Children of a Broken Sky (Redemption Chronicle Book 1)

by Adam J Nicolai

  "It was so hard to translate," Syntal said as if reading his thoughts, "because Lar'atul was such a sloppy writer. Learning the language was hard enough, but then for everything to be so sloppy, too..." There was a tone of grudging admiration in her voice, as if she could complain about the author's illegible writing, but she could never hold it against him. Like she was talking about a friend, or a favorite teacher.

  "It looks... almost like he was in a hurry," Angbar said.

  "He was."

  Angbar glanced at her, curious, but she didn't share her meaning. "Here." She pulled a sheaf of loose papers from the middle of the book. "These are my notes. I translated most of it. I don't really need these anymore, I understand the ideas now, but I've never..."

  She licked her lips and looked at him. Her eyes were striking in the fire light. Not from chanting—not this time. Just because fires dancing in emeralds would make anyone's heart skip. Her raven hair swallowed that same light, like the space between the stars.

  She was exotic and tempting, a creature of darkness and mystery.

  Uh-oh. Angbar took a sudden interest in a blade of grass. Where in Hel did that come from? Hopefully, she wouldn't be able to make out his blush in the darkness.

  "I've never shared this," she said. "Not with Helix, not with anyone."

  Well, no, Angbar wanted to say, that would be stupid. No one likes to get killed. His tongue wanted to haul off on him, to blab nonsense until her pretty eyes went away. He wrestled it down and said, "I understand."

  He'd been friends with Syntal his whole life. He thought of her more like a sister than anything.

  Didn't he?

  Even when they'd gone to the Festival dance together, it hadn't been romantic. It couldn't be, not this far south. A Bahiri with a pale girl? Just going to the dance had been risky enough. Everyone knew they'd always been friends, and he'd still gotten a few evil eyes. It could never be more than that, even if he wanted it to be. And he didn't. He never had.

  Kirith a'jhul, she was gorgeous. How had he never seen it?

  She was looking at him. He looked back, losing himself, just for a second, in her eyes.

  Wait. She had asked him a question.

  "Ah... m'sai," he said, nodding gravely.

  "You're sure?" Her brows knitted. "You seem..."

  "No, no—sorry. I just... the wolves, you know, they're all just sitting there... it's playing with my head." Shake it off, Angbar.

  "Yeah. I can't wait to get out of this place. I hate those things." She took a deep breath. "M'sai. It works like this.

  "There's something that tells everything what to be. How to act. It tells the dirt to be dirt, the grass to be grass. It tells the fire to be hot."

  "Like God?"

  Her expression fell. "That... that's exactly what I was talking about. M'sai? God doesn't come into it."

  "Ah—sorry."

  "If you want to go running off to Lyseira—"

  "No, no! Sorry." He mimed clapping a hand over his mouth. "Go ahead. I'm listening."

  She looked annoyed, but there was something else in her eyes: fear.

  This is hard for her, he realized. Really hard. God doesn't come into it? No wonder they're burning witches. She had taken him aside to share her deepest secret, and he was acting like an ass.

  He sighed. "I'm sorry, Syn. I'm just nervous. I want to hear, m'sai? I'll behave." He squeezed her hand and repeated her own words. "God doesn't come into it."

  You just did that so you could squeeze her hand, something whispered in the back of his mind. You sly dog.

  She looked pensive, but she went on. "Lar'atul calls it 'the Pulse.' When you hear it, it'll make sense. It sounds like a heartbeat."

  He swallowed his questions.

  "It's telling the stars to glow. It tells people when to live and when to die. It... it's everything. And we can't hear it most of the time. But if we Ascend, we can hear it, and it's so beautiful. When you're Ascended, you... you're just..." Her hands floundered, searching for the words. "You know everything."

  It was easy to hold his tongue now; he had no idea what to say.

  "The book has these chants." She turned to the back, to pages lined with the neat script he'd been expecting. "They're not First Tongue—they don't make any sense until you Ascend. But when you do, you can speak them. They're commands. You can speak like the Pulse speaks. You can tell the fire to be hotter, or the stars to glow brighter—"

  "Or an arc hound to go to sleep?"

  She gave him a radiant smile. "Yes! Right! Or..." She pointed at her eyes and quirked a brow; the smile melted into a crafty grin. "Make your eyes dull."

  Your eyes, he stopped himself from saying, are not dull.

  "It doesn't last long. I have to remember to do it before I chant for it to work, but that..." She gestured, excited. "I never would've figured that out. I always just thought the glow was something that happened. It never occurred to me that I could stop it." She glanced an apology at him. "I mean, your eyes don't glow, really, but that's how I think of it."

  "Right."

  "And I mean, if it can do that, it's... it can affect itself, then... I wonder if there's anything it can't do."

  Again, he didn't know what to say, so he contented himself by watching her smile.

  "And really, Lar'atul would say there's not. There's nothing it can't do. That's why they—" Her excitement died. She had the look of a girl backing away from a cliff. More subdued, she said, "Well, it has more to do with us. How much we can stand. He said there were people that could do incredible things. Make mountains fly. But you can only Ascend for so long before it hurts you."

  "Like the nosebleeds?"

  "Well... yes. And worse. I think there's a way around it, though. Remember the safehold?"

  Angbar didn't.

  "Lar'atul wrote something about a safehold. 'Seek the safehold.' I think it's a... mental trick, some way to keep your mind held steady, even when you're Ascended. But I haven't figured that out yet, so chanting is still a risk." She fixed her eyes on him. "M'sai? It's dangerous, every time."

  How dangerous is it? he almost asked. What can happen? But he wanted to say something that would make her smile again; he wanted to see her eyes ignite.

  "I'll be careful," he promised. "Show me how?"

  It worked.

  iv. Lyseira

  "She's teaching him." Seth's eyes were trained on the other fire, where Syntal laughed and shoved at Angbar's shoulder.

  "I know," Lyseira said. She wasn't sure what to say, or what to think, and her recognition of that fact only paralyzed her more.

  "She shouldn't," Seth said simply.

  No, Lyseira wanted to agree, she shouldn't. For a dizzying instant, the truth was laid bare: she was a fugitive from the holy Church, traveling with a witch. It turned her stomach.

  Then context came crashing back. A witch I've known since childhood, she insisted. A witch who has saved my life, and is doing the right thing.

  Lyseira had seen the signs that the world was crumbling since the Storm. She'd seen the sun stay up until midnight. She'd seen the crops die in the fields. Her faith in Akir's plan had kept her grounded through all of it. But the stories of witches had never been real for her.

  That couldn't happen in Southlight, not in her home town—but it had been happening, for years.

  It gave her a jolt; made the consequences of the Storm real in a way nothing else had. The world wasn't just crumbling, its natural laws breaking down as it came to an end. It was changing.

  If Syntal could teach Angbar to do what she did, then maybe it was something anyone could do. Was that the way the world would look, in its final days? She imagined a riot of lawless witches, able to kill on command, the Church unable to stop them. Maybe that would only be the final step. Before it would come more animals revolting, like the wolves. The ground opening with flames. Night become day and day become night.

  Everyone knew the Storm heralded the end. But no one knew what that end
would look like.

  That's not true. An idea seized her. God knows.

  Of course. She had been spending all her time trying to read signs and figure out what He wanted, but she could work miracles now. She should ask Him.

  Seth stood, his eyes trained on Syntal and Angbar. "I'll be right back."

  She took his hand. "Seth—don't. Leave them alone."

  "Why?"

  "Because you'll fight. You'll wake up Harth." Because I don't know what's right and wrong anymore. "I don't want him to know."

  "They shouldn't be doing it right in the open like that." He frowned. "They shouldn't be doing it at all."

  "I know. But..." Witchcraft was one of the greatest sins. Would they have sat by while Syntal slowly murdered someone ten paces away? Would that have been any less of an abomination? She didn't have a good reason for him. She wasn't even sure she was right. "Please."

  The distant baying of wolves rolled over them. The call was caught by a second group, this one nearer, and then the line of animals near the road took it up. Harth and Helix stirred.

  "S'all right," Harth mumbled. "They do that."

  As the noise died, Seth pulled away. "I'm going to patrol the camp. You should get some rest. Morning comes soon."

  She watched his back as he left, fighting the urge to apologize. When she had the fire to herself, she turned and knelt.

  "Akir," she murmured in First Tongue. "You answered me when I forewent the rituals, so I'm foregoing them again. I'm seeking Communion."

  It was ludicrous. An old voice, a contemptuous voice, whispered, Who in Hel are you? You're no one. She ignored it.

  "You sent us out here. I know You did. You've saved us more than once, and I've felt Your fire." It was glorious. "But I need Your help. I don't know where to go. I'm human, and I'm failing. If You've given me signs, I can't see them. I want justice for Fathers Marcus and Elmoor. They're blasphemers, lying in Your name. Is that what I should seek?"

  In the empty darkness behind her eyes, her heart drummed.

  "I feel like it's the right choice, but I can't convince the others. They think I'm mad to seek Your avatar in Tal'aden. Are they right?"

  Nothing.

  She hadn't expected the sky to open. She hadn't expected to be seized by fire. But she had expected something.

  Maybe silence is an answer as well. Maybe I just need to listen to it. Did that mean Tal'aden was the wrong course? That stung—it meant she had gotten it wrong—but it was also a relief. Seeking the Fatherlord would be terrifying. But where should they go, then? Winter was coming on fast.

  She drew a shuddering breath. "Helix is taking us to Keldale right now. Matthew's widow is there. Helix wants to tell her about him. Angbar thinks maybe she can help us for the winter, find us a place to stay. We don't know anyone else. Is that the right course?"

  She was certain He would answer now. There were no other choices left.

  A wind sliced through her coat and died away. Behind her, the fire crackled. The earth was hard and cold beneath her knees.

  The silence wore on her certainty, melting it into apprehension.

  "Akir," she begged, "Syntal is a witch." She kept her voice quiet; the other girl could speak First Tongue. "She is over there, right now, teaching Angbar to do what she does. Right now. Please."

  A heartbeat.

  "We need You! Why would You save our lives just to watch us freeze to death out here? Please!"

  There was a tear on her cheek. She slapped it away.

  "You said all I had to do was call again! Well, I'm calling! We need You! Please, where should we go?"

  In answer, the wolves wound up again, howling. The ethereal noise swept over her like a shiver, alien and crawling.

  She felt like a jilted lover.

  Calm down, she told herself. Maybe I just can't hear Him. Not all clerics had the gift of Communion. Maybe she lacked it. Scripture said that most mortals would be destroyed by the voice of God, if they were to hear it. Maybe He was sparing her.

  The howling of wolves made the excuses ring hollow.

  "M'sai. You won't answer, or I can't hear You. I understand. I have faith that You'll guide us and see us through safely. I don't need to know Your plan to believe in it. I accept Your will."

  She stared into the darkness, fighting her disappointment. Was He even listening? Was she out here, freezing, talking to herself?

  He had answered before. Why wouldn't He answer now? Had she done something wrong?

  She closed her eyes again and reached for His fire. Creating light was the simplest miracle a priest could perform. Just because she couldn't hear Him didn't mean He was gone. She wanted to make sure He was still there, that He hadn't abandoned her. She had never made light, but now that she could call on His fire, it should be trivial.

  Her eyes lurched open. The fire was gone.

  "Akir," she muttered, "please. You said I could call. You said You would be there."

  She tried again, fumbling for the flames like a blind girl striking flint.

  It works for Syntal every time, something insidious whispered. It had Bishop Marcus's voice. Every time.

  "Answer me," she begged. "Please, Akir, don't leave me out here alone." The flint was dead in her hands.

  You're still a failure. Marcus was dispassionate. He might have been remarking on the weather. You always will be.

  "No." He wasn't gone. She could prove it. There was one miracle she knew she could work.

  She tore off her coat and grabbed a broken stick, her heart pounding. The wind lanced through her shirt like it was paper.

  She raked the stick down her arm. A bright line of blood and pain bloomed in her flesh. She dropped the stick and clutched the wound, opening herself to flames.

  And watched as the blood welled through her fingers and dripped to the ground, cold.

  v. Helix

  A homeless man slept on the cobblestones beneath a red awning. Seth knelt, as if to offer him some coin. Three Preservers emerged from an alleyway behind them.

  Seth rose as they approached. The vagrant scrambled away. A Preserver leveled a kick at Seth's stomach that sent him staggering. The other two fell on him and grabbed his arms.

  It was over for him—for all of them. They had to run. They'd been found.

  "Helix."

  His eyes opened to the glaring sun.

  "You were having a nightmare," Syntal said.

  Helix stared at her. The awning was gone. The ground was frozen dirt, not cobblestone.

  A dream. He'd been dreaming.

  "Sorry," he mumbled as reality soaked in. "Dream. Sorry."

  She nodded and took a spit from the fire. "Here. Have some rabbit."

  He sat up, struggling to get his bearings. The light was wrong. Was it morning? Or afternoon?

  The meat chased the nightmare away. As he came back to himself, he asked, "What time is it?"

  "Morning," Iggy answered.

  Helix glanced east. The sky was still dim there.

  The sun had risen in the south.

  It made his stomach twist, like he was suddenly standing sideways. The faces around the campfire were as grim as his own.

  The air buzzed with questions. Would the sun rise in the east again tomorrow? Would it rise again at all? Did it mean something? But no one asked them, because no one knew.

  It could mean this was the last day of all things. It could mean nothing.

  Harth finally broke the silence. "So what's your business in Keldale?" he asked. Everyone looked at Helix.

  Harth followed their eyes. "Ah ha," he said to Iggy. "So you were just the front man?"

  "It's..." Iggy started, looking uncomfortable.

  "M'sai, Iggy," Helix cut in. This had been his idea; he should own it. "I can tell you once we're through the gates."

  Harth clucked and shook his head. "That's not a smart way to do it. Keldale's got three main gates, and other ways in besides. If you're looking to make this quick, tell me where you're trying
to get first, so we can go through the closest gate the first time."

  "What difference does it make?"

  "It can make a lot of difference," Harth said. "Best to avoid the Church's districts as much as possible, and this time of year you'd be smart to avoid the poorest blocks too. There are parts of the city where the Church doesn't keep order—they just keep them contained."

  "Why does that have anything to do with the gate?"

  "Because, if we go through the wrong gate, an area we'd rather avoid may lie between us and wherever you're going. Isn't that the reason you wanted a guide?

  "Listen. Let me rephrase. I'm not asking you what your business is, just where you need to go. I don't give the guards any names. If I can help it, I don't see the guards at all. I have as much to lose getting seen by the wrong guard as you do." He considered. "Probably more."

  "I doubt that," Helix muttered.

  Harth shrugged. "If you don't want to tell me, you don't have to tell me. But if we get inside and you wind up knifed in Stones district because we went in through the wrong gate, don't complain when I rob your corpse. That blade of yours would fetch a pretty penny."

  The camp fell silent.

  "City humor," Harth said, spreading his hands. When no one responded, he shook his head. "Serious lot, aren't you? Listen, if you get knifed I'll be dead right next to you. It's the district gangs'll be robbing both our corpses. But we'll still be just as dead."

  Helix shot a look at Iggy. Are you sure about this?

  Iggy glared. "I don't think your jokes are very funny."

  "You'd be surprised how often I hear that. Now, are you going to tell me which gate we're taking, or leave me to guess at it?"

  Helix sighed. "It's an orphanage. I don't know what it's called."

  "There're a few orphanages in Keldale," Harth said. "Lot of dead fishermen with kids since the Storm. Do you know who runs it?"

  "I think her name is Lorna."

  Harth started. "Lorna Rentiss?"

  That sounded right. "I think so."

  A shadow stole over Harth's features. "We're not going there unless you tell me what this is about."