Children of a Broken Sky (Redemption Chronicle Book 1) Page 5

  Lyseira gritted her teeth. "Yes."

  Matthew made a noise, somewhere between a scoff and a chuckle. "Do you even know what I'm accused of?"

  Of being an obstinate horse's ass, Lyseira wanted to say. "Father Annish didn't feel he needed to tell me."

  "Well, it's a few different things, I imagine, though of course it's impossible to say for sure. But this last spring, I was in Northshire. You know where it is?"

  Lyseira had never been out of the Valley. "I've heard of it," she said, humoring him.

  "They had a rash of redwarts this past winter. It's a nasty business, redwarts. The skin puffs up everywhere into tiny, bleeding pimples. They itch like mad. People—especially children—scratch the warts, and get the blood on others. That's how it spreads. After a couple weeks it brings on fevers and bone-deep pain. If you catch it, you'll be left blind or dead unless you get healing."

  "I'm familiar with it."

  "It broke out in their poor quarter, in the alleys where the homeless people sleep. It spread fast, there. Then it started showing up in the orphanage."

  Lyseira thought of the Fergusons, and their daughter's influenza. She didn't like where this was going.

  "Now, Akir can cure redwarts, but for reasons that surpass my understanding, He rarely does so directly. He grants this miracle to the faithful and relies on them to administer it. Do you think they did?"

  She wanted to ignore the question entirely, to insist that he get out of town, but she couldn't. She wanted everything: to make him leave, and escape this conversation with her conscience clean. "We've never had redwarts in Southlight. But Abbot Forthin, our old Keeper, healed disease all the time."

  "I've heard of him. He was a good man. But I didn't ask about him." Matthew's sightless gaze could've been staring at her. "I was at the temple in Northshire when the afflicted started showing up on the steps. There were old and there were young, but the worst were the children. Have you ever seen the temple in Northshire?"

  "Brother Matthew, I don't see what this has to do with anything."

  "If you'll spare me the time, I'll make it clear."

  She sighed. "No, I've never seen it."

  "It's beautiful. The statues in front of the place, alone, are probably worth more than the whole Southlight temple. The God's Star above the altar is tipped with sapphire arrays. It's breathtaking. Not as breathtaking as the Basica Sanctaria, but still impressive." He paused. "They turned the sick away. Do you know why?"

  They couldn't pay. Lyseira was sure of the answer, but couldn't—or wouldn't—give it voice.

  "No coin. The priests would let them die before they would bless them for free."

  She had expected the answer, but it still stung. Excuses roared to mind, clamoring for her attention. She struggled to keep her face blank, and finally Matthew continued.

  "One cleric—I won't tell you his name—was moved by Akir to act. He visited the alleys on his own, and healed those who needed it. He couldn't help everyone—he was only one man, and healing is tiring—but he did what he could. One of the parents he helped came to the temple the next day to thank him. That's how the Keeper found out." Matthew tilted his head. "They brought him before the Order of Judgment, Lyseira. They took his fingers, his tongue, and his eyes, and sent him to the same alley he'd ministered in to spend the rest of his days begging."

  Lyseira scoffed. "You're making that up."

  Matthew gave her a sad smile. "Lyseira, you've spent your days in a small village, and you've been fortunate enough to have a good man for a Keeper. There are a lot of little villages, with a lot of good men in their temples. And those good men are being rooted out, one by one. The Church is reasserting its control everywhere.

  "Church law is clear on the matter of miracleworking. It cannot be done without a donation except with the permission of the healer's superior."

  Lyseira shook her head. He's exaggerating. If these are the lies he's telling, it's no wonder Father Annish wants him gone. "Father Forthin, our old Keeper, healed others for little or no donation all the time. If what you're saying is true, he should've been executed a hundred times over."

  Matthew didn't respond. He let her words hang there, until they soaked through her coat and gave her a shuddering chill.

  "That's one story. I have hundreds of others. All I've done is tell them. For that crime, your Keeper would run me out of town.

  "On the morning of the Storm, Akir came to me. He gave me this charge. He wants people to know that the Church is not acting on His will. He loves his children. He gave the Church these miracles so that we could be spared the world's evils. But the Church has lost its way. They haven't done the will of Akir in hundreds of years."

  The words were the purest form of blasphemy. It was clear, now, why he was branded a heretic. At the same time, though, his story resonated with Father Annish's rebukes the day before. Is it possible? she wondered.

  Her reaction to this question was nearly feral. I would wonder that? I would dare wonder that, after all my years serving Akir, after everything Father Forthin taught me? I spend three minutes with a heretic and he has me questioning everything? Her jaw tightened. She would not be so easily undone.

  "What proof do you have?" she demanded. "I have a lifetime of my own experience, and you claim that means nothing, but what proof do you have?"

  "I was appointed a bishop of the Tribunal, Lyseira. We were charged with rooting out evil, but most of the 'evil' we turned up was poor folk who weren't tithing, or people who had wronged the Church somehow; even those who were competing with us for land or profit. That was before the Storm. Since then, the Tribunal has tripled in size. I've seen the Church commit acts of such atrocity they would keep you awake at night."

  Again, her brief discussion with Father Annish fit perfectly into Matthew's accusations; she shoved this realization away and fired back at him. "So you have words," she said coldly. "Just words, and you would have people turn on their Church for that?"

  Matthew's face darkened. "What I have is truth." He turned away. "And I'll speak it where I please."

  ~ ~

  Father Annish had returned a few days later. Lyseira had prepared herself for the worst, but when she told him about the conversation with Matthew, he didn't react as she expected: he thanked her for speaking to him and set her to sweeping the front entry. He never went to speak to Matthew himself; instead, he huddled in the temple like a cornered rat as Matthew spoke, day after day, with the villagers.

  She'd thought about Matthew's words almost constantly for the last three weeks, but Father Annish had done nothing more to support the accusations. The man might be shallow, but no worse. His actions alone couldn't damn the entire Church. Still, the suspicion that Matthew was telling the truth had sunk into her. She couldn't shake it off.

  She was eager for the man to leave, and the feeling to fade.

  "I don't need this," Seth said flatly, bringing her back to the present. He set his pen down on the table and looked up at her, defiant.

  She had taken advantage of her renewed access to the temple to help Seth study Church history and scripture, but it had quickly become obvious that his inability to read was holding him back. She tried to teach him some of the most basic words so that he could do some studying on his own, but it was like throwing water on a dog. He just shook it off.

  Today he was practicing letters at the table. Or he had been, until now.

  "You need to trust me," she said, holding back a sigh.

  "I don't need to read the books. I just need to know them."

  "You need to study them."

  "Lyseira," Annish said. He was at one of the windows, peering out.

  Lyseira looked over. "Yes, Father?"

  His lips curled into a satisfied smile. He nodded out the window. "Look."

  Four men were approaching on the northern road, leading a wagon that looked like a jail cell on wheels. The lead rider was a soldier in gleaming plate mail, his helmet winged like an angel, his s
teed white as a fresh snowfall. The God's Star was emblazoned on his breastplate.

  "A Justicar," Lyseira breathed, watching in wonder as the holy knight rode into town. Then she saw the man behind him.

  The priest rode flanked by two Preservers. His gaze was like a raptor's, watching for prey; his stance was impossibly straight on his mount's back. The symbol on his amulet was unmistakable, even at this distance. A gavel and a God's Star: the mark of the Tribunal.

  "He's come," Father Annish said, his eyes glinting with vindication. "Finally, he has come."

  Chapter 3

  i. Lyseira

  Annish hustled down the hill to the road, his shoulders quaking with each bouncing step. Lyseira followed, her brother behind her.

  "Bishop Marcus," Annish said, bowing deeply to the priest. Lyseira and Seth followed suit.

  Marcus may have seen thirty winters; only the slightest traces of age showed in his face. His Preservers rode to either side of him, their heads shaven, each with the God's Star branded on his forehead. Like Seth they wore dun-colored traveling robes over a simple, loose outfit designed for ease of movement. Neither wore any coat or scarf despite the weather.

  Marcus regarded the deacon like an owl hunting a mouse. "Your name?" he said.

  "Deacon Kelar Annish, Father."

  Marcus looked away. He might have been disregarding a bug. "Where is the Keeper of this church?"

  "I—yes, that is me, Father," Annish stammered.

  Marcus snapped his gaze back. "I was told Abbot Forthin was Keeper here."

  "Abbot Forthin kept this temple for nearly thirty years," Lyseira answered, stepping forward. "But he's been dead for two months now."

  Marcus flicked his eyes over her as if evaluating a threat. "Who are you?"

  Annish jumped in. "She's of no consequence, Father; little more than a maid."

  Lyseira fell silent, her cheeks burning.

  Marcus seemed to accept this. "We received your message in Keldale. Matthew had a number of friends in the Church when he left, but their patience for his blasphemy is over. Where is he?"

  Annish nodded down the road. "He's staying at the local inn, Father."

  Marcus nodded, his gaze latching on to the little building just down the road from the church. "Very good." He indicated the wagon behind him. "We'll leave the jail wagon here. I've already called for a judge; he should be here in a day or two."

  "What will be done with him?" Lyseira blurted. She expected the worst, but wasn't sure whether to dread or relish the answer.

  Marcus glanced at her in annoyance. "Your maid doesn't know her place, Deacon." He kicked his horse into a trot toward the inn.

  Lyseira turned to Annish. "What will be done with him?" she repeated. Are they going to kill him?

  Annish shrugged. "I don't know. I imagine they'll want to administer justice in private. He was a priest; the bishop will show discretion."

  Lyseira's heart burned in her chest. Her discussion with Matthew had been brief, but it had shaken her more than she cared to admit. She glanced toward the inn, then surprised herself by taking a step toward it.

  Annish took her shoulder. "Don't intervene."

  "I've spoken with him before; I can help them," she said. She couldn't have explained why she wanted to be at the inn when Brother Matthew was apprehended, but her nerves wouldn't let her stand aside. She had no love for the man, but some of his words had rung true, and she wasn't sure he deserved to be silenced. At the least, she felt she should know what happened to him.

  "No. Go to the temple."

  Lyseira looked again at the inn. The four men were dismounting. She could see the faces of some of the inn's patrons peering from the windows. Her heart was pounding.

  She wrenched her shoulder away, glaring defiance at Annish. He staggered and made to lunge for her again; but Seth took a step forward, his eyes locked with the deacon's, and the man drew up short.

  She started for the inn.

  Annish's voice chased her. "Lyseira, this is it! If you go, you are done!"

  Done. All her dreams, everything she had worked for.

  To her horror, she stopped.

  The Justicar entered the inn, Bishop Marcus and his guardians behind him. It doesn't matter, she tried to tell herself. I can't change the outcome. I don't even really know what's going on. Her dedication to the Church was too strong; it forced her to turn and march up the hill to the temple, a quiet shame simmering in her heart.

  ii. Helix

  The flour barrel was empty. Silla Tevington had just handed him an order for fourteen flapjacks, and the flour barrel was empty.

  Helix spat a quiet curse and rushed through the door to the common room, looking for his boss. He emerged into a cacophony of conversation and clinking silver, the rich aromas of fried eggs and potatoes burgeoning like a fog.

  "Helix!" Silla snapped from his right, exasperated. Piled plates and bowls lined her arms; each hand clutched a stack of cups three or four high. "Move!"

  He mumbled an apology and stepped out of the doorway. Silla rolled her eyes at him and turned around to bump the door open with her backside.

  "Where's Mellerson?" Helix said. "He's out of flour."

  The server dipped her head toward the other end of the bar and disappeared into the kitchen, the door swinging lazily behind her.

  Helix looked to see Mellerson just coming around the counter, carrying a stack of cups himself. "Smith!" he called over the din. "What are you doing out here? Grab these cups!"

  Helix hustled over and obliged him. "You're out of flour," he said, just as a customer inquired about his potatoes.

  Mellerson smiled. "Yessir, they're comin'." The patron turned doubtfully back toward his table.

  The innkeeper glanced at Helix out of the corner of his eye as he made change for a silver shell. "What was that, now?"

  "Flour," Helix repeated. "You're out of flour, and Silla just gave me about a thousand orders for flapjacks."

  Mellerson looked up from his money changing, confused. "Outta flour?" he barked. "Can't be."

  "The barrel's empty." Helix jerked his thumb vaguely toward the kitchen.

  "You check in the back?"

  "What back?"

  Mellerson grumbled. "The back! With the salt and the like. Or the cellar; did you check the cellar?"

  "The cellar's still locked," Helix said, but Mellerson wasn't listening. He was staring past him, toward the front door. Helix followed his gaze and felt his breath catch.

  Brilliant sunlight framed the silhouette of a creature in the open doorway, an armored monstrosity with a pair of wicked horns jutting from its head. As the visitor stepped into the room, the door swung shut behind him. In the sudden dimness of the common room, Helix saw the monster was not a monster at all, but a knight: bristling with armor, a longsword dangling casually from his waist, a pair of angelic wings sprouting from his ornate helm.

  Justicar. Helix had heard of them, but never seen one. They were holy knights, blessed by the Church and tasked with executing its wishes. "Blesséd sehk," he muttered under his breath.

  Willis Mellerson dropped the coins he had been counting and hurried to the front of the room. "Good morn, Sir," he said formally, holding out his hand. "I'm Willis Mellerson. I own the place. What can I do for you?"

  The Justicar didn't answer. The door behind him opened again. A tall man entered, his head shaven bald with the God's Star branded on his forehead. He moved easily, his lean muscles rippling beneath his simple outfit like a stalking panther's. He didn't walk through the door so much as he flowed through it. His every motion radiated casual menace.

  Syntal. The thought sent a shock of panic up his back. Someone noticed her eyes, they must've told, they're here for Syntal. Oh, God. He wanted to escape, to run home and warn her, but his legs had turned to water; it was all they could manage to keep him on his feet.

  Behind the Preserver came a cleric with the eyes of a hawk. His gaze swept the common room in a single pass, then f
ixed on Mellerson. "Who are you?"

  "Willis Mellerson," the innkeeper repeated, dropping his eyes.

  "Is this your inn?"

  "Yes, Father."

  "I'm Bishop Marcus of the Tribunal. We're looking for a blind man who calls himself Brother Matthew. He would be traveling alone. Is he here?"

  Helix felt an instant of relief at hearing they weren't looking for his cousin, replaced almost at once by a sudden lurch of fear for Matthew.

  "He has a room." Mellerson turned to Helix. The color had drained from his face. "Have you seen him this morning, Helix?"

  Don't drag me into this. But it was too late; Marcus's gaze had pierced him. He wanted to shrink into the wall. "I... no, not this morning."

  "He normally walks around the village during the day, talking," Mellerson offered. "He should be back tonight. I could ask the patrons, see if—"

  Marcus held up a hand. "That won't be needed." He lowered his voice. "The man is a warlock; he can see despite his blindness and has been spreading lies about the Church. We've come to bring him to trial; we wish him no harm. Give me a key to his room. We'll return tonight and take him then. Maybe we can spare you any embarrassment or danger to your patrons."

  "Of course, Father." Mellerson produced a spare key and slid it across the counter.

  Marcus collected it. "If he returns early, or if he mentions plans to leave, come tell us. We'll be at the temple."

  Mellerson nodded. "Yes, Father."

  Marcus held his eyes, confirming his agreement, before turning away.

  ~ ~

  For once, Helix's thoughts were free of Minda for an entire day.

  He was desperate to find Syntal, to warn her to stay in the house. Her eyes had been better lately, but she never kept her promises to him. He knew she was still reading the book, and in his heart he knew what that made her.

  He was worried for Matthew, too, and couldn't shake the thoughts from his mind. The man was so friendly and matter-of-fact that it had been easy to forget the full consequences of what he was saying. Seeing the holy men in the inn that morning had been a wake-up call, though. There was a reason people didn't speak against the Church, no matter how legitimate they thought their complaints were.