A Season of Rendings Page 39

  "I . . ." She shook her head. "I've read of them, but I don't . . . they're gone. No one's even heard of them."

  "But you have."

  "Yes, I found a book that . . ." A sudden question came into her eyes. "Do you know Ethaniel Isaihne?"

  Iggy bared his teeth and gave a low growl. "Of course I know him. All know him, now. It was he that orchestrated the Sealing."

  Iggy's normal voice returned. "He was a chanter?" He seemed to be questioning himself. "You said only a chanter could―"

  "He was no chanter. Only a chanter could forge the Seal, yes, and only a greatly potent one, or several working in concert. But Ethaniel orchestrated it. He conceived of the idea and shared it, reached out to those who could help achieve it. He and Lar'atul worked together, in the end, to provide a place where it could be done, defenders for those who could do it. It was Ethaniel Isaihne that the elder speakers sought to dissuade when they left Ordlan Green." A long, scraping mewl issued from Iggy's throat. "It was most likely Ethaniel Isaihne that slaughtered them."

  Lyseira fell silent, looking troubled.

  "Pure of heart were most of the Kesprey, girl, including Ethaniel. Friends of the wood, they were . . . until despair claimed them, and turned their hearts to stone. Should the time come, may your heart be stronger."

  Iggy's muscles loosened; he slouched as if a rod had been removed from his spine. Nearby, the stag shook out its great mane.

  Iggy looked at him, a faraway look stealing into his eyes, before turning again to his friends. "The fox will guide us out tonight, through the moonways—the same way we came in. He says Kesselholm is southwest of Moshun Dar, a week's travel into the Waste."

  "And that's where the dark of the dragon is?" Syntal seemed ready to march already—with her crippling pain at bay, her old eagerness leapt to the forefront. Iggy nodded.

  The Waste, Angbar thought. He'd heard of it, but only in stories. It was hard to believe how far they'd come, that a place which once sprawled across the opposite end of the kingdom from them was now mere days away. "Wait. Isn't the Waste a desert?"

  "Not a desert," Iggy said. "A wasteland. Nothing lives there. The chanters ruined it."

  "How do we survive it?" Syntal asked. Not, Is it wise for us to go there? or, Is it too dangerous a risk? Not even, The chanters ruined it? How? "A week's hike—that's a long time."

  Again, Iggy communed with the stag. "They'll let me fill a water skin from the Ley spring—the same stuff that's holding your pain back. The water will slake our thirst and protect us from the heat. That should be plenty to get us through on horseback."

  Magic water, Angbar thought. Why not?

  "And how will we find this place?" Helix asked. "The Waste . . . it's huge."

  Iggy held up a hand. "I can find it. Don't worry."

  "And if we say no?" Seth said. Everyone turned to him.

  That's just what I was wondering, Angbar thought.

  "Why are we doing the bidding of a bizarre horned stag? Why are you"—Seth looked at Iggy—"so comfortable with possession? This whole place—there's something wrong with it, and she caused it." He pointed at Syntal. "If you're feeling better, maybe you can finally explain why you lied to us in Tal'aden."

  Syntal met his glare. "I didn't lie. I just didn't share everything."

  Lyseira scoffed. "Oh, spare us."

  "I helped you," Syntal said to her. "I didn't even blink when you asked for my money."

  "Why didn't you tell us, Syn?" Lyseira returned.

  "You know why!" Syn threw a hand at Seth. "He would have stopped me!"

  "I may stop you yet," Seth growled.

  "He had a right to know!" Lyseira retorted.

  "Why? It didn't affect him! It had nothing to do with him! Angbar and I took the risks, and we weren't even caught!"

  Weren't caught? As Angbar's jaw dropped, Syntal rushed to explain.

  "If the Tribunal hadn't attacked Red, we would've been home long before you. You wouldn't have even known we'd left. It didn't affect you."

  Angbar couldn't help himself. "It affects everyone, Syn!"

  Her eyes snapped to him, wide with shock or betrayal. Not you too, they said. Please, not you.

  "I'm sorry," he said, and meant it. "But . . . this can't just be your personal crusade. Look around you! I know you've been hurting, but . . . have you seen this place? Magic water strong enough to fight a curse from the Fatherlord and see us through the Waste? Animals that can talk through Iggy's throat? Giant bears attacking loggers, coordinated like . . . like . . . an army?" His raised hand beseeched her. How could she not see this? "And that's just in the last week! It all happened because of the third wardbook! And even before that—the fire trolls? All the Stormsign?" He sputtered, the weight of the evidence too heavy for his tongue. "Doesn't affect her? It affects everyone! Everyone! It's not just about learning new chants! Can't you see that? It's—Kirith a'jhul, Syn, it's changing the world!"

  "And people are dying," Seth looked at Syntal. "You are killing people. Maybe not with your own hand, but you're still killing them."

  The accusation chased the breath from Angbar's lungs. He's right. The trolls, the bears . . . he's right.

  "I'm not killing anyone," Syntal snapped.

  "You open the wardbooks."

  "I can't help what happens when―"

  "You can help opening them in the first place." Seth shook his head. "No. No more. This needs to stop."

  "Well, it's not that simple," Iggy said flatly. "The stag told me last night. Stormsign—like the sun vanishing, crops growing overnight? It's caused by the Seal being partially broken. It'll get worse. That'll kill people too."

  Seth scoffed. "We've been dealing with Stormsign since we were kids. It's a bit of strangeness for a day or two. It's never unleashed a pack of fire trolls that wipe out a whole village. That only happened after the second book was opened."

  "But it's coming more often. You've seen it. And the stag says it'll get worse if we stopping breaking seals. Eventually, the sun might not even rise at all."

  "How can he know that? What I've seen is that the Stormsign comes more often since she opened the second wardbook, and maybe even more since the third. That's more reason to leave the rest of these books alone, not less. If each one causes more Stormsign―"

  "Each one might or might not. The point is, they all have to open for the Stormsign to end. The Pulse is unstable. It can't be left that way, or―"

  "And a talking stag told you this?"

  Iggy glowered. "Yes."

  "That . . . thing wouldn't even be here if Syn hadn't opened the third book. Why should we trust it?"

  "I trust it," Iggy said coldly.

  "Well, I don't," Seth threw back. "It has every reason to trick us. Maybe it has friends that are still sealed away, or some kind of sorcery that it can't work yet."

  "If we break the Seal completely," Lyseira said, "and the Stormsign ends . . ." She spread her hands and sighed. "What good does it do, if the world is unrecognizable anyway?"

  Kill the world to save it, Angbar thought, and immediately chastised himself: Come on. It can't be as bad as that.

  "It'll be the world the way it was meant to be," Iggy pressed. "We've never seen it, because we've always lived in this . . . imitation, this"—his hands flailed, as if they could pluck the right words out of the air—"fake . . ."

  "Oh come on, the world's not fake," Angbar said, at the same time as Seth returned: "Maybe it's better this way."

  "But how do you know that?" Iggy demanded.

  "How do you?" Seth snapped. "We can't keep taking this risk just based on what you think some giant stag told you."

  "What I think . . . ?" He glowered. "You think I'm making this up?"

  Seth met his glare, jaw clenched. Finally, though, his stare flickered. "No. But I don't trust the voice that came out of your throat, Iggy, and neither should you. That is how demons work."

  "I think I would know if I was possessed by a demon."

 
"I think I would know if you were, too."

  "All right!" Helix barked. "You two are worse than a pair of old hens." He looked at Seth. "No one's possessed here." At Iggy: "But you have to admit what you're saying sounds crazy." Iggy drew up, glaring.

  "So you agree it needs to stop," Seth said. "Now."

  "No, I think it's too big a decision for a bunch of kids from the middle of nowhere to make!" Helix threw up his hands. "For the love of winter, do you lot even hear yourselves? Talking about the fate of the world like it's your decision? Who in Hel are you? Any of you?" He sputtered. "I mean, God above, you're sitting there talking about which way gets more people killed, like you have any sehking idea."

  "Then what do you think―" Seth started.

  "I think it's not our decision! This . . . God above, this . . . we have to take these books to the King."

  Iggy shook his head. "I told you―"

  "I know what you told me. 'The King might be wrong.' But at least it won't be our decision."

  "No." Iggy hadn't stopped shaking his head. "No, forget it. We aren't delivering those books to the Church after we barely got them out of Tal'aden in the first place."

  "I said the King, not the Church."

  Same thing, Helix, Angbar thought. Iggy's look said he, too, was unimpressed with this argument.

  "Quit talking about these books as if they're yours," Syntal said. "They are mine. All of them. I decide where they go."

  "We are close to Keswick," Seth said as if Syntal hadn't spoken. "If we can find our way back to the southern edge of the wood, it could be two weeks' travel—less, on horseback."

  "The only place in Darnoth with more priests is Tal'aden," Iggy said.

  "I know," Helix said. "You and I could stay out again, like we did before. But he's the King, Iggy. He has to know more about what's going on than we do."

  "I don't think anyone knows more than we do," Syntal said. "That also makes us the most qualified to decide."

  Helix sighed and threw his hands up.

  Iggy walked to Syntal and stood in front of the sack of books, his arms crossed. "Look, I'm sorry. But this is how it's going to be. Whatever happens"—he cocked his head at Syntal—"it's on us. Not you."

  "It's on us if we don't stop you," Seth said.

  Iggy gave him a grim look. "If that's how you're going to handle this, so be it."

  Angbar glanced at both of them, his heart climbing his throat. Oh, sehk, he thought. Oh, no.

  Helix sighed. "Seth, just forget it. They won't listen."

  "They get to do whatever they want because they took a stand?" Seth said evenly. His muscles tightened, the sudden clench of his shoulders an unmistakable threat. "Maybe I can take a stand, too."

  Helix's right hand curled into a fist. At the meadow's edge, a wolf crouched, its eyes bright.

  Kirith a'jhul, Angbar thought. Here we go. Mantras leapt to his mind, cycling like wheeling stars.

  "Seth." Lyseira touched her brother's arm. "No."

  He looked at her.

  "No," she said again.

  He glanced again to Syntal and Iggy, to the sack of books behind them. The fight leaked out of his posture. "M'sai," he finally said, and sat down facing away from the others. The tension in the meadow drained away.

  Angbar sighed. Did that really just happen? What is going on with us?

  "Tonight," Iggy said. "The moonways. Be ready."

  ii. Lyseira

  The red fox with the horn on its head emerged just before sunset, returning from somewhere beyond the meadow with Iggy, who had filled a water skin from the mysterious pool none of them were allowed to see. He assured them he would share out the water when they reached the Waste, before they left the comfort of Ordlan Green.

  Lyseira shrugged.

  They waited in tense silence as the last of the day's light faded. Automatically, she invoked a miracle of light—the miracle she had spent her entire childhood praying for, the miracle that she had interpreted as Akir's absolute blessing of her actions in Tal'aden. Now, though the fire that flooded her was still bright and hot, it was joyless. Rote. It served no greater purpose; she simply needed to see.

  Miracleworking had felt this way since Tal'aden. Every time she'd prayed over Syntal's pain, every time she'd called manna. Routine. Something to be done and forgotten.

  On some level, it surprised her that Akir still answered her prayers at all. When she'd summoned manna in Tal'aden, it had been against the laws of the Church—but she'd had her own reasons, good reasons, or so she'd thought at the time. The sacred bread hadn't been wasted. It had served Akir's will, His request to feed them. In its way, it had been the most fulfilling and holy of any miracle she'd ever worked.

  She didn't have His blessing anymore. Ordlan Green had plenty to eat, and before that, small game had abounded on the open plains. Yet she'd kept calling manna anyway. Why? Maybe she didn't care anymore. Maybe, if she could summon manna once for her own reasons, she should no longer have to refrain at all. Maybe it should just be her personal feeding trough, to use or waste as she pleased.

  But, no. That wasn't it. Every time she called the holy bread for mere convenience, it pained her. But more than that, she hoped it pained Him.

  It wasn't laziness. It wasn't disregard. She kept calling manna out of anger.

  Every morning, sometimes multiple times per day. Normally for her friends to eat, but once, in the dead of night, into an empty field to be eaten by crows. Another time to be kicked into a stream.

  Shame crept into her at the memory—and flashed to ash as it encountered her rage.

  It's so Goddamned sacred? she thought, livid with betrayal. So curséd important that it can't be wasted? Can't be harmed? You know what I thought was important?

  Memories of Angna's guileless smile, her joyful eyes. Cosani's gift of a family heirloom.

  You know what I thought was sacred?

  Rows of students, crouched and determined. The light of understanding coming into their eyes. Their pride.

  Their fierce pride.

  And she was supposed to weep for the loss of some sehking bread?

  Where was His sorrow? Why wasn't He weeping? Everything they had achieved, all the good they had done wiped out in a single morning of hatred and fire, and He'd done nothing. Nothing! While they screamed and burned, while she was blind and deaf from trying?

  He gave you His fire, her old faith whispered, and you burned them with it. Remember?

  Fine, she snarled. But where. Was. He?

  He was supposed to be God. He was supposed to be omnipotent. She had tied herself into knots trying to understand what He wanted. It had been her life goal, all she had ever worked for.

  Moonlight rose in the trees like a midnight mist. The fox gave a quiet yip and dashed toward it.

  "It's time," Iggy said. "Are you ready?"

  Lyseira shrugged and followed him into the trees.

  They swayed and rustled despite the lack of wind, whispering admonitions only Iggy could hear. The moonlight traced a silvery path down ravines and under fallen logs, darted between a pair of gnarled trunks as if they were a gateway. Beyond its twisting trail, the shapes of bushes and owls and spiderwebs shimmered in the darkness, bizarre and inscrutable.

  A labyrinth of light in a forest of darkness, leading forward into a consequence of appalling magnitude: the moonways themselves were a metaphor for their entire journey. Where were they going? Why? She should have been analyzing it, trying to work out its meaning. A year ago she would have been praying constantly, pleading with Akir for some hint of direction, of His will.

  No more. She was sick of signs and portents, sick of flagellating herself to work out His plans. Where had it gotten her? Where had it gotten her flock? How many of them were dead now because of her staggering hubris, her belief that she could know what God wanted? First in going to Tal'aden at all, and then in deciding the Fatherlord was a fake—for what? What had it achieved? Blood and fire and screams.

  And He
was still answering her prayers? Why?

  Do You even know my thoughts? she demanded of the night. You claim to know everything, every whisper of every leaf, but do You know my thoughts? Did You hear their screams as they died? Do You hear my pain, do You feel how broken—

  A whimper cracked in her throat. She wrestled down her anguish, forced it into a hole. She would not scream again, she would not. Her pain changed nothing—not her culpability, not God's enigmatic failures. She refused to indulge it.

  She clamped a lid on her wild thoughts and focused instead on the moonlit path, on one foot in front of the other. Her steps were solid and constant. They made sense, unlike the twisting route through the forest and the trees that seemed to swim out of the darkness, only to manifest after she'd passed them.

  She focused on her feet, and tried to put the ephemeral behind her.

  Hours became weeks that became minutes. Time lost all meaning. Alone with her own thoughts, she savaged herself, savaged God, stopped, refused to do it further, and began again. An endless cycle, an eternal nightmare of self-debasement—that ended, abruptly, with the first hints of dawn.

  The silvery path vanished, burning away like mist before flame, and the mysterious darkness beyond coalesced into the mundane. She found herself on a sudden hillside, fighting for purchase in a mulch of rotting leaves.

  "He says we're close," Iggy said. "It's just over this ridge."

  Lyseira threw out a hand to grab a nearby tree, steadying herself, and felt Seth's grip on her shoulder.

  "You all right?" he asked. She murmured an assent. "Is everyone here?" he called. A chorus of answers echoed back from the thinning gloom—Angbar, Syntal, Helix. They had all made it through the moonways, even the horses.

  It was thirty minutes of struggling up the ridge, now pulling their way from one hanging branch to the next, now fighting on all fours through the mud and the moss. Then they crested the rise, and finally, Lyseira saw something powerful enough to grind the cycle of her thoughts to a halt.

  On the far side of the hill, all was death.

  A sea of fallen trees, reeking of rot, choked the descending ridge and the foothills beyond—but from her vantage at the top of the ridge she could see even farther, to an endless plain of cracked grey. It held no sand, no odd cactus, no scavenging birds. Only death.