The Cycle of Galand Box Set

by Edward W. Robertson

  The monk reached the massive doors and opened one with nary a squeak. "That sounds horrifying."

  Dante loaded his voice with portent. "It's thought that these demons are heavily connected to the nether. Possibly to Arawn himself."

  The other man closed the door. They stood in an airy entry. The floor was paved with black marble and green granite.

  "I'm sorry," the monk said. "But we won't have anything about Arawn here. Nether, either."

  Dante blinked. "I was told you have the best theological library in the Collen Basin."

  "And, with all modesty, that is true."

  "I thought Collen has held to the old ways. That you believed, as we do in Gallador, that Arawn remains one of the twelve gods of the Celeset."

  "Ah," the young man said. "But the Mallish don't. And they like to hang those who do. Owning or writing a blasphemous book is written proof of your own heresy. You see?"

  "Whereas it isn't so easy to convict someone who confines their beliefs to the space between their ears."

  "Just so."

  Dante flapped his shirt to dry the sweat he'd accumulated during his walk. The room smelled of stone, dust, and charred gannon seed. "In that case, what can you tell me of what I wish to know?"

  "I know nothing about any of that."

  "What about your brothers and sisters?"

  "I can ask. Starting tomorrow morning. Would you like to return then?"

  "No," Dante said slowly. He wasn't sure why he wanted to stay. Stubbornness played a role, certainly, but it probably had more to do with the fact he was within spitting distance of a library he'd never seen before. "If I could, I'd like to see your collection."

  The young man nodded and led him deep through the building, stopping at last inside a yawning round room sixty feet high. The ceiling was painted with the twelve constellations of the Celeset. Beneath it, a ring of glass windows shed light on five floors of bookshelves. The air smelled like leather and parchment, slightly musty, but in better care than most libraries he'd been to.

  "This is a hell of a place!" Dante's voice echoed more loudly than he'd intended.

  The young monk suppressed a smile. "We believe truth must always be available for those ready to receive it. Our rules are simple: no damage may be done to the books, and none may leave this room. Otherwise, I'll help you find anything you want. My name is Hodd."

  Hodd had claimed to know nothing about Star-Eaters or nether-bearing demons, so Dante asked for any books of local lore on monsters, the more outlandish the better—but restricted to the more respectable authors. Hodd nodded and disappeared into the stacks. He returned shortly with a dozen books.

  All who lived had a vice of some kind. Some men became slaves to whiskey or wine. Others became bound to plants that blunted the sharp edges of the world. For Dante, his vice was knowledge. As he paged through the volumes, hunting for any hint of man-shaped monsters with starry eyes, he often found himself caught up in stories and history, as hooked as firmly as a halibut in the bay of Narashtovik.

  He tore himself away as best he could, skimming along. He'd brought his own writing materials, but found himself with precious few notes to make. The sun sank behind the western hills. A second monk passed through the stacks, lighting lanterns as she went. Most of the other patrons handed her a coin or two as she went by. Dante was tempted to act ignorant—he didn't like to spend money even when he wasn't on the brink of utter poverty—but, wishing to stay in their good graces, gave her one of his few pennies.

  After hours of work, he still hadn't found anything close to what he'd seen in Gladdic's temple. Hodd brought him more books, then departed for dinner and evening devotions. Dante read on.

  The ten o'clock bells rang. Squeezing his temples, Dante sat back. Most of the stories he'd been reading felt more like fiction than fact. Then again, he was specifically looking for the more far-out tales. Maybe he was approaching this from the wrong angle. What if he focused on books purporting to be practical histories? Any mentions of Star-Eater-like beings in those would carry far more weight. The chief problem with that idea was that such mentions would be far fewer, but at the very worst, it would teach him real history. If he built a foundation of knowledge, he might be better equipped to home in on the areas of history most likely to provide him with the answers he sought.

  With Hodd warning him the library would close at midnight, Dante asked for a new batch of books focusing on the more tumultuous periods of Collen's history, especially accounts of its most renowned sorcerers. The young monk obliged. Dante dived in, flipping pages as quickly as he could glean the gist of their contents. An hour later, a stack of discarded books stood at the side of his desk.

  But a venerable tome opened before him. An Account of the First War of Mallon and Collen, by the historian Flinders. Dante tried to skim through it, but soon found himself absorbed in its records.

  According to the author, nine hundred years ago, a much smaller Mallon had been good friends with an equally modest Collen Basin. Collen had traded wheat from its fields, wine from its vineyards, and spices from the lands to its southeast in exchange for Mallish lumber, iron, dyes, and coffee brought in from its port. The two regions had been close enough that marriages were common between their merchants and aristocracy. To hear Flinders tell it, it felt inevitable that, in time, the two regions would become one.

  For some time, Collen had been feuding with the then-kingdom of Almers, on the coast to their south. To put an end to the conflict, Collen secured a trade arrangement with Almers, sending grain and Mallish steel in exchange for Almerian pottery and dye.

  That spring, the rains never came. As the wheat struggled to grow, blight struck the fields, worse than any locusts. In desperation, Collenese sorcerers turned to the nether to regrow their dying fields.

  But the shadows only made the blight worse. Entire prairies turned brown, dust swirling through the sky. Within the year, the entire basin was on the brink of starvation.

  As Mallish goods continued to flow into Collen, Collenese debt rose. They couldn't return the goods to Mallon without breaking their pact with Almers, which would almost certainly renew the war. Instead, they continued to trade with Almers, banking on the goodwill of their Mallish friends.

  It might have worked. But Collen's merchants weren't the only ones in dire straits. Starving commoners trampled through Mallish lands, plundering the fields, robbing honest farmers. Collen's nobility tried to recall their outlaws, but it was no use.

  By year's end, Mallon had declared war. Since then, the conflict had never truly ended.

  Dante was in the middle of his notes on the subject when Hodd came through to inform him the shrine was closing for the night. With permission, Dante marked his spot in the Account and stood, limbs stiff.

  "Thank you," he said. "What time does the library reopen?"

  "Seven in the morning," Hodd said. "You, ah, are very enthused to learn."

  The streets were much quieter on the way back. The temperature had dropped twenty degrees and the smell of dew hung on the air. Men and women argued behind shutters that were closed despite the chance for them to cool down their houses. A sense of uneasiness lay on the city. Worry about the Mallish? Or Dante's own anxiety over being in a strange city reflecting back on him?

  He found his way to the inn. Blays and Naran were downstairs chatting with a table of weatherbeaten farmers. Blays gave Dante a small nod and shifted his eyes upstairs. Dante nodded back and headed up to their room. Blays and Naran showed up after an interval of time sufficient to have consumed another beer.

  "Well?" Blays said. "What'd you find?"

  Sitting on his straw mattress, Dante leaned his elbows on his knees. "Nothing."

  "What do you mean, nothing? You've been gone for eight hours!"

  "Not finding something takes much longer than finding it. I went to the library of the Reborn Shrine, but they claimed they don't have any books concerning Arawn or the nether."

  Blays cocked a brow
. "Claimed?"

  "I think they suspect I'm a spy from the Mallish priesthood. Here to ferret out heresy."

  "It's possible they think that," Naran said. "Or it may be that after hundreds of years of Mallish attacks, they've learned better than to make any of their beliefs available to the public."

  Dante sighed. "Either way, I'm going back tomorrow. If they've spent this long hiding their beliefs from the Mallish, they may have found ways to express secrets in plain sight."

  Blays unlaced his boots, tossing them aside. "Well, you have fun with that. Naran and I will continue to drink beer and chat up the locals. Grueling work, but we're dedicated to the cause."

  "Actually, I did get one piece of info. Many many years ago, it seems that the Colleners were harvesting their fields."

  Blays stared blankly. "As opposed to what? Declaring their vegetables had worked so hard to grow that it would be cruel to eat them?"

  "Not harvesting. Harvesting. Growing them with the nether. Like they do in the Plagued Islands."

  "And?"

  "And," Dante said slowly, "it's very odd to find that same long-lost skill here. During roughly the same time period as the first Harvesters arrived in the islands. It could be related. Even if it isn't, it hints at the idea that, a thousand years ago, the world was far more sophisticated than we think. The more we travel, the more we hear the echoes of that time."

  "Fascinating," Blays yawned. "We didn't make much more progress than you did, but the smart money is that if the shaden are still here, they'll be found in the company of Mallish soldiers. We'll start looking around for troops tomorrow."

  "Sounds smart. Just be careful."

  "Yes, that's the standard operating procedure when dealing with companies of soldiers. Speaking of, that riot in the plaza today? As far as we can gather, it wasn't caused by anything."

  "Except by definition."

  Naran went to the window to eye the streets. "What he means is there was no provocation. Nothing, at least, beyond the presence of Mallish soldiers in Collen."

  "Right," Blays said. "It feels like this whole place could catch fire at any moment. For once, let's try not to be the ones who light the spark, eh?"

  Dante collapsed into bed. It had been an extremely long day, but he forced himself to get up as early in the morning as he could bear. He trudged back to the shrine. Hodd wasn't in, but another monk brought around the books Dante requested. This time, rather than hewing to a single topic of study, he cast a wide net, hoping to dredge up something unexpected from the depths.

  By noon, he'd accumulated nothing more than an empty stomach. Outside the shrine, the monks had a stall where they sold the excess food they made each day. Dante made use of it, eating dumplings stuffed with spiced potatoes and soft, sweet cheese. They were markedly similar to the ones people ate in Narashtovik. Then again, everywhere you went had a dumpling of some kind.

  He got back to work in the library. There were times when his research was so numbing he flipped through entire works with no recollection of their subject. With the afternoon rambling on as endlessly as the stacks themselves, footsteps whispered down the strip of carpet running along the shelves of books. As they neared, Dante glanced up.

  Blays stood over him, smiling widely. "Uncovering any ancient secrets of existence and the universe?"

  Dante gestured helplessly at the tome in front of him. "I thought this one would have references to the Star-Eaters, but it's as useless as they all are."

  "Good." Blays flipped the book shut with a musty whomp. "Because we've found the shaden. Let's move."

  7

  For most people in the Order, extraction was the worst part of any job. You'd gotten in safe. You had the loot in hand. But one wrong turn into the servant's quarters, or a stumble in the dark against a table, and it could all come crashing down on your head.

  For Raxa, it was the easiest thing in the world.

  She belted on the sword, blew out her candle, and slipped into the shadows. The room had been almost pure dark, lit only by the moonlight that managed to slip through the curtains. The shadowlands were far brighter—the room was utterly coated in nether, all of which glowed silver. Raxa used to find it spooky. Now, it was a comfort.

  She walked through the wall into the hallway. Empty. So was the stairwell. She descended, forcing herself not to run. Near the bottom, a candle wavered; a servant was on his way up, dressed in a gray smock with a white tree on the chest. Raxa pressed herself to the wall and let him pass.

  On the ground floor, the same voices that had been arguing on her way in were still at it. She strode to the basement door, which was closed, and passed through the stone wall around it. The basement was silent. Down in the dungeons, a man was moaning from his cell, but she didn't break stride.

  She stopped halfway down the hall. Which cell had she come in through? Should have marked it somehow. The dungeons weren't on her map—their inside man hadn't expected her to be down here.

  She was already growing short on time. Staying in the shadows was like standing on a roof and holding onto a rope slung over the side of the building. The longer you were there, the more people kept climbing up it. At first, it was easy to hang on tight, but the more climbers who piled onto the rope, the more you started to strain.

  She had a few minutes left before she was going to have to let go. But her shoes were definitely starting to skid toward the lip of the roof.

  She ducked into a cell, then tried its far wall, casting around for the tunnel back to the body locker. Nothing but solid rock. She returned to the passage and tried the next cell down. A man slept inside. She backed out and tried the next. This time, she popped through the wall and into a smooth, empty tunnel.

  "About time," she muttered. Nerves fluttering, she returned to the disappointment that was reality.

  The tunnel was as black as a whale's gut. Knowing the floor was empty, she walked forward blind, holding her stolen sword out before her. The smell of the dead grew stronger. Soon, the tunnel spilled her into the workings of the body locker.

  She belted her sword. A lantern glowed to her left. The rustle of a turning page sounded from the entry. Raxa snuck up to the edge of the foyer, then popped into the shadows. She sprinted across the entry and into the night.

  Halfway to the shelter of a towering elm, she lost her hold on the rope holding her to the nether. She was expelled with a jolt, her skin prickling painfully. She'd spent too long inside.

  But her work wasn't quite done. By rule, anything you grabbed while on a job for the Order became the Order's property. If you picked up something beyond what the Order had been expecting—a second set of jewelry, say—you had the right to purchase it from them at fair price.

  The sword, though? The sword was priceless. Even if they assigned a price to it, it'd cost more than she could steal in a thousand years.

  She strode across the field and into the city. She was due at the Marrigan within a few hours, but she had to get home first. And she had to do it with no shadow-juice left and thirty pounds of the most valuable artifacts in the city on her back.

  Good thing she was the best.

  The outer neighborhoods were quiet. A few people on stoops enjoying the cool summer evening. This was a poor part of town, but a good one. Fishermen. Sailors. Honest workers. Her neighborhood and those around it were rats' nests. If she circled around to come in through the east, though, she'd only have to travel through a few blocks of deep trouble before she got home.

  She cut to the southeast, walking briskly. After a detour around the heavily patrolled Heirs' District, she traveled through four miles of sleepy row houses. She drew a few calls from drunken men, but it was the dead wrong time for her to engage. None of them followed her further than half a block.

  In time, she came to the border of her neighborhood, affectionately referred to as the Dumps. She entered on Hallivan Street, cutting quickly to Loggidan, a stretch of dirt road fronted on both sides by longshoremen. Rough customers, but
generally not the type to be trawling for trouble.

  Someone whistled behind her, the noise shrieking through the night. Raxa neither slowed nor sped up. The whistle repeated. Footsteps. At least three pairs.

  "Hey, girl!" Someone laughed raspily. "Hey, girl!"

  No point trying to threaten them. Men like that never took you seriously. Not even when the moon gleamed on the blade of your knife. Most times, she'd have run—she knew the Dumps as well as anyone—but burdened by her pack, there was no way she could outpace them.

  And there was no way she was dumping it, either.

  A rock clattered behind her. She spun, walking backwards. Three silhouettes followed her.

  "Walk off," she said. "You don't want this."

  "Come closer and let's find out," the raspy man called.

  "You keep following me and people will die."

  "Oh, only if you try to get cute."

  Raxa swore silently. She couldn't run. Couldn't escape through the shadows—they were done with her for the day. They were too close for her to hide. She was blocks away from her building. Even if she made it there before they caught up to—

  A man emerged from the alley ahead of her. He was nearly as tall as a norren. A short blade hung from his side.

  He gestured down the street. "These men bothering you?"

  For a moment, relief shot through her veins. Throw him to the attackers and make a break for it. Then she saw the smile on his face.

  "Get the fuck out of my way," she said.

  The footsteps advanced behind her. The new man gaped. "Ugly language from such a pretty girl! I'm only here to help—"

  She drew the sword. It felt as light as the bamboo chairs Gaits had imported from Gallador. Still smiling, the man drew his blade. It was much shorter than hers, the type of dagger favored by those who needed a weapon that was serious yet concealable, but he didn't seem concerned in the slightest about her reach advantage.

  Probably because the other three men were now just twenty feet away. Raxa moved to the face of the nearest row house. The four men fanned out across from her. Everyone except the raspy-voiced man now bore a dagger. The tall man tapped his against his thigh.