A Season of Rendings Page 2

  Seth turned to the cell, where Retash lay on the floor—a bloody mass of limp rags. Seth took a key from the cleric's belt and pushed inside. "Master," he said as he knelt.

  "Seth?" The dark puddles of Retash's eyes blinked at him from a field of bruises.

  I should've come earlier. It had been almost four months since he'd heard of Retash's capture. Four months of Seth arguing with himself and letting the others talk him out of acting, while Retash was beaten like a piece of meat.

  "Can you stand?" Seth demanded. "We're leaving."

  Retash's head lolled. "Came here . . . of my own will. Fitting . . . punishment." He coughed. Like the view in an eyeglass swimming briefly into focus, he fixed his eyes on Seth. "Go while you can."

  Seth glowered and jerked him to his feet. "No."

  Retash put a hand to the wall, leaving a bloody streak. He flinched in silence, a tic that betrayed an ocean of pain.

  Seth hauled him outside.

  "Stubborn," Retash spat. "They'll . . . kill you."

  Seth had spent nearly two months last year fighting for his life and the lives of his friends. He had faced Preservers and Justicars, crazed wolves and angry mobs . . . even arc hounds, a beast he'd only ever heard of in scriptures. "They'll try," he allowed.

  He stole across the road, sparing a glance for the tracks Short Priest had left as he ran. The man had gone for the Great Hall. At this hour, the building would be nearly empty. The priest could only be looking for Jokan. Seth planned to be gone well before he returned.

  There was no lock on the stable door. He pushed through it and let Retash sink against the wall as he went to ready a horse. But the stable wasn't empty. A young apprentice stood at the feeding trough. He froze at the sight of Seth, his arms trembling as oats tumbled from his bag.

  Damn it. Seth seethed. Were there no empty buildings in the entire compound?

  The boy was ten winters at most. The same age as Seth, when he'd first come to the school, but Seth had never seen him before. He must be new.

  "No noise," Seth ordered, drawing himself up. "Come here."

  "Is that Retash?" the boy said. "They said he's a traitor. What are you doing with him?"

  Bringing him to trial. The lie flickered through his mind and disappeared. He wouldn't speak ill of the man who had trained him, not even to save their lives.

  He fixed the boy with a glare. "I am the elder student, and I gave you a command. Come. Here."

  The boy paled. He crossed the room, wide-eyed, his gaze fixed to the floor. Seth could strike him as he'd struck the others, but he was so young that the blow might kill him. One casualty is acceptable, he thought, but an image of his sister's appalled eyes cut the thought short.

  I'll strangle him, then. Just until he drops. Again, a memory of Lyseira's face looked on in horror.

  Seth ground his teeth. Sehk, he thought. Fine.

  He grabbed a rag and gagged the child, then set to tying him up. Don't have time for this, he snapped at his sister, who was more than fifty miles away hiding in a forest. He probably would've survived the blow.

  And if he hadn't? Lyseira's image asked him.

  You would never know, he snarled.

  You would, she rejoined, her brow arched.

  He ignored her and checked the knots. Solid, he thought, but they cost me time.

  A horn shattered the silence, blasting an alarm.

  Too much time.

  ii. Harth

  "Good." Syntal's voice sparkled in the air, vivid as fireflies. Everything—the walls, the floor, his clothes—vibrated with sublime truths. "Now, chant."

  There was a burning torch on the wall. He marveled at it. It wasn't even a physical object; just an idea. Truths burgeoned in its contours and quivered in its flames, an endless recursion of revelations.

  He had never known. He had spent his entire life blind.

  "Chant," Syntal said again. "Now. It's time."

  His eyes drifted to the walls, to their countless elements: hardness, color, opacity. All fascinating. And beyond them, the trees, the sky, the stars . . .

  There's no limit, he suddenly realized. He could glean the truths of the stars; he could unravel life and death.

  Syntal was talking again, a spark of panic in her eyes. It shivered through her like a ripple on a lake, a tiny element of her being that fused perfectly with the whole.

  She wanted him to make light.

  Just light? The idea was ridiculous. Just light, when the very universe's truths were laid bare?

  But she had given him a warning. It will entice you. You won't want to stop.

  Reluctantly, he turned back to the torch. M'sai. But if he was going to make light, he would make the most brilliant light she'd ever seen.

  He stole between the truths of the fire, stealing its glow but leaving its heat behind. He should have chanted then; made his own illumination, and Descended.

  But the fire had other truths he could use.

  He forced himself further, into the fire's ferocity, its hunger. Epiphanies buoyed him upward. His head swam until he was delirious with visions.

  Then, finally, he chanted—a barrage of syllables that leapt from his tongue like darts—and Descended.

  Reality crashed back over him. He plummeted to the earth like a meteor, and shattered. The world became an empty, keening moan. Eventually, he realized it was coming from his own throat.

  "Are you well?" Syntal put a hand on his arm. He could barely feel it; compared to Ascension, he may as well have been numb. "I know it's hard, especially the first time. I know. But you have to stay, now. It's dangerous to go back."

  He blinked. A brilliant glare accosted him—the only thing that felt real.

  "The light." His tongue was a flopping piece of meat in his mouth. "I did that. I went . . . further . . . than the chant. I used the fire."

  Syntal pulled her hand back. "That's dangerous." A clipped admonition. Accusatory. "You need to chant and Descend. Quickly. The longer you stay―"

  "But look what I did," he insisted. "Look!" The light was ten times brighter than any Syntal had ever made, brilliant as the sun. And with the fire's fury he'd infused it with, it would last ten times as long. Months, maybe. Even years.

  The light winked out.

  Angbar guffawed, a hammer to Harth's skull. He winced, clutching his head, and Angbar quieted—but his eyes still sparkled.

  "I don't understand," Harth managed. He meant that he didn't understand why the light had failed, but he also meant everything else. How did she live like this? How could anyone Ascend—see what the world truly was—and then come back to this? He wanted nothing more than to Ascend again, to feel the Pulse tearing through him, to soar through its revelations like a falcon until he reached the cosmos. And instead he was here, in this dingy, stone room, being laughed at by some nog?

  His own vehemence startled him.

  "You can't go too far. Lar'atul wrote about that. I told you. When you go too far, the Pulse makes you think you can do anything. You forget it's dangerous." One of the double doors leading outside eased open, letting in a swirl of blowing snow. Syntal's cousin, Helix, came in. She glanced at him, then finished: "It'll kill you, but you'll think you're a god when it happens."

  "Don't let Lyseira hear you talking like that," Helix teased, stomping the snow from his boots and unwrapping his scarf. When he turned toward Harth, the jokes died.

  My eyes. Harth had forgotten about the brilliant eyes—the telltale sign that a person had chanted recently. From the way Helix was staring, Harth's were unmistakable.

  "How was it?" Helix said.

  Harth chose to ignore the note of challenge in his voice. "It was incredible. The most incredible experience of my life." He wanted to add, How can you live like this? How can you stand it?

  Helix watched him, dissecting the blaze in his eyes while the torch's fire crackled, and finally nodded. Then his gaze caught on something beyond Harth. "Sorry, Lyseira," he said. "It's just me."

 
; "I . . . heard the door," Lyseira said from the adjoining hall. Her thigh-long hair hung over one shoulder, where her hands wrung it absently. "I just . . ." She gave them a nervous smile. "Sorry."

  Angbar climbed to his feet. "It's only been a week. Even if everything went smoothly, Seth would just be getting to the compound today."

  "I know." Lyseira sighed. "I know that, I just . . ."

  For the little time Harth had known Lyseira, she had been confident to a fault. She saw the world in the kind of absolutes that just didn't exist in the city's back alleys, where Harth had grown up, and back in Keldale her blind faith had nearly gotten them all killed. But seeing her like this—fragile, vulnerable—struck him.

  "He's fine," Harth heard himself saying. "Trust me. He's got better sense than most of you."

  "I know," Lyseira allowed, chewing her lip. "I just wish he'd let me come with him! He's always so stubborn!"

  Pot, meet kettle.

  "He's probably doing better without us, Lys," Angbar said. "He's the only one who actually seems to know what he's doing. I bet he'll get in and out of that place, and no one will even know he was there."

  iii. Seth

  Seth heaved his master to his feet as the alarm blared. "Up," he snapped. There was no time to tack up their mount now. "You have to hold on to me."

  "Can't," Retash breathed. "Go―"

  "Are you that weak?" Seth snapped. "Be empty. Use the pain."

  His torments had left Retash a ruin, his face marred with blood and bruises. Anyone else would've felt pity for him, Seth knew, but no one else had trained with him. No one else knew the feats of which he was capable.

  Seth twined his hands, offering a step up, and Retash vaulted on to the horse. Seth followed, settling in front of him—and the stable door flew in, slamming against the wall.

  If the far door had been open he could've launched toward it, made a clean escape, but it wasn't. He wheeled the mare about as she screamed.

  "Seth." Jokan's face was grim. He stood in the ruins of the stable door, flanked by two of his students. "Cease this foolishness."

  In answer, Seth went empty.

  The barest push on his mount's back launched Seth up and out. He flipped through the air, lit in front of Jokan, and struck. A trace of smug certainty flickered in Jokan's eyes. He took a half step back, bringing one arm easily up to block.

  When Seth's strike connected, it shattered Jokan's arm and hurled the man through the stable wall.

  Idiot. The thought disturbed Seth's nothingness like oil on water, then dissolved.

  Jokan's apprentices shared a single, shocked glance: a mistake that would cost them the fight. Seth swept one, exposing his own back to the other, who predictably moved to take advantage of the opening. Without turning, Seth sidestepped and broke his attacker's face with an elbow. A swift kick to the head ensured that the first apprentice would not regain his feet.

  Then he was back on the horse.

  "Hut!" he snapped, squeezing the animal's flank. "Hut! Hut!"

  They launched into the gathering darkness, veering hard to the right to make for the front gate. As they came around, he caught a glimpse of Short Priest on the steps of the Great Hall, praying. Then the hairs on his arm pricked.

  No. He had felt that sensation once before, years ago, in training. No, no . . .

  "Hut!" he roared, kicking his mount. "Hut!"

  Behind him, the stable exploded.

  Heat licked at Seth's back, flashing the hairs on his neck to ash. Retash reeled, nearly losing his grip; Seth stuck an arm back to keep him from falling. The horse staggered, shrieking—

  But didn't fall.

  He must not have seen us. The Godsflame had missed them; torn into the stable instead. It was luck, pure and simple.

  The stable boy. He was still tied up inside, burning.

  Seth clenched his teeth, bore down, and shook the thought away.

  iv. Iggy

  Iggy readied an arrow, his arms tensed and his eyes trained on the doe. Winter had left her small and thin, but still had to have at least fifty pounds of meat. Compared to the small game Seth and Helix had been bringing in, she was a trophy kill: the kind of windfall that could feed everyone for a month. Iggy's stomach grumbled just looking at her.

  She hadn't smelled him. She kept on nipping at twigs jutting from the snow, her broad side exposed. He had a perfect shot. All he had to do was take it.

  He blinked, trembling, and held fire.

  The doe was with child; the wind had told him. The winter had been as brutal for her as it had been for Iggy and his friends, but she had survived, just as they had. And now, with spring nearly here, he would kill her? What gave him the right?

  His arm trembled from holding the shot. He hadn't just been delaying it for the last few seconds. He'd been delaying this moment entirely for the last few months.

  He'd been able to hear animals speak since he was young, but something had happened in Keldale that had fundamentally changed him. He'd heard a heartbeat, a Pulse like the sound of his mother's heart heard from the womb. Her Pulse had kept him from freezing to death even though he slept in a frozen alleyway, but it had also awakened him to the horrors of the city.

  The rancid scent of burning wood. The belching chimneys and stone roads, dead as tombs. Streets crawling with humans, seething like a river of maggots. Just remembering it made his gorge rise.

  His friends had fled the city to escape the Tribunal, but Iggy had escaped the city itself. Leaving it behind had been like digging out of his own grave, sucking at the fresh air like a man reborn.

  That night the snow had helped them, sweeping their tracks from the plains so they could evade their pursuers. His mother's Pulse had reinvigorated their horses, giving them strength to ride long after they should have failed. Their path had eventually led to the heart of Veiling Green, an ancient temple called the Safehold, where Syntal had found a bound book. She had opened it, and when she had—

  When she had . . .

  The others had seen the skies shatter with silent lightning: bolts of every color hurling themselves against the horizon. Angbar had mentioned that everything deepened, as if the world were a sheet of parchment soaking up watercolors. A second Storm, they'd called it, just as mesmerizing as the one they'd seen as children.

  But none of them heard what Iggy had heard.

  His mother's Pulse had quickened, strengthening like she had just woken from a deep sleep. The wind had twirled upward, dancing, and the skies had laughed. Every beast in the forest had forgotten to breathe, struck dumb with wonder—but when that breath came, it was fierce with joy. They, too, were awakening: rediscovering a spark of brilliance they had lost long ago.

  The trees had sung. And no one had heard them but him.

  He had tried to tell himself that his experiences in Keldale had just been a nightmare; that the things he'd heard and felt during the second Storm had only been in his mind. But even if those things were true, killing a deer was no longer easy. It made him one of them: the people who ripped out the bones of trees to burn them like stacks of corpses, who enslaved animals for their own needs, who didn't care if the woods lived or died. It made him—

  Human? The voice was his father's, incredulous and disdainful. Yes, you're human. Now shoot the sehking deer.

  The doe paused, her ears flicking, a twig hanging from her mouth.

  She's going to get away, his father went on. She's going to run, and when she does, you'll have to go back with no food. And if you tell them why you let her go, they'll look at you like you're crazy. Maybe you are, if you'd rather starve than shoot a deer.

  She is with child, Iggy argued in his head, feeling like a whining boy. She has as much right to be here as we do. Probably more.

  It's a deer, Pa spat. What is wrong with you?

  I'll find something else. A rabbit.

  No you won't. A sneering accusation. Contemptuous. You sehking sissy.

  The doe twitched, her ears perking. Somet
hing had alerted her. But she still wasn't looking at Iggy; now, a wolf crouched in the tree cover behind her.

  Suddenly, the question became academic. He shot her.

  The doe staggered, a thin whistle leaking from her mouth. She may have been trying to bleat, or scream. The wind carried her despair to him, pungent as death.

  Double lung shot! his father crowed.

  Iggy dropped the bow and staggered backward, appalled, as he tried to understand what he'd done.

  2

  i. Seth

  "Drink," Seth ordered.

  They had been four days on the road, a mad dash across the plains while Retash steadily worsened. Spirits worked at his wounds now—Seth could smell them—and once the spirits set in, only a miracle could drive them out. He'd seen it a dozen times, and been lectured on it even more. The Teachings were relentless in driving home this message: accept the pain, accept the injury, surpass your limits at any cost. None of it matters. Your priest will heal you.

  But if you smell the spirits, you have reached your limit.

  A little village stood in the distance, reaching for the sky with thin tendrils of smoke. No doubt it had a temple, with a priest. It wasn't the first one they'd seen.

  I could take him there. Their cleric would probably save Retash before realizing who he was, and we could be on our way.

  But if not? If the cleric recognized them?

  Seth imagined turning himself in, letting them rain blows on him without fighting back, as Retash had to have done. Fitting punishment, Retash had said when Seth found him, and despite himself, Seth knew what he meant.

  The idea had appeal.

  Seth was a deserter. He had failed to return when commanded to do so. But worse than that—worse by far—he was a traitor.

  He had aided his sister in helping their friend Helix—a young man sentenced to death by the Order of Judgment. He had fought clerics and their loyal Preservers with his own hands. He had tried not to kill anyone, but that hardly mattered: the boy he'd left to burn in the stable was proof that intentions were not deeds.