Of Dark Things Waking (The Redemption Chronicle Book 3) Page 27

  Trius's goons charged around the table. Kai darted backward, then swung around to tear out the throat of the first cleric behind him. As the man staggered backward clutching at his open neck, the second cleric finished another invocation. Kai felt it slithering into his muscles, seizing him. He staggered, his rage boiling over. No! he shrieked. No, no, no, sehk, no!

  A waking nightmare flashed through his mind: he would hit the ground and they would swarm him, yank his head back and cut his throat while Trius moralized about what a waste his life had been—how his own son's death had been Kai's fault, how Takra's life of horror had been for her own good—and Kai couldn't allow it, he couldn't, he refused—

  —and the miracle splashed over him like a bucket of freezing water. Cold. Bracing.

  But ultimately harmless.

  The cleric gaped. He launched into another miracle as Trius's men swarmed the room, but Kai closed to him first and ran him through. The man coughed blood, his fingers clutching at Kai's sword, and Kai tore the weapon loose and spun back just in time to dodge the blade headed for his spine. It bit into the wall instead, sending a spray of wood chunks through the air.

  One against three. Bad odds, winnable only in story books. He had his back to the wall, but Trius's men fanned out to surround him on every other side, their weapons snapping in from all directions. He parried one, then another—but the third bit into his flank, shoving through his leathers and deep into the flesh of his gut.

  He gasped and glanced back. Saw Trius in the doorframe, watching as he died, a look of smug regret—I wanted to save you Kai, I really did—playing across his features.

  This, too, he refused.

  His rage took him, stealing into his every muscle like shrieking flame. He howled and bore down, breaking past the man in front of him, then turning so he faced all three. He ran the first man through and a bolt of lightning shot from his sword, exploding out the man's back and blasting the other two to the far wall, where they slid to the floor in twin ruins of smoke and blood.

  Then he charged Trius.

  The other man's face was slack with shock, but he hurled a dagger at Kai from the doorway and caught him in the upper arm. Kai jerked back with a scream, his arm going wide as his sword flew loose. It slid through the door, clattered down the stairs into the street, as Trius vanished toward the back of the house.

  The sword or Trius. Even considering the choice would cost him precious seconds. He didn't.

  He launched after Trius like a rabid dog, roaring.

  Trius knocked over bookshelves and chairs as he ran, trying to slow Kai down—and Kai lumbered over them, the wound in his side screaming, his old muscles wrenching. Trius reached the back door and crashed through into a cold alley. Tripped. Scrambled to his feet with his back to the wall as Kai burst out after him, wheezing and bleeding.

  "Kai." Trius raised a hand, his eyes wary. "Kai, now, I told you—I did it for you. I saved your life." Panic building in his words, his eyes, as Kai drew closer. "You owe me. If I hadn't―!"

  Kai lunged the final two steps, reaching for the man's neck—and felt an exquisite pain blossom in his belly. He stumbled and glanced down to see dull scarlet blooming across his coat, a rose opening reverently to the sun.

  Trius jerked the dagger out and scraped away, along the wall. "You sehking idiot," he said. "It's over! Don't you get it?" He coughed, a deep, hacking wheeze that nearly spilled him to the ground. "We have one of yours. He's doing the job today—right now. Isaic is probably already dead."

  The words speared him. "What did you say?"

  "When the winter breaks, with him gone, the Church will come back. It'll be like it was—like it should be. But I'll still back you, Kai. Even now—even after your witchcraft back there. You don't have to go down for this."

  Isaic. The King was miles away, on the far side of the river. Kai couldn't do anything for him from here.

  But he could still make some things right. He thought of Takra, of all the years she'd spent hating him because of that one vile lie.

  "You told her it was me," he said, and lunged again.

  This time he caught the hand with the dagger in it and slammed it back against the wall—once, twice, as Trius roared and spat—until the weapon dropped to the slush. Trius screamed, a girlish sound like a maddened banshee, and hurled himself forward, bearing Kai to the cobblestones in an avalanche of limbs.

  Kai's head cracked against the cold stone, spraying stars across his vision. Trius scrambled over him, still trying to escape—and Kai recovered just in time to flip over and grab his ankle, tripping him face-first to the ground with a strangled grunt. He clambered on top of Trius and latched onto his throat from behind, but his fingers were too weak to finish the job. Trius threw his head back and managed a glancing hit to Kai's nose. As he reeled, Trius rolled to his back.

  They wrestled in the alley, two pathetic old men smeared in blood and winter's filthy slush, gasping and clawing and shrieking. Something in Melakai's mind had broken, something timid and horrified, when confronted with the betrayal of his old friend last summer. He had forced it into a cell at the back of his mind, just to survive—but now it broke loose, snarling and spitting, transformed into pure animal rage.

  He straddled Trius's chest, anchored his right wrist with his left hand, and ground his forearm into the soft flesh of Trius's neck. The man kicked and flailed, his feeble leg smacking impotently against Melakai's shin. His lips peeled back from yellowed teeth gleaming with spittle and blood; his spotted hands scrabbled at Kai's arms. His breath became a thin whistling, like a wheezing laugh, before finally fading to nothing.

  In the silence that followed, Kai heard himself sobbing.

  iv. Helix

  Here and now. Here and now. He held on against the visions as they lapped at his face, his mind, threatening to pull him down. Maybe it would be better if they did. Any place—any time—would be better than this one.

  I should have been there. Should've gone back. He'd been at the Safehold, hiding for the winter, when they'd taken him. I was all right. I could have circled back, helped him.

  "Helix?" Cort's voice, back in the little reading room with him, heavy with concern.

  "It's right here. Eight crowns. That was their cut of the sale."

  "Sweet Akir," Cort breathed. "Oh, sehk, friend, I'm sorry."

  He would wait, looking stricken but anxious, not sure what to say next.

  "Did it say . . . I mean, do you know where it happened, at least? Could we find him?"

  "Keldale. The biggest port in the Valley. He could be anywhere." He shook his head. "It doesn't even give the buyer's name—just the man who gave them their share."

  "So you know who the seller is?"

  "I knew that already."

  "Then go find him," Cort urged. "Hel, I'll come with you if I can."

  He was a Crownwarden. He wouldn't be going anywhere the King didn't send him, but the offer still took the edge off the pain. "Thanks," Helix said. "But I can't until the winter breaks, and the trail's already cold. I just . . ." He waved the other man off, then climbed to his feet. "Do you mind if I keep this?" he said, indicating the book.

  "Be my guest. If someone needs it for some reason, I know where to find you."

  Helix grunted his thanks and got to his feet. He'd managed to twist his left ankle when the bookcase fell on him, so now, on top of everything else, he was walking with a limp.

  Cort would offer his arm. "Need a hand? Here, I can―"

  "It's all right. It's not as bad as it looks."

  The hallway would play out past them: grand and airy, a gorgeous display of authority and power. It looked unassailable, but the mob had been here, Helix knew. Spots on the floor still whispered of statues that had been torn down; lighter-colored stains on the walls marked places where murdered tapestries had once hung. He liked the King, or what he'd heard of him, at least . . . but he kind of liked that the people had been through here, too.

  "You've met the
King, right?" Helix asked as they walked. Cort would glance around before answering. "What's he like?"

  "Oh, of course, yeah. He's . . . good. A good man."

  In the side hallway ahead of them, they'd pass by two servants gossiping as they cleaned.

  "I heard about what he did," Helix said. "Defying the Church. It was . . . unbelievable. I didn't think it would ever happen."

  "No one did. I sure didn't. It was just lucky that it all worked out how it did."

  "Lyseira would say luck had nothing to do with it."

  Cort laughed. "I suppose she would."

  A door would open ahead of them. The woman leaving would give Cort a short nod.

  "What's she like?" Cort asked, and for a second Helix thought he was talking about the woman in the near-future.

  "I don't—oh, Lyseira?"

  "Yeah. People love her, but she comes across so stern."

  "Cort," the woman said in greeting as she passed by.

  "Lynna," Cort returned.

  "Well, I've known her all my life. She's . . ." Helix searched for the right word as the lifeline played past, guiding his steps. "Intense. I mean, a good person, too—absolutely. She saved my life," he said, thinking of the night they escaped Southlight, then realized an amendment was called for. "Probably a dozen times, actually. She's the kind of person who'll do the right thing all the time, even if it kills her." He chuckled. "Maybe especially if it kills her."

  Behind the next door, a nobleman would be seated at a long table alone. A Crownwarden would taste his soup, declare it safe, and then slip something into it.

  "That's good to hear," Cort said. "I had a feeling . . . and I know the King trusts her, or at least believes she has good reasons for what she does."

  "What in Hel?" Helix said. He stopped at the door.

  "What? Is it your foot again?"

  The man at the long table would glance up in surprise. Move along, the Crownwarden would say. The King is taking his lunch.

  Helix opened the door. "Don't eat that. He poisoned it."

  There would be a moment of stunned silence. The Crownwarden's face would sag in disbelief.

  Then he'd pull a knife.

  "Marlon?" Cort said. "He'd never―"

  "He's got a knife! Get away!" Helix lunged for the Crownwarden, but he was too late. The knife was out. Marlon would reach for the King, to shove it into his throat—but the King would dive to the floor.

  Cort would fumble at his sword, shoving Helix aside and charging in to the room. "Bitch's tits!" he shouted. "What in Hel are you―?"

  The winter would get colder. The sun would fail to rise. A child would come to stay with them.

  No! Here and now, here and―!

  The churn devoured him.

  16

  i. Caleph

  Winter's chill nudged him awake, nibbling at his nose and the tips of his ears. His eyes flicked open in disgust.

  The bedposts were solid gold, the tapestries inlaid with silver. Riches adorned his bedchamber, a sight which had once helped him feel more in touch with his divinity but now only taunted him.

  The sheer curtain at his window fluttered in the breeze, a small army of pigeons roosting on the sill for warmth. Some servant had opened his window again, letting the winter air seep into his bed chamber despite the fact that he hated it, because Baltazar had told them to. Unlike Caleph, he found the morning air invigorating.

  Baltazar. Caleph froze in bed, feeling for the other mind's presence. He was there, but sleeping—dreaming, in fact, still twitching with some vague nightmare in a corner of Caleph's mind.

  This time Caleph didn't hesitate. "Gove," he called gently, just loud enough to get the Preserver's attention. The man glided into the room, his dun robe rustling. Caleph held himself still, moving only his lips, hoping to keep Baltazar asleep as long as possible.

  "Gove." The word bristled with urgency. "Breer and his companion are not who they seem. They're devils trying to resurrect an ancient witch—they're leaving to find her remains. Their names are D'haan and Faerloss. They have to be stopped."

  Baltazar woke. Caleph winced, bracing himself to be hauled out of his own mind. But the presence let him keep control for now, waiting.

  He sped on, desperate. "You heard me order the Foundation Altar moved to the thirteenth floor—that was a demon that speaks through me. It seeks to aid them. They both must be killed, and I need an exorcism. Tell Dale Genneth, and have that altar destroyed. Do you understand?"

  "Your Holiness?" Gove said.

  "There's no time for questions!" Caleph snapped. "Do you understand?"

  "Yes."

  "Until the exorcism, ignore anything I tell you. It's not me that speaks with my voice."

  Gove cocked his head. "But the voice of Akir―"

  "It's not Akir! It's something else . . . a man! Just a man! Or a devil."

  Gove's brow furrowed, then straightened. Resolution and clarity came into his eyes. "As you say."

  Caleph had forgotten the taste of hope; now, his relief nearly crushed him. "Go!"

  Gove turned for the bedchamber door. As he closed with it, his back erupted with gore. He staggered and coughed, clutching his stomach in surprise.

  D'haan manifested from thin air and yanked his sword loose from Gove's stomach. The Preserver stumbled backward and put one hand to the wall.

  Horror doused Caleph, but Baltazar still hadn't taken control. Without thinking, he leapt to his feet, a prayer already on his lips. "Gal'sa faen tar'r! Gal'et sa haal'l sen Akir!" He clapped his hands to Gove's back, and the wound closed.

  "Baltazar," D'haan growled. "Control your vessel or die in it."

  As if he were shooing away a fly, Baltazar took back control of Caleph's body. "I'm in control," he said with Caleph's lips. "Maybe when he sees how badly this little insurrection fails, he'll finally stop trying."

  Gove looked at D'haan—a small, pudgy cleric holding a bloodied longsword—and back to Caleph. "Your Holiness?"

  "I'm sorry," Baltazar said. "You've always served me well. But obviously, you're never going to leave this room."

  No! Caleph screamed. No, you wanted him to escape! You wanted it!

  I know, Baltazar returned. I wish he had.

  D'haan snarled and lunged—and Gove flattened himself against the wall, jerking his knee up into the flat of the blade and sending the strike wide. D'haan staggered forward, off balance, and Gove dove past him. Grabbed the door knob. Started to pull it open.

  D'haan spun, blade flashing, and the door slammed shut. Gove pulled on the knob, then jerked it, straining. It shot loose of the wood with a groan and a clank, leaving a hole—but the door stayed closed.

  D'haan brought his blade back to the ready and advanced. He read Gove's eyes as they darted toward the open window. "Don't," he spat. "It'll go easier if you―"

  Gove launched himself for the window. The pigeons scattered, most into the air outside, a few into the room. D'haan didn't pursue. Instead, he snapped his blade forward, parallel to the ground, and drew it to the right with a flourish. Gove leapt for the window and bounced off, repelled by nothing but the empty air.

  As he regained his feet, Caleph saw something in the Preserver's eyes he'd never seen before: despair.

  "There is no way out of here if I don't choose to let you go," D'haan said in heavily-accented High Tongue. "And I don't choose to." Once more he advanced, his wary stance suggesting a newfound respect for his opponent.

  The instant of weakness in Gove's eyes vanished, replaced with his decades of training. He dropped into an easy defensive stance, hands up but loose and at the ready.

  D'haan struck, sweeping wide this time to prevent the kind of spin Gove had used before. But the Preserver didn't spin—he leapt. A single flip landed him behind D'haan, where he flicked out a kick like the lash of a viper's tongue. It sent D'haan hurtling forward, into the invisible wall he'd erected in the window. His sword spun from his hands with a hollow clatter.

  Gove dashed f
orward, grabbed D'haan's head just as he started to turn back, and slammed it into the empty space of the window. Blood splattered against the bizarre invisible wall, dripped and ran down the nothingness. A storm of horror, awe, and hope churned in Caleph's thoughts.

  D'haan smiled behind a mask of gore that ran over his lips and into his teeth. "Go ahead," he said, coughing. "You'll see."

  Gove smashed his face into the stone window sill, cracking his skull like an egg.

  Yes! Caleph crowed. Yes!

  But Baltazar didn't share his exuberance. He turned toward the corner of the room, clasped his hands tightly, and sank to his knees. Then he closed Caleph's eyes and began reciting an old prayer.

  Turn back! Caleph shouted at him. We both wanted this! He won! Turn back!

  He didn't win anything, Baltazar said.

  Then desire slammed into Caleph like a hurricane.

  He wanted something behind him—something he could neither see nor imagine, something that called to him with the urgency of physical lust. It overwhelmed him instantly, blasted all other thoughts from his mind. Turn! he screamed like a child. Turn back, turn back, I want to see!

  Baltazar intensified his litany, his fingers clasped so tightly the knuckles threatened to snap.

  Then, as quickly as it had come on, the feeling vanished. Baltazar stood and turned back in time for Caleph to see Gove take a black ring from D'haan's dead finger and slip it onto his own.

  Preservers swear off worldly possessions, Caleph thought stupidly. He's breaking his vow.

  Gove's eyes went blank. He crossed the room to a small table in the corner, where the servants had assembled a private place setting for the Fatherlord's breakfast. He picked up the knife he found there and drove it into his neck.

  Caleph's thoughts blanked with horror. His Preserver simply stood there, the knife jutting from his artery as the lifeblood pumped out of him. Caleph wanted to retch, or scream—but more than anything he wanted to look away. Baltazar wouldn't let him.

  The color leaked from Gove's cheeks and flooded down his robe, drenching him in blood. His breath hitched, his muscles quivered with death spasms, but he stayed standing. After an eternity, he crossed the room again to pick up the longsword and retrieve its belt and sheath from Breer's corpse. After he fastened these around his waist, he fixed his eyes on Caleph.