I, uh . . ." Stop stammering. You sound a damned fool. "Thank you, Your Highness."

  Isaic nodded. "Consider this a one-time bonus." He handed him a jingling coin purse. "I'll make the announcement in the morning, but I expect you to work, Captain. The feelings you have about Matthew Rentiss—are they common?"

  "I . . ." Melakai wasn't sure—admitting such thoughts was always dangerous, even over a pint—but he had his suspicions. "More common than you might think."

  "Talk to every Crownwarden in the palace. I want a report from you by the end of the week. I don't expect to issue another command like the one I did today, but if I do, I want to be sure it's followed."

  "Yes, Your Highness."

  "And of course, you'll not speak a word of this to anyone. Taken out of context, parts of our conversation could be . . . misinterpreted."

  "Of course, Your Highness." Knowing a cue to leave when he heard one, he bowed and turned away.

  Before the door closed, he would've sworn he could feel Harad's eyes burning into the back of his neck.

  11

  i. Helix

  The Fatherlord stood on a massive outdoor dais before a sea of fawning pilgrims, the crystal tower gleaming behind Him, His raiment white and radiant in the morning sun. The four Archbishops and their Preservers fanned out behind Him; His own four Preservers flanked Him. The crowd of faithful extended farther than Helix could see, but he was relieved that he could make out neither his cousin nor any of his friends. Maybe they had come to their senses, or maybe they had just been unable to get anywhere near the front of the crowd.

  The audience jostled at the base of the dais, trying to stay close so the Fatherlord could touch them if He so deigned. The blind or crippled hoped for the touch of divinity to cure them; others merely longed for His acknowledgement. But for now He ignored all of them, preaching about the venerability of the Church and its great responsibility to chronicle the world's history. The crowd circled their hearts and nodded along, until the sky shattered above Him.

  Lightning: black and red and green. The air grew still, suffused with a familiar, deathly silence as the skies thrashed with color.

  The Fatherlord fell mute, staring at the sky in mundane human horror. The crowd erupted into panic.

  Helix jerked awake.

  "Whoa! Watch your feet there." Iggy was tending to a pan of soup at their campfire, stirring it with a wooden spoon. The bustle of the pilgrim camp still surrounded them.

  Helix scrambled to his feet and looked at the sky. He saw no lightning, fel
t no heavy stillness. Nothing but a gorgeous sunset, staining the western horizon with reds and purples.

  "Just a dream," Iggy said with a bemused smile, as if he'd caught a pet running in its sleep. "You nodded off. Here." He held up a spoonful of steaming soup. "You think this needs more rosemary? My ma always used too much. Drove me mad."

  Helix shuffled over to him and took the spoon. The soup's flavor hit him like a splash of cold water to the face, burning away the fog of sleep. "No," he said, "it's good. Wow . . . yeah, really good." He reached for one of their travel bowls and Iggy slapped his hand.

  "Let it steep a bit. What are you, a savage?"

  Helix was still just disoriented enough to feel accosted by this attack, but a look at the sparkle in his friend's eye calmed him. He chuckled and sat back down. "M'sai, then. You tell me when it's dinner time."

  "Always planned to." Iggy covered the pot and resettled it over the fire. They fell into a companionable silence, but the memory of his dream rushed in to fill it, eroding the easy calm until he couldn't ignore it.

  "Something's gonna happen," Helix said. His eyes had drifted back to the city, to the spire of Basica Sanctaria, spearing the setting sun. "Another Storm."

  Iggy glanced at him before craning his head around to take in the heavens. "Nah. Not a cloud in the sky. Tomorrow, you think?"

  "No, a Storm. I saw―" He cut himself off. Iggy watched him, but still wasn't following. "Listen. Remember how we were ambushed at the bazaar in Keldale last winter? I mean, you lot were at the inn, but Seth and Lys and I ran into some Preservers. Remember?"

  "Sure. Seth told us all about that before he left for Newton."

  Helix nodded. "Right. Well last winter, when we were headed north with Harth, I . . ." He stumbled over the next word, not sure how to say it, and finally decided to just spit it out. "I saw that. In a dream. It was―" He fumbled over the memory, trying to pin it down. "It was the morning the sun rose wrong. Do you remember? You and I talked about it. And we had a big argument with Harth."

  Recognition dawned in Iggy's eyes. "The morning he figured out Matthew was dead."

  "Right. Yes. That morning, before I woke up, I . . . I saw what was going to happen in Keldale. I saw Seth get attacked by the Preservers. There was this homeless man, under a red awning—the red awning, ah, God, that was unmistakable. It was almost the only color in the whole thing. Everything was drab and grey, and then there was this, just . . . brilliant red awning. When I saw it later, in Keldale, that was when I realized it hadn't just been a dream. It was actually turning out exactly how I'd seen it."

  Iggy hunched forward, his attention captured. "You're saying you dreamed the future?"

  "Yes! Exactly! And I tried to say something, but . . . we had to run, there was no time, and afterward, it just . . . it didn't matter, right? But just now, I—in my dream—it was another Storm, Igg. Like when we were kids, like Syn made back in Wolfwood, but it was here." He pointed at the crystal tower. "Right there. Right over Sanctaria."

  I sound like a madman, he thought, but Iggy just said, "When will it happen?"

  "I . . ." The question tripped him up. He'd been braced for a protest, for Iggy to sneer and say, You expect me to believe you're some kind of prophet? "I can't tell. That's not part of it. Last time it took . . ." He thought back, counting. "A week?"

  "I'll find Hopalot and send a message. We should let the others know. Did you see how it happens? Is it another book, or . . . ?"

  Helix shook his head. "I just saw the Fatherlord, on the dais, with a huge crowd . . ." Of course. "The dais! It was outside the crystal tower, and the crowd was there to see Him. It was the day of the Dedication, it had to be!"

  "M'sai." Iggy got to his feet and combed the skies for his pigeon, then sighed. "Hops probably won't come back around until tomorrow. That's all right. We've got time."

  Helix ran a shuddering hand through his hair. "What do you think it means? Do you think they'll be well?"

  "From the Storm? Sure. We've survived two of them so far. They're not the holy Hel the Church says they are. Whatever they're doing, I don't think it's all bad." He paused as if he had more to say, but was debating saying it. Then he gave Helix a quiet smile. "'Singing trees,' remember?" The smile turned sardonic. "Hey. You know what this means."

  Helix shook his head, bewildered.

  "It means you can't say you're the 'normal one' anymore. You got the same crow's luck as the rest of us."

  Helix scoffed. "Hardly. I can't―" He looked around, suddenly self-conscious, and dropped his voice. "I can't chant, or work miracles, or talk to animals. I can barely swing a sword straight—Hel, half the time I can't even find my curséd sword."

  Iggy shrugged. "Maybe. But no one who dreams the future is normal."

  Helix couldn't counter that argument.

  "Come on. Have a seat. Soup should be ready."

  Helix complied. As Iggy filled the soup bowls, Helix said, "I didn't think you'd believe me."

  "What? About the visions?"

  Helix nodded.

  "Maybe I should be more skeptical. I don't know." Iggy handed him dinner and shrugged. "I guess there's just not much I find unbelievable these days."

  ii. Angbar

  The narrator in his head never shut up.

  The hero, homesick and lost, falls for a girl—a girl he's known his whole life, whom he suddenly starts to see in a new light. Out in the world, in the thick of the adventure, the disapproving glares of his fellow villagers are a distant memory. Skin color and background don't matter here. Life is too urgent, too fraught, to let old prejudices get in the way. They fall in love—or he thinks they do—and then she betrays him when he least expects it.

  What a dumb phrase. "When he least expects it." No one ever expects betrayal in the first place—that's why it's betrayal. And "least" implies that maybe he did expect it, but only at certain times. As if he thought she would never betray him over breakfast, but always kept his guard up at supper time. It's ridiculous. The whole thing is ridiculous.

  That word—ridiculous—echoed in his head like the clang of a bell, growing louder with each ring, transforming from adjective to accusation. The narrator jumped back in to quiet it down.

  He has faced monsters of fang and fire, battled priests of a dark god and bandits in the night. Yet of all the horrors he's seen, of all the trials he's survived, none have hurt him as grievously as this. A kiss denied delivers a wound deeper than any blade.

  Does it, though? Does it really? Mercy, he had never felt like this before: wretched and ugly and rejected, drowning in self-pity and hating himself for it. She rejected me. It hurt. It's not like I had my face ripped open, for the love of winter. And I've had my face ripped open! I would know! Kirith a'jhul, I need to get over myself.

  Now, alone and in the dark, he flagellates himself with bravado. He forces himself to relive the moment, comparing it to the worst this adventure has dealt him, desperately trying to convince himself that he's felt worse, that the bitter sting of unrequited love is no worse than the sting of a bee. He tells himself lies, but he doesn't believe them. In the aching loneliness of his thoughts, there is no escaping the truth.

  Kiir! Would you just shut up?

  He lashes out at himself, attacking his own thoughts. If her rejection is but a sting, it carries with it a vicious poison: an elixir of madness, that leaves him reeling and arguing with himself. He is imprisoned in his own mind, tormented by endless shame and self-recriminations. He has never felt like this before: wretched and ugly and rejected.

  "How is it coming?" Syntal asked.

  He started, shooting a look of naked shame at her before remembering to slam down the mask. His heart quivered in his chest like a dying rabbit. He wanted to claw his way outside, run until he died.

  Truly, the panic is as strong as any he has ever faced in the field—but worse, of course, because this is no enemy he faces. It is a friend and mentor, a young woman who has done nothing to deserve this bizarre—
>
  "Fine. Yeah, it's, ah—it's making sense." He thumbed at the parchment she'd given him with the new chant on it.

  "Have you tried it yet?"

  Is that it, then? He is expected to just go on, to simply pretend it never happened, as though such a deceit were appropriate, let alone even possible? And yet, what other choice is there? What option, that will enable both of them to continue their quest, to achieve the greater good?

  " . . . what?"

  "Have you tried it?"

  "Tried what?"

  She frowned. "The chant I wrote, Angbar. For copying script?"

  He looked at the parchment again. "Ah . . . yeah, it's making sense."

  "You tried it?"

  "What? No." Her look of confusion sparked a surge of irritation in his chest. "Look, just leave me to it, m'sai? I'd have it already if you weren't constantly interrupting."

  A wounded look stole into her eyes, a flush to her cheeks. "You know we're supposed to be there in just a few days, right? If you need any help―"

  "I don't need any help! I've got it! I know I'm not as fast as Harth is, but I've got it! All right? Just leave me to it!"

  Syntal threw up her hands and stalked to the other side of the hovel. Lyseira looked up from her book; even Seth glanced over. Angbar fixed his gaze on the chant, resolutely ignoring them.

  The words were gibberish, of course—they were always gibberish until viewed while Ascended. The problem was that he couldn't focus enough to Ascend, not by a mile. His thoughts were out of control and he couldn't rein them in. He'd been trying for an hour, even going so far as to mentally repeat the mantras Syntal had taught him, to no avail.

  I'll have to speak them aloud, he realized. It was how Syntal had first learned to chant, when she was just a little girl, and how she'd gone on to teach him and Harth. Just a simple set of basic verbal exercises to help clear the mind and align the tongue. A stepstool to help a beginner figure out how to start, and an embarrassing crutch for anyone more advanced. Syntal had never needed to use the mantras aloud once in Angbar's presence, and even Harth had been able to chant without them far faster than Angbar had. To fall back on them now, like some kind of amateur—