A Season of Rendings Page 31

  "The rest of these all have similar clasps. Three books, three Rendings—the last just yesterday." The Fatherlord opened the first book and flipped idly through it. "Lar'atul," he quoted. "The author. It reads like a textbook. You learned to chant from this?"

  She crossed her arms in front of her, trying to hide the trembling in her hands, the naked fear that must be shining from her eyes.

  "How long did it take you?"

  She shook her head.

  "Years, I imagine. First to learn the language, then to master the teachings." He came across a ragged sheaf of papers, stuffed between the last two pages—her translation notes. "You kept notes," He marveled. "You must be intimately familiar with every page of this book."

  I am. Despite her fear, despite everything, she was proud enough of those two words that they nearly escaped her lips.

  He closed the book. "I am going to ask you two questions, Syntal Smith, and I need an honest answer from you. To ensure I get them, I will be invoking a miracle first. Have you heard of the miracle of Truth?"

  She nodded. Supposedly, the judge at Helix's trial had worked such a miracle to discern the truth or falsehood of Helix's testimony—before sentencing her cousin to death anyway.

  "I am going to work that miracle, so I can be sure you are telling the truth when I ask My questions. Don't be alarmed—it won't harm you, so long as you speak the truth."

  His uttered a brief, opaque invocation. It struck her, not for the first time, how differently the words sounded from Lyseira's prayers; how much darker. As He finished, a subtle thickness pervaded the room, as if a thousand eyes now watched her, a thousand ears listened. Her tongue felt heavy and somehow empowered, imbued with impending profundity.

  "Do you feel the miracle?"

  She nodded.

  "Again, I mean you no harm. I also hold your friends, but if you agree to My requests, I'll spare them as well. Do you understand?"

  She nodded again, a quiet relief stealing into her. They're safe. But just as quickly, she wondered: did He also have Iggy and Helix? Or only Angbar, Seth, and Lyseira?

  "My first request, and you must speak your answer aloud: Will you teach Me to work the same sorcery you learned from this book?"

  Her heart leapt; her gaze shot to His, but His face was unreadable. What? Why? Why would He want that?

  No. Anything but that.

  And if she denied Him, then what? He already had the first wardbook; if she refused Him, He could learn from that, just as she had—and she and the others would die.

  She attacked the problem, searching for any justification to agree with His demand. I'll just teach Him the simplest chants. He doesn't need to learn Ves, or even Slumber. Spellsight would be harmless enough, and maybe my new scribing spell. Truth be, there's nothing I can teach Him that can possibly make Him more of a threat to us.

  "Yes," she said. The word fell from her tongue and snapped around her heart, empowered somehow by His miracle of Truth.

  "Good. Now. I have agreed not to harm you. Will you, in turn, agree not to harm Me?"

  She was too close to buying her survival to not seize it now. "Yes." Again, the word rooted in her chest as she spoke it, heavy as pneumonia; she could almost hear the snick of a locking shackle.

  Then the thickness in the air lifted, and the heaviness in her chest cleared. The Fatherlord said, "I'm afraid I have misled you slightly as to the nature of the miracle I just performed. I did it to ensure you were speaking the truth, that much was accurate—but it wasn't actually a miracle of Truth. It was an Oathbond. Are you familiar?"

  She shook her head, a premonition of despair settling into her.

  "It's easiest to demonstrate, I think." He set a dagger on the desk, then looked at His four Preservers. "Do not interfere. No harm will come to Me." Then, to her: "Pick it up."

  She hesitated, and He arched a single brow. She remembered His earlier promise—I make no request twice—and picked up the weapon.

  He stretched His right arm, pulling the embroidered sleeve up to His elbow, and placed His hand, fingers slightly splayed, flat upon the desk.

  "Stab Me."

  Her breath came fast with near-panic. "What?" She glanced at His Preservers.

  "You heard Me order them not to interfere, but I understand your confusion. I assure you this will not violate our agreement."

  "No, I—I swore not to."

  "And I don't believe you will, but I am asking you to try. Now."

  "No!"

  "Why? Do you expect Me to believe you don't want to?" He narrowed His eyes. "Final reports have yet to be made, but at last count, more than two hundred people died in Red Quarter yesterday, at My command. You'd been living there for some time, hadn't you? Surely you knew some of them, maybe even as friends. Were you aware of this?"

  She stammered, at a loss. "Why―?"

  "Before we made our agreement here I ordered your nog friend questioned. The Archbishop of the Tribunal himself has broken every finger the boy has, healed them, and then broken them again. The boy didn't fall asleep last night so much as he sobbed until he passed out."

  Her palms grew clammy, the dagger slick in her grip. Is He lying? Is He just trying to provoke me? But His tone was too civil, too frank. She believed Him.

  "Question him?" she managed. "Why? I've promised―"

  "E'tal," He said to one of His Preservers, nodding at her stack of books, "take these and burn them."

  No! The response was visceral, absolute—but before she could even raise the dagger, a spiderweb of agony shot from her spine, lancing into every fingertip, every toe. Her back became a shattering pane of glass.

  She sucked at the air, the dagger spilling from her hands as she lurched sideways, crumpling out of the chair into a puddle of anguish on the floor. I won't! she screamed in her mind. I won't stab Him! I won't!

  The pain vanished.

  E'tal had carried the books halfway to the fireplace.

  "E'tal," the Fatherlord said, "I've changed My mind. Bring the books back and give them to Syntal."

  As the Preserver obeyed, Syn climbed slowly to her feet. Besides her quivering muscles and racing heart, no trace of the pain remained.

  "Did you notice," the Fatherlord went on, "that the Oath knows the instant it is violated? In spirit, now, not in deed. The moment you decided to stab Me, it knew." He tapped His temple. "It knew, because you knew. Understand?"

  She nodded. "I understand," she whimpered.

  He stood and stretched as E'tal deposited the books back on the desk. "I feel now that we can trust one another. To demonstrate that, I will order your nog friend released from Archbishop Genneth's care, though he will still be expected to remain as a guest for the foreseeable future. He'll be given a comfortable room, near yours. A servant will be assigned to each of you. If you hunger or thirst, or have need for a bath, let her know, and your needs will be attended." He paused, with an expectant air. "Am I not kind?"

  She fought the urge to glare at Him, to scoff. "Too kind. Thank You."

  He gave her a warm smile, as though her gratitude truly touched Him—but it melted into a grimace. He touched His head again, groaning. E'tal stepped forward, and the Fatherlord raised a hand to forestall him. "It's fine. I'm well. Step back."

  He spoke again, His tone clipped and biting. "I'll need to keep your other friends under closer watch, of course. You may understand the nature of your Oath now, but even a dog with a choking collar sometimes loses control to its instincts." He fell silent, watching her as if He'd caught a bug crawling across His desk.

  She waited. His glare eventually softened and grew distant. The room fell into a tense silence.

  "Fatherlord," E'tal finally said. "We've prepared a room for study as You requested. Shall I take her―"

  "No," He snapped. "No. My schedule prevents any instruction time today. Bring her tomorrow. Just after breakfast."

  "We . . . did clear today's schedule, as You reque―"

  "Tomorrow, I said!" He sh
ot to His feet, glaring.

  E'tal gave a deep nod. "Yes, Father."

  The Fatherlord turned back to Syntal. His voice dripped with derision. "Is there anything else I can do to make your stay more pleasant? You have a lovely room, a servant, food, and your nog friend—perhaps I can have them bring you a fine wine? Hire a man-whore for the evening?"

  A man-whore? Syntal couldn't keep the shock from her face. She nearly babbled a refusal, but caught herself. "My books would be helpful. In preparing for the morning's lesson."

  He threw a hand wide—a gesture that said, Why not?—before slamming His other hand onto the desk. Syntal jumped.

  "Your books," He said in an unreadable monotone, then clapped His mouth closed. His jaw ground so hard she could see the muscles working at His temple.

  Should I answer Him? Was that a question? She waited, aghast, wondering if this was the request that would cost her life.

  Then He closed His eyes, breathed deeply, and muttered, "Certainly. E'tal, carry the girl's books." He took His seat again. "And get her out of here."

  iii. Angbar

  "Up."

  He swam awake through a haze of red wheezing. He had no idea the time or even the day; the hours since he had arrived in this place had passed in a hellish blur of sleep and torment. When they left him to himself, broken and sobbing, he had taken to praying—to Kirith A'jhul, to Akir, to the old Bahiri spirits or anyone else who might be listening.

  At first, when the cleric had returned and healed all his wounds, Angbar had actually thought the man was making restitution. That he'd realized Angbar knew nothing, and was planning to turn him loose.

  Instead the cleric's Preservers broke each of his fingers, one by one, until his wounds from the day before were fully replicated. The cleric asked his questions from behind his glaring veil of light. Where were you this winter? Why did you come to Tal'aden? What was your purpose in Red Quarter? Where is your friend Syntal Smith? Where is your friend Lyseira Rulano?

  Helix Smith?

  Ignatius Ardenfell?

  Cosani Ildaen?

  He had spun up a fiction, the quickest fiction he'd ever crafted. We camped in Veiling Green. Helix and Ignatius refused to accompany us north. Lyseira came seeking the Fatherlord's pardon for Helix. I have no idea where she or anyone else is now. I haven't seen Cosani since yesterday. It was very nearly the truth, so close that he'd hoped the cleric would accept it.

  They broke his elbows, then his knees. As he screamed his contrition, the cleric healed him. Then they did it all again, before shattering his ribs.

  Joints, mainly, the cleric had said as Angbar hung from the stocks by his shattered elbows. But tomorrow, if you lie to me again, we will add hard bone breaks: the fibula, the radius. Even the femur, if I feel so inclined. Impossible to break that bone without significant damage to the surrounding flesh. Difficult work, but my Preservers have managed it before. Can you imagine your leg breaking at the thigh? We'll be able to bend it upward until your toe fits in your mouth.

  "Up!"

  Angbar was a pile of shattered bones, lying where they'd left him last. An hour ago? A day ago? He could no sooner climb to his feet than he could fly to the moon. He tried to beg, to give an explanation, but it caught on the torn bones in his chest. His every breath was a groaning wheeze.

  A new voice said, "His knees are broken, he can't stand."

  Angbar tilted his head upward, his ribs scraping at the slight shift. There were two Preservers and two clerics in the room, but he recognized none of them.

  "Gal'sa faen tar'r," the new voice droned. "Gal'et sa haal'l sen Akir." Brilliant pain flashed in his knees, the sensation of having them broken anew—but it vanished as quickly as it came, and then his legs were whole. "Gal'sa faen tar'r. Gal'et sa haal'l sen Akir." The same in his ribs. He sucked air like a sobbing newborn.

  His elbows, his fingers; a miracle for each. He still ached everywhere, as if the wounds had been healing on their own for weeks but were still tender. And he was still shackled, of course, his hands secured behind his back to prevent spellcasting.

  But his body was fresh now. Ready for the evening's torments.

  He began to weep, pleas burbling at his lips.

  "Now," one of the Preservers said again. "Up."

  He rolled to his side, braced his back against the damp wall so as to push to his feet.

  "No chanting," said the young, acne-scarred cleric who had healed him. An initiate. "If you fight, it will only land you back here."

  "What?" He had been fooled too many times already. "Where are you taking me?"

  "Silence." The cleric with the acne gestured. One of the Preservers unlocked his shackles; the other fitted his eyes with a blindfold. Then the boy said, "Come."

  They escorted him, blind and stumbling, out of the cells and up a number of stairs. He heard the shuffle of footsteps around him, the murmur and din of casual conversations. They finally removed his blindfold in a small room with a full-length mirror, a change of clothes draped over a chair, and a steaming bath.

  "Bathe," Acne said. "Get dressed. Leave your old clothes here." He dismissed one of the Preservers and the other cleric.

  I could take them, Angbar realized as he slowly undressed. A Preserver and one young cleric who had to work four miracles to heal me? His previous tormenter had required only one, a single invocation that had blasted the agony of mending through his entire body like a shockwave. One Slumber spell, and I'm free.

  His tongue itched with yearning. His sense held it back. The Preserver could resist the Slumber—Angbar had seen it happen before—but even if he dropped both of them, what then? The little room had no windows, which meant he'd have to go out the same door through which he'd just entered. The other cleric and Preserver could be just outside, not to mention all the other voices he'd heard. He had no idea where he was, but it was clearly some kind of Church stronghold. They would never have unshackled me if they thought I had any chance of escape.

  He took his bath and got dressed. Received another admonition to remain silent. This time, they didn't blindfold him. When they led him into the hallway outside the door, a terrible hunch about his location started to chew at him.

  A long, slightly curved hallway, its floor made of bare but well-polished wood. Stairs, and more stairs. Another hallway, this one more elegant, with art and rugs and windows displaying a grand view of the city below. All of it teeming with initiates and servants running errands; scarlet soldiers standing guard; the occasional Preserver or higher-ranking priest cutting through the chaos like a shark fin.

  No. It can't be. He couldn't possibly be important enough to be where he thought he was.

  "Here." Acne finally drew up at a door and rapped twice before opening it on to a lavish bedroom, more beautiful than any inn room. Syntal sat at a desk at its far end, one of the massive wardbooks open in front of her.

  "Angbar!" She leapt to her feet, ran, closed him in a hug. "Oh, thank Akir." She pulled back to arms' length, hands on his shoulders, looking him over. "Are you . . . did they hurt you?"

  "You . . ." He couldn't form the words; they were incomprehensible. "You were in here . . . studying?"

  "Dinner is lamb and mashed potatoes," Acne said. "I'll have your servant bring it up." He left, closing the door behind him.

  Angbar waited, watching a dream unfold around him—one he had no control over and that became, moment by moment, increasingly bizarre. I'm upset that Syntal was studying and I'm waiting for her response, he realized, as if it were all perfectly logical.

  Except upset was the wrong word. He was appalled. Horrified. But even those emotions were outside of him—things he could only observe.

  "I'm glad you're well," Syntal said. "I was worried they . . . that you . . . that they'd hurt you."

  They did. Thirty minutes ago he had been a puddle of flesh on the floor of a dungeon cell, awaiting an eternity of torture. They could have done anything to me. Bled me. Eviscerated me. Again, and again, and agai
n.

  She let loose a shaky sigh. "Just . . . glad you're well," she said again.

  I'm not well. Not at all. But he couldn't say it. Not to her.

  She had been up here studying.

  "Where are the others?" he asked.

  "I don't know. I haven't seen them, but . . ." She sat on the bed. A gentle breeze from the open window made her hair flutter. He might have found it alluring, once. "They brought me to see the Fatherlord."

  Definitely the crystal tower, then. The confirmation should have been unspeakably disturbing.

  "He wants . . ." She reached for her left hand, but where her ring had once been, only a band of pale skin remained. This observation floated across his consciousness like a shadow from a passing cloud. "He made me promise to teach Him to chant." She looked at him, searching his eyes. He stared back. "I don't know why," she went on, as if he'd asked a question. "But He worked some kind of miracle on me, and I can't refuse the request. It hurts if I try. He showed me."

  It hurts? Angbar thought. It hurts.

  You were studying.

  A pale pigeon lit on the windowsill. "Another one!" Syntal said. "This is the third one this afternoon. Get!"

  The bird hopped down onto the bed, its head canting left, then right. Its eyes stayed locked on Syntal's face. It cooed.

  "Go on!" She shooed it back to the window, where it flapped noisily away. "I don't even have any food in here for them."

  The pigeon dropped into a throng of flying birds, looping and banking over the city.

  "It's a huge flock," Syntal said, shaking her head. "I tried closing the window earlier, but it gets really hot in here."

  I don't care about the sehking pigeons, Syn. "Does He have Seth and Lyseira? Does He know where Helix and Iggy are?"

  "I don't know. He said He had my friends. It sounded like He meant everyone."

  Angbar felt his back press against the wall, felt his knees give out and slowly slide him to the floor. Everyone.

  That was it, then. The others were probably in the dungeon, like he'd been. It was only a matter of time until they were all executed.